Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 2

  The judge flashed her a hard stare. Mr. Bell’s face turned red. “Dora, you better rise or he’ll hold you in contempt.”

  “Honey, my cup runneth over with contempt,” Miss Dora whispered. “I’ve seen that man naked.”

  The three of us walked into the hall, where a janitor pushed a wet mop over the floor. Bing hurried out and never looked in my direction.

  “Don’t you be thinking about going near that boy,” Mr. Bell said.

  “No, sir,” I said. I feared jail more than I feared bees and snakes.

  “Alvin, you’re frightening the poor girl,” Miss Dora said. “Teeny, don’t listen. One of my drapery hangers got slapped with unsupervised probation and he didn’t even have a parole officer.”

  “Teeny won’t have an officer.” Mr. Bell patted my arm. “Just be smart. Don’t leave the state. Don’t drive over the speed limit. Don’t jaywalk. Be a model citizen and those six months will fly by. It’s summer now, but it’ll be December fourth before you can say Jack Robinson.”

  three

  Miss Dora and I walked out of the courthouse into the muggy night air. We climbed into her Bentley, and she dumped her purse between us—a large Hermès bag, which she affectionately called The Black Hole, thanks to its tendency to suck objects into a vortex. Tonight the purse bulged with fabric swatches, marble chips, and a fan deck from Sherwin-Williams.

  From the depths of the bag, her cell phone rang. She reached inside, pulled out a gilt drapery finial, and located the phone. She answered with a breathless hello. A tinny, hysterical voice rose up, but Miss Dora cut it off.

  “I’m so sorry you’re troubled,” she said. “But it’ll have to wait till the morning. I’ve got a family crisis. Toodle-loo.”

  She rang off and turned onto Azalea Street. “A client is having a hissy fit,” she said. “Apparently the wrong furniture was delivered—a hideous brown leather sofa instead of a silk settee. The poor woman is hysterical. Mark my words, she’ll call back.”

  Halfway to I-26, the phone trilled again. This time, Miss Dora didn’t bother to say hello. “Look, darlin’, there’s two ways of doing things,” she told the client. “Your way and my way. Let’s do it my way from now on.”

  “Humphrey Bogart said that in The Caine Mutiny,” I whispered.

  She winked at me and resumed her conversation. “You’re talking way too fast,” she told the client. “Start at the beginning.”

  I settled against the window and remembered the engagement party Miss Dora had thrown for me and Bing. It had been a warm April night, and her guests had spilled out of the Queen Street house into the courtyard.

  During the party, Miss Dora had pulled me aside and pointed out prominent Low Country citizens, adding salient points about their personalities, marriages, and household decor. She waved to a sharp-nosed woman in a blue dress. “Look at those diamonds, Teeny.” Miss Dora whispered the woman’s name. “She’s one of the richest women in South Carolina. But she’s miserable. Just like Vita in Mildred Pierce.”

  “You mean she eats her young like an alligator?” I said.

  Miss Dora smiled. “You’re familiar with that movie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Teeny, you’re a keeper. You put me in mind of my baby sister. Gloria and I were rabid film buffs. She was an ash-blonde, just like you. Same big old brown eyes. Same cute little gap between her front teeth. Big boobs and curvy hips. She was made for childbearing. And she had a turquoise convertible, just like you—a Chevy, not an Olds.”

  “Had?” I asked.

  Miss Dora’s eyes teared up as she told me how Gloria’s convertible rear-ended a truck filled with giant pumpkins. “It’s like Gloria has come back to me,” she’d said, squeezing my hand. “I know you aren’t her, but it just makes me feel good to be around you.”

  Remembering the party made me sad. That same night, Bing and I had spent a little time in Miss Dora’s azalea pink guest room.

  Now, from the other side of the Bentley, I heard a loud shriek, and images of Miss Dora’s guest room evaporated.

  “What the poop!” she cried. “I think she’s been drinking. Every other word is gibberish.”

  She dumped the phone into her purse. “You know what, Teeny? Bing’s an asshole for letting a jewel like you get away.”

  She steered the Bentley into traffic. In the distance, I saw lights from the Ravenel Bridge.

  “Now tell me about the peach fight,” Miss Dora said. “And don’t leave out a thing.”

