The Hurricane Sisters

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Why? Did you change your mind? Did you decide to give me a break?”

  “No.” I was ignoring that. “I just didn’t like the way things ended the last time we talked. So do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Okay. Actually, I’ve been riding around the island trying to figure out what to do with you. Anyway, I’m close by. Whose car is that that just pulled into your yard five minutes ago?”

  “What? That’s my dad’s car. Come in and say hey! I just need a few minutes to get myself together.”

  “Okay.”

  I quickly freshened up my makeup and pulled a brush through my hair. My clothes were fine. I was just wearing a sundress and sandals because it was so hot. We’d probably go somewhere close by that was casual. Most restaurants in Charleston were very casual, and even more so this time of year.

  I heard the doorbell and went to answer it after I took one last look in the mirror. My stupid head hadn’t completely healed. I still had a big scab that I covered with makeup. I wagged my finger at my face and started laughing. I was so happy that I was seeing Porter. There had to be a way for us to figure out how to get along. I just needed to be more careful and realize who he was. He had stress I couldn’t even imagine trying to handle, so it really was no wonder he got mad so easily. I hurried to the door.

  “Hey,” I said and sort of melted when I saw him standing there. He had on an aqua linen shirt and white linen pants. For once he wasn’t wearing a suit. “You look so nice.” He looked younger than usual but if I told him that he’d flip out.

  “Thanks,” he said and smiled. “So do you.”

  “Want to come in and meet my father?”

  “Of course I do,” he said.

  I took his hand and he followed me inside. This time he didn’t jerk away. And I loved holding his hand.

  Dad was on the portico, reading and watching a huge container ship sliding into the harbor. He looked at us and stood up.

  “Dad? This is Porter Galloway.”

  Porter stuck out his hand and made eye contact with Dad, giving his hand a solid shake. It was something I’d bet Porter did a hundred times a week.

  “How are you, sir?” Porter said.

  “Fine, Porter. You?”

  “Just fine, sir.”

  Dad gave Porter the biggest hairy eyeball from head to toe I’d ever seen him deliver. It didn’t faze Porter in the least.

  “So where are you young people off to this evening?” he said.

  “Just going to grab a bite. Probably somewhere on the island,” Porter said.

  “High Thyme has crab cakes tonight,” I said.

  “That sounds good to me,” Porter said.

  I guess my scab must’ve been showing on my head because Dad said, “Glad to see you’re wearing flat sandals, Ashley. You don’t need another head injury.”

  “Oh, that was my fault, sir. I should’ve caught her when she fell over the coffee table.”

  “Oh?” Dad said. “I thought you said you tripped on your high heels?”

  “Over a coffee table,” I said.

  “I see,” Dad said, and he knitted his eyebrows, smelling a lie. “Well, try to get her home at a reasonable hour, Porter.”

  “I will. It was nice to meet you.”

  I could tell Dad was suspicious and Porter must’ve sensed it too because as soon as we got in the car and backed out of the yard, I got another little blast of Porter’s temper.

  “You know, you just made me look like a liar to your father when we were explaining how you hurt your head.”

  “Look, Porter, my parents asked me what happened and I told them I had a fall because of my high heels. Whoever said anything about a coffee table? You just totally made that up. I don’t even think there is a coffee table in the house. Anywhere.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Here’s what you don’t understand, Ashley. This is about my reputation. My credibility is everything. This might sound nuts to you, but if the smallest thing makes someone think I’m lying, then they begin to wonder about everything else that comes out of my mouth.”

  “But it was a lie, Porter. There was no coffee table.”

  “Okay, here it is, Ashley.” We had just pulled into a parking space right in front of High Thyme. “If I say there’s a coffee table, there’s a coffee table. You must never say anything ever to contradict me. Not the smallest thing. In private? When it’s just us? That’s different. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  I got it but I didn’t like it. It would sure make our relationship feel strange. I wondered if Jackie Kennedy ever disagreed with JFK. Probably not. She was the ideal political spouse and I guess that was the point he was trying to make.

  I understood what he meant. I read the news. Politics weren’t totally my thing, but I knew enough about these mayors and governors saying and doing stupid stuff and getting caught. They looked like idiots all the time. And then people laugh at them for saying one little careless thing. I mean, you can’t even whisper on television because people can lip-read and catch you saying something really awful like when somebody dropped the F-bomb during President Obama’s inauguration. That was terrible.

  “I understand what you mean, Porter.” I said this after I drained half a glass of sauvignon blanc. “If the world is going to hold you to a higher standard than the normal person, then you have to live up to that standard. That’s got to be hard for you.”

  “You have no idea.” He said this with such a somber tone. Then he smiled. “How’s your dinner?”

  “Wonderful,” I said and smiled back.

  “I’m really sorry about the last time we were together,” he said. “I know I’ve said it over and over but I really am. Anyway, I think you need to watch how much wine you drink for a couple of reasons. One, people are counting your glasses . . .”

  “Oh, come on, Porter.” That was totally crazy.

