The Land of Mango Sunsets

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  With Kevin’s small digital camera and the wonders of technology, he was able to print the pictures out on four-by-six-inch glossy stock. He arranged them all in a leather photograph album, and to my surprise, it all looked absolutely professional.

  “I can’t believe you did this in one afternoon, Kevin. This looks so amazing, I can’t believe these gorgeous objects are all mine.”

  “It’s incredible,” Liz said.

  “Yes, it is incredible, if I say so myself.” He laughed. “Monday I will give this to my friend and he will tell us where we can get the best prices.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Thomas Britt. The interior designer.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  “Maybe because he’s all over Architectural Digest and he’s basically the king of good taste in the entire country?”

  “Oh. That’s fine with me, but why would we take it to a designer and not somebody like a retail dealer?” I asked.

  “Well, we could, but first of all, interior designers frequently accessorize their client’s homes. The wives of these new-money Wall Street hedge-fund types don’t want to have shiny new silver in their dining rooms. They want furnishings with a provenance.”

  “You’re not going to tell anybody that she’s been forced to sell her grandmother’s tea service, are you?” Liz said.

  “Actually, I’m keeping that,” I said.

  “Yeah, okay, but seriously, Kevin. I mean, my God, between Charles and the coffee thing, hasn’t Miriam suffered enough embarrassment in this town?”

  I started to laugh because as the old Miriam died and Mellie continued to emerge, everything was bathed in a new light.

  “Why would I care one whit? It’s very liberating. Anyway, I wouldn’t be the first wife who sold her silver, would I? To be honest, I can’t even afford the polish! So how ridiculous is that?”

  “Listen, no one says who owned it. It’s offered anonymously. The quality of the collection will speak for itself. And it may not all go in one swoop. So let’s just see what happens.”

  “That sounds like a plan to me,” I said, feeling like a sack of rocks had been lifted from my shoulders.

  That night, Kevin went to the theater with some friends and Liz moved back upstairs after thanking me a thousand times for all I had done for her. I couldn’t remember feeling so good about myself in years. The tragedy had brought us close together, if not exactly like mother and daughter then like aunt and niece. I felt so grateful to be able to help her, and not just financially. I had to say, she had been more stoic than a lot of other beautiful young women might have been. That made me think yet again that she had probably come from a life of some other kind of suffering. She had never spoken about it. I would not ask.

  “Miriam’s happy,” Harry said from his perch.

  I burst out laughing and said, “Yes! Miriam’s happy!”

  I called Charlie because in all the hullabaloo, I had not had the chance to tell him about Gerald Imber’s gift.

  “He was just amazing, Charlie. Seriously. You did the nicest and most charitable thing by calling in that favor. I mean, with a little concealer, Liz is going to be beautiful again.”

  “Well, I’m glad it worked out. Hey, are you going to be home tomorrow night?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “I’m going to give Priscilla the ring at dinner…”

  “You are? Oh! How exciting!”

  “Right? And I think it might be nice to come over and let you see it on her finger, you know, so she can say thanks and all? What do you think?”

  “Oh! I would love that! Did you take it to Corey?”

  “Yeah, and you should see this thing—it’s like a headlight now! And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “He said it’s worth like nine or ten thousand dollars.”

  “Mother McCree! Give it back!”

  Silence.

  “I’m just kidding, Charlie.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Don’t lie to your mother. What time will y’all be here?”

  “You’re right. You had me for a moment. How’s nine?”

  “Sounds just fine.”

  The next evening I had a fire crackling in the fireplace, and a nice bottle of champagne on ice. I bought a small wedding cake with white icing and a silver spun-sugar bow on top and placed it on my best crystal cake plate. I decorated my silver cake knife with thin pink and white satin ribbon streamers. I was ready for a happy occasion.

