“Oh? Well, good,” she replied, appeased. “That’ll teach her some deportment and etiquette. Girls are getting far too opinionated and outspoken these days. I swanny, I don’t know what’s happening in the world. Women protesting in the streets . . . burning bras . . . Not in Charleston, I can tell you that!”
“Mama, Cara doesn’t even wear a bra yet!”
“You know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry so much. For all her headstrong ways, Cara is a kind, smart, and sensible girl. I have complete faith in her.”
“Be that as it may, she is growing up. It might help if she stops hanging around the boys all the time this summer.”
“Yes, Mother,” Lovie replied, swallowing the annoyance bubbling in her chest. Cara was her daughter. She didn’t care for her mother’s opinions, and she didn’t have time to listen to them now. Besides, there was no winning. Nothing would change her mother’s mind . . . or her own, for that matter.
Lovie knew in her heart that this was Cara’s last summer to be wild and carefree, and she was determined to let her have it. Next season she would change schools, enter junior cotillion, and the subtle shift from childhood to adolescence would begin. She loved her daughter’s independent spirit, her sense of adventure, and her courage to speak her mind, sometimes with her dukes up. Lovie couldn’t remember ever being that strong. Her mother had drummed into her head how a proper lady did not speak out of turn or voice her opinions too strongly, nor should she toot her own horn. Rather, she should allow her home and family to reflect her accomplishments. Likewise, a woman should never seek to overshadow her husband but put her efforts into helping him shine.
Yet as a young girl at the beach house, she was allowed every freedom. She ran wild on the beach, her bare toes digging in the sand and her hair flying behind her. On the waterways, she was Tom Sawyer to her brother’s Huck Finn. The beach house had become not only a beloved place but also a symbol of freedom. Only once she reached Cara’s age was she firmly, lovingly guided into the responsibilities of her sex. There were days when Lovie longed for that young, outspoken, courageous girl and wondered if she didn’t still reside deep within her, waiting for an opportunity to reemerge.
Lovie was determined to give Cara this last summer of childhood.
She led her mother from the walled scented garden into the large, airy kitchen. Old houses could be charming with grand living and dining rooms, but the historic builders gave little thought to the cooks and the maids. The kitchens and third-floor bedrooms, not to mention the back servants’ stairs, were cramped and dark. When Lovie and Stratton bought the house in 1960, the kitchen was insignificant and the appliances were antique. Lovie had shocked her mother by ripping out the butler’s pantry and a small sitting room to create the open, sunny kitchen that was the heart of her home.
The caterer had taken command of the space and scowled at the intrusion of boxes on his counters. The delicious scents of roasting meat and garlic filled the room, and steam was rising from pots on the stove. Lovie and Dee Dee lifted the urns from the boxes and carried the flowers directly to the dining room, setting one on each end of the long stretch of polished mahogany. Dee Dee stepped back, crossed her slender arms, and surveyed the dining table. Lovie swallowed her sudden nervousness. Lovie handled her dinner parties with the efficient calm of a seasoned hostess. Her husband’s import-export business often brought important guests to the Holy City, and this year alone she’d hosted six parties, and it was only May. And yet her mother still had the power to make her stomach clench.
“You know I’m a perfectionist,” Dee Dee began, circling the table. She reached out, grasping a crystal champagne glass and holding it up to the light with her pink-nailed hand. “Spots.”
Lovie paled, mortified.
“They’ll all need to be wiped with a linen cloth,” Dee Dee added with hauteur.
Lovie caught the cloying scent of the flowers as she signaled to the uniformed waiter in the pantry. He hurried to her side, eyes alert as Lovie gave him instructions. Dee Dee moved from one place setting to the next, reaching out to adjust a fork, rearrange a rose in the vase, straighten a place card.
“It’s the details that matter,” Dee Dee told her daughter with a hint of scold in her voice.
“I’m well aware of that, Mother. But with the packing, and school finishing up, and Palmer’s sports, I’ve been very busy.”
“So has your husband,” Dee Dee admonished. “He expects you to show his home at its best at these affairs.”
