What Charlotte wouldn’t give to slide into her car and zoom away.
“I can help,” he called, walk-jogging across the lot, his enormous golf umbrella keeping him dry. “Mrs. Perkins,” he said, his voice overly solicitous. Charlotte knew he saw her as elderly, an elderly lady in the rain. She wanted him to know she’d been a stunning beauty once—that inside, she was still that graceful young bohème. But strangers seeing you as someone you couldn’t bear to be was simply one of the indignities of age. You could accept it, rail against it, or just pretend it wasn’t happening. Charlotte moved between acceptance and willful ignorance, too elegant (and perhaps too worn out) to bother with nips, tucks, and the Beach Booty videos her friend Greer swore by.
“Let me help you, Mrs. Perkins,” said the man. He took her keys right out of her hand and she let him. “I offered you my umbrella,” he reminded her.
When she was inside her car, the young man lingered, saying, “I know you and Mrs. Robbins were thick as thieves. Always saw you cackling together after mass! I’m sorry for your loss. I’m really sorry.”
Charlotte felt antipathy rise inside her toward this man—his cologne-y smell, his close shave, his use of the word “cackling,” as if she and Minnie were nothing more than withered crones. His useless condolences. And worst of all, the fact that he was living and Minnie—kind, sarcastic, thrumming with mischief—was not.
“I said I sure am sorry,” repeated the man.
“Thank you,” said Charlotte. Finally, he shut the door and walk-jogged back to the church steps. Charlotte closed her eyes. Rain hammered down.
On the drive back to her condominium, Charlotte tried to focus on the road. She drove around Tidewater Square (where once Minnie had made Charlotte stop the golf cart so she could watch a scissor-tailed flycatcher forever), took a right on Brandenberry (the grass still ruddy from where Minnie had missed the curb years before), then another right on Boar’s Nest Lane. The Spanish moss hanging from her live oak trees danced bewitchingly in the wind. But it was hard to keep a very painful question at bay.
What now?
Minnie’s evening heart attack—out of the blue, no heart trouble that Charlotte had known about, and Charlotte would have known, as Minnie shared her ailments perhaps a teensy bit too much—made it clear that Charlotte could be next. Who knew how much time she had left? And did she even want to be here, now that Minnie was gone? And if she didn’t want to spend her remaining time here, inside a gated community on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia, where should she go? None of her children were sending Evites to come visit.
Oh. Charlotte’s children.
To her great sadness and bewilderment, Charlotte’s three adult children were lost to her, and perhaps to themselves. Learning how to navigate the world without a husband had been painful—finding a job, trying to spruce up their badly lit rental home with Laura Ashley wallpaper, fielding questions about what had happened to Winston—but sometimes Charlotte actually missed those days. They had all been together, crammed into a tiny colonial, sharing one bathroom with a leaky shower. Although she hadn’t realized it at the time, Charlotte now understood that proximity mattered.
It seemed impossible that they had traveled from that place, where they were together every night, aware of one another’s favorite morning repasts, to the present day. Charlotte had no idea what her children ate for breakfast now, or if they even ate breakfast at all. Cord had always appreciated a bowl of apples-and-cinnamon instant oatmeal sprinkled with sugar. Regan adored donuts so much that Charlotte would set her alarm clock for 5:45 A.M. so she could have time to run to Publix and deliver a fresh glazed donut to Regan, her sweet baby girl, before she headed to work at Lowcountry Realtors. (Regan in her L.L.Bean flannel nightgown, saying sleepily, “Oh, Mom! It’s still warm!” made every early rise worthwhile.) And Lee drank SlimFast milkshakes, which she made herself before school, leaving a trail of brownish powder and revolting cups half-full of sludge in her wake. Charlotte herself enjoyed a heavily buttered English muffin and three to four cups of black coffee.
