The Hurricane Sisters Read online

  But me? I was on Sullivans Island, drinking really lousy wine with my roommate, mooning over a man I didn’t know, who didn’t even know I had a pulse, and wondering how to become a world-famous artist. Persevere, I told myself again and again, and my life would come together. I was sure of it. All I had to do was to keep trying. The more I painted, the better I got. Even I could see that in my work.

  I thought again about what Mary Beth said about renting the house out and all that. It sure would be great to make fifteen hundred dollars in two hours. Could we get away with it? How could we plan it without them finding out? Charleston was a really small town. I hated secrets. I didn’t want to lie to my parents. I only wanted to prove them wrong. Maybe I’d run it by Ivy.

  I texted him at eight o’clock the next morning. He was probably still sleeping. It was five to him, body time, so no way he was up. Then again, knowing Ivy, he was probably still up from last night!

  Wanna meet me at Starbucks on Calhoun Street? I hit the send button.

  That particular Starbucks was probably the most convenient for him. A few minutes passed and my smartphone pinged the notice of his reply.

  Sure! How’s nine?

  Perfect!

  I hopped in my car and zoomed over the bridges to downtown, all the while thinking of how much I loved my brother. He was so smart and so sweet. And he loved me. He really, really loved me and accepted me. I wished that he didn’t live so far away.

  I parked on the street across from the college and for a moment I indulged in a twinge of nostalgia. A herd of freshmen were crossing the street, guys in their flip-flops and shorts wearing old T-shirts and girls with flat-ironed long straight hair, and I thought, Man, they look so young. I remembered being a freshman and couldn’t remember ever looking like them. They were absolute babies.

  There was a line at Starbucks so I got in it and waited, letting other people go ahead of me until Ivy showed up.

  “Hey you!” I said and gave him a hug.

  “Hey, Ashley River,” he said.

  I giggled and said, “Aren’t you happy that our mother didn’t name you Cooper?”

  The Ashley and Cooper Rivers surrounded the peninsula of Charleston.

  “Please! I have enough scars as it is! So what are you having?”

  “A venti skinny latte, no sugar.”

  “I think I want a skinny cappuccino. Grab a table. This is mine.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I parked myself at an empty table, folding up a newspaper left behind by another person. I wiped the table clean of crumbs just as Ivy sat down to join me.

  “So what’s going on? Sorry about last night. I ran into a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in years . . .”

  “I figured as much. No biggie. About Friday night?”

  “Isn’t James fabulous?”

  “Yes. Totally. He probably thinks we’re completely messed up.”

  “No, he doesn’t. All families are permanently messed up. You should hear his stories. His grandmother runs the whole family from Beijing. They call her Dragon Lily. She makes the Impossibles look normal. No lie. But you want to know what he said about you?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “He said Mom is jealous of your relationship with Maisie. Especially when Maisie started talking about you looking like Juliet . . .”

  “Oh, come on . . .”

  “Listen to me, Ashley. James is an excellent judge of character. It isn’t that she’s jealous of you and Maisie, so much. Well, actually she sees Maisie loving you to death and it’s sort of a knife in her heart. On top of that she hates getting older. She looks at you and remembers her modeling days and then she sees your youthful skin and all you’ve got going on and it reminds her those days are long gone for her and never coming back.”

  “Really? And just what should I do about that?”

  “I don’t think there’s much you can do except be really sweet to her. It can’t be easy for her to hear about Juliet her whole life and how Juliet was so amazing and got robbed of her life. It wasn’t Mom’s fault that her sister died.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, she’s been working to support women’s rights for years. Don’t you think she does that to impress Maisie?”

  “Yeah, but no matter what she does, she can’t live up to her sister’s memory. Think about it. Liz and Clayton take us out to one of the best restaurants in Charleston and pick up the check—it had to be a thousand bucks—but what does Maisie do? Did you hear a thank-you? No. And you know I adore her. But then she exhumes her dead daughter and starts with the whole Saint Juliet business again. I was too freaked out to feel bad for Mom but when James and I talked about it later, it was pretty obvious. What was happening, I mean. Mom can’t win.”

  “Gee God, I never thought about it like that. And every time we all get together it’s pretty toxic. I just go into self-preservation mode. So what can I do? I can’t avoid them.”

  “No, but you should start letting Mom know you’re in her corner too. Know what I mean? And that doesn’t have to mean you don’t love Maisie.”

  “Well, if I can figure out how to do that without bloodshed, I’ll be the next Gandhi.” I stared at my brother, thinking, and said, “Do you know how much happier I’d be if you and James lived here?”

  “I miss you, Ash. I remember being your age. The future is shrouded in the mists of the unknown. I used to have stomachaches all the time. What you have to do is start selling some of your paintings or else figure out another way to make money. Enough to support yourself, you know?”

  “Well, actually, I did have an idea.”

  I told him about the scheme Mary Beth and I had cooked up and he sat back in his chair looking, well, aghast.

  “You crazy little imp! Are you going to do it?”

  “I would but the house looks like total hell. There’s paint peeling everywhere.”

  “I recall,” Ivy said. “Too proud to whitewash, too poor to paint. We’re finally a Tennessee Williams play. It was bound to happen.”

