Reunion Beach

by Elin Hilderbrand

  He pours my wine, swirls the bottle, and leans close again. “Bullshit,” he whispers in my ear, then moves on to fill Michael’s glass. It’s then I notice Missy glaring at her husband, her lips in a tight line of anger. So Bram and I aren’t the only ones, I think, which makes me even sadder. Why are relationships so hard to get right? My gaze travels unwillingly to Jocasta, who’s sipping her wine as she cuts her dark eyes around the table, coming to rest on Bram. I try to look away before she catches me staring at her, but I’m not quick enough. She raises her glass of wine to me, and I resist an overwhelming urge to throw mine in her face.

  With fresh strawberries in season, Bram presents a spectacular sponge cake piled high with berries and whipped cream as the grand finale. As the wineglasses are replaced with coffee cups, we dutifully exclaim over the dessert. Even though their praise for the cake is profuse, Jocasta and Missy try to pick out a couple of strawberries without getting a smidgen of cream. With a wicked gleam in her eyes, Nellie Bee says, “You’ve outdone yourself, Bram! Can we have seconds?”

  “Oh, I insist,” he replies with a wink. Nellie Bee motions for the sous chef and tells him to bring everyone a second helping.

  “I couldn’t possibly!” Missy gasps in horror, then catches herself. “But it’s so good, Papa O’Connor.”

  “How would you know?” Nellie Bee says with a snort. “You haven’t touched it.”

  Michael lets out a guffaw of laughter; Missy throws him a poisonous look, and Jocasta leans toward Nellie Bee to say in a cloying tone, “Now, Nellie Bee. You know how the young girls watch their figures.”

  “No, but I know how my husband watches yours,” Nellie Bee says tartly. Red-faced, Charlie chokes on a mouthful of cake and coughs into his napkin, and Michael lets out another guffaw. Seeing the goofy look on his face, it dawns on me that he’s drunk as a skunk.

  Missy grabs the carafe of coffee and says pointedly to Michael, “You haven’t had your coffee yet, darling.”

  Michael grins at her. “Don’t want coffee. I’m having another drink instead.” Seeing his wineglass gone, he calls out to the sous chef, “Hey! Bring me another glass, my good man.”

  “I’ve got a really nice dessert wine,” Bram offers, and I realize he’s unaware of how much his son—and everyone else—has already consumed.

  “Hot damn!” Michael cries, waving widely to the sous chef. “Bring everyone a glass. Put it on my tab.” When he laughs uproariously at his joke, Nellie Bee joins in, clapping her hands and laughing in glee, and Bram turns to me in alarm.

  Thinking quickly, I motion for Missy to pass the coffee carafe, then I get up to take it around the table with a smile plastered on my face. “Who’d like coffee instead?” I say brightly. My attempt to sober up the culprits fails; no one but Jocasta and Missy hold their cups up. Even worse, Missy tries to push hers off on Michael. “Here you are, my darling,” she says through gritted teeth as she thrusts the cup under his nose.

  Michael’s goofy look turns belligerent and he swats at it, sloshing coffee across the table, which brings on another drunken peal of laughter from Nellie Bee. When Charlie, sweating profusely under the lights, lays a restraining hand on her arm, she shakes him off. “Leave me alone, Charlie. I’ve waited twenty-six years for my nephew to wake up and smell the coffee.” Poking her husband with her elbow, she giggles. “Get it? Smell the coffee? Ha!”

  “What does that mean?” Jocasta snaps, and Nellie Bee gives her a feline smile.

  “You’re a smart cookie, Toots. You figure it out.”

  Bram’s look of alarm has increased, so I cast around wildly for another angle. The perfect distraction hits me and I blurt out, “Bram! Why don’t you tell everyone about Lowcountry Stew?”

  “Another course?” Michael groans. “Sorry, Dad, but I’m stuffed.”

  Bram shoots me a look of relief then announces: “I’m finishing up a memoir I’m calling Lowcountry Stew, which is coming out next year, God willing.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Michael declares as he salutes his father with his glass. Nellie Bee and Charlie applaud, but Missy’s too focused on glaring at Michael to notice.

  Jocasta raises her blond head sharply. “A memoir? You didn’t tell me it was a memoir, Bram. I thought you were working on a cookbook.”

