by Lexi Whitlow
I might honestly believe him, except I know better.
Chapter 14
Jeb
Emma’s not altogether happy I’m the one feeding her this morning instead of Maddie. She spits out a spoonful of bananas, giving me a gummy grin. She’s enjoying making trouble for me.
“C’mon, Emmie, you have to eat,” I urge, wiping her chin, pressing another spoonful toward her mouth. “How else you gonna grow up to be the Beaufort County Oyster Queen?”
“Over my dead body,” a familiar – but unusually grumpy – voice states from behind me. I look up. Mama pads toward the coffee pot, looking like she’s ready to go back to bed. “She’s going to grow up to eat beauty queens for snacks and be a Supreme Court Justice after she’s done being an astronaut.”
I look at Emma with surprise. “You hear that?” I ask her. “Now you really need to eat your breakfast. Gramma’s got big plans for you.”
Mama turns, clutching her coffee, glaring at me sternly. “You snuck out late last night,” she says, fishing.
I nod, scooping a spoonful of scrambled eggs, pureed with a little cheese. “Try this,” I coach Emma. “Eggs and cheese. Goodness.”
“It’s seven-thirty,” Mama says. “Where’s Maddie?”
“Maddie and I were out late,” I say. “I gave her the morning off. I’ll watch Emma ‘til she gets here.”
Mama regards me with amusement. “You two aren’t fooling anyone,” she says. “It’s silly, actually, watching ya’ll sneak around like it’s some big secret.”
I glance up, then back at Emma, who’s finally cooperating with my attempts at getting breakfast in her. “It’s not a secret,” I reply. “We’re just… I dunno… We’re not rushing it.”
Mama rolls her eyes at me. “Son, what are you so afraid of? It’s obvious Maddie is smitten with you. You could do so much worse – and have – with some of the girls you’ve gone out with. She’s a good girl.”
I sit back in my chair, letting Emma gum her eggs and cheese while slapping the air.
“It’s not me keeping it low-key,” I say. “It’s Maddie’s preference. If it was up to me, I’d climb up on top of Blanc-Bleu and shout it from the rooftop.”
Mama’s brow furrows. “Really?” she asks.
I nod again. “I like her, Mama. Better than anyone I’ve ever met before. But it’s hard, with her schedule, and mine, and the kids. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not that complicated,” Mama states. “If you care about her, and if she feels the same, you’ll make the time. You’ll both make changes. Either that, or you’ll waste the opportunity and regret it later.”
Everything is easy to Mama. Her way, or the wrong way.
“And call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s your job to remove as many complications as possible. You’re the one with the home, and the business, and more than enough to support a family. Maddie’s trying to save for her future, for Justin’s future. That’s why she works so hard. Show her a future, son, and it opens up a lot of time.”
I smile at Mama, shaking my head. “It’s a little early for all that,” I say. “I don’t want to scare her off.”
Mama huffs at me, sipping her coffee. She shakes her head, rolling her eyes again.
“Changing the subject,” Mama says. “Saturday is your birthday. Your thirtieth birthday.”
Oh shit. No…
“I’ve made big plans. People are coming. Food will be served, and cake will be eaten. There will be candles. You will be here, and you’ll behave as if you’re enjoying yourself. Do you understand?”
I hate birthday parties; at least my own.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I say. “On one condition.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me in question.
“Saturday is Maddie’s day off. Don’t expect her to work, waiting on people and serving food and drinks. She does that all week and I…”
Mamma waves her hand. “Don’t worry about that,” she interrupts. “I’m having it catered. I’m not lifting a finger. I’m putting my feet up and enjoying a large quantity of cocktails with our guests.”
Oh, good Lord.
Chapter 15
Maddie
This isn’t a birthday party,” Ally says, handing me a drink she brought from the open bar under the tent. “This is a full-on, rich white folk’s soiree, with all the trimmings.”