  “Believe me, they are. They count mine? They count yours. Have one glass and sip it.”

  “Gosh, I guess you’re right.” Maybe he was right.

  “And, two, you never would’ve had the accident if you weren’t a little loaded.”

  “That’s true too. I was just looking for courage that night. I didn’t expect a couple of glasses of wine to go to my head like that.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at me sort of sweetly.

  “Don’t worry. I forgive you.”

  I hadn’t really looked at things from Porter’s point of view and he was right. Cracking my head open was my own fault. He didn’t pour the wine down my throat. I did.

  “Thank goodness!” I said.

  “And just what did you need courage for?”

  “You know. We were supposed to . . .” Did I have to say it out loud?

  “Ah! Well, don’t worry. I’ll let you know about that when the time is right. Now are you going to eat that other crab cake?”

  “No, actually, I wasn’t going to. Would you like to have it?”

  “Yes, because if you’re going to have fish breath, I might as well have fish breath too.”

  “You’re right! It’s delish!” I handed him my plate and took his empty one.

  He looked at me with that look guys get when they’re thinking about you naked and right then, I knew tonight was the night. Oh no! Suddenly, I wasn’t ready. I knew he could sense my nervousness.

  “Okay, just this once, why don’t we get you a second glass of wine?” he said, confirming my clairvoyance.

  He signaled the server who brought the new big glass of wine almost instantly. I didn’t chug it but I didn’t sip it either. Porter thought he was going to take me home and you know. Had he forgotten my dad was there? Ha-ha-ha!

  Or had he seen my dad’s car drive by the restaurant? Because when we got back to the hous
e, Dad and his car were gone. Yikes.

  We went inside. There was a note on the kitchen counter. Porter stood behind me and we read it together.

  Dear Ashley,

  Went home to Mom. Thanks for everything. Behave yourself, young lady!

  Love,

  Dad

  “What does that mean? Behave yourself?”

  “It means you have to be a good little girl and do what I tell you to do,” he said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said and walked over to the refrigerator, opening it, pretending to be looking for something. I closed it and opened the freezer.

  My dad may as well have been standing in the room with me because if I had ever been excited about being seduced by Porter, that excitement had fizzled out. But not for him. He started making moves.

  “Come here to me,” he said and turned off the lights.

  “What’s with you and the dark? Do you want ice cream?” I said, trying to ignore the fact that he was about to pounce on me like a leopard. Maybe a little Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey would cool him down a bit.

  He was utterly uninterested in ice cream.

  “No,” he said, and moved in, closing the freezer door and grabbing my arm.

  Okay, now this sounds a little sicko but he twisted it behind my back and held it there while he kissed me. And as knee buckling as his kisses were, he was hurting my arm. I knew there were some people who thought a little discomfort was sexy but I didn’t.

  “Porter?” There was no answer. His mouth was working its way down the side of my neck and giving me chills like crazy. “Porter!”

  “What?” he said, in a weird sort of drowsy voice.

  “You’re hurting my arm! Please stop!”

  “Okay. Let’s go. Where’s your bedroom?”

  “Porter! Wait!”

  He was already pulling me down the hall looking behind doors for my room.

  “Come on!”

  “No! This is my parents’ room!”

  “Oh,” he said and yanked me back into the hall. “Fine.”

  “That’s my room,” I said and pointed to the door across the hall.

  I wasn’t trying to encourage him, but the last place I wanted to fool around was in my parents’ bed. That’s just me. But at that point Porter would’ve thrown me down on the bare floor.

  “Let’s go,” he said and pushed the door open with the heel of his hand. “Get undressed.”

  “Come on, Porter,” I said, “can’t we go slower?”

  “And do what? Make out like a couple of teenagers on the sofa?” He unbuckled his belt.

  “No, I just . . .”

  “What are you saying, Ashley? Do you love me or not?” He took off his trousers and folded them across a chair.

  “I think I do, Porter. It’s just that this all seems a little rushed and I don’t know . . .”

  “You think you love me? You think? Ashley, are you trying to make a fool out of me?”

  Holy crap! Senator Porter Galloway was standing in my bedroom in his boxers! And next he was unbuttoning his shirt . . .

  “God, no! You know how I feel about you! I love you, Porter!”

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Baby, there’s nothing to be afraid of! I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

  He stepped over to me and put his arms around me and kissed me again. Then I felt him unzipping my dress. Is this how I wanted it to be? No. But I was afraid that if I didn’t let him have what he wanted I would lose him. My dress hit the floor.

  “I know that,” I said, but I was very uncertain. “But I just want to wait a little . . .”

  “You belong to me, Ashley, and what I say goes.”

  “No! I said, no, Porter!”

  I happened to glance at the clock. It was just a little after nine. He pushed me down on the bed. I didn’t even get to kick off my sandals. His mouth was on mine and no matter how much I tried to object, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  “No, Porter! Stop!”

  “Shut up!”

