Isle of Palms

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “So what?” This remark was followed by a silent scream toward the ceiling.

  “You have an M.S. in social work?”

  “Hell no!” More eye-rolling and snicking sounds followed.

  “Then why in the world . . . I mean, why do this in the first place, I mean, I don’t know, it just seems so, I don’t know . . .”

  “Anna. Girlfriend. Calm down, okay? Sure, it ain’t exactly accurate, but I guarantee you that all the others are filled with some bodacious bull too! This is mostly a place to flirt, you know, see what’s out there. It’s about fantasy.” I was about to witness Lucy’s version of self-righteous indignation. “I’ve met some very nice men in chat rooms, I’ll have you know.”

  I didn’t want to offend her social sensibilities but I thought the whole idea was a kind of gross exhibitionism. Let’s face it: putting a suggestive picture of yourself on the Internet with a bunch of lies to describe yourself, with the end goal of finding a decent man who would respect you, was, to say the very least, problematic.

  But in the spirit of nonjudgmentalism I said, “I’m sure you’re right.” To show how open-minded I could be, I threw out, “Hell, it’s probably fun?”

  “Yeah, that’s all it is, really. I mean, most of the guys who email me are most likely old married coots. I don’t usually follow up unless I’m pretty sure the guy’s okay and, even then, I would only meet them in a public place. You should try it! Hell, honey, what are you saving it for? It could dry rot!”

  This was a small indicator of the possible trouble I could have with Lucy as a partner. Relationships were not a joke. Lying was just not okay with me. I was glad I’d had even a brief but cranky discussion about the loan/partnership with Daddy. What would Daddy think if he knew Lucy was strutting her stuff on the Internet like a blooming mail-order playmate? Not good.

  “I’m not saving anything. I guess I just don’t think about it too much.”

  I opened her refrigerator door and looked inside like I was in my own house. I needed to change the topic. The whole business made me uncomfortable.

  “You want something to drink? God! I should’ve bought champagne! We have some big time celebrating to do!”

  Champagne? Celebrating was the furthest thing from my mind. But, once again, the screwball was right.

  “I’ll go get it,” I said, “that is, whatever they have at the Red and White that looks drinkable. Should I get some munchy stuff?”

  “Sure! Dougle Darlin’ is coming for dinner and I defrosted some pork chops. Why don’t you eat with us and we can decide what to do tomorrow?”

  “Perfect,” I said, and smiled, relaxing a little for the first time.

  All the way to the store, I talked to myself. Okay, she has a website. Maybe she advertises for sex. Who knows? But it doesn’t seem like it. It seems more like a lonely woman trying to amuse herself. Still. It is weird. Maybe not. What the hell do I know? I’m not exactly the man-expert of the western world, am I? What kind of champagne will I find on this island? But! She wants to celebrate! See? Lucy’s an optimist and maybe I’m just a pessimist. Could be. But, damn, if Daddy knew she was doing something so downright scuzzy, what would he say? Should I tell him? Hell, no! Stay out of it, Anna!

  I headed right for the wine aisle and found some Napa Valley Chandon already chilled. Well, technically it wasn’t champagne unless it was from France, but so what? It had bubbles. Besides, I didn’t have the time, wallet or inclination to go on a search. I picked up a box of water crackers and a piece of hermetically sealed Gruyère whose freshness label said it would expire in 2006. Then I took a low-fat container of Boursin. One soft cheese and one hard. That would be Lucy’s brain and my disposition, I thought. I paid for everything and left.

  Driving home I found myself looking back over the years. I was back where I had started but way ahead of when I had left. I had a fabulous daughter, who was coming home in just a few days, my own new home, and every reason in the world to be excited about the prospects of my future. I had weathered more complicated situations than those before me. I would weather these too. I thought for a moment about Arthur—the Cheese Whiz. I wondered if he was interested. I had thought I felt a twinge of electricity from him. I was sure of it. Well, leave that one to fate, I told myself.

