Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  The UPS man knocked on her door just as she was about to run out and buy Penn a nice bottle of wine.

  “What is that?” A massive oblong box sat on her doorstep.

  “Not sure,” the man in brown said. “It looks like it came from a local business supply company in Charleston.”

  “Are you sure it came to me? I never ordered anything.”

  He double-checked his screen. “Yes, ma’am.” He helped her get it inside the front parlor and left.

  She struggled a few minutes to open it, truly baffled. But when she finally saw what it was—a deluxe, state-of-the-art tabletop copier machine, complete with a coupon for free installation and maintenance, an hour-long, in-person tutorial, a DVD tutorial, and a certificate for free ink cartridges for life—she burst into tears.

  Of course it was from Harrison.

  It was such a generous gesture, but she knew he was also taunting her. Would she spread her wings and fly as an artist? Or would she keep hiding in the attic?

  “You got me this time,” she whispered out loud. The artist in her was absolutely seduced by the beauty of that machine. She’d never forgive herself for giving it up. But she’d also never be able to forget Harrison if she kept it.

  That was probably his diabolical plan.

  A short while later, she knocked at Penn’s door. When she stepped over the threshold, she remembered doing the same thing all those years ago, when she’d been late for the post-prom brunch because she’d slept with Harrison the night before on the beach. An amazing night—up until then, the best of her life—followed by that disaster of a morning.

  The housekeeper led her to the living room.

  “A bit underdressed, are we?” Penn said, a gin-and-tonic in hand. “But what does it matter? You’re glowing like a woman in love. Dubose would find you enchanting in a paper sack.”

  True had kept it simple in one of Honey’s homemade poplin skirts and a sleeveless summer sweater. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or not.” She kept her tone light. “But you look lovely yourself, Penn.”

  Her mother-in-law was a real fashionista. She wore a chic brown sheath and a silk scarf in the traditional Burberry pattern, probably in honor of her trip to England.

  Where was Dubose? True was almost frantic to see him. But she couldn’t show it. So she sat carefully on the edge of the sofa and smiled at Penn. “How was your trip?”

  “It was interesting enough. I called Neville Barker from London to ask him to escort me to the wedding.” He was a wealthy Charlestonian known for his charitable work, like Penn. “Would you like a drink?”

  A drink always meant a gin-and-tonic in Penn’s house.

  “Yes, thanks.” She needed one.

  The housekeeper swiftly prepared it, and True managed a few large swallows when Dubose walked into the room.

  “Hey, beautiful.” He seemed genuinely happy to see her.

  She, thank God, felt a genuine stirring of gladness. Now she could get on with her life again, surely.

  “You’re a breath of fresh air.” He kissed her cheek.

  And her entire world stopped on its axis. Oh, God. She couldn’t bear the feel of his lips on her skin and had to try not to flinch.

  “Thanks,” she said faintly. “You look great.”

  Her reaction was a fluke, she told herself. She was nervous. Penn was watching. Reunions in front of judgmental mothers-in-law were never fun.

  They made agonizing small talk for ten minutes. And then they adjourned to the dining room. Dubose showed her no particular attention—didn’t pull out her chair. But then again, he didn’t pull out his mother’s, either.

  Over their appetizer course of Lowcountry she-crab soup, True gathered her courage.

  “We had some glitches in the wedding plans,” she told him. It was surprisingly easy to say. “But the good news is that I’ve been able to get us back on track.”

  Penn didn’t bat an eye.

  Dubose paused with his spoon poised in the air. “Glitches?”

  “Yes, as in losing our caterer and reception site,” True said.

  He put down his spoon. “You’re kidding, right? How in hell did this happen?”

  True glanced at Penn, who blithely continued eating her soup. “The caterer double-booked.”

  Dubose looked back and forth between them. “So what are the plans?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Penn said. “I was in England.”