“It’s not his home, Mama. It’s our home.”
Dee Dee tsked with impatience. “It’s no good getting caught up in semantics.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so tired of entertaining. Stratton sets these dates without any idea how much work each party is.”
“But Cara, dear, why should he? Isn’t that your duty? You are Stratton’s wife, the mother of his children. He’s the breadwinner, and if you don’t mind my saying so, he’s provided you with a very nice lifestyle. It’s up to you to create a beautiful home and to run it smoothly. To make your dinner parties appear effortless. And,” she added pointedly, “to raise your children to be a gentleman and a lady.”
Lovie pinched her lips tight. Her mother was a social butterfly. She’d spent most of her adult life in their large historic home in Aiken with beautiful grounds and meticulous gardens. When Michael Simmons died suddenly, Dee Dee surprised everyone by selling her beautiful house at the peak of the market for a terrific profit. She promptly moved herself and her favorite furniture and possessions to an extremely choice condominium on East Bay in Charleston overlooking the harbor. She told all her friends with a sigh of loneliness that she’d needed to be near her daughter, now that she was a widow. Before long, Dee Dee was ensconced in a new group of friends in her ladies’ clubs, tennis, theater, and church events. Lovie and the children rarely had visits from her. The truth was, Dee Dee had no idea of all the pressure and strain Stratton’s business demanded of Lovie.
Nor, sadly, did her husband. Stratton’s lack of appreciation stole the shine from her accomplishments. If the party appeared effortless, he, too, thought it was just that. Effortless.
“Well, it is a beautiful table, my dear,” Dee Dee said. “You have outdone yourself.”
Lovie caught the glint of envy flash in Dee Dee’s eyes. The Simmonses were a proud family whose ancestors wore gray in the Great War, but the family did not hail from Charleston. By contrast, the Rutledges were an old and proud Charleston family. The pedigree opened doors Dee Dee’s wealth could never crack. Dee Dee had been thrilled with Lovie’s match. The success of her daughter’s marriage was her success.
Lovie had come to her marriage with a substantial inheritance, enough for the down payment on their house and to help fund Stratton’s import-export company. Still, they had to be frugal. Lovie’s gaze swept the room as she recalled the years she’d spent working on the poor, neglected house. She did all her own decorating, sewed by hand the yards of fabric and fringe for curtains, painted and stenciled walls. Room by room, she’d brought this neglected old house back to its former glory. She’d given the task ten years of her life, and it would, she knew, never be finished. These old houses always had some task needing doing.
The waiter finished polishing and stepped back. “Ma’am?” he asked.
Lovie shook away her reverie to step forward and cast a final, proprietary glance over the twelve place settings. The Chippendale dining chairs lined up evenly, the crystal gleamed, the silver shone, and the salt cellars were filled. Tall white candles awaited her signal to be lit.
“Much better,” she said. “Thank you.”
Dee Dee tapped her lips. “Except, of course, you know Stratton is going to say something about those place mats. He prefers the white damask tablecloth. Well, it’s too late to change now. Speaking of late, shouldn’t you go upstairs and change?” She leaned closer to deliver a chaste kiss on Lovie’s cheek. “I’ll be on my way. Good luck tonight
. And have a good time at the beach house.”
“You won’t come by this summer?”
“We’ll see,” Dee Dee replied with a wave as she strolled from the room.
Lovie doubted her mother would come. She always managed to create one excuse or another. She’d never enjoyed the beach house. It was her father who had looked forward to their summer vacations at the sea with the same relish she did.
With a last, sweeping look at her table, Lovie hurried up the front stairs.
A short while later, Lovie stepped from her marble bathroom wearing a full slip, hair and makeup in place. She opened the French doors that overlooked her garden. It would be a perfect night for a party, she told herself. The heat would fade with the sun. They’d have drinks in the garden. Closing her eyes, Lovie could smell her beloved magnolia blooms. Their broad, glossy leaves would look striking in the candlelight. She stood for a moment and allowed the sweet-scented breeze to dry her freshly showered, perfumed skin.