  Shooting her a disdainful look, Nellie Bee says, “Why would he tell you anything, Jocasta? Best I recall, you dumped my brother years ago.”

  Jocasta’s face flushes, and the cameraman behind me snickers. With rising panic, I look around for Steve but can’t see anything in the blinding lights. Where is he, and why isn’t he stopping this?

  “Oh, Papa O’Connor, how exciting!” Missy cries with an eager smile. “Will all of us be in your book?”

  “Sure will,” Nellie Bee says. “And you get to be the princess. A role you were born to play.”

  When Missy squeals in delight, Michael snorts. “That wasn’t a compliment, your highness.” When he hiccups and giggles, Missy gives him a shove and a look of disgust.

  “Bram?” Jocasta drawls as she flutters her lashes at him. “Surely your book won’t include any . . . ah . . . family secrets, will it? I mean, that could be embarrassing to some of your family members.”

  “Not me,” Nellie Bee says pointedly. “Won’t embarrass me a bit. But I wasn’t the one who ran off with my boyfriend.”

  “Who did that?” Missy gasps, wide-eyed.

  “No one!” Jocasta hisses. “Nellie Bee’s nothing but a troublemaker.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Charlie says, turning to glare at her. “I don’t appreciate that, Jocasta.”

  She gives him a pitying look. “Poor old Charlie. Surely you’ve noticed that nobody in this family gives a jolly damn what you think.”

  Snarling, Nellie Bee leans toward her. “You say one more thing, Jocasta, and you’ll wish you’d kept your skinny ass in Charleston.”

  With a smirk, Jocasta says, “Oh, my. Looks like some of us have had too much to drink.”

  “Including you,” Nellie Bee counters. “Trying to drown your sorrows. But guess what? When you sober up, you’ll still be making a fool of yourself mooning over my brother. And he’ll still be in love with Chris, not you.”

  Jocasta’s face flares red and she glances furtively at the cameras before turning back to Nellie Bee. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she hisses under her breath.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Nellie Bee’s voice is loud, not caring who hears her. “I dare you.”

  Jocasta’s so furious that her hand’s shaking as she raises the delicate glass of dessert wine to her mouth. The sticky red liquid sloshes out and splashes the front of her dress. “Now look what you’ve made me do,” she screeches, grabbing for her napkin. “The whole family, nothing but a bunch of drunken Irish slobs.”

  “You talking about me, Mom?” Michael says with another hiccup. “Or do you mean Princess Leah? No, wait—she’s high society, like you.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Bram says, but his voice is drowned out by Missy’s, who turns to Michael furiously.

  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Michael O’Connor,” she spits out. “I know what you did this afternoon when you thought I was asleep.”

  “What?” Nellie Bee asks, leaning forward in breathless excitement.

  Missy whirls her head to Jocasta. “After our fight, you ran to Mommie Dearest, knowing she’d take your side like she always does. You probably told her what a terrible wife and mother I am, and how you regret marrying me.”

  Michael’s face reddens and he grabs for Missy’s arm. “Now, honey, that’s not true. You were napping, so I went for a little visit with my mom, true. But we didn’t talk about you.”

  “Yes you did!” she screeches. “When I woke up I went looking for you. I was about to open the door of your mom’s room when I heard y’all laughing and talking about me.”

  It hits me so hard that I push back from the table with a loud gasp. I stare from Michael to Jocas
ta in disbelief. “This afternoon? That was you, Michael? You were in your mother’s room this afternoon?”

  Michael looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “I was just visiting with Mom, Chris. Okay, Missy’s right. We did talk about everybody, like we always do.” He glances over at his wife apologetically, suddenly sober. “But I swear, Missy. We didn’t say anything bad about you. I’m sorry if you thought otherwise.”

  She looks baffled, then says, “Well, I couldn’t really hear that well—”

  With dawning understanding of what I heard, and how mistaken I was about it, I let out a peal of laughter that startles everyone at the table. Nellie Bee stares at me then joins in, though she has no idea what I’m laughing at. Neither do I, but I can’t seem to stop myself. All the pent-up emotion I’ve suppressed in order to get through the evening comes pouring out. Heard through a closed door, a son’s voice sounded like his father’s, and I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. I laugh so hard that my shoulders shake and tears roll down my cheeks. When I hear Steve bellow out, “Okay, that’s a take!” I force myself to take deep breaths and try to pull myself together. Suddenly Bram’s there, and when he pulls me to my feet I throw my arms around him, holding on so tight I’m afraid I’ll squeeze the life out of him.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Bram says as he cups my face in his hands. “I was so nervous after my first show I puked for days. It could be worse.”