Back at home, Charlotte changed out of her funereal dress and into snug white pants and a neon-pink-and-white-striped top and pink sandals. Father Thomas had once, five or so years ago, stopped by in the evening, and Charlotte wanted to be ready in case he did it again. She made dinner (Triscuits, wedge of cheddar, Chardonnay) and nibbled through a 20/20 about young people taking hallucinogenic drugs to find serenity, which seemed a bit much when Chardonnay was easily available, or Pinot Grigio if one preferred. She had dessert (one mint Milano, Chardonnay), then rinsed the dishes and settled in the living room to see what old movies caught her fancy. Her Siamese cat climbed into her lap.
Godiva purred and the wine lent the evening a buttery luxuriance. After her children left, every quiet evening had been painful, and Charlotte was proud that she had come to peace with being alone. But without Minnie—Minnie popping by for a drink; plans to meet Minnie for their sunrise walk around the lagoon; her phone ringing in the middle of 20/20, Minnie on the other end with opinions she just “had to share”—Charlotte was back in a sad place, the hours moving slowly toward bedtime. No one cared when she went to bed. No one—besides Father Thomas—was waiting to see her in the morning. Her Triscuit dinner was pathetic.
Charlotte was flipping toward the Turner Classic Movies network when the face of a handsome man appeared on the screen. “I am here tonight,” he said, “to tell you about the most amazing contest in the history of contests. But first, I’ve got a question. And here it is. Do you want to become a jetsetter?”
Charlotte paused, wineglass halfway to her lips.
“Is your story a love story?” asked the man. “An adventure story? Now is your chance to tell your story…and become a jetsetter!”
Charlotte had a story all right—the kind of story that deserved a prize. She sipped, cozy on her lemon-colored sofa, watching images of European hotspots scroll past: the Colosseum, the Acropolis, a sun-drenched beach lined with navy umbrellas.
The winner of the Become a Jetsetter contest would receive first-class tickets to Athens, Greece, followed by a nine-day cruise to Barcelona, Spain. Hmm. A first-class flight was hardly a jet, but then again, Charlotte had only flown economy. She hadn’t been abroad since she was sixteen, and not one of her children had ever left the country. Charlotte was somewhat embarrassed to admit—even to herself—that museum visits and sightseeing didn’t really appeal. But suddenly she wanted nothing more than to walk through a European city again—to feel that thrill of a foreign and more glamorous place—a place where she herself was foreign and glamorous.
Charlotte allowed herself to remember her sixteenth summer. The heat, the thrill of being chosen, being passionately kissed. Why not enter the contest? She could almost hear Minnie whispering from the Great Beyond, saying, “Go for it! Go type up the story of your first love!”
Telling herself she didn’t have to show the pages to anyone, Charlotte changed into her nightgown and robe, refilled her glass, and sat before her Dell desktop computer. Next to the monitor was her faded wedding photo. Winston, he’d been tall. But he had never made her feel cherished. Their lovemaking had been perfunctory at best and, at times, desperately sad. (Once in a while, Charlotte would walk by a man who smelled of the previous night’s whiskey and she would wince, remembering her nighttime encounters with Winston.)
Marrying out of desperation had probably been Charlotte’s biggest error. The aftermath of her erotic summer had left her lonely and bereft; according to her mother, she was “spoiled goods.” So when Winston happened back into her life, still saw her as a shining girl, she jumped at the chance to begin again. Maybe she was making amends. Maybe a part of her had really loved him, once. She hadn’t been able to imagine any other path forward, and that was the truth. If Winston rose from the grave right now and just told her what to do, she’d probably do it.
/> Charlotte logged on to the contest website. My, it was bright. The pictures kept moving and flipping around, but Charlotte placed her cursor in the window under the command “Win first-class flights to Europe and an all-expenses-paid Mediterranean cruise! Tell your story HERE.”
Charlotte clicked and wrote:
It may be hard to believe, but once upon a time, I was unpeeled like a banana, my rich fruit eaten raw.
She stared at the words in shock. A banana! Where had that image come from? She erased the revolting sentence and started again:
My first lover was as strong as a bull. He impaled me with his
Her face was hot, her mouth open. She deleted the statement, shaking. Whatever in the world! What if some late-night dog walker happened by? Charlotte gathered her bathrobe at her neck. She tried to look as if she were paying bills online, or checking weather.com for approaching thunderstorms.