  They rang the doorbell and I couldn’t open it fast enough. Priscilla was radiant. Charlie had never been so handsome or animated. We oohed and aahed over the ring, and hugged over and over. Priscilla sliced the cake, Charlie opened the champagne, and they toasted me. They toasted me.

  Priscilla choked up, and with her voice cracking with emotion, she said, “Miriam? I just don’t know what to say. I love your wonderful son, I love this exquisite ring, and I know I’m going to love you, too. I already do. I’m going to be a good wife, and I promise, I’m going to be a good daughter-in-law, too.”

  “And a good doctor,” Charlie said.

  I wanted to weep. I looked at them, so in love, so happy, sitting close to each other on my old sofa, Charlie’s arm around her shoulder, squeezing her arm with pride, the fire burning…everything I could want for my son was right in front of me. An exotic, beautiful, brilliant woman who promised us her love and fidelity. I wanted to freeze the moment and hold it forever. Screw Charles Swanson, I thought. We didn’t need him in our lives anymore. And, by the way, it was permissible for Mellie to cuss from time to time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WITHOUT A STITCH

  While Liz paid a visit to Dr. Imber to have her stitches removed, I drafted three budgets for Charlie and Priscilla’s wedding, each of them based on seventy-five guests. The most expensive included the predictable—serious invitations, two bars with premium liquors and wines, Irish-linen tablecloths with damask overlays, ballroom chairs, rented trees laced with tiny white lights, velvet pipe and drape to disguise service areas, important floral designs and standing candelabra for either side of the riser, modest centerpieces for the tables with votive candles everywhere, and a rented parquet dance floor. I included an eight-piece band for dancing and a four-piece reggae ensemble for cocktails. The menu depended on what caterer they chose, but I threw in a round number. A photographer would take formal portraits of the wedding and candid shots during the reception. He would produce leather-bound albums for the bride and groom and smaller ones for the families.

  The second option was to print the invitations on someone’s computer on nice paper and bring all the expenditures down a notch or two. Or three. For example, dinner could be served all buffet style. The third option was a down-home Jamaican-themed party with handwritten invitations, punch bowls, draped picnic tables with centerpieces in conch shells, palms on the riser for the ceremony, and whatever Kevin would beg, borrow, and steal from the display department at Bergdorf’s. The guests could cook their own goat on skewers in a fondue pot. Oh, come on, that was funny, wasn’t it? A little? Anyway, I was leaning toward the third, as it sounded like the most fun to me.

  In any and all scenarios, the wedding cake would be filled with rum-soaked fruit, as this was an important tradition to Priscilla. When I compared the possibilities, the differences in the costs were dramatic.

  I called Charlie to discuss it.

  “Hi! How are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  I was still so surprised by our newly reestablished comfort with each other and I was ever so grateful to have it.

  “Great! Listen, I put together a couple of different budgets for this wedding reception and I know you have to go over all the details with Priscilla, but I was just wondering if you had some range of money in mind. You know, that you could afford to spend and still have a nice honeymoon?”

  I told him what I thought the differences were between the option
s I had come up with, and he said, “Go for it, Mom. Do it Miriam Swanson style. I’ll ask Priscilla, but I know she has always secretly dreamed of some kind of an elegant affair. It’s bad enough that we’re using a loft instead of the Waldorf, right? But we’ve got the money, we just don’t have the expertise to organize this. At least I think we’ve got enough money.”

  I assumed that meant that Priscilla handled their finances, but I said nothing.

  “Got it. Well, and I’m going to help you wherever I can. You know, I should really take Kevin down there to see the loft with me. He’s the über-fantasy design guy in this whole town. I know he would have some great ideas.”

  “Well, here. Call this guy.”

  He gave me the name and number of his loft-owner friend and I made an appointment for that evening. If Kevin was free, we would give it the once-over.

  “I don’t know why I let you drag me into these things, Petal,” Kevin said, and we bumped and barreled our way downtown in a cab at six o’clock.

