Lowcountry Punch

by Benjamin Blackmore

  Behind the glass, displayed on ice, was anything you wanted out of the sea: dressed flounder, mussels, scallops, shad roe, soft-shell crab. As I started to ask for help, the bell above the door rang and a pleasant surprise entered.

  My memory had not done her justice. She was a miracle, a marvel, a maiden of the afternoon. A white and turquoise patterned sundress contrasted her tanned, stunning body. She wore several silver bangles around her wrist. Long feather earrings hung from her ears. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, still wet from an afternoon shower. She wore no makeup, and it would have been a crime if she had.

  Liz Coles came out of the gates quickly. “You couldn’t catch your own fish today?”

  “They don’t always bite, you know?” I walked to her and put an arm around her in greeting. “I guess it’s meant to be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s what you said on the water.”

  “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

  A woman behind the counter with white rubber gloves interrupted us just as we were getting into it. “You lovebirds need anything?”

  “A pound of mahi,” I said, “and a handful of scallops.” I turned to Liz. “You like mahi?”

  “You’re relentless.”

  “I’d be honored if you’d let me cook for you. We could ride over to the harbor on the water for the bridge celebration…watch the fireworks. It’s the same guys who do the Kentucky Derby every year.” I could see the battle waging behind her brown eyes. I nodded toward the fish on the scale. “I can’t eat all this alone.”

  “Sorry, I don’t do pity,” she said.

  My heart sank.

  “But you’re in luck. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  I did my best to conceal my elation.

  Less then an hour later, we were in my kitchen. I stood at the island with tomatoes, onions, and mango in front of me, working on a salsa. Liz sat on the counter to my right, her perfectly smooth legs dangling. I had potatoes boiling in a pot, almost soft enough to mash. We drank Mexican beers and listened to the satellite jazz station and took turns naming the artist. We were off to a great evening, and I knew by the genuine smile on her face that she felt the same way.

  I pretended like I hadn’t Googled Liz as she gave me the rundown on her life. She grew up on Church Street, a couple doors from where Dubose Heyward wrote Porgy. Her mom and dad owned an art shop, and they lived above it. She graduated from the College of Charleston with a B.F.A. in studio art, got her Masters from NYU in art therapy, and had been living in New York ever since. Her alma mater had asked her to teach a summer course in Charleston and put her up in a place downtown, so she was splitting time between here and New York.

  Liz talked for a while about The Portrait and a Dream Project, and I’ve never heard anyone speak so passionately about anything. Describing a group of terminally-ill children at New York-Presbyterian, she said, “You should see their faces when they pick up that brush and dip it into the paint for the first time.” Liz hopped off the counter and came towards me. “Smearing the paints together, inventing their own colors, opening up a whole new world. Some of them have never had the chance.”

  “I can’t imagine.” She was unlike any woman I’d ever known. So damn intelligent. I had to work hard to keep up. I had so many questions for her. So many things to share.

  My new crush reached in front of me, stole a sliver of mango off the cutting board, and stuck it on her tongue. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the tropical taste. I wanted to kiss her but I lost my chance.

  “One of the things I’m doing here is trying to bring the project down to South Carolina,” she continued. “We’re starting with the Children’s Hospital at MUSC.”

  “I’d love to help, if there’s anything I can do. I’m no painter, though.”

  “There’s always something. I’m sure they’d love to hear you play the banjo.”

  “I’d be happy to do it. Let me know when.”

  “Count on it.”

  We talked about art for a long time. About Jackson Pollack, her inspiration. About her latest work. She schooled me on the modern and contemporary eras for a while, and I devoured her intellect. She explored my mind as well, poking and prodding through my memories and thoughts.

  Though it was the last thing I needed, I was falling for this woman. Aside from a face that could stop wars—or start them—she was an artist, and she had a way of looking into you, right down to the depths of your being, like there was no hiding who you were. Like the great bard from Minnesota said, “She can take the dark out of the nighttime, and paint the daytime black.” I didn’t feel exposed when she looked into me; I felt free.

