Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 3

  Bonaventure was an hour’s drive from Savannah. I sized Bing up right fast. An ambulance chaser. Out for himself. If he thought I’d hire him to sell this farm, he could think again. I was all set to show him to the door when he claimed he’d bought peaches from Aunt Bluette last year. He’d also bought one of her upside-down cakes with an out-of-this-world crumbly topping. He’d never tasted anything that good, even at Poogan’s Porch in Charleston.

  “Your aunt was a culinary genius,” Bing said.

  It was true. The secret topping called for crushed pralines and pecans, with dark brown sugar, unsalted butter, and a dollop of molasses. The peaches were steeped in vanilla brandy for a solid month.

  He smiled. I smiled back. If you want to get to me, just talk about food.

  After the funeral, he kept coming around, driving all the way from Charleston. I talked to him through the screen door and wouldn’t even invite him in for coffee. Part of me didn’t trust him and the other part was grieving for my aunt. I tried to pack up her clothes, but they smelled just like her—vanilla extract and lemon furniture polish.

  The more I packed, the harder I cried. I felt woozy, as if I had twirled in a circle and fallen into a hole. There were gaps all over our orchard where trees had died. Aunt Bluette’s handyman, Mr. Tom, would yank them out with the tractor, leaving pits. I had a hole inside me just like that. Somewhere in the dirt-dark black, the truth was hidden, the truth of me, who I was and who I would become. But I was too grieved to think about the future.

  One afternoon I heard a car pull up the gravel drive. Bing got out of his Mercedes, and the sun hit his blond hair. I dried my tears and he took me to O’Charley’s for a steak dinner and said, “You and I, we’re alike. You lost your aunt, and I lost my daddy. We get each other, you know?”

  We drank two bottles of wine and went to his motel room. “Teeny, I love your brown eyes,” he said. “I love your name. Teeny. It suits you to a T.”

  The lovemaking was nice but unremarkable. No fireworks, just a little pffft, like the burp of a Tupperware container. If he’d been a pot of chicken soup, I would have tasted the broth and thought, It needs something else. I would have added salt, Tabasco, a grind of pepper.

  Prior to our date, I’d been in love twice. My first love, Cooper O’Malley, left me with a broken heart. My second, Aaron Fisher, up and died. What did I know about sex? Maybe it was just like getting used to expensive French wines when I had a taste for spritzers.

  “Was it good for you, too?” Bing asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. Lie number two.

  The next morning, Bing and I ate breakfast at Waffle House. While we lingered over a second cup of coffee, a rainstorm hit and we waited for it to clear. When we finally got back to Aunt Bluette’s, a hackberry tree had fallen on the roof. I’d never had to face a household emergency by myself.

  “Relax,” Bing said, “I’ll tend to this.”

  He went into the attic to check for leaks. Then he started making phone calls. Tree surgeons and a gutter man descended. I liked Bing’s efficiency, and he was a good kisser. So, why wasn’t I bowled over? He was a man-angel who’d swooped down to rescue me. Besides, I couldn’t run an orchard by myself. If I stayed in Aunt Bluette’s house, I’d have to let things go. My job at Food Lion wouldn’t cover the propane bill, much less the upkeep on a hundred-year-old home.

  Bing’s eyes said, Trust me. I’m the one. Though I couldn’t have said why, he reminded me of Aunt Bluette’s antique settee—the one with cream brocade, goose-down cushions, and carved rosewood feet. The perfect blend of beauty, comfort, and function.

  My Baptist guilt had prevented me from living with a man who wasn’t my lawfully wedded husband, but it didn’t stop me from driving back and forth to his house in Mount Pleasant. Bing thought a two-carat diamond would fix things right up. I bargained with Jesus and asked Him to cut me some slack. After all, the modern world made Sodom and Gomorrah look tame.

