Isle of Palms

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  By the time I got around to the bread aisle I realized Daddy had a glaring weakness for commercial beauty. Maybe most men did. Maybe I was another divorced idiot who had always praised substance over style and finery over fashion. The burning questions were, Could my self-respect (insecurity) keep me warm at night? Would my principles (gross fear of rejection) give me comfort? I had to face it. I was going to be single for the rest of my life or I was going to have to loosen up. I paid for the groceries and went straight to Belk’s.

  Now, Belk’s wasn’t the sexiest store in the world, but it had very nice merchandise for the sensible woman. It took me two seconds in the Ralph Lauren department to realize I needed something besides black pants and another black top. To hell with sensible for once. I walked out and went to Banana Republic and decided to buy something young and fun. It seemed that every article of clothing was the same price. Inside of half an hour I had tried on and bought an aqua tank top with spaghetti straps and a thin short cardigan that matched; a beige stretch cotton short straight skirt with a little slit; and low platform aqua slides. I felt like a whore but the salesgirl assured me that her mother had the same outfit. This did very little to lift more than my left eyebrow. (Note, if I ever go into the retail clothing business—Cut off tongues of all sales job applicants under twenty-two. And it might not be a bad idea to slap them silly once a day.)

  I went home to organize my kitchen and grill. I laid the clothes on my bed and looked at them. How could this little bit of fabric and leather cost over two hundred dollars? Was I crazy? I never spent money like this!

  That’s why you’re single.

  Oh, fine. What would Jim say? Emily? They would say nothing because if they did I wouldn’t feed them. It was three-thirty. I called Jim’s cell.

  “Hey! How goes the war?”

  I could hear hammers in the background. What in the world was he doing?

  “Everything’s good! Hey! I had an idea. . . .”

  “What else is new?”

  “Let’s have cocktails here. What do you say? I actually picked up some champagne and pâté at the wine store in Towne Centre. . . .”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Hammer! Buzzzzzz!

  “Jim? Do I hear a chain saw?”

  “Um, yeah. A little one. So, come over around five? Five-thirty?”

  Despite the fact that Jim muffled the phone, I heard a man in the shop say, “Mr. Abbot, where do you want us to run the plumbing conduit for the cappuccino machine?” My heart started pounding. Then another voice said, “Do you have a minute to look at the magazine racks?”

  It was too late to panic. I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll see you around five-thirty.”

  I called Lucy again and told her to relax, that we would go over together when Arthur arrived.

  “Fine with me,” she said. “David’s still eating.”

  While I was dressing I thanked God I had a daughter and not a Hoover like David. I spent some time in thought about Arthur, deciding he was a better diversion than obsessing about the salon and Jim’s formidable theatrics. Whatever Jim had done, I would rave about it, say he was wonderful, and change it later if I didn’t like it.

  The doorbell rang and my face and neck got hot. I checked my lips in the mirror, gave my neck a squirt of Chanel No. 5, and went to the door. Arthur was standing there with a bunch of grocery store flowers and a package wrapped in white paper. Even through the screen door, he smelled delicious.

  “Hi,” I said, “come on in.”

  “Hey,” he said. “God! You look great! Really great.”

  “I do?” I didn’t look like an ass? This was good. Okay. Breathe.

  “Yeah, here—these are for you and I brought us some cheese.”

  “Thanks! That was so sweet of you!” Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with him. Should I tell him to sit on the couch? Show him the house? What—two bedrooms and the spot where he stood?

  Tell him to come with you and open the wine.

  Right. Thanks.

  “Come with me and help me open the wine.”

  For God’s sake, Anna, don’t show him the bedrooms.

  He followed me to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and leaned down to get the wine from the bottom shelf; realizing my behind was probably showing, I quickly tugged at my skirt. I felt his hand on my wrist.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not looking at your beige-lace-covered perfect, um, pardon the word, ass. I’m a gentleman, remember?”

