I was just taking the last of the cheesecakes out of the oven when BeBe came breezing in the kitchen door.
She looked at the lineup on the counter—two praline turtle cakes, two mocha swirls, two peach melbas.
“How’s it going?” she asked, pulling a bar stool up to the counter.
“Not so good,” I told her. “Mama had to change churches because I’m so notorious. My neighbors cross the street to avoid having to talk to me. I’m a tour bus stop for Scenic Savannah Tours. Daddy’s got another bumper crop of zucchini. You think we could sell zucchini cheesecake?”
She shuddered. “Not at my restaurant, we couldn’t.”
“I’ve started shopping incognito at the Kroger. And people still turn around and point at me and whisper. Like I’m a damn outlaw or something.”
“You’re not an outlaw, you’re a folk hero,” BeBe said. “Just yesterday, when I was at the beauty parlor, getting my hair foiled, you’ll never guess what they had up at the front desk, where the receptionist sits.”
“Plastic rain hats,” I guessed.
“No, sweetie, this was my hairdresser’s, not your mama’s. I’ll tell you. They had an empty coffee can. And somebody had clipped your picture out of the paper, and it was pasted on the can, along with a sign that said ‘Free Weezie Foley.’ Can you believe that?”
I shook my head.
“I told KiKi, that’s the owner, that you’re my best friend. And look—” Now she was pulling an envelope stuffed with twenties out of her purse. “She sent all of this along for you.”
BeBe fanned the bills out on the counter. There were at least twenty of them.
“Money? For me? Why?”
“It’s the Weezie Foley Defense Fund,” BeBe said. “You’re a cause. Every woman in Savannah wants to give you a medal for putting a bullet in Caroline DeSantos. You’re the patron saint of ex-wives everywhere. You’re a Lifetime channel movie of the week.”
“I feel like an outcast,” I said. “Except for one thing. When I was at the Kroger earlier, Merijoy Rucker stopped me. She invited me to her supper club tomorrow night.”
BeBe’s ears perked right up. “The Ruckers? They invited you to the Ardsley Park Supper Club? That’s great. I’ve been dying to go to one of their dinners.”
“What’s the big deal?” I asked.
“Honey,” she said, “the Ardsley Park Supper Club is ultraexclusive. Nobody, but nobody, gets invited unless they all agree on it. And they never have any more than twelve guests at the parties, because that’s all the room they have in their dining rooms. People who belong to the Ardsley Park Supper Club do not believe in folding chairs and card tables. And the food is supposed to be fabulous. It’s really a big deal to be invited. You should feel honored.”
“You go,” I said, easing a cheesecake out of the springform pan and onto a cooling rack. “I’m staying home tomorrow.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. Weezie, why did you accept her invitation if you had no intention of going?”
“I didn’t accept. Not exactly. Merijoy Rucker just sort of assumed. She has that effect on people. She just runs right over you. I kept telling her no, and she kept hearing yes.”
“I’ve dated men like that,” BeBe said, running her finger around the batter bowl sitting in the sink.
“And that’s another reason I’m not going,” I added. “Merijoy says I have to bring a date. And if I don’t bring one, she’ll fix me up with one. And you know what I think about fix-ups.” I glared meaningfully at her.
“Now don’t start,” BeBe said. “It worked out fine, didn’t it? I don’t get what you’ve got against Daniel Stipanek. He is absolutely yummy. Can you honestly sit there and tell me with a straight face that you don’t find him devastatingly attractive?”
“I don’t find him attractive. Not at all.”
“You lie like a rug,” BeBe said. She stuck the tip of her acrylic nail into one of the cooled cheesecakes. “Oh darn. This one has a crack in it. Why don’t we just go ahead and cut it into slices?”
“That’s fifty dollars’ worth of profit for me,” I protested.
She reached into her purse, slapped two twenties and a ten on the counter. “Here. Are you gonna cut me a slice of that damned cake or not? I’m famished.”
I cut her a slice of cheesecake and poured her a glass of milk.
“What don’t you like about Daniel?” she demanded. “And be specific.”
“I don’t know,” I said, helping myself to a forkful of her cheesecake. It was the peach melba, a new recipe I’d been experimenting with, peach topping with a fresh raspberry glaze. “He’s not my type. He’s too dark, for one thing.”
“You’ve been wondering about that tan line of his,” BeBe said, waggling her eyebrows. “Naughty, naughty.”
“Shut up. I’ve just never been attracted to his type. Men with dark hair. Never have been.”
“Tal is totally beige,” BeBe observed. “And we know how well that worked out. Don’t we?”
“Daniel’s eyes are so blue. It’s unnatural for a man to have eyes that color.”
“They’re not contacts,” BeBe said. “I checked.”
“He’s built wrong.”
She pretended to choke on her cheesecake. “No, Weezie. He is built all right. My God. He is so buff. What’s not to like about a body like that?”
“I’m just not used to somebody like him,” I said, struggling to put it into words. “Tal is, was, tall; sort of architectural, you know. All smooth planes and straight hair. Pale skin and sharp angles. I used to love to look at his fingers. So long and tapered.”