  I closed up the farmhouse, packed my turquoise Oldsmobile, and moved to Mount Pleasant. I planted an herb garden, organized the closets, and baked red velvet cupcakes. Bing worked long hours, but I didn’t want to complain. Then, an advertisement in the Post and Courier caught my attention. A Charleston neurosurgeon was selling a bulldog puppy. I drove to a white mansion on South Battery, and the doctor brought out a brown and white puppy. It ran in circles; then it stopped and tilted his head as if he’d just noticed me. A broad white stripe ran down the center of the pup’s flat, mashed-in head. The undershot jaw widened into a grin. Honest to god. The doctor sold him cheap, claiming he couldn’t stand the drooling and snorting.

  I was a little nervous as I drove back over the bridge to Mount Pleasant. I wasn’t sure how Bing would react, but it was love at first sight for him, too. “Look at these teeth,” he said. “A dog like this commands respect. Let’s call him Sir.”

  The name took. I house-trained Sir in a week, using little bits of cheese as a reward. Bing hired a carpenter to install doggie doors in the people doors. We taught Sir to fetch a stuffed squirrel—not so easy with that atrocious underbite. Every night we helped him onto our high cannonball bed. Sir would circle and circle before flopping down between us, his stubby legs stretched out behind him.

  Those days were so sweet, and they stayed in my mind the way lemon meringue pie lingers on the tongue. Now they were gone. We’d only been together almost six months. That came to 4,320 hours. I’d read in the National Enquirer about short-lived celebrity marriages. Rudolph Valentino left his bride six hours after the wedding. Britney Spears’s first marriage ended after fifty-five hours. Ethel Merman and Ernest Borgnine, 768 hours. Nic Cage and Lisa Marie Presley, 2,160 hours.

  Now I was all alone, sleepless in Charleston.

  A car rumbled down East Bay Street, and lights ran over the walls. When I rolled over, the mattress shifted like it might crash to the floor. I held real still and thought about food. When I got nervous, I had my own ways of calming down; I made up unusual recipes that weren’t necessarily edible but suited my mood.

  What I needed was my family’s private cookbook, but it was locked up at Bing’s house. No matter what had happened between me and Bing, I couldn’t lose that book. Long before I was born, my aunt and her sisters began a Templeton tradition. They started with a spiral-bound Baptist cookbook, covered it with blue plaid, and painted Templeton Family Receipts & Whatnot across the front. Whenever one of the sisters got peeved, she wrote a recipe—not a normal one, mind you, but one that helped her relax. Some people have punching bags, time-out rooms, or Prozac. The Templetons had a cookbook. Our recipes were fanciful, listing umpteen lethal ingredients. Not that we’d ever tried them on anyone. It was just our way of venting.

  I pictured Bing’s peach tree. Too bad I’d used the fruit as ammunition or I could make You’ll Get Yours Peach Icing. It calls for 1 cup heavy whipping cream, 1⁄3 cup sugar, and ½ cup pureed peaches. Reserve the pits and beat the cream until it stiffens, about five minutes. Add sugar. Fold in peach puree. Set aside. Smash the pits with a hammer. Retrieve seeds. Place in a mortar and use pestle to pulverize the seeds until they resemble your heart. Cry a little. Smile when you remember that peach seeds contain cyanide. Shrug because they aren’t fatal unless consumed in humongous amounts. They have been known to cause explosions in the digestive tract.

  Quick note to self: Mix seeds into peach puree. Spread icing onto a layer cake and serve it to the skanks who stole your husband-to-be. Refrigerate to prevent spoilage.

  six

  I was dreaming of monster cheesecake, the kind that’s drizzled with dark chocolate, when I heard gunfire. I sat up and listened to the rhythmic pops. Was a robber downstairs shooting Miss Dora’s antiques? I looked around for a place to hide, but the noise seemed to be coming from the street.

  I got dressed, hurried downstairs, and grabbed the tasseled key chain. My pulse thrummed as I went out the gray door, into the corridor, and peeked through the iron grille. I half-expected to see a
sniper or furniture thief; the sidewalk was empty except for a long-legged brunette. She was busily hammering an ornate sign into the strip of grass between the sidewalk and street.

  It was the naked badminton player, the pretty one Bing had kissed and kissed, only today she wasn’t naked. She wore a blue silk dress, high heels, and an ankle bracelet.

  “You!” I cried and unlocked the iron door.

  “Stay away from me!” She lifted the hammer.