  “Mary Beth and I talked about it and we think the only part of the house that really absolutely has to get a face-lift is the front porch over the water, the hallways, and the powder room. Maybe the living room. Nobody would even see any other rooms, right?”

  “Okay, listen to me. If Liz and Clay hear about this, they’ll disown you. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, but we can stash fifteen hundred dollars a night every night we do this. All we need is a few successful events and I can give the Sube a tune-up and go to Paris.”

  “And what would you do in Paris?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d wander the halls of the Louvre and all the other museums filling sketchbooks with da Vinci and Renoir and Rubens! Not to mention Corot and Monet and Manet! And Rousseau and on and on . . . it’s a long list.”

  “You’re pretty frustrated, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. I need a muse to talk to me and I think he/she/it is waiting for me in France. Maybe Italy. Maybe even New York.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “What?”

  “I’m about to become your partner in crime.”

  “Why? How?”

  “By giving you house paint money because it’s an ingenious idea. You don’t have to do it forever. I mean, you choose some goal number and quit when you get there. Besides, the house isn’t in a business zone. Eventually you’d get busted.”

  “It could be a private club, couldn’t it? I mean, when we have a party at the gallery, people write checks to whatever the cause is.”

  “True, true. Why not? But don’t ask the town fathers. They’ll stop you before you can start. Just do it. I’ll put some money in your bank on Monday. Text me your account number.”

  “Oh, Ivy. Thanks.”

  “Just be careful, okay? And watch the w
eather. It’s hurricane season.”

  “Oh, please. It’s hurricane season every year.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Clayton—My Side

  Sorry to interrupt but you need to know my story too. Here it is in a nutshell.

  This is what you do when you have too much money—you blow it on stupid stuff or you hoard it. And I’m as guilty as the next guy. I had too many suits, too many shoes, too many custom shirts, watches, and ties—so much that I kept a double wardrobe, one in New York and another in Charleston. And my bank accounts were bulging. I would never admit my extreme self-indulgence to Liz or anyone else. But it was true. And I earned it, didn’t I? I didn’t steal it and I didn’t inherit it. It was mine. I’ve always held a strong conviction that everyone should earn their own money. It was good for self-esteem and it strengthened character to say you built your corner of the world with your own two hands.

  I’d been a Wall Street banker via Charleston my whole career, on my own terms, with a firm that made the conversion from gentlemen to animals with such ease and speed—think of Ivan Boesky back in the 1980s—it was terrifying. After the whole insider trading thing started sending some of my colleagues to state and federal facilities for character rehab, we all developed new habits for survival. We put little to nothing in writing, never spoke in an elevator or at a restaurant or while traveling commercial about any kind of hearsay, and of course we came by what we earned honestly. If you repeated this, I’d have to kill you, but the truth is that many a night passed that I thanked God my office wasn’t wired.

  When you’re a young buck, you go into investment banking because you get off on the thrill of the deal. The money doesn’t hurt either. After you’ve done a couple of hundred deals, the thrill is gone and you start looking for other, bigger thrills. Pretty textbook stuff—Psychology 101. My current thrill was Sophia Bacco. I never meant to have an affair with anyone. I’m not that kind of a man. An accidental screw is one thing but to really fall for someone? I guess it just happens sometimes. That’s all.

  I began commuting back and forth to New York almost thirty years ago when I decided I wasn’t leaving Charleston. I wanted to spend my weekends smelling pluff mud and salt. I never wanted to live in Manhattan. It’s too crazy for a Charleston boy. So I flew north on Sunday nights and south on Fridays except during August. For years I stayed at the New York Athletic Club during the week, which was not terribly expensive back then. After I did a few IPOs that made us all an obscene amount of money, the firm gave me a private plane to use. They knew I was ready to pack it in, but they didn’t want me to retire. So they made it as easy as possible to stay. I bought a little one-bedroom in the East Fifties and just recently, I rediscovered Sophia. She was an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, a model and a friend of Liz’s back in the day. How’s that for karma? Sophia once was a Victoria’s Secret model. And to be fair to Liz, Liz was a swimwear model and even had the Sports Illustrated cover one year. But all that history aside, it started when Sophia recognized me in the lobby one day.

  I’d never forget the first time we spoke.

  “Clayton? Clayton Waters? Is that you?”

  I had just hopped out of a black car and hurried into the foyer and was shaking out my umbrella. The skies were dumping snow outside and it was dark, windy, and bitter cold. It was March and everyone knows March weather in New York can be really miserable. Anyway, I looked over and there she was, wearing a red fox coat to her ankles and a big fox hat to match. She opened her coat, put her hands on her nonexistent hips, and stared at me, waiting with a smirk. She looked like a movie star and I think I stopped breathing.

  “Oh, my . . . Sophia? What are you doing here?”

  “I just moved into the penthouse. How about you?”

  “I’ve got a pied-à-terre here on the second floor. A one-bedroom. 2F. Wow. What a wonderful coincidence!”

  “Yes. It is. How’s Liz? And the kids?”