“You’re letting all the air-conditioning out!” Stratton strode briskly into the room, startling her.
Lovie promptly closed the doors and turned to see that he had already changed into a fresh, crisply ironed shirt.
“When did you get home?”
“While you were in the shower.” He scowled, struggling with his gold cuff link. “Damned things, I don’t know why I bother.”
She came directly to his side and brushed away his hand. He had the fresh soapy scent of his shower, yet she could feel his tension radiate from his body into her own. It was unusual for Stratton to be nervous for a dinner, signaling to her the party’s importance. Stratton was a social being. He was a good conversationalist—smart, witty, and quick with that stinging retort that could make a group laugh, often at someone’s expense. Sometimes she envied his ability to never meet a stranger.
As for Lovie, on a soft night like this, she’d rather sit in her big wicker chair in the garden with a book.
“Stand still, Stratton,” she said, clasping the thick gold link that bore the Rutledge family crest.
“You’re not dressed yet?”
“I just have to slip into my dress. I didn’t want to crease the fabric.”
“When are the guests due to arrive?”
“Not until seven. I’m hoping the night will cool a bit before we serve dinner.”
“You’re going to keep the air-conditioning on, aren’t you?”
“Of course, if that old thing will make it. I say a prayer every time I turn it on. One of these nights it’s going to fail.”
“It’s got lots of life still in it,” he said, offering his pat answer whenever she wanted to replace an appliance.
“There,” she said, finishing the second cuff link. “You’re all set.” She stood back and surveyed the man who had been her husband for fifteen years.
Stratton Rutledge held his shoulders back with the pride of an illustrious history of ancestors. Though he was a hair less than six feet tall, his carriage combined with his booming voice gave him the semblance of someone big. At forty-four, he resembled the portrait of his great-grandfather that hung in the dining room. He had the Rutledge thick dark hair and eyes, the broad forehead, and the proud, even arrogant, nose. Only recently had she seen the beginnings of graying at the temples, which Stratton liked because he thought it made him look older and wiser—good for business. The crisp fabric of his starched shirt rustled as he slipped his arms into his suit jacket. Peering into the mirror over her shoulder, he adjusted his collar and tie.
“You look quite handsome in your linen suit,” she told him.
“As long as I look prosperous.” He tugged his cuffs. His lips turned downward. “I noticed you used those damn flimsy mats for the table.”
“I thought it made the room feel somehow lighter. Cooler. The linen is of the finest quality,” she hurried to add, trying to deflect his ill humor. She could smell bourbon on his breath already. “Now please, Stratton, let’s not fuss about it,” she said, heading for the bed where her dress lay in waiting. “I have to hurry if you want me to greet our guests at the door.”
She turned her head away from his frown, wondering why he cared about such things. Thoughts of place mats slipped away as she slid into the spring green silk dress she’d purchased on King Street for the dinner. It was so lovely, an extravagant choice—rare for her and one that crippled her budget. But she just couldn’t resist it.
“Zip me?”
Stratton obliged, his large hands struggling with the tiny zipper. So close, the bourbon on his breath made her stomach clench. She didn’t trust Stratton when he’d been drinking. She felt the constriction of the dress as the zipper hummed up, the fabric cinching her waist and accentuating her full breasts. Turning, her full skirt flared. She caught the gleam in Stratton’s eyes and knew he wouldn’t complain when he saw the bill.
“You look lovely,” he said with appreciation.
“Thank you,” she replied, blushing slightly at the rare compliment.
“But it needs something.”
She looked abruptly into the mirror over her bureau, checking her reflection. Her blond hair was sleek in a French twist, her peachy skin shone against the lush silk, and the mabe pearl and emerald earrings Stratton had given her for Christmas gleamed at her ears. She didn’t think of herself as a great beauty, yet Stratton had always told her she had a sweetness about her that was fresh and unspoiled. What did he think was missing?
Stratton came to stand behind her and his eyes held a spark of amusement. Lovie tilted her head, curious. He lifted his arms, and as he lowered them she felt his crisp linen sleeve against her cheek, smelled the sandalwood in his aftershave, then—in surprise—the coolness of pearls around her neck.