  “You heard what I told the judge,” I said. “Have you really seen him undressed?”

  “Bunches of times. The judge and I had a little fling when I first moved to Charleston. But he had the littlest penis I ever saw in my life—in fact, I called him Pencil Pecker. I quit him and married Rodney Jackson.”

  As she headed toward the historic district, I wondered if the memory of the judge’s private parts had distracted her.

  “Aren’t you taking me to my car?” I asked.

  “I like a man who’s well endowed in every way,” she added, ignoring my question. “Which is something the Jackson men aren’t. But they’re gargantuan compared to Pencil. And yes, I know you want your car. I’m sure you’re worried sick about that bulldog of yours. But do you really think it’s wise to go near Bing Laden after he took out that restraining order?”

  She drove through the intersection of Queen and Meeting. I’d thought for sure we were going to her house on Johnson’s Row. I looked back at the Mills House Hotel, then I glanced at Miss Dora. She was just being Dora-esque—scatterbrained, late for appointments, a notorious no-show.

  The traffic thinned after we drove past St. Michael’s Episcopal. Miss Dora pointed out houses she’d decorated, adding assessments of her clients. “Stingy,” she said, gesturing at a redbrick. “Social climbers,” she said about a white clapboard. When she spotted a blue stucco she hadn’t decorated, she flipped her hand and said, “Fugly.”

  She swung onto Tradd Street, nosing the Bentley around parked cars, then she drove past Church and Bedon’s Alley. When she hung a left onto East Bay, I expected more of the deco-tour but she made a U-turn and angled the Bentley in front of a three-story pink house with gray shutters. A sign next to the door read SPENCER-JACKSON HOUSE, CIRCA 1785.

  I’d never been inside this house, but I knew its history. It had been in the Jackson family forever; it was high maintenance and needed a full-time custodian. Bing’s uncle Elmer had lived here rent-free, but he’d died three weeks ago. After the funeral, Bing and I had driven by the house and I’d asked if he was going to sell it. “Never,” he’d said. “The Spencer-Jackson House proves my family is Old Charleston.”

  “Miss Dora, why’re we stopping here?” I blinked at the iron gate, into a breezeway that was lit up with gas lanterns. At the end of the corridor, faint lights twinkled in a private garden.

  She ignored me and dug through her purse, muttering to herself. Two men in sweats jogged by the Spencer-Jackson and moved toward a blue house with black shutters. On this side of East Bay, the houses were fitted together like marzipan confections—cotton candy pink, blueberry, lime, saffron, watermelon ice. Across the street, the homes were cream, white, or beige, as if their more colorful neighbors had sucked the life right out of them.

  The joggers cut across the street, past a white Winnebago plastered with cat-related bumper stickers, and headed toward the Battery. Behind them, I saw a wedge of Charleston Harbor. It spread up and out, all streaked with lights.

  I fidgeted with my Ventolin inhaler—all I’d brought with me from Bing’s house. The matron at the detention center had let me keep it after I’d explained about my asthma. My chest tightened when Miss Dora pulled a hot pink tasseled key chain from her purse. I fit the inhaler between my lips and took a short puff.

  “Here are the keys,” she said.

  “To what?” I asked.

  “To the Spencer-Jackson House,” she said. “Your new home sweet home.”

&nbs
p; four

  I glanced up at the pink monstrosity and took another hit of Ventolin. “I can’t stay here,” I cried. “Bing will pitch a fit.”

  “No, he won’t,” she said. “He hates this old house. He prefers McMansions.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “He hates the traffic in the historic district, but he loves this house. It’s a feather in his social cap. If I move in, he’ll call a SWAT team.” I totally believed this.

  “Are you kidding me?” Miss Dora cried. “Why, just the other day he called the Spencer-Jackson a firetrap. He said taxes were eating him alive.”

  “The problem isn’t Bing’s feelings about this house,” I said. “It’s his feelings towards me.”

  “Darlin’, I hate to be crude, but Bing Laden is sniffing after poontang. He’s not thinking about you.” Miss Dora combed the tassel with her fingernails. “But there’s a reason I want you here—a selfish reason. I decorated this house myself. I used some of my finest antiques, and I haven’t had time to move them. What if a burglar stripped the place? Or a fire could break out and everything would be lost.”