  “Put that damn thing down,” I said. “You’re liable to hurt someone.”

  “Me?” She stepped back.

  “Does Bing know I’m at the Spencer-Jackson House?” I asked. Stupid question. Of course he knew. And he’d sent this woman to do what? Attack me with a hammer? I repressed an urge to snatch off her ankle bracelet. If throwing fruit was criminal battery, stealing jewelry would slap me in the state penitentiary.

  “I’m not telling what he knows.” The woman lowered the hammer. “But I’ll tell you what he said. He told me your folks were pygmies.”

  “They were not,” I cried. “For your information, Miss Tall Gal, five foot two isn’t tiny.” Actually, I was more like five foot one and three quarters. I wanted to defend my genetics but I couldn’t. I’d never known my dad. He could have been a pituitary dwarf.

  “Bitch,” I said.

  “My name isn’t Bitch. It’s Natalie Lockhart. And I refuse to be verbally abused by a garden gnome.” She shoved her hand into a straw handbag. “I’m calling Bingo. I’m calling him right now.”

  “Bingo?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Shut up. What do you know about lovers and their nicknames?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “What do you know about decency?”

  “I’d love to chat, but I’m late for the day spa.”

  She would go to a place like that. I glanced at my unpainted toenails. A day spa wasn’t long enough for me. I needed a year-long immersion in Pond’s cold cream.

  A horse-drawn carriage filled with tourists clomped down the street. A lady in a straw hat stood up and clicked a digital camera in my direction. Natalie flashed an irritated glance at the carriage. She ran to her BMW, climbed inside, and drove toward the Battery.

  I walked back to the sign. It was black, surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron border:

  For Sale

  Jackson Realty

  by Appointment Only

  Natalie Lockhart, Broker

  I went inside and called Bing’s office. His secretary said he’d taken the day off, that he’d been attacked by a crazy girl. The judge had forbidden contact, but he hadn’t been specific. I dialed Bing’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so I called his house. When he didn’t pick up, I wondered if he’d disconnected his answering machine, the one we’d taped together in happier times. I started to hang up when Bing answered with a curt hello.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “When did they release you into the wild?” he asked.

  “Last night.”

  “Big mistake,” he said. “I just hope your debt to society is a big one.”

  “Big enough,” I said.

  “I just got home from the hospital,” he said. “They did a CAT scan on my head. I’m waiting for the doctor to call, so make it fast. What the hell do you want?”

  A good question. I wanted a lot of things. I wanted to know if he was hurt or putting on, I wanted to know why he needed other women. I had questions for myself, too. Did I want Bing or a life by myself making cakes?

  “Your secretary said you weren’t feeling good.”

  “It’s feeling well,” he said. “Not good.”

  I hadn’t called to discuss my swamp grammar. A few months ago, Bing took a business English course. He was self-conscious about his Southern accent and wanted to show off to all the Yankees who came down to the Carolinas to buy beach houses. He wanted me to talk better, too, but when I got excited, I just had to speak what was in my heart.

  “If you called to apologize, forget it,” Bing said.

  I sighed. What I’d wished he’d said was I love you, Teens. I’ve always loved you. And I’d say, Prove it. Buy Natalie a ticket for the Space Shuttle. I gathered up my courage and said, “I am sorry you got hurt. But the reason I’m calling is, I just talked to your girlfriend Natalie.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Where’d you see her?”

  “I’m at your uncle Elmer’s house.”

  “You’re where?” he cried.

  “Miss Dora gave me the key.”

  “Damn her. I should’ve known she’d pull something like this.”

  “She’s redecorating, or I’d stay with her.”

  “Well, the Spencer-Jackson House isn’t hers,” he said. “You can’t stay there.”

  “I know. Natalie told me.”

  “How’d she know you were there?”

  “Didn’t you send her?” I asked.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “She put up a ‘For Sale’ sign.”

  “She what?” he cried.

  I waited to see if he’d continue. When he didn’t, I said, “Bing, I know you’re mad. But is there any way I can stay for a few days? Miss Dora said you need a house sitter. You won’t kick me to the street, will you?”

  “You hit me in the head. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get the hell off my property.”

