“Mama?” I poked my head around the doorway of my parents’ den, where my mother sat staring at the television set.
“What?” Her eyes never left the TV. She was watching a cooking show featuring a Chinese chef demonstrating how to debone a Cornish game hen with the longest, wickedest knife I had ever seen.
I sat on the sofa facing her easy chair. “How did it go this afternoon?”
She had her hair combed nicely and was wearing a pastel pantsuit and her pearl earrings, so I knew she’d made her appointment at the rehab.
“Shh,” she said. “I’m trying to see what this man is doing.”
“He’s deboning a Cornish game hen,” I said. “And even if you ever decided to cook a Cornish game hen, which I doubt would ever happen, why would you debone it? Mama, I want to know how it went at the rehab today.”
“It went fine,” she snapped, holding up the remote control and turning up the sound on the television. “Now could I please have some peace and quiet around here without everybody asking me a lot of snoopy questions?”
“Oooh-kaay,” I said, getting up and walking out. I found Daddy in the backyard, under the carport, trying to untangle a knot of monofilament line that was wound around the stem of his beloved Weedwhacker.
“Hey, baby,” he said, looking up when I plopped down in an aluminum yard chair next to him.
“Mama seems kind of tense,” I said. “Did it go all right at the rehab place this afternoon?”
He took out his pocketknife and started sawing away at the snarled line. “She didn’t run off.”
“That’s a start,” I said. “But was she receptive at all?”
“Hand me that trash can, will you, Weezie?” he asked, unfurling the ruined line.
I started gathering up the monofilament and throwing it in the trash.
“It didn’t go too good,” he said finally. “James says it’s gonna take time. But today, well, I’d have to say this first time was a bust.”
“What happened?”
“When we first got there the intake person, that’s what they call the nurse who asks you all the questions, she took Marian in a room and talked to her and asked her a lot of questions for an hour. And I went off with another person, and they asked me family-type questions. And then we went into a meeting together with the intake people, and they talked about what all they thought your mama needed to do for her treatment.”
“When did things go bad?” I asked.
“Right about the time they told us they really thought she should do inpatient treatment. That means stay at the hospital for six weeks.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Your mama got hysterical and accused me of trying to trick her into getting locked up again. I told her and told her that wasn’t what was gonna happen, but you know how your mama gets.”
“I know,” I said.
“Finally we got her calmed down, and the intake person said since your mama was so opposed to staying in the hospital, maybe they could just see her on an outpatient basis, which she finally agreed might not be so bad.”
“What happened after that?”
“They had her sit in on a group therapy session. And when she came out, she was just like you saw her in the house. Shell-shocked, kinda like.”
“And she wouldn’t say what upset her so much?”
“Just kept saying those other people in the group were all dope fiends and winos and bums and criminals, and how could I expect her to stay locked up in a room with that kind of element six days a week for three months.”
“Did you try to talk to her?”
“James and I both tried our hardest to talk some sense into her. Your mama still doesn’t think she has a drinking problem. She doesn’t see why she should have to go to rehab with a bunch of dope fiends and winos.”
I wondered if any of the dope fiends and winos at rehab had ever thought to mix Xanax with Four Roses, like Mama had.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“Later on, they want us all to do some group counseling together,” Daddy said. “But not until your mama is ready to admit she has a drinking problem.”
“All right,” I said, getting up from the lawn chair. I started to leave, then I went back and gave him a tight hug. “I love you, Daddy,” I said.
“And I love you too,” he said, hugging me back. “We’ll get through this, Weezie. Just say a prayer for your mama, will you?”
“I will,” I said. “And one for you and me too.”
Daniel’s truck was parked outside the house on the Southside, and he’d already loaded the sofa by the time I got there.
I did a quick walk-through around the house but didn’t see much else worth buying, so I grabbed an end table and added it to the pile of stuff in the back of Daniel’s truck.
He stopped on the way back into the house and gave me a quick, sweaty kiss.
“Do you like the furniture?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s cool. Really. I was afraid you meant some of that frilly-looking wicker, but I really like this bamboo kind of look.”
When we had both trucks loaded, I followed him out to Tybee.
The last time I’d seen his house, the place had been a shambles. But Daniel had been busy. The walls still smelled of fresh paint, and the floors had been stripped and refinished.
“Wow,” I said admiringly. “It looks great. How did you get so much done?”
“My brothers came over and helped out,” he said, setting down one of the arm chairs against the far wall.
“Not there,” I said, shaking my head and pointing toward the opposite wall. “Here. And the sofa over there, and the end tables between the sofa arms and the chairs. And the bar, over there, near the dining alcove.”