She’s dressed up, wearing white linen slacks and a pretty silk tank top the color of sweet toffee. She’s beautiful, shimmering, and half the men here have given her ‘the look’, trying to figure out who she is and why she’s here.
Everyone else is dressed Saturday afternoon casual, according to what ‘casual’ means to them. I had no idea Jeb had so many friends.
Of course, all his employees and contract crew members are here, along with what I think is the entire staff of Flo’s, from Ronny on down to the dishwashers. There are also neighbors, black, white, and brown, all with large families and young kids. The kids are having a grand time climbing trees, swinging under the oaks, and generally just rolling in the grass with games and activities Rose arranged in advance. The teenagers are playing volleyball, and something called ‘croquet’. (It’s like golf, with a big wooden balls and mallets instead of clubs. It’s odd, and presumably Southern in origin, as is much of this party.)
There are a lot of people here who I have no clue about. They’re better dressed, relaxed, with a more sophisticated city vibe, setting them apart from the cargo-pants, baseball-cap, deeply-tanned, locals.
“Shit, that’s Mike Lata,” Ally says, her eyes following a bearded, dark-haired man dressed in expensive looking designer jeans and an Oxford-cloth shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Rose invited everyone!”
“Who’s Mike Lata?” I ask, watching the man circle the oyster table, examining it with the focus of a forensic detective.
“He owns The Ordinary, in Charleston,” Ally says.
This means nothing to me.
“And three other famous restaurants. He’s the seafood chef of Charleston. He’s famous. He put Charleston on the national foodie map. He had his own television show for a few years. He’s got four or five books out, and he was the first chef in Charleston to feature Sweet Maiden oysters.”
Oh. Okay.
“There are a bunch of Charleston people here,” Ally ads. She points out a few, telling me who they are, what they do, and why they matter. They’re mostly chefs or food writers; the people who buy and sing the praises of Sweet Maidens, all important people in Jeb’s world.
His world is larger than I imagined.
Right now, he’s standing arm’s crossed, speaking with a well-dressed couple who look as if they just stepped off a fancy yacht. The man is silver-haired, tanned, wearing topsiders. The woman beams a lovely smile, hanging on Jeb’s every word. She’s younger than her husband, and exceptionally pretty, dressed in designer shorts and a slinky, hand-painted blouse.
Jeb looks comfortable with them; smiling, animated, a drink in his hand. He’s as easy with them as he is with his African-American neighbors, who are mostly poor farmers and watermen and their families, people harvest wild oysters from exposed reefs at low tide, using rakes and shovels, just like their ancestors did a century ago.
“Hey beautiful,” a familiar voice says from behind. I turn. Stuart sidles up to Ally, slipping his arm around her waist, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late. Rose had me on party duty.”
Ally smiles, relaxing into his embrace. “I was starting to worry you weren’t going to show,” she says. “This party is… it’s a little fancier than I expected.”
Stu offers a sympathetic smile. “Rose pulled out all the stops. It’s a big deal to her; Jeb’s thirtieth. Everyone here is important to Jeb, or important to someone who’s important to Jeb, so relax. You belong here.”
I know how Ally feels. This party, the tent, the food, the band warming up, and all these guests; it reminds me I’m from a different world. A smaller, less important worl
d.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Stu says. “I’m starving.”
I send them off. They should have fun by themselves. They don’t need a third wheel. I wander off toward the kids, looking for Justin. I spot him in a scrum of kids his own age, playing tag, doing somersaults in the grass. He’s having fun. He doesn’t need me hovering.
Emma has a dedicated baby sitter for the party. They’re sitting on the front porch. She’s in her walker, bouncing about, laughing. Her babysitter claps with her, talking to her, laughing with her. Emma’s fine.
I find myself untethered, wandering among people as if I know where I’m going, or as if I’m looking for something, when in fact, I’m a little lost. Somehow, I meander toward Blanc-Bleu, making my way up the stairs, settling on a comfortable rocking chair on the porch; a situation which provides me a solitary, elevated, remote view of the party happening on the grounds below.