  Daddy’s car was parked in Lucy’s driveway, I noticed as I pulled into mine. I decided to throw on a dress, so I ran into my house to quickly change. It didn’t seem right to go to dinner in shorts. Coming back out into my yard, I spotted Miss Angel from next door.

  “Hey!” I called out. “How are you, Miss Angel?”

  She turned, recognized me, and smiled, happy to see me.

  “Hey, girl! What’s all the news?” she said. “Miss Anna! You look so nice and fresh! You must have a new man in your life! I had a dream you were in love!” She sounded so young when she said that.

  “Humph! Not me! You got a new man in yours?” I shot right back.

  We burst out in good-natured laughter. It felt good to be familiar with someone whose sanity I knew was bankable.

  “I don’t need no man at my stage in this life, girl. No, ma’am. Just leave me be.”

  “Somebody told me today that what I was saving was perishable!”

  “That’s true and it’s a sin to waste too, ’eah? Now tell me how your new little house is.”

  “Oh, Miss Angel, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on.”

  I told her about the robbery and she just shook her head, saying, What kinda fool thing going on in this world. Thank God you didn’t get hurt. When I told her about my new salon she looked at me with a certain surprise on her face. Her eyes were intensely focused on me as I went on about some of the details.

  “You gone make out just fine,” she said, as though she knew something I didn’t. “If you decide you want to sell baskets, you let me know.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that! Tell Miss Mavis I said hello.”

  “I will! You going over to Lucy’s?”

  “Yeah. She’s helping me with the salon plans. She used to be married to a builder, you know.”

  Realizing that the Misses Angel and Mavis held their regard for Lucy’s intellect somewhere in the area of amoebas, it came as no surprise that she said, “That’s nice, but look out, she’s stupid.”

  “Nah, she ain’t stupid, exactly. She’s just, well . . .”

  “Stupid!” She laughed again. “Just remember what I told you and think about baskets. They bring good luck and big money.”

  “Aren’t big money and good luck the same thing?”

  “I believe so!”

  She smiled again and I waved as she disappeared in between the oleanders that separated our properties.

  Baskets? Well, maybe I would sell her baskets. Why not? Angel had been making sweetgrass baskets all her life. Lots of Lowcountry women had basket stands along Highway 17. Weaving had continued since slavery, taught mother to daughter. They were made of long strands of sweetgrass from the marsh, coiled and sewn with strips of palmetto—magnificent! Some of the more complicated ones were in the museum collections and worth a small fortune. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. If we were going to sell hair care merchandise, why not mix the display with Angel’s baskets? If the tourists we hoped to attract actually materialized, surely they’d love one to take back to Ohio or New York.

  Then again, maybe it would be nice if I had shelves to put the baskets on first.

  Fourteen

  The Palms Salon and Spa

  OVER the following week, rummaging the ads in the Moul-trie News, I discovered salon fixture heaven was to be found in Monck’s Corner. Betty Hudson, who owned and operated Betty’s Beauty Box in an extension on the side of her house, was retiring and anxious to convert the space to a playroom and bedrooms for her three grandchildren. She had some glass-and-chrome shelving that looked usable and four chairs from the seventies—retro cool. It didn’t pay to move sinks, her dryers were too ancient, and just about everything else had seen
better days. For an additional twenty-five dollars, her son-in-law threw them in the back of his pickup and brought them to the doorstep of the Palms.

  “God! These are great!” Lucy said, referring to the chairs. “All you need to do is clean up them up a little and reupholster them. I know this gal at Lowcountry Interiors. They pick up and deliver too. Want me to call her?”

  “Perfect,” I said and checked that off my list. “Thanks.”

  Lucy and I, the ad hoc architect and decorator, had consulted with no one and decided how to best divide twelve hundred square feet. We allotted for a small reception area and boutique and space for the four chairs and two manicurists. That left us enough for a waxing room, two sinks, a coffee area, a small powder room, and a storage closet.

  “You know,” I said, showing Lucy my calculations on a legal pad, “we can probably save more money by washing our own towels than using a towel service.”