She took a deep breath, then typed without stopping, letting the memories come, chronicling her sixteenth summer without censure or shame. She wrote it all down, every blistering detail.
Periodically, she refreshed her drink with a teensy splash.
When Charlotte finished, the bottle was empty and her mouth was dry. What would her children think if they knew? What would her church friends think? She’d be kicked out of Bible Study, and that was for sure. This story did not belong to the narrative Charlotte had created about herself, the one that led her from Paris to Savannah, from the ashes of widowhood to a sturdy, purposeful life. This story exposed her as the wanton woman she secretly feared she was. Weak! It made her seem weak, and this was horrible. Only Minnie knew this story, and she had kept Charlotte’s secret (as far as Charlotte knew) to her dying day.
Charlotte was paralyzed above her keyboard, still in control, still considered…if not perfect, then at least free of sin. Respectable. Someone her mother would admire. Oh, Charlotte was so tired of caring what Louisa would think! And yet she still yearned to impress her mother, still heard her disdainful, brittle voice, even though Louisa had been buried at Bonaventure for twenty years.
Charlotte ached to have her children around her, to believe she was still connected to them, still necessary. If she won the contest, they could fly to Europe! They could be together on a cruise ship for nine whole days! It would be like old times, but luxurious.
And then there was sex. Something had been happening to Charlotte. Where once she’d found it possible to ignore sexy thoughts, now she spent hours conjuring imaginary encounters. She gathered parts of the men she saw around the Club and at church: a pair of strong shoulders, a cleft chin, the way a fellow shopper at Publix let his hand graze hers in the string bean bin. Alone, she fit these pieces together and imagined being trapped in country houses, closets, furtive embraces in the rain. She reread the dirty parts of her romance novels, even tearing out juicy scenes to savor later.
Mightn’t a ship full of men have one man for Charlotte?
From the moment she had rushed, too late, to Minnie’s bedside, the question had remained in her mind: What now?
She bit her lip and clicked on the button that proclaimed: Submit.
CORD STARED AT THE champagne in his refrigerator. Who would know if he had a glass, just one glass, to fortify himself for his marriage proposal? His company had paid for the rehab that had finally stuck, but he’d taken the day off. He had at least an hour to himself—more than enough time to have a glass or two, shower, and brush his teeth. He could almost feel the buoyant calm the booze would bring.
Cord took the bottle—someone had brought it over months ago—out of the refrigerator. It was cold, so cold. Ah, if only he could return to the halcyon days before he knew he was an alcoholic…before he understood that the pop of the cork and tickle of champagne bubbles were harbingers of painful dread he could scarcely survive.
Cord’s heart beat in his chest.
It’s too hard, said the lonely voice. Just drink it. Just drink it.
He twisted the wire collerette, ripped off the foil, and pulled the cork free. He jammed his thumb over the bottle’s opening to save every drop.
He had time. He could drink it all and still shower and be ready. He could drink it all in the shower, which briefly struck his lizard brain as a clean and streamlined plan.
Cord felt feverish, but maybe it was his close kitchen, more useful for arranging a selection of appetizers than for baking. He had never actually prepared an entire meal from scratch before, excepting the time he woke in the middle of the night, binge-watched Top Chef, and found himself naked in the kitchen at dawn, various egg creations congealing before him. That was the first time he tried to stop with the Ambien.
Cord wanted the night to be flawless. He’d selected ten kinds of cheese, his last remaining vice. Not only had he ordered a pasta maker and rolling pin from Amazon Prime Now but he’d used them, reveling in his flour-coated hands, turning the wooden handle to create lovely strands of fettuccine, which he’d strung from wire hangers around the living room to dry. There was a bag of salad. Warm baguettes from Levain. And the pièce de résistance, a flourless chocolate torte it had taken Cord three times to get right. Three times! He had actually made two failed tortes (one a sinkhole, one burned) before triumphing with numéro trois.