  I stood up slowly with the wine in my right hand and turned to look at him. I could feel a tingle in every part of my body. I was all at once mortified and excited. This Arthur person was quite possibly the most powerful male energy I had tripped across in years. And, he had taken a shower for me and put on some deadly cologne. Yeah, boy, hot night ahead. All it takes is a shower? Take it easy, I told myself.

  I was standing right next to him and could feel the heat of his body.

  “This kitchen’s pretty small,” I said, “and I’m not used to skirts. The corkscrew’s in the drawer there.” I pointed right behind him and bit my lip, thinking I might die any second.

  “Did you say screw?” He started laughing and then I did too.

  “You know what? You already think I’m a drunk. Could you please not think I’m a slut too? Jeesch! Men!”

  “Good save, Anna,” he said, rifling the drawer until he came up with the corkscrew, “but let’s face the facts. You and I both know there’s some wild energy here and neither one of us is going to be able to concentrate until we find out what it is.”

  “Okay, Casanova, look,” I said, feeling witty for having called him Casanova, which should give you a clear picture of what a dope I am, “there’s heat for sure, but don’t you prefer the fantasy? I mean, isn’t it more fun to wonder for a while what I taste like?” Good one, Anna.

  “I did that last night,” he said and popped the cork. “Where’s your daughter and Jim?”

  “They’re at the salon,” I said and gulped, “why?”

  He poured some wine into two goblets I had placed in front of him. What a stupid question. Why? Why? Was I serious?

  “Because I didn’t want to have them walk in the room while, um, if, I mean . . .”

  Well, I told myself, at least he had the good grace to flounder around and not just say something stupid like I didn’t want them to come in and find my hand under your sweater.

  “If what?” I said.

  “I just wanted to be alone with you for a few minutes. I mean, I know this sounds like something out of a Bogart and Bacall movie, but all last night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking I wanted to sort of, I don’t know, stand around you and just feel what that was like. I just, I mean, there’s this feeling you give off or something. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you.”

  My eyebrows arched at that part. Never known anyone like me? He almost had me going until that dumb statement.

  “Except for Sheila. Now there was a woman! And except for Andrea! Andrea was . . .” His eyes drifted off through the window.

  “You’re a jerk, you know that?” I started to giggle. He had dimples.

  “And the romance is off to a great start!”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Cheers.” I loved dimples.

  We clinked our glasses and looked at each other over the tops of them. We were going to have a blast together. (Blast furnace.)

  I put my glass down on the counter and said, “Soooo, we’re supposed to call Lucy, my neighbor, and tell her when we’re ready to go down to the salon to see it. Emily and Jim are serving cocktails there at five-thirty. They’ve been decorating all afternoon.”

  He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. God, he felt good! I could tell he was smelling my hair. I felt him kiss the top of my head. Just a light kiss. So sweet.

  “Then, we can’t keep everyone waiting.” He pushed me back and looked in my face. “Can we?”

  “Five minutes one way or the other won’t kill
them.”

  “Let’s take the cheese down there!”

  “Fine. The cheese. Right.”

  To hell with the cheese. Jim had cheese. No, Jim had pâté. Oh, who cared? I wanted to hang in Arthur’s arms and let him hold me up. I wanted to sink to the floor and have him follow me. I told myself this all-consuming feeling was merely wanton lust. And then I told myself that lust was a worthy and wonderful thing, a chemical fact that had preserved the species and who was I to deny it? It was proof of God and the devil, heaven and hell.

  “We’d better get out of here,” I said, “you’re dangerous.”

  “You sure?”

  Fate reached out and delivered Lucy and David to my front door, banging and yoo-hooing.

  “Come on! Let’s go!” Lucy said.

  I could tell she had come in the door and was headed for the kitchen where we stood, just as though a heat-detecting chip was imbedded in her forearm. We dropped our arms and stepped away from each other, clearing our throats and assuming the polite smiles necessary for the sake of social grace.