  “Why not?” she said. “There’s enough room for a washer and dryer, isn’t there?”

  “Yeah, and Lucy, we still have to discuss this loan.”

  We decided to go to the Long Island Café for lunch and ordered salads topped with fresh fried shrimp.

  “Lucy, here’s the deal. I mean, you were so great, and I mean that, such a great friend to jump in and get moving and to do everything you have done. If, God forbid, you decide tomorrow that you hate my guts and never want to speak to me again, I’m still gonna love you. It’s just that, I don’t really want a partner, you know?”

  “Hell, Anna, I don’t want to be a partner! Is that what you thought? I just, I mean, I don’t have a lot going on in my life right now and I guess I just wanted to do something to help, you know?”

  “Yeah. Well, you sure did that.”

  She smiled and examined the shrimp on her fork, turning it, then popped it in her mouth. “Delicious,” she said. “Absolutely delicious. You know, one time I went to a party in Philadelphia and all these people were eating these big old rubber shrimp that they thought were so good and they didn’t taste like nothing ’cept cocktail sauce. Musta been frozen.”

  “Yankees don’t get shrimp. You gotta eat ’em here. And what in the world were you doing in Philadelphia?”

  “Chasing a man,” she said and giggled. “Why else would you go there?”

  “That’s for sure,” I said, agreeing as quietly as possible, hoping there weren’t any tourists from Pennsylvania sitting next to us.

  I mean, people from Philadelphia were perfectly nice; I had met lots of them over the years. But I couldn’t imagine going there and if I ever did, I sure wouldn’t eat their seafood. Even they don’t know how long it’s been out of the water. See, what happens is that the fishermen catch the fish and ice them down. They could be out fishing for a few days before they return to port. Then the fish is graded by category and size, put on more ice, and shipped to a purveyor, who then eventually sells it to a restaurant. By the time it sees your plate, it’s been dead too long to taste like anything worth the calories.

  One of the many blessings of Lowcountry life was not only the availability of fresh seafood but the haunting sweetness of shrimp or fish caught that day. From childhood it was understood that what was in our waters was as good as it gets. And, it was.

  “But, I meant it when I said I wanted to be the receptionist,” she said, “and I’m not kidding either.”

  “You’d be great,” I said.

  What I was thinking was another matter. I only hoped we had enough clients call us to make having a receptionist necessary. I was wishing Carla would show up, offering her talent and experience to us, but she had not. She was so busy from morning to night that she probably never had a chance to think about leaving Harriet. I just hoped I could make Lucy see how important it was to book appointments correctly, because her job would be a little like being an air traffic controller. There was nothing worse than the wrath of an irate woman on a tight schedule made to wait because of a foul-up in booking at the front desk.

  When the island drums carried the message that a new salon was on the horizon, disgruntled employees from other establishments and salesmen began to appear at our door. We hired Brigitte, a gal from Mount Pleasant who had a long list of clients she was positive would follow her, and Bettina, a high energy manicurist from Brooklyn who was married to a fellow in the Coast Guard stationed in Charleston. Bettina had a bag of skills—she could also wax anything, give pedicures, facials, and swore she did Reiki, reflexology massage, and aromatherapy.

  “Lemme tell youse girls something, I can sell services like crazy,” she said. “I tell ’em I used to work at Elizabeth Arden in New York and the next thing you know, their mustache is mine.”

  Lucy and I fell in love with her immediately and I said, “We believe you. Can you start when we open?”

  My lawyer drew up a loan agreement for Lucy and me, and also the papers to incorporate the salon. That done, Lucy and I signed our agreement. Within days, the marble tile flooring went in, the Sheetrock was papered, the new sinks and reupholstered chairs installed, and finally, the mirrors and lighting went up. Lucy had called in every man she ever knew to help us and, sure enough, she delivered the legions of male muscle required to do the job in record time.

  I was bringing in boxes and I could hear Lucy in the back area talking to the plumber, John. It seemed funny to me that the guy installing our toilet was named John, but then the whole world seemed to be spinning in a lighthearted orbit.