  I pulled a plastic bag out of a drawer and put it around my hand.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.” I set a jalapeño down on the cutting board. I sliced off both ends. “Have you ever chopped one up?”

  “In all my years, I don’t think I have ever cut up a jalapeño. I’m a takeout girl.”

  Her only flaw. She didn’t cook.

  We drank a Ribbon Ridge Pinot and dined on mahimahi with salsa, scallops, asparagus, and my famous mashed potatoes. The way to a woman’s heart is mashed potatoes, I’d learned. Put ‘em on a tray with eggs and some fresh-squeezed orange juice and take it to her in bed one morning. See what happens.

  We finished the bottle on the porch, sharing a wicker love seat looking west toward James Island. The sun floated down past the horizon and cast resplendent colors across the sky. The clouds came alive. Off in the distance, tethered to an aging dock, a shrimp boat floated alone in the water. A ballad came on the radio, and I asked her to dance. She smiled and took my hand. We wrapped our arms around each other and danced to Nat King Cole singing Nothing in the World, and nothing in the world could have made me happier.

  When the song ended and the sun had disappeared, we rushed over to the harbor on the Tate’s Key West. The dark outline of the new Cooper River Bridge, the longest cable-stayed bridge in the United States, appeared in the distance. I steered carefully, knowing that there were a ton of boaters out to see the fireworks and few of them knew what they were doing in the dark.

  Boats were scattered like stars, hundreds of them, on both sides of the bridge, waiting to be entertained. I got as close as I could get to the bridge and tossed the anchor. It caught, the line drew tight, and the current positioned the boat so that the bow pointed at the bridge. The Yorktown aircraft carrier was to our right—so still and timeless—and to the left, the church steeples of downtown reached reverently toward the sky.

  I joined Liz on the bow cushion just as the show began. Fireworks lit up the darkness, the booms echoed across the water, and billows of smoke began to hover like fog. I took her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You’re a really sweet guy, T.A. Thanks for such a fun evening.”

  “I want more nights like these. You and I have something together.”

  I moved close and took her hand. Looked into those brown eyes. I went to kiss her when I noticed a tear running down her right cheek.

  Her lips parted to say something, but I put my index finger to my lips. She didn’t need to say anything. I knew.

  We were both broken hearts, looking for some way to escape the pain. I wondered who could have possibly broken Liz’s heart. What kind of fool would make her cry?

  7

  Though I’d done what I considered to be some impressive coercing, Liz only stayed at my place for a few minutes after we returned from the boat ride. No doubt about it: she was a lady of the highest order. As much as I wanted to get to know her, I wasn’t sure she was going to let me into her world.

  My eyes were still following Liz’s car down the road when Anna’s father, Beau Tate, called out to me.

  “Caught someone snoopin’ in your yard earlier,” he said, his feet crunching on the gravel as he approached. “Scared the heck out of me. I almost called the cops.”

 
“What?”

  “Yeah, while you were out galavantin’ on the water with that good-looking chickadee, I was runnin’ people out of your yard. Thought I’d wait until she left to come tell you about it.”

  “Who was it?” I began to scan the perimeter.

  “I don’t know that I’d put money on it, but it looked like that little girl, Stephanie, the one that you were seeing a while back.” Beau had been my father’s best friend since they were ten days old. The Charleston sun had aged his now leathery skin, and many years of drinking Coors had sculpted his belly into a nearly perfect beach ball. Since retiring from his law practice, he spent the majority of his time at the helm of his sailboat, The Jolly Codger, and he gave off this kind of vibe that said he wasn’t worried about anything. That life was good.

  He tipped his bald head toward me. “I think you might have pissed her off.”

  “No doubt about that.”

  “Come look.”