  “Oh, they’re all fine. What are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, let’s see . . . after I stopped modeling full-time, I became the face of a line of cosmetics for Kohl’s and I have a line of bed and bath linen for them too. And I do some costume jewelry for a department store chain in Argentina. It keeps me busy, hopping all over the place to cut new store ribbons and attend special events.”

  “I imagine it does. Are you on your way out?”

  “Yeah, meeting a friend for an early supper.”

  “In this weather?”

  “I know, but you know me. Never let a little thing like a blizzard get in between me and some fun.” She laughed and leaned forward to kiss my cheek. Spontaneous laughter and cheek kissing came easily to girls like Sophia. In fact, most things in life were hers just for the asking. And why not? She smelled like something I wanted to drink. Jesus! When I felt her breath on my face, I broke a full-body cold sweat. It was ridiculous.

  “Well, then . . . take care,” I said and watched the movement of her fur as she passed me until she reached the door. Meow. “We should . . .”

  “Yeah! Let’s get together and catch up! 2F, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, committing adultery with every part of my heart and soul.

  In my mind, we were naked, going crazy like I don’t know what—rutting animals—with Barry White music thumping bass in the background. I was a teenaged boy again. For this reason, I didn’t run upstairs, call Liz, and tell her that her old friend lived in our building. In fact, I never told Liz that Sophia was living in our building and still drop-dead gorgeous. And even though Liz was still a beautiful woman, she had lost her joie de vivre and it showed. Poor Liz.

  So around nine thirty that same night, my doorbell rang. I knew it had to be Sophia. I wished then that I had shaved and showered. I got caught up in a Knicks game on cable and probably looked like hell. When I opened the door, stubbly and shoeless, there she stood with that infamous mane of thick blond hair tumbling over one shoulder. Literally, I felt weak.

  She said, “I know it’s a little late but I thought you might share a nightcap with me at my place. It stopped snowing and the view is incredible.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . ,” I said, fooling neither of us.

  “Oh, come on. I’ve got a fire going and it’s so beautiful outside . . .”

  “Well, if you’ve got a fire and all . . . I mean, it would be a shame to waste it, right?”

  I thought, Oh boy, this is dangerous.

  “Get your shoes,” she said, waiting in the doorway.

  “Okay. Here, come inside!”

  “Thanks!”

  She walked in like she owned the place. I stepped back to let her pass and hurried to find my loafers.

  “So I’m looking forward to meeting your husband . . .”

  “Never married,” she said. “Marriage just wasn’t in the cards.”

  “Wow,” I said and added, “well, marriage isn’t for everyone. It’s probably overrated.”

  I could feel her moving around behind me, knowing she was looking at everything. I pulled my shoes out from under the sofa and sat to put them on and I wondered how I could be thinking the lewd and lascivious things I was thinking when I knew she used to be my wife’s great friend.

  I looked up. She had a picture of Liz in her hands, staring at it hard with narrow eyebrows.

  “That’s Liz in Greece,” I said.

  “I never liked her much, to be perfectly honest,” she said.

  Problem solved.

  “Let’s go,” I said, scooping up my keys.

  So you know how that went. We got to the top floor and she poured a liberal amount of twenty-year-old single malt into heavy crystal tumblers. We sipped. The view was indeed breathtaking.

  I remembered saying, “You can’t beat the Chrysler Building at night.”

  She agreed. After that the details get a little fuzzy. I’
m pretty sure she started it. I think she was a little looped. It doesn’t matter really because neither of us tried to stop the other and now it’s been going on for four months.

  I needed to remind myself to tell her that Ivy and James had the keys, which by the way puts a cramp in my style. What should I have done? Tell them no, they couldn’t use the apartment? Well, I didn’t and it didn’t work out so well.

  I went back to New York a few days later, following James and Ivy’s departure for San Francisco. At eight that night, Sophia knocked on my door.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” I said. “Come on in.”

  “You’re not going to like this,” she said, coming in, kissing my cheek, and dropping her keys on the hall table.

  “What are you saying? I love everything about you! Glass of wine?”

  “Bottle with a straw,” she said.

  “Oh dear God,” I said.

  From the look on her face, I knew something was deeply wrong. I pulled a ’96 Latour Beaucastle from the wine rack. Serious discussion called for a serious wine. The cork was a long one that required my two-step corkscrew and some effort but a minute into it, there was a happy pop as the cork was liberated from the bottle’s neck.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  “I missed you, too,” I said.

  I poured a good amount of the wine into two goblets through my diffuser and handed one to her.

  “Sometimes, even when I know you’re not here, I’ll just come down and ring your doorbell anyway.”

  “Really?” I thought, Wow, that’s pretty sweet.

  “Yeah. Really. Last week I heard music coming from your apartment so I thought you were here.”

  “No, that would’ve been my son and his, um, friend.”

  “I know.”

  She was leaning against the doorway. Her arms were crossed, and she had this sour expression, like she was pissed.

  “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  “Well, when the elevator door opened on your floor and I heard the music, I just assumed you were here.”

  “Well, sure. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Right. But I hurried upstairs to my place, ditched my clothes, slipped on a trench coat, and hurried back here. When they opened the door . . .”