“You sure are bossy,” Daniel said.
“You hired me to boss you around.”
He put down the bar stool he was carrying and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close to his sweaty chest. “I’ve got a confession to make. I had ulterior motives when I hired you.”
“And I had ulterior motives when I took the job,” I said. “Let me see where you put everything in the bedroom.”
He grinned.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “I just want to make sure you didn’t put things in the wrong place.”
“I thought you liked where I put things,” Daniel said, tagging after me.
“No,” I said, standing in the doorway to the bedroom. “This is all wrong.”
He’d put the big oak bed blocking the best window in the room, the one with a great view of the sky and the river, and the highboy was right next to the bed.
“Your lovemaking techniques are superb,” I told him, “but as an interior designer, you’re hopeless. Here. Help me move this bed.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled both of us onto the mattress.
“Not that way,” I said, struggling to free myself. “I want the bed against the other wall, so you can see the water when you wake up in the morning.”
“I hate waking up with the sun in my eyes,” he grumbled.
“We’ll get you some split bamboo shades you can pull down,” I said, “but you really don’t want the bed blocking your view. And you don’t want to be stumbling over the dresser when you get out of bed in the morning.”
He stood up and began shoving the furniture around. “How do you come to know all this stuff?” he asked.
“It’s just common sense,” I said. “Didn’t your mother teach you any of this?”
“My mother worked most of the time,” Daniel said. “She didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about furniture placement.”
The air had suddenly taken on a chill. But I pushed ahead. After all, if we were going to sleep together, I wanted to know something about his family.
“Where did your mom work?” I asked.
“At the sugar plant,” he said.
“Who took care of the kids?”
“We took care of ourselves,” he said. “We made out all right.”
“It sounds like you and your brothers are pretty close,” I said. “When can I meet them?”
“Whenever,” he said. “Is this like you want it now?”
“Better,” I said, standing in the middle of the room. “You need some lamps, and some kind of bedspread. And what about pictures for the walls?”
“Why do I need pictures?”
“So you’ll have something to look at when you’re lying in bed,” I said.
“I know what I want to look at when I’m lying in bed,” Daniel said. “And it’s not pictures. Are you coming back to Bluffton with me tonight?”
It was a tempting thought. “I can’t. The sale at Beaulieu is Saturday morning. And I’ve still got some stuff I want to do.”
“When, then?” he asked.
I knew what he meant, but I asked anyway.
“When, what?”
“When are you going to stop all this running around? When are we going to be together for more than just a night?”
I slouched up against the wall and crossed my hands over my chest. “Now I’ve heard it all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A guy who wants a commitment after just one night.”
His face got red. “I am not asking for a commitment. I just want to know where we stand with each other. Remember, you’re the one who was ready to go running back to old lover boy, just last night.”
I shook my head. “Oh no. I’m not getting into this again.”
“You don’t get how weird this is, do you?”
“No,” I said. “Why is this weird?”
“You’re living in your ex-husband’s backyard. He watches you. He’s just waiting for you to coming running back across that courtyard to him.”
“Are you asking me to move in here with you?”
He looked shocked. “No. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Good,” I said. “Don’t. I like where I live just fine. And don’t get the idea that just because we slept together means you get the right to boss me around.”
“You’re the one who does all the bossing, is that it?”
I wrenched my hand away from him. “No. I don’t want to do all the bossing. Listen to us. Bickering again. It’s just the way I told you it would be. All we do is fight. This isn’t working.”
I turned my back on him and headed out to the yard to my truck.
“Hey.” He stood in the doorway and called after me. “That wasn’t a fight. That wasn’t even a good bicker. There you go, running away again. Come on back, damn it.”
When I got to the carriage house, Tal’s car was in its parking slot. I could see something on my doorstep. A flower arrangement.
“Shit,” I muttered, and I backed out and drove straight to BeBe’s house.
She took one look at me and knew what had happened. “You did it, didn’t you?”
I stalked past her into the kitchen and opened the door of her big stainless-steel double-door refrigerator. “You got any chocolate in this thing?”
“There’s some Godiva fudge sauce in that jar on the door there,” she said. I took the sauce and opened the freezer. “Ice cream?”
“Second shelf from the top.”
I took the carton of Mayfield Moose Tracks and sat down at the kitchen counter. I took the top off the ice cream container and spooned chocolate sauce in. “Bourbon?”