  “We’re in here,” I called out, “come on back and have a sip of wine with us!”

  “Do we have time? Is the bottle open? Y’all, this is David! My nephew!”

  I took one look at David and said, “Don’t come anywhere near my daughter. I’m not kidding.”

  “Anna!” Lucy said. “You don’t mean that!”

  “Of course I don’t! Just kidding, David. Nice to meet you. This is Arthur.”

  I meant it. I didn’t want this David anywhere near Emily. He was too good-looking for all of us. Nothing but trouble.

  Twenty-one

  A Little Help from My Friends

  LUCY, Arthur, David the Young and Dangerous, and I jammed ourselves into Arthur’s car and arrived at the salon in what seemed like a flash. It wasn’t that Arthur drove too fast; it was one of those mysterious encounters with time speeding ahead because you were so caught up in conversation. We were all excited for different reasons.

  Lucy wanted David to meet Emily and she was dying to see what Jim had done. David wanted to see what Emily looked like and he could have cared less about the salon. Arthur was politely curious to see the salon, but only because it was mine. I already knew that Jim had performed some magic and I was more than a little on edge with anticipation to know how the evening would progress with Arthur. The guy was frigging hot—what can I say? Something in me knew that this was going to be a decisive day—one I wouldn’t forget.

  I wasn’t really paying attention to the salon front as we pulled into our parking space. We were all chatting away like a bunch of birds on a wire. I grabbed my purse and was talking to Lucy about dinner when I noticed the look of surprise on her face. I turned toward my salon and nearly fainted from shock. I hardly recognized it and I’m not exaggerating.

  The clean front now sported two oversized clay planters. The bases of them were encircled with three-inch bamboo poles held together with intricately tied hemp and twine. They held two of the most glorious deep green, luscious dwarf palms I had ever seen. They must have cost a fortune. Men were coming and going from the entrance with tools, cables, and garbage headed for their trucks. And our awning, which had been a basic aluminum overhang to provide shelter from rain, was now covered in a thick layering of breezy palm fronds.

  That wasn’t all. Oh, no. You might recall that the salon had clear glass windows, floor to ceiling. You could look through to the receptionist desk, a tiny waiting area, and the display of merchandise. Not anymore. The windows were now covered in two five-foot bamboo walls and I could only imagine what was behind them. I took a deep breath. Then, another.

  “Keep breathing,” Lucy said, and patted me on the arm. “Let’s go in.”

  If Lucy had some reservations, can you imagine where that left me?

  All Arthur said was, “Cool.”

  We stepped inside between the gorgeously toned men in tight T-shirts, with excellent haircuts, who were coming and going, obviously finishing up. They were too fabulous looking to be anything but friends of Jim.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, I just have to get this through the door.”

  All I could do was look at them and sigh.

  There must have been fifteen people bustling around and no sign of Jim. Emily rushed over, gushing, and her face was flushed with enthusiasm.

  “Isn’t it awesome, Mom? Come see!”

  “Oh, my God!” Lucy said. “It’s fabulous!”

  But my feet were rooted to the entrance area. It was stunning. No, it was mind-bending! Our bare-bones décor had been morphed into something from a fantasy. I was in a high-tech jungle. The bamboo wall to the left of the front door held pale green thick glass shelving, with bull-nosed edges, suspended from the ceiling by brushed steel cables. Every other shelf held one of Angel’s baskets, filled with the merchandise we had bought. Displayed this way, you wanted to pick up each item and take them all home.

  It was the lighting! I looked up to see tiny lamps descending from the ceiling on bendable cables so that you could adjust the spots in any direction. The bulbs were an amber color, which explained the warmth they spread over the tortoise-patterned bamboo. The left wall now held a stainless steel cabinet that could have been from a professional kitchen. On the bottom were two doors I imagined were for supplies and on the top was an elaborate cappuccino machine—the kind you see in restaurants—with copper tubing and glass canisters, shining and beckoning. On the left and right were smaller glass shelves that held slim black mugs and chrome accessories—a sugar bowl, another bowl filled with sugar substitutes, and a cylindrical container with tiny spoons. I pulled open the bottom doors and saw that one side held a small refrigerator and the other was for supplies and waste.