  I look up at him through my tears. “You have no idea how much worse it could be,” I tell him with a laugh, but this time, it’s a laugh of such joy and relief that I feel light-headed, and cling to Bram even harder. He has no idea what happened this afternoon or what I foolishly thought of him, and I might never tell him. Maybe, just maybe, even the best of marriages needs some secrets.

  When Steve appears with a bottle of champagne, Bram, still holding me close, waves him off. “You’d better let the crew enjoy that, Steve. This bunch’s had all they need tonight.” He leans down to kiss me lightly on the lips. “Even my bride, it appears.”

  Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I noticed. I was getting worried toward the end.”

  “You were?” Bram says with a snort. “You’re cutting out the last part, I hope?”

  Steve blinks at him in disbelief. “Are you insane? The audience will eat that up. Wait till Rick sees it. We argue all the time about who has the most screwed-up family.” Popping the champagne cork, he grins at Bram. “Yours might win the prize.”

  At Steve’s signal, the crew cuts off the overhanging lights and the room plunges into darkness. The only light comes from the flickering candles on the table, but it’s just enough. In the soft glow, I see a tipsy Nellie Bee lean into Charlie, who kisses the top of her head, and Missy takes a drunken Michael in her arms in forgiveness. Although she’s slumped in her chair, Jocasta’s forlorn gaze is fastened on Bram, as it has been since she arrived. But I know now that she’ll go back alone, while Bram and I will remain in the home we’ve created together.

  I reach for Bram’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s been a long day. Let’s help this crazy family of ours get themselves to bed.”

  With an exhausted smile, he raises my hand to his lips. “I cannot wait.”

  About Cassandra King Conroy

  CASSANDRA KING CONROY is an award-winning author of five bestselling novels and two nonfiction books in addition to numerous short stories, essays, and magazine articles. Her latest book, Tell Me a Story, a memoir about life with her late husband, Pat Conroy, was named SIBA’s 2020 nonfiction Book of the Year.

  When Pat gave Dottie Frank a blurb for her first book, Sullivan’s Island, Cassandra invited Dottie for a visit to Fripp Island, and the Conroys and Franks became fast friends.

  A native of LA (Lower Alabama), Cassandra resides in Beaufort, South Carolina, where she is honorary chair of the Pat Conroy Literary Center.

  Also by Cassandra King Conroy

  Tell Me a Story

  The Same Sweet Girls’ Guide to Life

  Moonrise

  Queen of Broken Hearts

  The Same Sweet Girls

  The Sunday Wife

  Making Waves

  Dottie and Me

  Mary Norris

  At an authors’ lunch outside Detroit in May 2016, a brunette in a bold red-and-white-print dress made a beeline for me. She was Dorothea Benton Frank, known to her friends as Dottie, the author of bestselling books set in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, and she was eager to talk about grammar, of all things. We were in a clubby room with a bar and retractable walls, enjoying a cocktail or something milder, before appearing on a program that featured Steve Hamilton, a curly-haired, prolific author of mysteries, and Lesley Stahl, the 60 Minutes correspondent. We watched Stahl make her entrance, impeccably coiffed, a loose coat thrown over a slim dress. Her book about being a grandmother had just been published, and Dottie and I had a strong suspicion that the big turnout for this event—more than a thousand tickets had been sold—was for her.