“You know where I keep it,” BeBe said, pointing to the liquor cabinet. I got a double old-fashioned glass and poured two inches of Wild Turkey bourbon over a layer of ice cubes, and I drank it neat, followed by a healthy chaser of ice cream and chocolate sauce.
“Let me get this straight,” BeBe said, pouring herself a drink. “At some point last night, presumably after we talked on the phone, you and Daniel made mad passionate mattress music together. And at some point after that you two had your first official fight.”
“We had our first official fight the first time you introduced us,” I said.
“First official fight as a couple,” she said, correcting me.
I took a couple bites of ice cream. “What makes you think we’re a couple?”
“You’re not? This is just recreational fucking? I mean, Weezie, I am the first person to wholly endorse recreational fucking. It’s a concept that far too few contemporary American women embrace. It’s just that I didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”
“Why is everybody so worried about what kind of girl I am?”
“Never mind,” BeBe said. “I can see you’re in no mood to discuss philosophy. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, besides provide chocolate and liquor?”
“I couldn’t go back home,” I said apologetically. “Tal left another flower arrangement on my doorstep.”
“At least he didn’t leave this one inside the house,” she said.
“I had the fucking locks changed,” I said. “And James called him and told him to knock it off. But he still doesn’t seem to get the fucking message.”
“You are in a mood,” she said, eyeing me warily.
“It’s been that kind of a day,” I said. And I told her about my mother’s reaction to alcohol rehab, and about the fight Daniel and I had had, and about my sinking feeling that Lewis Hargreaves had already snagged the Moses Weed cupboard.
“You want my opinion on any of this?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m being a bitch. Now that I’ve got a little chocolate and brown liquor in me, I’m ready for some counseling. God knows I could use it.”
“First,” she said. “About your mother. Face the facts. She’s hooked on Xanax and bourbon. She’s an addict. You’ve done what you could for her. You and your dad let her know you think she has a problem. You told her you’ll help all you can. Now step back and let her own it.”
“Easier said than done,” I said.
“Second. Daniel. I hate to say it, Weeze, but I think he’s right. You have some kind of aversion to a romantic relationship.”
“Are you saying I’m frigid?”
“Christ, I hope not,” she said. “He’s a great guy. He wants to be with you. It’s only natural that he would be creeped out by Tal. Hell, everybody who knows Tal is creeped out by him.”
“Are you saying I should move out of the carriage house?” I started to stand up.
She pushed me back down. “Stay seated. Jeez. You are so touchy tonight. Getting laid certainly hasn’t improved these mood swings of yours.”
“I do not have mood swings.”
“Fine. Hormonal surges. Did you keep any of that Xanax you stole from your mother?”
“I have the whole bottle in my pocketbook.”
“You might consider taking one if these flare-ups of yours continue.”
I opened my mouth to protest but then closed it again.
“You said you wanted my opinion,” she said.
“Go on.”
“Give the guy a chance,” BeBe said. “That’s all I’m saying. He’s sweet, he’s funny, he’s damn fine-looking. He’s obviously nuts about you. And I bet he’s good in bed. Am I right?”
I just looked at her.
“Fine. Be discreet. He was great. I can tell just by the way you walked in here tonight.”
“What?”
“You had a definite hitch in your getalong, as my grandma Loudermilk would put it,” she said.
“You are unbelievably crass,” I said.
“And I’m right. Admit it.”
I smiled despite myself. “You were right about the soup theory. And that’s all I’m saying.”
“Okay. Daniel Stipanek is fine in every way. Why are you running away from him?”
“I’m not,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want to. It just happens. Something about him scares me, BeBe.”
“Like what?”
“For one thing, he has a real hang-up about his family.”
“Like how?”
“He won’t talk about them. He knows all about my whacked-out family, but he won’t say anything about his own background. All I know about him is that his father died when he was a little kid, and he has two brothers and they basically raised themselves because his mother was working at the sugar factory.”
“That’s a lot,” BeBe said.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “He’s angry about something. His mother, I think.”
“Honey, we are all angry about our mothers.”
“We know why I’m pissed at my mother, and why you’re pissed at yours,” I said, then stopped myself. “By the way, why are you pissed at your mother?”
“How would you like to be named BeBe?”
“Oh yeah. But what’s Daniel got to be so pissed about? Here’s another thing, BeBe. I knew him in high school. And I never heard him mention a word about his family. It was like he was raised by wolves or something. What do you know about him?”
“I know he’s the best chef in Savannah,” BeBe said. “That’s all I need to know.”
“But what about his background? I mean, God forbid I should sound like Mama, but BeBe, who are his people?”