  “We’re having the reception at Maybank Hall,” True told him. “I couldn’t get a high-end caterer. It was too late in the game. We’re having a barbecue, fiddle playing, and Booty Call. You know them, Dubose. They’re a good rock-and-roll cover band.”

  There was massive silence at the table.

  Dubose cocked his head at her. “Booty Call? Really?”

  True’s chest tightened. “If you don’t like the plans I came up with, we can always elope.”

  “Warings don’t do redneck weddings,” said Penn. “Nor do we elope.”

  True refused to acknowledge Penn’s rude remark. “You like Booty Call,” she reminded Dubose. “You and I danced to them for hours last time we heard them.”

  “Yes, but that was at an oyster roast. This is our wedding.” His face registered shock. Distaste.

  “And it’ll be fun.” True pushed down the lump in her throat. “We’re supposed to celebrate.”

  “But the partners will be there, and Maybank Hall—”

  “What? What about Maybank Hall?” True’s heart thumped against her ribs.

  “I can’t see it working.” Dubose had his lawyer face on.

  “My family home is a beautiful place for a wedding reception. It’s charming. Real. Not some rental space with party props.”

  “But it’s not spectacular,” he said with some heat, then seemed to sink in his chair. “At least not now. You’ve got shutters hanging sideways—”

  “I get it,” she said, her throat tight.

  “No, you don’t.” He shook his head wearily. “I want our wedding to be the talk of the town for months.”

  “Why?” Her heart was full of anguish, and it hurt. It hurt so very much. “To impress everyone at work and all your society friends in Charleston?”

  A beat of heavy silence went by.

  “This is about us.” Her voice quivered. “This isn’t some business function. And real friends don’t care about one-upping each other.”

  Penn injected an unfeeling laugh. “You poor, naive girl.”

  Dubose threw his mother a quelling look, then reached across the table to True and took her hand.

  No, no, no! His touch was foreign. Unwelcome. Inside, her soul cried at her folly. But doggedly, she persisted. She was a Maybank. She would let him hold her hand because he was her fiancé and they needed to work this out.

  “Don’t you want me to become partner one day?” He spoke as if she were a child who needed soothing.

  Maybe she was. Maybe she’d lost perspective, stayed too long on a country property and done nothing with her life. “Only if that’s what makes you happy,” she whispered.

  Penn gave a dramatic sigh. “Bosey’s job is what will keep you in BMWs and diamonds and trips to the islands.”

  “I don’t care about those things.” True found her voice again. She had plenty to say to Penn, and she didn’t care anymore what her future mother-in-law thought.

  Penn cocked her eyebrow at Dubose.

  “I want to know something,” True said to Dubose. “Do you care about what makes me happy? Is that why you bought me that car?”

  “We’re talking about the wedding,” he said. “Let’s not get sidetracked.”

  “By the really important questions?” True stood, her knees like jelly. “Thanks for the car, but I’m sending it back. I chose a used one I prefer. As for the wedding plans, they’re a done deal. Even if you wanted chandeliers and a fancy party room with finger canapés, you can’t have them. It’s not that important anyway. It’s all the years that c
ome after the wedding that really matter. Right, Dubose?”

  He wouldn’t look at her.

  “This is all very hurtful, Gertrude.” Penn’s lips were pursed.

  “My name is True,” she said evenly. “I have a right to assert my opinion about what car I drive. And I worked hard to fix our wedding problem.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared at Dubose until he made eye contact with her again. “It makes me happy to hold our wedding reception at Maybank Hall. And that should be reason enough to do so.”

  Dubose tossed aside his napkin. “Fine. Drive the car you want. Reject my well-intentioned gift.”

  “I’m sure it was,” True said, “and I’m sorry, but—”

  “As for the wedding”—he interrupted her coldly, but she refused to feel guilty—“we have no other choice at this point.” He frowned at his mother. “You really screwed this one up. You should have stayed an extra day or two here to help.”

