Choosing Charleston

by T. Lynn Ocean

  I turned around to see a gloriously outfitted man. A model that had just walked off the set of a catalog shoot. In a custom-fitted black tuxedo. White pleated shirt. French cuffs with single stud onyx cufflinks. Satin bowtie. And black patent leather shoes that had replaced the muddy leather work boots. I took it in all at once – the clothes, the body, the amused, strikingly blue eyes – and tried to look disinterested.

  “No, not the champagne. The foreskin stuff,” I said. “They manufacture this face cream from the original foreskin cells of a circumcised baby boy. It has growth factors in it and costs around four hundred dollars a bottle.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “No kidding.”

  I shrugged and took a sip of champagne. “Women can’t get enough of the stuff from In Home Now. Or so Jenny says.”

  Pretending to look for someone, I turned away from the captivating sight of him and forced myself not to think about his body part that, at one time, had a foreskin. I could feel his eyes taking in my fully exposed back and a shiver ran the length of my spine as though he’d physically touched me.

  “Are you here with friends?” he asked. “Historians? Native American Indian chiefs? An ornithologist, perhaps?”

  I spun back to face him, regaining my senses. Regardless of how good he looked, I hated him.

  “No, just my sister. And Mamma and Daddy. You know, the ones you’re putting out of business?”

  He took the champagne flute from my hand and set it on a nearby table.

  “Dance with me.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The band has started playing. Dance with me.”

  “Why would I want to dance with you?”

  “Because I hate coming to these things. And dancing with you will give me something else to think about besides how much I’d rather not be here.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just leave?” I asked.

  “Touché,” he said good-naturedly. “It would be easier, although not as pleasurable as a dance with you. Pop insists on coming to these charity things. He says they’re great for community relations and networking.”

  I retrieved my glass of champagne and downed it. “Especially for an organization that’s giving you an award for preserving a piece of wall.”

  The band was pumping out Glenn Miller’s classic big band tune “In the Mood” and the swanky beat reverberated through my ribcage.

  “A piece of wall that you found.” He took my empty flute and set it back on the table. “Now that you’ve finished your champagne, will you dance with me?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to dance with you. Frankly, I can’t stand you.”

  Before I could walk away, he caught my bare arm, stopping me. His hand was refreshingly cool, like the flip side of a bed pillow on a hot July night. It slid along the inside of my forearm until it found my fingers, and suddenly we were holding hands and I was forced to look into the indigo eyes that were fixed on mine.

  “Just one dance, Carly. A simple dance for the sake of politeness among acquaintances. It’s what you’re supposed to do at these things. Besides, you don’t want to let the ballroom dancing lessons Pop made me take when I was twelve go to waste, do you?”

  He had a commanding presence and people moved out of our way as he led me to the dance floor. And when one of his hands found the sensitive spot at the base of my exposed spine and his other hand gripped mine palm to palm, a single, explosive shiver formulated at my midsection and traveled in every direction as we moved together in orchestrated circles around the open floor.

  He danced with the ease of a seasoned expert and I followed his lead without thinking about where my feet were landing. Couples around us dissipated into nothingness and neurons in my brain fired impulses at lightning speed.

  He spun me away from him and, keeping a firm grip on my hand, pulled me back to his chest on the exact drumbeat that ended the song. With barely a pause, the band members smoothly transitioned into another song. A slow song, accompanied by a sultry female vocalist. I moved away from Trent but he pulled me back against him.

  “One more,” he said and I didn’t have the willpower to resist. I thought of Lori Anne’s ‘epiphany’. Her advice to flirt with the enemy. I didn’t know if dancing constituted flirting, or if anything was being gained. But for a few minutes, I didn’t care.

  The electrical impulses that had inflamed my nerve endings slowed during the second dance until I felt nothing but the sensation of my body pressing lightly against his. The music was loud, but I didn’t hear it. The air was cool on my bare back, but I didn’t feel it. Three inches of high, spiky heels elevated me to the point where my chin fit perfectly into the warm notch at his collarbone. I imagined exploring the sweet spot on the side of his neck and wondered what his skin would taste like. I wasn’t sure if an hour or a minute passed, but when I opened my eyes the song had ended and Trent was smiling at me.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it? Just one simple little dance.”

  “It was two dances. And it was awful. I’m going to go find an ornithologist or historian to talk to.”

  He laughed, just once, making me want to hear the sound again.

  “You are beautiful, Carly Stone,” he said quietly and the words emerged as an afterthought he hadn’t intended on verbalizing.

  An awkward moment passed before we decided we were thirsty and maneuvered through the crowd in search of a bar. Before we found one, we came across Daddy talking to Mister Protter in what appeared to be a heated conversation. I could tell by his stance that Trent’s father was agitated. Both men stopped in mid conversation when we approached.

  “Why, you’re looking quite beautiful tonight, Carly,” Mister Protter said.

  “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

  “What’s going on Pop?” Trent asked, skipping the pleasantries.

  “Jack just got here and delivered some news,” his father said evenly. “But it’s nothing we need to discuss right now.”

  “Who’s Jack?” I asked.