  I followed him to my backyard and to the edge of the marsh, where the mud sank in some. He took out a little penlight.

  “See,” he said. Small footprints led out onto the grass. “Cindy and I were out on the balcony watching the fireworks when I noticed a shadow. I think she saw me looking and was holding damn still trying not to give away her position. I yelled over to her, and she just outright bolted.”

  I didn’t want to believe it. “You didn’t chase after her? I would have paid you good money to hog-tie her and swing her above the dock.”

  “Son, I gave up chasin’ women forty years ago.”

  “Well, I’m real sorry you had to deal with that.”

  “Oh, I like a little action from time to time.”

  “Am I the worst neighbor on the planet?”

  “Damn entertaining. That’s for sure.” He broke into a laugh and started to head back to his house. “Why don’t you bring the new one over for dinner tomorrow night?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I might. Let me see what she’s up to. I’ll call you tomorrow.” We bid each other good night. Beau had obviously moved on. I couldn’t imagine walking into their home with any woman other than Anna on my arm, but it would have to happen eventually. After my father was murdered, he became very important to me. I smiled, thinking about how much of a hard time he’d given me when he found out I was dating his daughter in Miami.

  With a shotgun leaning on the table, I climbed into the Pawley’s Island hammock on my porch and let it rock me into a deep Southern dream.

  When I woke, I rolled over to the sun sneaking up the other side of my house, its reflection shimmering along the surface of the water. I wasn’t quite ready to get up yet, so I grabbed the book sitting on the table. The sound of footsteps stopped me before I found my page. I could smell danger.

  I looked up. And there she was, like some porter of misfortune, some black angel from my past: Stephanie Lewis. Last night’s trespasser had returned. A day after I’d moved up to Charleston, I’d spotted her car stranded on the side of the road and pulled over to help her change a tire. She was a schoolteacher. I ended up asking her out. Some kind of rebound play after Anna. We went on one date and I didn’t call her again.

  She still hadn’t taken the hint.

  She came around the side of the house. She might as well have been flying on her broom. She was wearing beige wide-legged trousers and a sleeveless shirt, not your typical witch garb. I didn’t bother getting out of the hammock.

  “Hey, sweets. What you reading?” she asked, her dimples showing.

  “Some nonsense.” I put the book behind my back. I’d like to say I’d been reading Bukowski, but the book was Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. My mother had sent it to me shortly after my downfall.

  Stephanie leaned over to kiss my lips. I turned my head away and her lips connected with my ear. “I don’t get a kiss?”

  “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I looked down at the flip-flops on her feet. “I bet you have some size 9 North Face trail-running shoes with fresh mud on the soles sitting in your closet.”

  “Shut up, T.A.”

  “Don’t do that again. Sneaking around my yard in the middle of the night is not a good idea. What were you thinking? You’re gonna find yourself on the wrong end of my Benelli.”

  “Oh, don’t you threaten me. God, you law types are so paranoid.” There it was: exactly the reason I’d never tell another woman what I did for a living. Halfway through a beer at Salty Mike’s, I’d told Stephanie my occupation, and she nearly exploded with excitement. Thought she was on a date with some kind of action hero. Drilled me with questions, her eyes blown up wide like somebody was pumping her full of air.

  I hopped off the hammock and looked out over the water, my back to her. “What do you need?”

  “Don’t cop a tone with me. I wanted to see you.”

  I watched an egret fly by and didn’t say a word.

  “I know you miss me.”

  “You’re mistaken. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “What’s the latest case you’re working on? Maybe I could help.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “I’m just trying to keep tabs on you. I don’t see why you won’t give us a chance.”

  I raised my hands in the air, giving up. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “We didn’t have sex.” I turned around and headed toward the door. “I’ve gotta get a shower and head into town for a meeting. Take care, Stephanie. I don’t want you coming over here again.”

  She hesitated, then brushed past me down the stoop. “I’ll call you later.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Good-bye.”