  “I assumed she’d handle it.” Penn’s tone was cool. “I’ll call someone tonight. We’ll get everything back on track.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dubose’s anger was palpable. “Why didn’t you fix it earlier?”

  “I had a conference.” Penn gave a light shrug.

  Dubose narrowed his eyes. “I think you set her up, Mother.”

  Penn tossed her head. “That’s ridiculous. But I can fix the matter. You should show a little appreciation.”

  “I don’t believe you,” her son declared.

  True didn’t believe her, either! Though why it had never occurred to her that Penn had orchestrated the whole thing …

  She was naive, that was why.

  Penn looked away from Dubose, her silence speaking volumes.

  “You threw a wrench in the works,” he said. “I know it. How could you do that? True is my fiancée. Not one of your personal assistants or nurses to browbeat.”

  True was grateful he was supporting her. He might be used to calling the shots—and she might have been too willing to give in to him, up to this point in their relationship—but he always propped her up in the end.

  The problem she had with him touching her? She’d get past it. She’d simply need time. And she would no longer kowtow to his wishes. This reception was the first step toward her asserting herself. In a strange way, she was glad the wedding fiasco had happened.

  “I had nothing to do with this snafu,” Penn lied brazenly, “but it only proves that Warings shouldn’t marry Maybanks. You, in particular, should know better than to try. Look what happened to you on prom night.”

  “That’s ancient history,” Dubose said. True was so glad he thought so. “What other complaints do you have about True, Mother? You’d better get it out of your system now. Because she’s going to be my wife, and I’m not going to have you making her life hell.”

  “All right, then.” Penn stuck out her chin. “If you want to know the truth, Helen and I never got along.”

  “Helen?” Dubose raised a brow.

  “I thought you played bridge together for years,” True said.

  “We did.” Penn’s tone was icy.

  “Why would you bring her up?” Dubose asked. “Did y’all get in a fight?”

  “Never. We merely stopped speaking.”

  “I-I had no idea,” True said. “What happened? Did Mama insult you somehow?”

  Penn gave a short laugh. “You could say that.”

  Dubose was still in courtroom mode, watching his mother’s expression and listening to her answers closely. He put his palms on the table. “Does this have anything to do with Dad?”

  “No.” Penn was adamant. “Why would it?”

  Dubose angled his head. “Why is it you never liked Helen? She was a lot like you. The perfect wife. Dressed nicely. Followed the rules.”

  Penn flushed. “Not every rule.”

  Dubose pulled back and nodded. “So that’s it.”

  “What?” True said.

  Penn sucked in her cheeks.

  And then True got it. “Oh, no. My mother and”—she swallowed and looked at Dubose—“your father?”

  “Is that it, Mother?” Dubose’s face was like granite.

  Penn pushed back her chair. “I don’t like discussing crass topics. I’m going to bed.”

  Well. There was their answer.

  “That explains a lot.” True sank into a chair.

  Dubose sat next to her. “I think I need a drink. How about you?”

  “Yes.” For years and years she’d wondered what the truth was. It’s okay, Mama and Daddy, she thought, her eyes stinging. Their secret didn’t matter anymore. They could rest in peace. She and Weezie were more a family than ever.

  In the living room Dubose poured himself a single-malt whiskey. She had a Baileys Irish Cream. They sat side by side, not touching—True’s subtle doing—in front of the empty fireplace, which Penn had filled with candles.

  “I guess Dad and I have similar taste in women,” Dubose said eventually.

  “I don’t think I’m much like my mother.” True took a sip of her drink and knew that she really couldn’t say that anymore. She was very much like her mother, repressed in her own way, harboring secrets.

  Mama, was it this hard for you, too? Is that why you held back so much of yourself? Did it hurt too much to feel?

  “Sure you’re like your mother,” Dubose said. “You’re both refined southern ladies, born and bred.”