“Oh, Stratton . . .”
The cultured pearls were so large and lustrous—so extravagant—they took her breath away. Her hand shot up to touch them as her mouth opened in a soft gasp of surprise and a softening in her bones. She’d been wrong. Stratton did appreciate her efforts!
He finished clasping the necklace and stepped back to survey her appearance.
“Mikimotos,” he said, referring to the pearls. “The best of the best. They cost a small fortune, I can tell you.”
“They’re so large . . .” She turned, her joy bubbling up as she wrapped her arms around his neck to plant a big, exuberant kiss on her husband’s lips.
“One look at those babies and Bob Porter will know we’re a solid investment.”
Lovie’s smile wavered as understanding dawned. The pearls were more for show than a reflection of his appreciation for her. Ah, yes, that would be more typical of him.
“It’s an important night, Lovie. Very.” He held her gaze. “I need to make this deal. Be sure to talk to Porter’s wife, make her feel comfortable. Her name’s Ginny or Jeanne . . . I’m told she’s shy.”
“Of course,” she replied, slowly lowering her arms. She felt the pressure of her party’s success tighten her chest. “I’ve never let you down before, have I?”
He lowered to kiss her gently on the cheek. “No, you haven’t. I’m a lucky man to have you, Lovie.”
She smiled and cupped his cheek. “Thank you for the pearls. They really are lovely.”
He stepped back, his smile fading while nodding absentmindedly. His thoughts were already turned to the business he wanted to conduct that evening.
Lovie spritzed her signature Joy perfume on her neck and wrists. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the room. “Do you think the party will run late?” she asked.
“It shouldn’t. Why? Are you tired?”
“A bit, actually. But that’s not why I asked. I’d like an early start for the beach tomorrow morning.”
“What, tomorrow?”
“Yes, Stratton,” she replied with a slight tone of frustration. “I reminded you every day this week, three times yesterday.”
“It slipped my mind.”
Lovie opened her mouth to ask how that was poss
ible, but closed it again.
“Do we have to leave tomorrow?”
“We’ve already put it off until after Memorial Day for this party.”
“It couldn’t be helped. You know how important this deal is.” He frowned and put his hands on his hips in thought. When he looked at her again, his face was as hard with resolution as granite. “Lovie, postpone the beach for a week. The Porters will be staying in town for Spoleto. It’s a good opportunity to forge a stronger relationship with them. I was thinking we could meet up with them again later in the week for a performance and dinner. His wife doesn’t know anybody in town.”
“She’s meeting five other couples tonight!” She saw temper flare in his eyes and her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to set him off in a foul temper right before the dinner party. Stratton was quick to rise and slow to cool. He’d blame her for any tension that could mar the evening’s mood.
“Stratton, it’s just that I practically killed myself today getting us all packed. I’ve all the food prepared. The car is ready. It’d be colossal to postpone now.” Seeing frustration in his scowl, she added in a conciliatory tone, “The children are so looking forward to their vacation.”
“Hell, summer’s just beginning! They can wait a few more days. You’re talking about vacation? This is important for my work. It puts the food on the table. And it’s not like you need a vacation.” He rolled his shoulders and said offhandedly, “You’re on vacation every day.”
Lovie felt her heart wither in her chest. With that one brief aside, he’d utterly diminished her. She fought the urge to rip the pearls from her neck and throw them back at him.
“Oh, yes,” she said icily. “That’s right. My life is just one jolly vacation.”
She turned away to the mirror and applied rose-colored lipstick. She was so hurt and angry her hand shook. Is that how he measured her? All the hours she spent creating and maintaining his home and family, didn’t they matter? True, she didn’t have a formal career, didn’t bring home a paycheck—no woman she knew did. Her mother had always told her that she shouldn’t work after she was married. It was demeaning to her husband, implying that he couldn’t provide. Yet did her domestic work, her countless hours of volunteering hold so little value in his eyes?
Beach House Memories Page 3