  I shut the door.

  It never fails: when I do finally rid a woman from my head, she comes back to test me. It happened in doubles that day. When I got home from work, I found a letter from Anna in the mailbox. From a chair on the porch, with the crickets sounding the day’s end, I read her words.

  T.A.,

  Hi there. I just moved near a gourmet Popsicle shop in Santa Monica, and it makes me think of you when I drive by. Anyway, I hope Charleston is everything you hoped.

  Love,

  Anna

  It wasn’t even that she had much to say; but it still got to me. On Saturdays, we used to take long walks on South Beach and stop at this popsicle shop every time. There’s something so personal and penetrating about a letter, and it brought me back to a place I’d almost gotten away from. Why couldn’t I let her go?

  I lit the tip of the letter and held it out in front of me as the paper burned. Didn’t set it down until the flame extinguished. The pain in my fingertips masked my emotional pain for a moment. I wiped the tears from my eyes.

  8

  The next day, I stopped at Ricky’s Boiled Peanut Stand on the way to the office. Big Ricky parks his red trailer in the lot near the Earth Fare, which is James Island’s version of a Whole Foods Market. If you can get past the folks that don’t believe in deodorant or shampoo, it’s a good place to fill your cart.

  Ricky was pushing three hundred pounds, so as he waddled over to the back of the trailer in his overalls to fill up a plastic bag with his boiled peanuts, the trailer tilted with him. He had three choices: regular, Cajun, and ham-hock. I always asked him to layer all three in one bag. Love a good surprise. Give me a pound of Ricky’s peanuts and a cup of coffee and I can go for miles. I thanked him and walked back to the Jeep, still thinking about Anna’s letter.

  As I put my hand on the car door handle, I heard motion behind me and started to turn. Something hit me hard on the back of the head. I dropped onto the asphalt and everything went black.

  When I came to, two men were hoisting me into the back of a trunk. I thought I recognized one but my vision was hazy at best. They didn’t have masks on, which was not a good thing. It meant they weren’t worried about me picking them out of a lineup later. Because I would b
e dead. But why didn’t they just shoot me and leave me in the lot? No matter the reason, I knew there was a lot of pain coming my way. Much to my chagrin, I had the day off, so no one was expecting me.

  They tied my hands in front of me with a zip tie and slammed the trunk shut. I kicked and thrashed until I knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Damn it!” I cursed. How had I been so oblivious?

  The trunk was totally empty, not even a tire iron or jack. It smelled musty and old, like someone’s grandfather had held onto the car for decades.

  The back of my head hurt like hell. I felt around my face with my bound hands. Had a bloody gash on the right side. The pain nearly overwhelmed me. I tried to shut it out and sense where we were going, but it was hard. Much more difficult than figuring out who was behind this little joy ride. I hadn’t given Tux Clinton enough credit. That’s what I get for letting my guard down.

  I looked at the glowing hands on the watch I inherited from my father and marked the time. Two minutes into our ride, the incline told me we were heading over a bridge. I guessed the West Ashley connector. A few more turns and another bridge confirmed it. Then the highway wasn’t too hard to figure out. Smooth and fast. The engine worked harder.

  Nineteen minutes later, we took an exit. It could have been one of three or four. It was impossible to tell. All I knew was that we had driven into North Charleston. The pain had faded some. I made a few more futile attempts to bust open the trunk. Then we made several turns. Finally, a big bump and we slowed down and came to a stop. A garage door squeaked open. We pulled in.

  The engine shut off, then footsteps, and then the trunk door lifted. My eyes adjusted. Two of them were looking down at me. I did know one of them. Jeff Cooke. One of Tux’s known associates. He had a shadow of a beard, shaved at the neck line. A flat nose. Street tough. Detectives liked him for Jared Winter’s murder and were looking for him. The other guy wore a light blue Adidas warm-up suit. His gray eyes were tucked into deep sockets.