“Unlike the rest of his anatomy,” BeBe cracked.
“No comment,” I said primly. “Now, Daniel is nothing like Tal. He’s shorter. And those muscles. There’s such a thing as being too muscular, you know. I never have been one to go for that kind of thing.”
I helped myself to another bite of BeBe’s cheesecake. Strictly for research purposes.
“What about that behind?” BeBe asked. “Are you going to sit there and tell me that Daniel does not have the most gorgeous set of buns you have ever seen on a man?”
“I’ve never noticed,” I said, crossing my toes.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” BeBe taunted. “Most of the waiters and busboys at Guale are gay. And, honey, they’ve noticed. They practically fight to get into that kitchen when Daniel’s working back there.”
“What about that tattoo of his? Very unsanitary. And sort of white-trashy, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a little bitty old Marine Corps eagle,” BeBe said. “He told me all about it. He got drunk on his first leave from Parris Island and had it done. And no, I do not think he is the least bit white trash. That’s the trouble with you, Eloise. You were mixed up with that snotty Evans crowd for so long you started buying into that blueblood bullshit of theirs.”
She took a swig of milk and patted her lips with the napkin I offered.
“I’ll take Daniel Stipanek’s tattoo over that so-called pedigree of Talmadge Evans in a New York minute. I can’t stand that family and all their pretensions. They’d like the world to think they’re hot snot on a gold platter. But really, they’re just cold boogers on a paper plate.”
I laughed so hard when she said that that I nearly spit out the bite of cheesecake I’d just snitched off her plate.
She gave me an exasperated look. “Damn it, get your own slice of cake. At least you can afford the calories.” She picked up my wrist and dropped it quickly. “My God. How much weight have you lost since this whole thing started?”
“Hardly any.”
It was a lie and we both knew it. I’d stayed clear of the scales, but I could tell from the way my underwear sagged that I’d probably dropped close to ten pounds since the night Caroline’s body fell from that closet out at Beaulieu.
BeBe got a plate from the cupboard and cut me a slab of cheesecake. She got a Coke out of the fridge and set it by my plate. “Now eat,” she ordered. “And tell me some more lies about how you are not attracted to Daniel Stipanek.”
I chewed and thought about it.
“We don’t have anything in common. We don’t even like the same kind of music. I like classic rock and roll. He likes beach music. I didn’t even know what that was until he told me.”
BeBe shook her head at my ignorance. “You mean you’ve never made out to ‘Under the Boardwalk’?”
“I got groped by Chuck Manetti once at a Van Halen concert at the civic center,” I offered.
She clucked her sympathy. “Poor deprived child.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ll concede that Daniel is mildly attractive. I’ll even concede that his personality is not nearly as repulsive as I originally thought.”
“You must have liked him once,” BeBe said. “You admitted to me that you dated years ago, in high school.”
Suddenly, unbidden, I flashed back to that naked romp under the live oaks at Beaulieu. I felt my face flush, and I got up to rinse my plate off at the sink to keep my hawkeyed friend from noticing my discomfort.
I would die before I would admit it to BeBe, or anyone else, but the main problem with Daniel was that he was different. And he was dangerous. And right now, I had enough danger in my life.
“It just won’t work,” I told BeBe, keeping my back turned to her. “I’m not ready for a relationship yet. Daniel can be sweet. I’ll say that for him. When he took me home for lunch, he fixed me soup. Chilled seafood bisque. He’s a wonderful cook. I can see why you want to keep him happy at Guale.”
“Soup?” BeBe stood up and walked over to the sink, took me by the shoulders, and turned me so I was facing her. “He made you soup? Sweet Jesus in heaven. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“What’s the big deal? He fixed me a sandwich too. With fresh basil. I never knew a man who grew his own herbs before.”
“The big deal,” BeBe said, “is this. A man who makes soup for you has got to be fantastic in the sack. On second thought, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him. Although, you know, I have a policy. Never fuck the help.”
“Why?” I wanted to know.
“Because it’s a bad idea to mix business with pleasure. And besides, it’s more fun to fuck the competition. You know?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, what has soup got to do with being a great lover?” Now I was flashing back to my boat date at Beaulieu again. The only thing memorable about that encounter was the variety of places I’d been bitten by bugs. I’d used a whole bottle of calamine lotion when I got home that night.
“Weezie, Weezie, Weezie,” BeBe said, in the manner of a tutor with a mildly retarded student. “You’re a great cook yourself. Think about it. Soup takes time. It takes patience. It takes attention to detail. A man who makes soup knows how to take his own sweet time with things. He uses just the right ingredients. And he whisks in the seasonings with just the right flick of the wrists. Then, and only then, he turns up the heat to finish things off. Bring matters to a simmer. And you know about good soup, right? The longer it takes, the better it tastes.”
I picked up a piece of junk mail from the counter and fanned myself with it.
“Lawsy me,” I drawled. “I think all this talk about soup and sex is gettin’ me aroused.”
BeBe gave me a broad wink. “Think about how much better the real thing will be.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’ll see.”