  “But Miss Dora said—”

  “Don’t mention that bitch’s name to me. She shanghaied my poor daddy and then fed him nothing but fried foods. He’d still be alive if he hadn’t tangled with Dora.”

  I pictured Bing sitting at the pine kitchen table, rubbing his hands together. He always did that when he talked about Dora. I was pretty sure our bulldog lay stretched out on the floor, his lips vibrating with each exhale.

  “Teeny?” Bing said. “You still there?”

  “Just tell me why you cheated,” I said.

  “I didn’t get to. I didn’t even know they were coming over. They showed up with a cooler of lemon margaritas. Next thing I knew, they were naked.”

  “You didn’t have to join them, did you?” My hand was trembling so bad the phone knocked into my jaw. I was having trouble understanding how two women just happened to show up on the very night of my first cake class. If it hadn’t been canceled, I wouldn’t have known the truth about Bing.

  “At the time it seemed like fun,” he said.

  I was tempted to call him an asshole, which was perfectly legal, but I held back. Women stayed with bastards all the time. I’d heard on Oprah that relationships can be sticky. Some kind of hormone gets secreted, and it traps you to the other person. You’re afraid to peel yourself away because you might leave behind a piece of yourself. When insects land on flypaper, they might break loose, only to leave behind a leg. They buzz off, thinking, Wow, what a clean break. And their foot is still wiggling on the paper.

  “Bing, I know you’re upset,” I said. “But I’m flat broke. I can’t rent an apartment till I find a job.”

  “Go back to your farm.”

  “Can’t. I’m on probation here for six months.”

  “Well, that’s too fucking bad. And don’t start in about your childhood. I don’t want to hear that shit about your mama and them. I don’t feel one drop of pity for you.”

  I wrapped the phone cord around my wrist, hating myself for having told him about Mama. It had been a huge step for me, a catharsis, and I’d put everything behind me. Now Bing was using the past against me. Fine, I didn’t need this house. I’d just call Mr. Bell and ask him to talk to the judge. I didn’t know doodly-squat about the law, but maybe I could get special permission to live in Georgia. No way could I afford to stay in Charleston until December fourth.

  “I can’t go anywhere without my clothes,” I said. “They’re at your house.”

  “No problem. They’ll be waiting for you in my driveway. Anything else?”

  “My dog.” I swallowed. “I want Sir.”

  “No, ma’am. You’r
e a little jailbird. You’re unfit to raise a dog. Don’t even think about sneaking over here with a T-bone steak and dognapping him. That’s grand theft. And you’ll be violating the restraining order.”

  All this time, I’d tried to speak softly and carry a big stick just like President Roosevelt said to do, but I couldn’t hold back another second. “You’re worse than evil,” I said. “You sent me to cake school so you could womanize in the backyard, and I’m the bad guy?”

  “You’re not a guy. You’re just a bitch in trouble—and you’re a violent bitch, too.” His voice screaked up at the edges. “Never in my life has a woman hit me.”

  “I didn’t mean to. But when I saw what I saw, I went crazy.”

  “A normal woman would cry and pack a suitcase, not climb a tree.”

  “Is that what you wanted? For me to catch you?”

  “Teeny, I swear. Have you been sniffing oven cleaner? Hell, no, I didn’t want to be caught. You know how I hate confrontations.”

  My knees wobbled and I dropped to the floor. I wished he and those women were dead and gone, killed in a twenty-car pileup on the Savannah Highway. A tear ran down my cheek into the corner of my mouth. It tasted salty. Tears from crying jags aren’t like the tears you get when you chop onions. I read that somewhere. Bing didn’t care about trivia; he cared about grammar. He’d even bought me a word-a-day calendar. But sometimes he dropped his guard and dropped his gs like a natural-born Charlestonian. “Darlin’, don’t wait up for me,” he’d say. “I’m workin’ late this evenin’.”

  I was like those gs. He’d dropped me, too. And it wasn’t 100 percent Natalie’s fault. I bet she’d never write him a love note with incorrect grammar. Just the other day I’d left one that said, Your the best. And Bing had written back:

  Dear Crackerbilly,