  “But I’m a farmer now, kind of.” Maybe Mama would be proud of her for that. She’d gardened, hadn’t she? Maybe getting earth under her fingernails had been Mama’s private form of rebellion.

  “Not for long, you’re not,” said Dubose.

  True’s heart sped up. “You know I want to keep my U-pick operation.”

  “Let’s talk about that later, okay? I’m still pretty shocked by tonight’s revelations.”

  “All right.” She ignored the hurt and straightened her spine. “When I was younger, I heard Mama and Daddy talking about her affair. It didn’t last long. Less than a month. I didn’t know who her lover was, though. I always wondered.”

  Dubose drained his glass. “Biscuit Creek is like Peyton Place.”

  “Yes, it is.” She paused a beat. “Can you take a little more news?”

  “Another scandal?”

  “I don’t think of it that way. Because the consequences were … beautiful.”

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  “You need to know.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.” His crankiness was perfectly understandable.

  “Weezie”—she focused on his eyes—“is your half sister.”

  His pupils enlarged. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. The affair with your dad lasted only a month, but she was the product of it.”

  “Is there proof?”

  She flinched. “Of course not. And it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s becoming your sister through our marriage vows.”

  He stood and went straight to the old mahogany bar table. “Dad really did a number on us.” He poured himself another drink. “Your mother wasn’t his first affair. Mom and I never know if someday someone’s going to come knocking on our door with paternity papers and expecting a third of his assets.”

  “That must be hard.” True tried to be sympathetic. “But we’re not the types who would, of course.”

  “You’re not?”

  Wow. That hurt.

  “You’re talking to your future wife,” she said coolly. “And that’s my sister you’re also wondering about. Come on.”

  “Geez”—he shook his head—“I’m sorry.” He came back to sit beside her. “What a jerky thing to say.”

  “I forgive you. I know this is a shock.”

  He held her hand tight. She ignored her discomfort and focused on the fact that he seemed humble, for the first time since she’d known him.

  “I’m glad I have you, True. You’re not like the other women I know. You honestly don’t give a shit ab
out money, do you?”

  “Of course not! I mean, it’s great to have. But we’ve both lost family. We know what’s most important—being with the people you love.”

  He kissed her, and it was warm. Tolerable, when she thought about everything he’d ever done for her.

  She felt a surge of hope. Marriage wasn’t meant to be easy, was it? She’d make sure theirs worked, the same way Mama and Daddy had made theirs work, even though Mama had strayed …

  “You’ll always ask me why I care so much about making partner,” Dubose said. “And then when I’m partner, you’ll tell me having supper with the family is more important than my next big deal.”

  She smiled. “You’re right.”

  “Every man on the path to greatness has a weak spot.” He pulled a strand of hair off her face. “And you’re mine. I’ve just learned to accept it.”

  She sat there for a few seconds, processing what he’d just said. And while she did, streams of images flowed through her head, past and present, like thread in a needle cinching together the worn calico quilt that was her life. She thought of Weezie. Carmela. Her studio. Gage. Tomatoes. Roger at the Starfish. Her dogs. Paddleboards. The moon. Maybank Hall and the people who’d lived there before her.

  Harrison …

  Oh, Harrison!

  What had she done? Why was she perpetually such a fool? When would it end, her enslavement to her parents’ worldview? And when would fear stop guiding all her decisions?

  “Dubose?”

  “Yes?”

  She put her drink down on a small coffee table and stood. “I’m not interested in being your weak spot. As a matter of fact”—she couldn’t believe she’d taken so long to see this—“I’m tired of trying to be good enough for you and your mother. I’m more than good enough.”

  “Come on.” He gave a short laugh. “I was saying that I want you, no matter what.”

  “No matter what? As if I present a lot of obstacles to be overcome?”

  “You’re upset about what my mother did,” he said in his assertive yet soothing attorney’s voice, “and the wedding stress has been enormous.” He stood. “Don’t forget that I was there when no one else was, when you were alone and suffering.”