  “So buy smoke detectors.”

  “The Spencer-Jackson has a state-of-the-art alarm system. But when a place sits by itself, it falls into ruin. I’d just feel better if I had a house sitter. You’re stuck in Charleston till December. You might as well stay at the Spencer-Jackson.”

  “Can’t I spend the night with you?” I crossed my arms and gave the house a spiteful look. “I won’t make a peep.”

  “You know how much I love having you around. But my house is in turmoil. I’m redecorating and painters have taken the beds apart. There’s no place for you to sleep.”

  “The floor’s fine,” I said.

  “Just stay here tonight. First thing tomorrow, I’ll have Estaurado bring your car.”

  “Who?”

  “My new manservant. I hired him a few weeks ago. He’s an illegal, but don’t tell.” She pointed toward the intersection of East Bay and Adgers. “The house comes with off-street parking. There’s a lot just around the corner.”

  She sounded like a high-pressure saleswoman, forcing me to take a giant pink dress on approval, only this dress wasn’t my style. And it was way out of my price range.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should go to a hotel. I’ll find an apartment in the morning.”

  “Well, that’s an option.” She twirled the key. “But how will you afford it? You’ll get stuck with umpteen deposits. Phone, utilities, cable TV. And you’re unemployed, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. After Bing and I had gotten engaged, I quit my job at the Food Lion bakery. He didn’t want me cooking for other people.

  “The Charleston job market isn’t booming, darlin’,” she said. “And remember, you’re in trouble with the law. You’ll have to check that little box on your job application, the one that asks about criminal history. If you check ‘no,’ it’s a felony. Anyway, I doubt you’ll get a job. Don’t get me wrong—you’re a talented cook. Nobody can beat you making key lime pie. But you don’t have formal training. Charleston used to have a chef school, you know. The town is filled with degreed chefs.”

  “I’ve got a savings account,” I said. But I only had a few thousand dollars; I’d been putting back money for a Jamaica honeymoon, hoping to surprise Bing, but tra la la, he’d surprised me.

  “Look, you’re tired,” Miss Dora said. “Let’s call it a night. Bing’s nursing his wounds. He won’t know you’re here. Just go inside and fix yourself a cup of tea. Elmer’s only been dead a few weeks. The kitchen is stocked with basics—you might have to buy milk and eggs. But other than that, you’re set.”

  A cup of tea did sound nice. But everything else felt wrong. She reached around me and opened my door. “If Bing lets you stay—and I’ll talk to him—you won’t have to dip into your savings. If the roof leaks, just call a repairman and send the bill to Quentin Underhill. He’s a lawyer, but he takes care of the Spencer-Jackson.”

  She pushed the pink tassel into my hand. “The alarm code is Bing’s birth date.”

  “What if I break something?” I looked up at the house. It was so pink, it made my head hurt. It was real pain, like when ice cold strawberry sorbet hits the roof of your mouth.

  “Teeny, the only thing you’re breaking is my heart,” Miss Dora said. “Listen, if you need me, I’m only a few blocks away. The house looks imposing, but it’s down-to-earth. Really. Think of it as a beautiful lady who’s had a difficult life. Once, she was a gorgeous debutante. But she fell into ruin, maybe prostitution, and people deserted her. Now, look—she’s Botoxed, lifted, tucked, and filled with collagen. Why, she’s a symbol for us all. Isn’t she?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. As I climbed out of the car, a ship’s horn blew and I stumbled backward. Miss Dora leaned across the seat. “Think of it as an opportunity. Why, people would give their eyeteeth to live south of Broad. Now, dry your tears, darlin’. Go forth and carpe diem a little.”

  five

  The stench of gasoline and brackish water blew around me as I watched Miss Dora’s taillights move toward the Battery. I hated to see her go. If I’d had cash or credit cards, I would have walked to a hotel. But I couldn’t loiter on the sidewalk because those joggers were coming back, and a police car was right behind them.

  I unlocked the iron gate and stepped into the narrow brick corridor. Three gas lanterns flickered against the wall, shadows pooling between them. The wind shifted, carrying delicate fragrances: lemon balm, camellias, sweet almond, and fresh cut grass. The joggers ran by the gate, and I flattened myself against the wall. The police car inched down the street. Then it passed.