  To the right, opposite the wall of products and against a low wall of the same bamboo, was a low-back, black leather bench with chrome legs where three people could wait in relative comfort. Across the top of the bamboo wall were bushy ferns in sweetgrass baskets. He had sacrificed my waiting space by a hair, but in all truth, whether or not we would have people waiting still remained to be seen.

  I turned to the reception desk, which was the same, but resituated on an angle. A matching bench sat against the outside bamboo wall and floor-to-ceiling cables, installed like a ladder, held every latest magazine, for clients to read.

  Jim appeared from the back room and gave me a huge hug and shook hands with David, whose eyes were riveted on Emily, who was oblivious to him.

  “Hey! Don’t you love it? I said, Jim, son, this place needs some excitement. It’s small, you know? So I was thinking, African Queen—right? I mean, some combination of tropical and mysterious but slick, hip. Right? So what do you think?” He was talking a million miles an hour.

  I was stupefied. It was incredible. It was unbelievable. It was a classic Jim maneuver.

  “I adore you! That’s what I think! To the extent that it’s possible to think at all . . .”

  “There’s more! Come see!”

  “Jim! You’re a regular Houdini!” Lucy said. “I swear you are! Isn’t he a Houdini, y’all?”

  We followed him and listened while he described each detail.

  “Okay, the cappuccino machine is leased. It’s free, actually. You just have to buy coffee from them, which comes in these little pods for forty-five cents each. It makes divine coffee, by the cup, in thirty seconds. Or you could make cappuccino if you feel like frothing milk, but puh-leez! Who has the patience?”

  “Not me,” I said. I shook my head.

  “Me either! I got the glass and cable from a guy I used to know who does display for Dillard’s and he and his team put them up for us for nothing because I sent him on a wine tour all through Burgundy and Épernay three years ago. I couldn’t go—had the flu. Remember when I was so sick? Anyway, he owed me, massively. He did the lighting too—left over from a store renovation. Those were all his guys you saw when you came in. I bought
the bulbs at Lowe’s—I was thinking rose, because rose lighting could flatter the worst bulldog, but they didn’t have rose and actually, I think amber is better, what do you think? It’s warmer.”

  He was babbling like the proverbial brook.

  “Jim!”

  “What? Something wrong? Oh, God! She hates it!”

  I started laughing and so did he. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Are you Emily?” I heard David say to her.

  I turned around, realizing I had forgotten to introduce them. Emily narrowed her eyes at him with suspicion all over her like gnats at dusk.

  “Yeah, I’m Emily. You’re David, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. Cool.”

  I looked at Lucy and Jim and then at Arthur and we all shrugged our shoulders, sort of guffawing like old farts do when they realize they’re old farts and there’s another generation ramping up to take our place. What do they know? They’re so young! What harm could there be? Ah! Youth! Wasted on the young! We shared simultaneous thoughts. I probably would have given it higher focus at another place in time, but at the moment I was so busy looking at the changes to the salon, that I let their attraction slide, telling myself that Emily would have no more than a passing interest in him anyway. He wasn’t her type. He was too normal looking.

  “Does this ship have a galley?” Arthur said. “I brought some hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Oh! Did you bring wine? I could use a glass of something, I think,” Lucy said.

  “I’ve got champagne! Veuve Clicquot, of course—the chateau’s run by a woman, you know. Thought it was appropriate!” Jim said. “Come on, Arthur, I’ll show you the catering facility.”

  I knew Jim was kidding but followed them through the salon to the back, thinking, who knew? The four stations were relatively unchanged except for the same bendable lights that surrounded the mirrors like Medusas and each station had an elliptical clear glass vase of lucky bamboo. It was just what they needed.