  Then it seemed that it was happening, but I didn’t feel anything. Nothing! He kept whispering my name and telling me he loved me. I didn’t even know I was crying until it was all over. I looked at my clock again. It was only ten minutes after nine. Good grief. It was the worst sexual experience of my life. Then I cried for real. Didn’t I tell him to stop? Why didn’t he stop? How was I supposed to spend the rest of my life with this passing for sex? We were completely incompatible. It wasn’t going to work, and knowing it just broke my heart into a million pieces. Plus, I hadn’t wanted to do it and he knew it.

  “Oh, great,” he said. “I guess it’s time for me to leave.”

  “I wasn’t ready,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I just wanted to wait, Porter.”

  “Well, it’s a little late to clarify your position, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And I wasn’t enough for you, was I?”

  “Oh, no, Porter . . . it’s just that . . . I don’t know. I don’t.”

  But he knew and he was so angry with me that he was almost hyperventilating. He practically jumped into his pants and he threw his shirt on without even buttoning it. He stepped into his loafers and then he slapped one hand across my face. Then he was gone. Just like that. He was gone.

  Mary Beth got home sometime after two in the morning and I was on the portico, sobbing my eyes out. I’d left the door open so she’d know where to find me.

  “What the hell happened?” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “No! Oh, Mary Beth. It’s over!”

  “You and Porter?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, God, he hates me now! We . . . you know . . .”

  “Had sex?”

  “Yes. And it was terrible!”

  “The sex or that you did it in the first place?”

  “Both! Oh, God! I could just die!”

  “Stop! Listen to me, Ash. Are you telling me he forced you to have sex with him?”

  “Yes. I mean, he knew I didn’t want to do it and then he just sort of did it to me anyway.”

  “Ashley? That’s called rape. Call it date rape if you want to soften up the term but it’s still rape. Did you object?”

  “Of course I did, but it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t care.”

  “The bastard! Let’s go to the emergency room. Come on. Let’s get your purse.”

  “No! Mary Beth, listen to me. I’m not going to be the one to ruin his career. I’m not! I’m just saying that we were so incompatible and that’s what breaks my heart. It was impossible.”

  “Oh, Ash.” Mary Beth came and sat next to me on the glider. She threw her arm around my shoulder and gave me a good squeeze. “There’s nothing worse than lousy sex. I’m sorry. Was it really that hopeless?”

  “I’m pretty sure. Oh, hell. Yes. It was that hopeless. Less than ten minutes of sheer nothingness. When he realized I wasn’t thrilled, he slapped me and then he stomped out. I’ve been crying ever since.”

  “What? He hit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That shit. Don’t cry, Ashley. He isn’t worth it.”

  “He said terrible things to me.”

  “He’ll calm down. He’ll call and say he’s sorry. He will.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mary Beth. I’m just so sad because I thought we were so good together. I was going to be his Jackie O.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I told you a secret?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on the secret.”

  “Okay. You know Samir and his five-hundred-dollars thing?”

  “Sort of.” Wa
s she going to confess at last?

  “Well, he can only get it up if he tells himself he’s with a prostitute.”

  “And so he pays you to have sex with him?”

  “Yeah, the same five hundred dollars every single time. He gives it to me, I take it back to him, he gives to me again, I take it back again . . . I mean, men and their you know whats are a very complicated business. At least we don’t have to worry about that!”

  I actually laughed! One, I was seriously relieved to know my best friend wasn’t a total whore and, two, her story was as bad as mine!

  “So your momma really did send you that watch?”

  “Yes. She bought it on the Internet. Why, what did you think?”

  “I thought I was going crazy! Oh, my God,” I said. “Men!”

  “Men is right.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Liz—Another Chance

  It was early in the morning, and the weather was overcast and humid. I was making pancakes. He was sleeping in the guest room. Clayton, I mean. I called him after Charleston Flowers delivered last evening. The parade of people bringing in flowers was a little bit insane. Every surface in the living room, dining room, kitchen, my bedroom, the guest room, the kids’ old rooms—everything was covered in vases of heart-stopping gorgeous flowers. It was as though someone terribly important had dropped dead and my house was a funeral parlor or as though someone was drowning in regret. I’m going with regret, although I almost dropped dead myself when I saw all the flowers. Like the women I championed, flowers had something hardscrabble in them, rugged enough to climb through tons of stone and earth to emerge as a beautiful thing. Beautiful, but fragile still. I decided that I would take most of them to the safe house and share them with all the women and children. But for that lovely moment I was going to enjoy them and photograph them so I would remember that this was the greatest gesture of apology that ever came from Clayton.

  So I called him last night after the flowers arrived and he begged me to let him come home. What was I going to say? No? I couldn’t do that. Maisie was right. He deserved at least a conversation, a chance to explain himself. I’d done a lot of thinking since New York. A lot. The truth was that Clayton was as vulnerable to temptation as the next man except that he got caught. And now he was desperately sorry. I believed him. And, as much as I hated to admit it, the extraordinary abundance of blooms softened my heart.