  “Oh, come on. You just need a glass of wine and you’ll be fine. Tough day?”

  “Please! I had this whole outrageous spring thing planned around Alice in Wonderland. I commissioned life-size papier-mâché white rabbits and Cheshire cats from a fabulous artist in Belgium. They came in so monstrous-looking that they’re sure to give every child in the city a psychotic episode. I swear. Headline: KINDERGARTEN SUICIDES. They look like they could eat you alive. In one bite. All those pointed teeth and redrimmed, evil eyes…”

  “Well, that surely won’t do. What’s your fallback position?”

  “Switch to Buckingham Palace and do something royal. Tea with the queen instead of Alice. I have things I can use. Oceans of pearls and so forth. But it’s so annoying. And I hate repeating themes.”

  “Well, look, we’ll stay in this place for ten minutes and then I’ll take you out for dinner at some cool place in Tribeca. How about Odeon? I haven’t been there in ages.”

  Kevin looked over at me and smiled. I knew he loved Odeon.

  “I can’t do this without you, Kevin, and you know it.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Miriam. That’s why I’m here.”

  We walked around the loft with Charlie’s friend and Kevin jotted notes in his Moleskine. He paced the length and width of the large space, inspected the kitchen and the bathroom, and asked how many amps of power were available.

  “Do you mind if I bring in chandeliers? I have my own electrician,” he said.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “He’s union, from Bergdorf Goodman. I’ve known him for years.”

  “I’m kind of funny about another electrician working with my wiring.”

  “And I’m kind of funny about another electrician working with my Venetian chandeliers. How about if I gave your guy a couple of hundred bucks to be here just in case my man has questions about breakers and so forth?”

  “That sounds fair. Sure. That’s good. I’ll give you his number.”

  After a cocktail and over steaks and eggs in a booth at Odeon, I finally said, “So what do you think about the loft?”

  “Only for you, Miriam. What do I think? I’ll get my guys in there and we will transform that dank, dismal hellhole of the most depressing warehouse I have ever seen in the entire world into Cinderella’s palace. Priscilla is going to feel like a fairy princess, like every girl should on her wedding day. The good news is there’s lots of room for a huge dance floor. So don’t worry about it. Now, tell me about Liz and when are y’all heading south? It’s just me and Harry again, right?”

  “Oh, Kevin, you’re the best friend I have ever had.”

  “That’s okay. You’re mine, too. But at some point, I want to go to Sullivans Island. And by the way, I gave the scrapbook of pirates to Tom Britt. Waiting to hear. But I have to tell you this.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Britt was seriously impressed with the book. He said he hadn’t seen silver like yours in ages. I mean, Miriam, I think you’re sitting on a huge chunk of change.”

  “Well, that’s good, because with everything that’s going on, I’m going to need it.”

  I found the airline tickets for Liz and me at the right price and naturally I asked her again if she still wanted to go.

  “Miriam—gosh, I still feel so funny to call you that—anyway, I would love to get out of here for a few days. I’ve got cabin fever, you know?”

  “I imagine that you do! Well, the sunshine will do us both a lot of good.”

  So I bought the tickets, and a week later, Liz and I were on an airplane to Charleston. Her arm was still in a sling, so I helped her with her luggage, which we gate-checked. As the plane circled over the rivers of Charleston, Liz couldn’t stop staring through her window. The view was, as usual, absolutely spectacular, beyond anything you could capture in a photograph.

  “I can’t believe how blue the sky is and how all those little waterways just weave in and out of everywhere. The whole landscape looks like it was designed by Leonardo da Vinci or somebody!”

  “Bigger.”

  “Michelangelo?”

  “No, hon, the hand of God sculpted this.”

  Liz was quiet for a moment and then she said, “You don’t talk about religion much, Miriam.”

  “What is there to say? You want proof? Look outside the window. And wait until you see the sunset.”

  “Papaya?”

  “Close enough.”