By the time the torte, now cooling elegantly on a platter, was served, Cord imagined he’d be betrothed, cozied up on the faux Herman Miller divan. After years of mean and unattractive lovers, a wedding in his mom’s Savannah backyard. He could see himself in his mind’s eye: his still-full head of sandy brown hair, his toned six-foot-two physique, just a hint of sexy “I was at the beach and forgot to shave” stubble. His eyes pale blue, like Charlotte’s. He looked a lot like her, in fact, but younger, taller, and macho. With a man’s haircut. And stubble.
Cord looked out the kitchen window of his apartment on West Eighty-sixth and Riverside. He’d probably never stood here in the afternoon; the light on the trees was sort of sad and pale.
His father had told him to be strong, to be a man. Cord wished he could ask his father about the lonely voice. Had Winston heard it, too? If nothing else, Cord’s father had shown by example what could happen if you let your demons take you down.
Cord put his shoulders back. He walked to the sink and poured the champagne down the drain, all of it. He inhaled the smell, which made him feel both ill and desperate for oblivion.
Day 534.
En route to the shower, Cord paused in his dining room. He’d set the table with care: silver salt and pepper shakers, brand-new Williams-Sonoma place settings, a tablecloth and pressed napkins. And one elegant rose.
The shower was too hot and too hard, but if you wanted prewar, you had to roll with the punches. As Cord lathered up, he allowed himself to picture the backyard of his mother’s townhome, lined with azalea bushes. They could erect a pergola for the ceremony, hire some Savannah caterer. Cord pictured himself in a linen Cucinelli suit, holding a mini crab cake. But try as he might, he couldn’t insert Charlotte into the scene. She’d be crying in her golf cart, more likely, or pulling a Blanche DuBois at her makeup table, topping off her glass of crap Chardonnay. Cord put his mother out of his mind. This was his life, maybe his last chance. He’d handle his mother in due time. She’d still love him if she knew him, wouldn’t she?
“What matters,” his AA sponsor had told him, “is that you love yourself. Do you hear me?” Cord had nodded, scoffing inwardly at yet another AA platitude. Love yourself? What did that even mean?
* * *
—
CORD SHAVED, USING THE horsehair soap brush his older sister, Lee, had sent from Los Angeles for his thirty-sixth birthday. (Poor Lee. She tried to act successful, but they all knew she was struggling, even doing that tampon commercial and the Walmart Summer Shoes flyer. She’d always had excellent toes.)
As he surveyed his closet with a towel a
round his waist, Cord’s chocolate Labrador, Franklin, plodded into the bedroom. “Hi, you,” said Cord, scratching behind the dog’s ears. And then, as he was about to reach for an ice-blue shirt (to match his eyes), Cord heard an awful heaving sound. Alarmed, he turned to see dear Franklin vomiting on Cord’s Louis Vuitton sneakers. “What are you doing?” he asked, panicking. “What are you doing, Franklin? What are you doing?”
Cord ran to find a dish towel, realizing in moments that his dog had eaten every last handmade noodle. And in the kitchen, all that remained of the “Marry Me?” torte were a few wet crumbs. Cord’s buzzer rang, and Giovanni’s rich voice came over the intercom. “You gave me a key!” Giovanni sang. “I’m letting myself in!”
As he surveyed the wreckage of his careful plans, Cord jammed his fists into his eyes, breathing in deeply. From the bedroom, his beloved dog continued to retch.
Giovanni burst into the apartment, a bottle of Italian lemonade in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. “Thank God it’s Friday!” he cried, but then he halted. Bewilderment transformed his young and lovely face. “Honey?” he said.
Cord swiped the tears from his eyes. Giovanni came close, wrapped Cord in his arms, and rested his head against Cord’s chest. Franklin slunk into the kitchen and collapsed at their feet. “What is it?” said Giovanni. “Honey, what is it?”
“It’s…” said Cord. How could he possibly express all the feelings crashing around inside him? His knowledge that he would be abandoned, coupled with the fierce desire to hang on to love…his sense that something was wrong and that he had to fix it, but had no idea what it even was? His yearning to be drunk and how much he missed his mother and the way Giovanni’s smile changed the color of everything, brightening his days as if a heavy curtain had finally been lifted…
The Jetsetters Page 2