  The authors sat at a long table on a platform at the front of the room and were given five or ten minutes apiece to pitch their books while the audience, mostly book-club ladies seated at big round tables in a banqueting hall, consumed a three-course lunch. Dottie didn’t touch her food, except to push it away; she never ate at these affairs, she explained. We were there to sell and sign books. Dottie’s talk was fluid and practiced, with many wisecracks. She told the story of how, when her beloved mother died, her grief was compounded by learning that her four siblings intended to sell the family home on Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, where she grew up. She couldn’t bear it—to lose both her mother and her childhood home in one blow? By now she was living in Montclair, New Jersey, where she and her husband, Peter Frank, raised two children, although she frequently returned home to South Carolina. She asked her husband, an investment banker, if he would buy the house. (Suspense) “And he said no.” So Dottie determined that although she had never written a book before, she would churn out a bestseller and make enough money to buy the house herself. And she did. (Applause)

  The bestseller was Sullivan’s Island, the story of a woman betrayed by her husband who returns with her teenage daughter to the place where she grew up and rebuilds her life. Steeped in memories of the Lowcountry, it came out in 1999 and sold more than a million copies. That I had never heard of this or any of Dottie’s other books did not surprise or perturb her one bit. They were beach reads, so-called domestic fiction, a genre that she was well aware did not get reviewed in publications like the New York Times or The New Yorker. Anyway, Dottie didn’t need me. She had a devoted following. Her books were so popular that you couldn’t just show up at her signings: you had to buy a ticket. There was even a Dorothea Benton Frank Fan Fest in Charleston. Dot Frank was an industry.

  After the signing, Dottie was going straight to the airport for her next gig. But she gave me her business card and told me that an event similar to the one we’d just done would be held in Charleston in November, and she’d get me invited. I emailed her the next day, before I could lose her contact information. “Tickled pink to hear from you!” she wrote back. “Send me your address and I’ll send you a copy of my funniest book!” She sent two, with inscriptions, Sullivan’s Island (“It all started here”) and The Last Original Wife (“For Mary Norris—My new BF!”), and added, “I can keep you in beach books forever!” Later that year, I was invited to an authors’ luncheon hosted by the Post and Courier in Charleston. The first night, the organizers put me up in a serviceable hotel, with the usual hideous hallway carpeting, on the outskirts of town. My room overlooked the football stadium of the Citadel, the famous military academy. That weekend, there was a big game as well as a reunion, so the hotel was fully booked, and after the luncheon I would have to move across the river to a different hotel, even more remote. When I told Dottie this, she asked, “Are you packed?” I was. “Come home with me,” she said.

  Suddenly there I was, driving to Sullivan’s Island w
ith Dorothea Benton Frank. Her fans would be pea green with envy! In the car, she gossiped about her children, just as the women in her books do. Her daughter, Victoria, she told me in confidence, was pregnant. (Victoria’s son, Teddy, would be born the following year, in 2017, and turn Dottie into a fan of Lesley Stahl’s grandmother book.) She had encouraged her son, William, to try online dating and threatened to write his profile herself. (He has since married.) That day was Victoria’s birthday, and Dottie was throwing a dinner party for her, so on the way home we stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few loaves of Victoria’s favorite frozen garlic bread.

  The house wasn’t the one Dottie had grown up in. It wasn’t even the one that she had bought with the bestseller money. She had traded up to a mansion by the sea. The street was lined with palmetto trees—pronounced pal-metto, not palm-etto, she told me—and alongside the house was a pristine white cottage to which she gave me the key. But instead of retiring to the cottage I hung out in the kitchen while Dottie bustled around, whipping up dinner for twenty. I also admired the many ship models in glass cases in the hallway and living room—Peter collected them. Then I settled in a rocking chair on the back porch and tried to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t get over how I had scored. I had been delivered from a hotel in suburbia to this magnificent historic property with a view of Fort Sumter. For dinner, Dottie seated me with her on the porch while her daughter and friends took over the dining room. The climax of the evening was when Peter fired a blank from a small cannon, of the type used to signal the start for yacht races, off the back-porch steps.

  The next morning, Dottie came to the cottage to invite me for coffee and show me a note from a reader, who loved her work but felt compelled to write, “I shuddered each time I read ‘was’ when it should be ‘were’! My Mom taught me (and she was a grammar fanatic!) when it comes to using ‘was’ or ‘were’ you use ‘were’ when it is contrary to fact.” The fan had cited a line of dialogue from Lowcountry Summer: “None that I know of, honey. I wish there was a pill.” Dottie wanted my professional opinion: How should she answer? Was she obliged to use the subjunctive? “Tell her this is fiction and this is how people talk,” I said. She was pleased to be able to quote a copy editor in her reply, adding that, for her own part, she believed that “it’s more important for dialogue to ring true than it is for it to be grammatically correct.”