At about six o’clock, the band – a jazzy sounding ensemble with brass and strings – gets going. Couples gravitate toward an elevated platform at the head of the tent. The sun sinks low over the trees, and even more people arrive, parking their cars in the visitor lot to the east of the big house. I watch them walk around the mansion, taking it in, peering up at it. I catch snippets of conversation they exchange between themselves.
“…Stunning… Magnificent… He’s so lucky… Can you imagine?… What a money pit… A national treasure… It must cost a fortune to maintain it… He should sell it and move on… He’ll never sell it… I bet it’s haunted…”
It’s not haunted. It’s his family’s home. None of these people have a clue what it is to actually have a home. They can’t fathom what it is to be connected to something at such a visceral level. They never will. Jeb understands the concept of home better than anyone I know of. This place, this ‘money pit’, is his anchor. It’s what defines him and his place in the world. It’s why he’s equally comfortable talking to Charleston socialites, African-American watermen, and Mexican illegals. He’s got a little bit of all of them in him.
“I’ve been looking all over this place for you.” Jeb strides up to my perch, surprising me. “What are you doing up here?”
Observing.
“People watching,” I say. “Enjoying the breeze. Listening to the bullfrogs compete with the band.” The bullfrogs are winning, at least from this vantage.
He laughs, pulling up a chair, sitting down beside me. “For what it’s worth, this kind of thing isn’t my idea of the best way to spend a Saturday night, and I’m sorry you’re missing a weekend shift to sit on the porch, people-watching.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You look like you’re right at home down there with everybody. Those are your people.”
“Some of them are my people,” Jeb replies. “And some of them are just people who I do business with. Some of them are people I love more than anything in the world.” He reaches across the space separating us, slipping his hand into mine. “Mama’s got something planned. She asked me to find you and bring you down. Will you come?”
Jeb doesn’t let go of my hand as we make our way through the crowd toward the big table at the front where Rose is holding court with a dozen people, including Stu and Alley, Manuel and Maria, Ronny from Flo’s, and a few others I recognize but don’t know well.
“There they are!” Rose calls out as we approach, smiling broadly, her cheeks flushed with one-too-many cocktails. “You two have a seat right here,” she insists, pulling out chairs. “And don’t move.”
Two minutes later Rose has managed to silence the band, pause all conversation, and command everyone’s attention – even the children.
“It’s Jeb’s thirtieth birthday,” she says to the crowd, lifting her glass in a toast. “And more than anything a mother wants to see her son happy, successful, with a partner in life, and contented with a family of his own. But my dear baby Jeb has a way of doing things out of order.”
The crowd laughs. Everyone gets the implication. Emma arrived after success, but before a life partner and contentment. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Where is she going with this?
“He’s always had his own way of doing things,” she says. “He never lets any of us in on it until he knows it’s certain. But Jeb, nothing in this life is certain.” She addresses him directly. “Sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind, do something irresponsible and unexpected, and figure out where you are on the other end of it.”
What in the hell is she going on about?
“Jeb hasn’t taken two consecutive days off in at least eight years. Before that, he belonged to the Marine Corps, and I don’t think he got much down-time in Afghanistan. Before the Marine Corps, he went to school during the day and worked all night on the water, harvesting oysters. He’s been working since he was thirteen-years-old in one way or another. I think it’s time Jeb took an honest-to-goodness vacation.”
The party guests applaud wildly. I still have no idea where Rose is going with any of this. I’m about to learn. I glance at Jeb. He’s looking at his mom, standing tall and square on the bandstand, as if he’s watching a train wreck in slow motion.
“Son, the whole town agrees with me that you need to get away. We’ve all chipped in and gotten you and Maddie a week pass at Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina. The mountains are cool and lovely this time of year and as different from the Low Country as it gets. It’s another world.”
What?
“Between me, the crew at Flos’, and a lot of customers, we’ve collected enough to cover Maddie’s lost wages for the week – and then some.”