  “Our company attorney,” Trent answered. “You’ve spoken with him on the phone before. He’ll be at our table for dinner.”

  “Oh, that Jack,” I said sarcastically. “Of course you’d bring your attorney to a social function. You just never know when you might need emergency legal counsel.”

  A man walked up behind me, chuckling, and introduced himself. It was Jack. He’d overhead my comment and assured me that he was at the charity ball purely in a social capacity. We chatted for a moment and I found myself liking the man, despite his choice of clients.

  “What’s the news, Jack?” Trent said.

  Jack shook his head to tell Trent that he’d rather talk in private, but Trent didn’t give up that easily. “Pop? Tell me what’s going on.”

  Mister Protter sighed and lowered his voice. “We just got word that one of the anchor stores will have to be scaled down in size. It just so happens that it’s the west corner. Handyman’s spot.”

  “That won’t work,” Trent thought aloud. “They have a minimum size requirement. We’ll be in breach of our contract with them.”

  “Well, we can leave the square footage as it is, but move the west corner anchor into the parking area. But then, we’d have to buy some adjacent land, if it’s available. We can’t move it the other direction because of the wetlands. Or, we could add a parking garage.”

  “But do people really want to park in a garage when they’re hauling building supplies or a new washing machine back to their truck?” Jack said. “This could get ugly.”

  Trent’s gaze grew volatile enough to pierce a hole through me, although his single word question was directed to Jack. “Why?”

  “The woodpeckers. I found out they don’t qualify for translocation right now. And even if we can convince the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department to move the birds, we’d still have to wait until after the nesting season. That’s more than two months away.”

  Trent’s eyes never left my
face as he absorbed the news and took a deep breath to control his anger.

  Staring back at him, I tried not to gloat. While I wasn’t normally happy about someone else’s misfortune, I was elated for Daddy. If Handyman’s Depot had to find another location, his store could stay open and it would be business as usual.

  “Are you happy now, Carly? Is this what you hoped to accomplish with your childish games?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a step toward me, nostrils flaring. “So you’ll stay the hell out of my life, then?”

  Daddy stepped in before tempers could escalate further. “Look here now, son. Carly didn’t put the birds there. A law is a law, and it’s not her fault that some endangered woodpeckers decided to make a home on your piece of land. Perhaps you should have done a more thorough inspection of the acreage before you bought it.”

  Trent’s mouth tightened and without another word, he shook his head in disgust and walked away. Mister Protter apologized for his son’s rudeness and explained that eliminating an anchor store from the original plan would not only create some major problems with the other tenants but it would also cost his company a lot of money.

  I couldn’t say I was sorry for the situation, so I excused myself to get a cocktail. Jack walked with me, and asked how long I planned to stay in Charleston. Forever, I told him. It was my home. He told me that it was his home, too, and we agreed that neither of us wanted to live anywhere else. We stood in the line at the bar, chatting like friends, and I was surprised to find that we shared several common interests. And, despite the problems I’d created for his client, Jack was cordial. When we got our drinks, he told me that it was nice to meet me and gave me a fatherly pat on the shoulder along with a handshake before leaving to find Trent.

  Sipping my dry vodka martini, I noticed that Daddy and Mister Protter remained huddled in conversation while the joviality commenced around them. From a distance, they appeared to be friends rather than adversaries.

  Like Jack, maybe they were taking things in stride. Business was business. But Jack’s announcement had certainly cemented the rivalry between me and Trent. There would be no more spins around the dance floor for us.

  Half an hour and two martinis later, my family joined the two hundred people who sat down to eat an exquisite meal of cucumber salad and she-crab soup followed by a pork and shrimp dish with a lemon ginger sauce, served with rice. Aside from the rich ambiance and Victorian styling, the best thing about having a function at the Mills House was that the chef custom designed a menu for each group. The delicious food was followed by obligatory speeches of thanks and recognition from the Historic Charleston Foundation.

  Although there were numerous linen-covered tables spread about, we were just a few tables away from the Protters. Though it was beyond eavesdropping distance, I had a clear view and couldn’t help but to notice that Trent, his father and Jack left together immediately after they ate. The rest of their guests remained at the table to see the outcome of the silent auction and hear some more jazz. But the Protter men hadn’t even waited for their key lime cheesecake.

  Although I’d just finished a fabulous three-course meal, I felt strangely empty as I watched couples migrate to the dance floor when the band resumed playing.

  By the time the charity ball wound down, Mamma had been the high bidder for a beautiful oil painting of the coastal wetlands by local artist Betty Anglin Smith, Jenny had managed to sign several autographs and I’d gracefully sidestepped eight or ten inquiries as to the status of my husband and job and life in New York.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I thought the ringing phone and Daddy’s voice and the click-click of Taffy’s nails on the hardwood floor was just commotion in my dreams until a knocking on the bedroom door forced my consciousness into the present.

  “Carly?” Mamma said. Wrapped in a satin robe, she was a silhouette in the doorway. “Honey, are you awake?”

  I looked at the digital readout on my nightstand. It was not quite five o’clock in the morning and it seemed as though I had just gone to bed. The sensation of gliding around the dance floor with Trent, feeling like a princess, remained fresh in my memory.