  “You know, when I was a little girl I went to church every Sunday and to Bible study and all that. But I’ll bet you I haven’t been in a church, except for a wedding or something, in ten years.”

  “How come?”

  “Because, well, with all the ugly things that happened to me growing up, I just had a hard time believing there was a God out there who loved me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, I don’t know. We can talk about it sometime, I guess. But right now I’m just wanting to think about happier things.”

  So Liz had her demons bottled up and didn’t feel like giving them a forum. I certainly respected that. She hadn’t been that lucky since she’d met me, so I could only imagine what was in her past. Still, she had an optimistic streak in her, some stamina to survive. She didn’t want to dwell on the past and I sure could have taken a lesson from her on that topic, as I had done way more than my share of wallowing.

  Liz continued staring at the Lowcountry as we circled, mesmerized by the vast and vibrant panorama. I white-knuckled the armrest during the descent and smiled as though nothing were wrong when she looked back in my direction.

  “We’re here,” I said as brightly as I could manage, although I had just endured my classic out-of-body experience with the landing.

  We got our bags and were on our way in minutes. I thought to myself that it surely was a good thing that not many people knew how easy it was to fly in and out of Charleston or we’d be overrun with tourists.

  Liz had the same visceral reactions on the drive to Sullivans Island as I always did. Glistening water, short docks dropped along the water’s edge on tilted pilings, while small boats bobbed alongside them, the high-tide marks in the marsh grass, erosion lines in mud banks home to the white-and-gray craggy oyster beds, birds everywhere—only the coldest heart could have remain unmoved.

  “Miriam, this is so beautiful you could just cry.”

  “And, guess what? There’s no more land like this,” I said. “Well, maybe some here and there, but, boy, it sure is disappearing fast.”

  “That’s a major mortal sin,” Liz said.

  “You’re telling me? My mother and her friend Harrison are all involved in every environmental movement they have going on around here. You won’t believe this. Her latest thing is collecting Stonyfield yogurt containers and sending them off to this company called Recycline, which makes toothbrushes out of the containers.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Honey, you can’t make stuff like this up. Somethin
g like fifty million pounds of used toothbrushes are tossed out every year.”

  “Gross!”

  “Seriously, right? Last time I was here she was making biodegradable plates and bowls out of potato starch.”

  “Man, I can’t wait to meet them.”

  “They’re pretty wild.”

  When the taxi pulled up to our Sullivans Island home, it was nearly dark.

  “We’ll catch the sunset tomorrow,” I said.

  I heard the sliding-glass door open and looked up to see my mother at the top of the steps. Perhaps it was the light, but just in the few short weeks since I had seen her, it seemed to me that she was considerably thinner.

  “Welcome!” she called out. “You must be Liz!”

  She may have lost some weight, but she had given up no spirit. Her voice was just as young and full of energy as it had ever been.

  “You girls hurry up now! Miriam? Let’s show Liz to the guest room.”

  I gave my mother a kiss on her cheek. She gave Liz a hug and took her bag right from her hand.

  “I’ll show you the goat and the chickens later,” I said, and winked at Liz.

  “Laugh all you want, missy, but they serve a purpose!” My mother turned her attention to Liz. “Look at you, sweetheart! You’ve just had the bug-eyed devil of a time, haven’t you? Well, no matter. You’re here now and the salt air will have you doing cartwheels in no time! How’s that shoulder?”

  “Collarbone, actually. And it’s a lot better, but it’s still hard to blow out my hair.”

  “Six weeks to heal? I think that’s what they say, right? And we don’t worry about our hair at the beach.”

  “Yeah, well, this is week three and my collarbone feels about half better, so I guess that’s about right.”

  Mother went back downstairs and I helped Liz unpack.

  “I didn’t bring much,” she said.

  “Don’t need much,” I said. “And if you do, we have stores. It feels like the middle of nowhere, but there’s a Gap just three miles from here.”