  My footsteps clapped over the bricks as I passed by long shuttered windows and potted ferns. Most houses on Rainbow Row had two front doors—one at the street, which was meant to keep out the riffraff, and one inside the breezeway. A gray door was on my left, framed by two concrete cherubs. I unlocked it and went inside.

  Shrill beeps rose up. If I didn’t locate the alarm box and punch in the code, the police would come back. I groped for the light switch, found a panel of them, and hit each one. Light blazed from a three-tiered crystal chandelier and filled the hall with a cozy glow. But the alarm kept beeping. I saw a box next to the door. I punched in the numbers and the noise stopped.

  My footsteps echoed as I walked to an oval staircase. Paintings of angry-looking women stared down, silently warning me not to touch anything. I’d never seen this much finery, not even at Miss Dora’s home, and it scared me.

  I stopped in front of a table and dropped the tasseled key chain into a crystal bowl. A piece of glass chipped off and skittered to the floor. I leaned over to examine the bowl. Waterford. I’d been in the house three minutes, and I’d already damaged a priceless artifact.

  A sick feeling came over me. I squatted beside the staircase, fit my inhaler into my lips, and sucked in the bitter Ventolin. I was dying for a cup of tea but when I get tired, I get clumsy. Even if I drank water from the tap, I’d break the faucet. If I stayed longer than a night, I’d want to cook barbecued ribs and fry a batch of coconut shrimp, but a house like this cried out for cheese soufflé and cold watermelon soup.

  I couldn’t see myself cooking here. I’d inherited the untidy gene—all the Templeton women had it. We cooked from scratch, creating feather-light biscuits. But we also made epic messes. I wasn’t built for high-class living. I let the dishes pile up in the sink; I didn’t always eat at the table. Home was a place where I could eat Oreo Cakesters in bed. Only I couldn’t get home. And I was stuck in a museum.

  After a while, I got to my feet and grabbed the banister. It shifted to the right, like it was ready to fall down. The stairs gave indignant squeaks as I climbed to the second floor—a sign that the Spencer-Jackson House and I weren’t going to get along.

  “Oh, shut up,” I told the staircase. When I reached the landing, I turned on the light. A gallery ran the length of the house, and the wall
s were lined with more pissed-off women. An arched window was open a crack, stirring the raspberry silk curtains. I caught the scent of sweet almond and thought of Mama. If she were here, she’d say, “Teeny, this house needs a little dirt. Go make mudpies.”

  The smell followed me down the hall, into a room with pink toile wallpaper and bedding. I unlocked the window and it glided right up—no broken glass or scuffed paint.

  I kicked off my shoes, pulled back the covers, and sank into the feather mattress. As I snuggled under the quilt, I thought about Bing. Was he hurt? Were those girls still with him?

  Last New Year’s Day, when my beloved Aunt Bluette lay on her deathbed, she’d made me promise I wouldn’t turn away from love. She’d practically raised me and knew how I was. “Teeny, don’t be afraid to let people see your frightened heart,” she’d said.

  I’d nodded and crossed my fingers behind my back. On that day, January first, I’d started an annual lie tally, and I’d just told fib number one. But I wanted her to leave this world with an easy mind and not worry about me in the hereafter.

  “I don’t want to look down from heaven and see you waiting tables at Hooters,” Aunt Bluette said, even though I’d quit that job two years earlier. I’d given it up because the tips were shitty and my boss had gotten too fresh. Aunt Bluette had put her foot down and said I needed a more peaceable job, so I’d started working in the Food Lion bakery. At first, I wasn’t trusted to decorate the cakes, so I worked the counter and doled out free cookies to kids. The bakery ladies warmed up to me, and before long I was making special-order cakes.

  Bing Jackson showed up at Aunt Bluette’s funeral and came back to her house with the mourners. I tried to place him as he walked around the dining table, piling food onto a plate. Spiral ham, bacon-deviled eggs, chicken and rice, seven-layer salad, and lemon chess pie. He gave me his card, Rodney Bingham Jackson III, and said to call him Bing. He’d been in Savannah when he’d read Aunt Bluette’s obituary. He was sorry for my loss, and if he could help in any way, such as listing the peach farm with his real estate company, just let him know.