  “John, darlin’,” Lucy said, “you are so sweet to come and help us like this. I swear, you are. What can I ever do to repay you?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “my wife does the billing. Just pay it.”

  Was it possible that there was a man impervious to her wiles? No.

  “Lawsamercy, John! Of course we expected you to bill us! I just thought that maybe we could do y’all’s hair on the house or something. Why don’t I give you a gift certificate for your wife. What’s her name now? Wasn’t it Ruthie? Golly, I haven’t seen y’all in so long, ever since Danny . . .”

  I could hear her voice cracking, reliving the legend of how her husband, Danny, had unceremoniously thrown her out of his life like a beer can. It must have made John nervous.

  “There, there,” John said, “that would be awful nice and I’m sure she would be happy to give you some consideration on the bill, new business and all that.”

  Lucy’s heels clicked along the new marble tile floor coming toward me. She stopped and whispered, “That should be good for at least ten percent.”

  “You’re brutal,” I said. “Throw in a pedicure.”

  That was how it went. Lucy flirted, cajoled, flattered, and squeezed every last one of her ex-husband’s friends for a discount. It wasn’t my style of doing business but I learned something. Every one of those gift certificates would bring a possible new client. The networking component of Lucy’s campaign could prove to be very valuable.

  “I put the salon on my website,” she said later.

  This was too much.

  “You did what?” I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

  “I mean, I linked it. Come on. I have a little bitty surprise for you.”

  She booted up her laptop at the front counter, went online, and in a few clicks we were at a website for The Palms Salon and Spa. I watched in amazement. The opening screen was a swirl of moss and blue-greens with our logo, which then faded out and back in with a list of our services and some head shots of models. That disappeared and the salon’s address and phone number came up. All the while, the ocean and rustle of trees played in the background.

  “Um, I know this was a crazy thing to do without asking you, but I was positive it would be a good idea so I just sorta did it. Anyway, I got reciprocal links from the Chamber of Commerce, Wild Dunes Resort, Caldwell Brokers, O’Shaunessy Rentals, Carroll Real Estate, and all the other real estate brokers on the island. I mean, it’s just PowerPoint. We can change anything you want.”
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  “PowerPoint? Reciprocal links?”

  Lucy was speaking Norwegian as far as I could tell. I could play solitaire and do a little Word, but that was just about the sum of my computer skills.

  “Yeah, the software that made the slide show. It’s not the most sophisticated thing in the world, but it’s better than nothing. One night last week I was up all night worrying about how in the world we were going to let the world know the salon was opening.”

  “You’re right. I mean, I haven’t even called half my clients yet.”

  “And, plus, it’s not like we have an advertising budget, right? But I owned the PowerPoint software so I started fooling around with it and did this. It’s free and now we’re linked all over the Lowcountry! I mean, I know it ain’t great art, but hell, Anna Banana, you gotta start somewhere.”

  This woman was one unending stream of surprises. “Lucy? If you were a man, I’d kiss your face! What else can we do with your computer?”

  “Email the world! I must have two hundred people on my buddy lists!”

  “Go for it, sister. I wonder if we could get the summer rental brokers to include a discount coupon with their welcome package.”

  “I’ll find out! What do you think? Twenty percent?”

  “How about ten percent on products and fifteen on services?” Lucy would give away the ranch if I didn’t keep an eye on her.

  “We could get The Pig to stuff flyers in grocery bags . . .”

  “The Piggly Wiggly grocery store? Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, gauche?”

  “Right! Too gauche! Harris Teeter?”

  “I have to think about that. When Emily gets home Saturday, she can help.”

  “Oh, Emily! Yes! Oh! I forgot to tell you! My nephew is going to be spending the summer with me! David, my sister’s boy from Greenville. He’s adorable! Just twenty, and going to be a junior at Carolina in the fall.”

  “That’s great.” Very nice, I thought; she had a nephew to corrupt. “And Lucy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You call me Anna Banana one more time, I’ll give you a black eye.”