Ronny steps forward, holding up a gallon-sized, glass pickle jar stuffed with bills. When did this happen, and how did they keep it from me?
“Jeb, Manuel knows what to do with the oyster grows and the hatchery. Stu’s agreed to step in and help if need be. The rest of your crews have agreed to pull extra duty in your absence.”
Jeb squeezes my hand hard.
“Maria is going to help with Emma while you two are on vacation, and I’m going to watch Justin. He and I have already discussed it. He thinks this is a good idea, and he’s looking forward to being closer to Emma while ya’ll are gone.”
Jeb looks to me, his eyes rife with concern. “What do you think?” he asks, his tone imploring.
“Say ‘thank you’,” I advise, whispering. “We’ll figure it out later, but don’t spoil your mom’s moment. She put a lot of scheming into this. Let her enjoy it.”
Twenty-four hours later, Jeb and I consider the ‘gift’ his mother (and half the town) gave us.
“I know Manuel can cover the work,” Jeb says. “I just don’t know if I can bear being away that long.”
A week isn’t that long. On top of this, I had a serious conversation with Justin about me and Jeb. He said he knew Jeb and I were ‘fooling around’, and he didn’t understand why I was trying to hide it. He likes Jeb. He said we should go and have fun.
“All you ever do is work,” Justin says. “Go do something different. I’ll stay with Rose and help take care of Emma.”
When did my needy, insecure little boy grow up into such a selfless young man?
Chapter 16
Jeb
Chapter 16. Jeb.
Maddie’s in lust with my car. Specifically, my cherry red, Civic Coupe with a sunroof and a great stereo.
“It just seems out of character for Mr. Practicality,” she observes, gliding her fingers suggestively along the leather trim on the door.
“I was in the Marine Corps,” I explain. “I thought I was hot shit, fresh out of sniper school, waiting for deployment. The car is almost ten-years-old. Don’t be too impressed.”
Ten-years-old, kept in a barn, under a car cover, on ramp lifters to keep the tires from dry-rotting on the concrete floor.
“How come you never drive it?” she asks as we fly northwest along the highway, cutting across the rural gut of South Carolina, headed toward the mountains.<
br />
Is she serious?
“What?” she asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.
I shake my head, rolling my eyes in response to her question. “How many cars like this do you see back home?” I pose. “I’m not talking about the tourists. I’m talking about the locals. It’s not exactly low profile. You know what I mean? And it’s not exactly smart to drive a car like this down dirt roads or any of the other places I go. It’d be trashed in a year.”
“So, why do you still have it? Why not sell it?”
I shrug, frowning at the idea. “I dunno. I guess I’m sentimental. I kinda liked feeling like hot shit, as brief as it was.”
“It’s a nice car. You should drive it.”
“People already think I’m a stuck-up prick with a big head,” I say. “If I rolled into town in this, it would confirm it.”
Maddie laughs at me. “Well, if you’re not going to drive it, you should let me drive it. I’d look great sporting around Beaufort in this.”
I don’t think she’s teasing.
“Sell it to me,” she says, giving me a pretty smile, batting her thick lashes. “It’s ten years old. How much could it be?”
“My car is not for sale,” I tell her. “If you started driving around town in this, the guys would be all over you, and I can’t have that. You stick to your RV.” I’m not teasing either.
“You’re no fun at all,” Maddie says, raising her hands through the sunroof, letting them catch the wind.
“So I’ve been told,” I reply, grinning. “We’ll see what we can do about changing that, this week.”
Mama was right. I haven’t taken a vacation – ever. It’s not really the kind of thing that’s in my DNA. I live in a resort town. I know what tourists look like, how they behave. It’s never been something I aspired to, but Maddie’s excited about this little adventure, and I’m not opposed to having an entire week of her all to myself.
I just hope she doesn’t get sick of me before our vacation is over.
“Jay-zus Christ,” Maddie whispers under her breath, turning slowly in circles, gawking up at the high ceilings and fancy furnishings of the Biltmore Inn.