  “What’s going on?” I pushed the covers back and rolled over.

  “There was an explosion and now there’s a big fire! The land across from our store. Your Daddy has already headed over there.”

  I sat up in bed. “A fire? At the Protter development?”

  “Yes.” Worry filled her voice. “And because it’s been so dry, all the underbrush is catching fire. Plus it’s gotten windy and your daddy is worried that the fire could jump the road. They’re wetting down our store, just in case.”

  I was instantly alert and out of bed. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know. Chief Jim, the fire chief, just called. He said it could have been some smoldering coals that weren’t completely out from where the workers burned some brush. Or someone could have thrown down a lit cigar or cigarette butt.”

  I pulled on a pair of blue jeans, deck shoes and sweatshirt, not bothering to look for a bra or a hairbrush. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would somebody be walking around at five o’clock in the morning, in the dark, smoking a cigarette? And what caused the explosion?”

  “I don’t know why somebody would be out there, but Chief Jim said the fuel truck caused the explosion.”

  “Fuel truck?”

  “I asked the same thing. Your daddy said they often keep a small fuel truck at construction sites to refill the tanks on the tractors and equipment. So, the diesel in this one spilled to the ground and caught fire. Chief Jim said not to repeat this, but he thinks it was intentional.”

  “Arson?” I asked, grabbing my car keys off the dresser.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Mamma said, shaking her head. “There’s nothing there except a construction trailer and the fire hasn’t gotten to it yet. Who would want to burn up a piece of land that’s going to be cleared anyway?”

  Trent Protter would, if he could make it look like an accident.

  “Somebody who had something to gain by destroying trees,” I answered.

  “Give me a minute to get dressed,” Mamma said. “Jenny can stay here with the kids and your granny. I’m going with you.”

  * * *

  Approaching the store, we could see flashing red and blue lights at about the same time a huge cloud of smoke became visible in the first glimmers of daylight as the sun prepared to rise over the awakening city of Charleston.

  We talked our way through a roadblock and found Daddy standing in front of Stone Hardware and Home Supply, in a puddle of water, watching the turmoil across the street. Two massive fire trucks and ten or fifteen men in firefighting gear milled about while a couple of police cruisers kept the roads clear and an ambulance remained on standby in case of injuries. The smell of burning timber, pine needles and scorched earth swirled in gusts around us, but the fire hadn’t managed to cross the pavement that separated it from Mamma and Daddy’s business.

  We watched the organized efforts of the firefighters and listened to the orchestra of sounds that an assault on nature makes and breathed the bonfire-like odor until dawn gave way to early morning.

  Although the fire appeared to be under control by the time we left, an angry concentration of yellow and orange flames kept flaring up in one area, where the fuel truck had been emptied. It was the west corner of the plat. The same spot where some red-cockaded woodpeckers had made their homes in the trunks of eighty year-old longleaf pines.

  * * *

  “They found a body,” Daddy told me after I’d served him and the fire chief a cup of coffee on the back porch.

  It was early afternoon and the morning’s fire was still fresh in my mind, but hearing a person died made my heart stop. My first panicky thought was that it might be Trent.

  “It wasn’t Trent,” Daddy added quickly, reading my min
d. “It was a man, but they don’t know who yet. Possibly one of the construction workers.”

  “I just didn’t want y’all to learn about it on tonight’s news,” Chief Jim told me.

  Stunned, I sat down.

  Sensing dramatic news, Mamma and Jenny joined us. Taffy followed them and the kids followed her. My family jockeyed for a position around the fire chief and settled in, crowding the otherwise roomy porch.

  “I want y’all to know that what I say goes no further than this, because the limited version of events the press gets will be much different.”

  “Different how?” Jenny asked.

  “I’m telling you what I think. We only tell the press what we know.”

  We all nodded our agreement. Precious growled. Jenny picked the dog up and deposited it in her lap, which reduced the growling to something intermittent that sounded like canine belches.

  “What’s wrong with that dog?” Chief Jim asked.

  “It has bipolar disorder,” I said.

  “She does not! There’s nothing wrong with my little Precious,” Jenny said.

  “It growls,” Sherry said.

  “At everything,” Stacy finished.

  “Even its own poop,” Sherry added.

  “Poop!” Hunter said.

  Mamma hushed everyone with a single wide angle look.

  Chief Jim explained that after the flare up spot fire burned itself out, an investigator found the charred remains of a man by a cluster of trees.

  He told us the burn patterns indicated the fire was intentionally set. Plus, it looked like somebody had broken the lock off the fuel truck, opened a valve and let the diesel flow. What’s more, they found some empty toluene containers around the cluster of trees making him think that, in addition to dumping the fuel, somebody had carried a flammable chemical to the area where the man was found. Perhaps to set fire to the underbrush around him. If evidence showed the dead man was not the arsonist, then a murder charge could be pending against whoever set the fire.

  “This is unbelievable! First there’s a fire on my set,” my sister said, thinking everything revolved around her world, “and now there’s a fire here.”