We Interrupt This Date Read online

  “You, too, Jack.”

  I watched him walk away and then I sat in my car staring at the night sky through my streaky windshield that made the stars blur into pale blotches. A deep longing for something in the past had pushed its way into my soul. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I knew whatever it was had made me ache inside.

  Chapter Six

  Somehow I had mentally assigned Brenda, Odell’s niece, her uncle’s intellectual capacity. Though there was a definite family resemblance in her stocky build and she had her Uncle Odell’s droopy eyes and wide nose, she proved to be pretty sharp. If she hadn’t been as obnoxious as her uncle was, I might have liked her.

  When I complimented her on how quickly she caught on to the bookkeeping system, Miss Brenda straightened her back and announced, “I took secretarial training at the community college in Spartanburg. Of course, I’ll be making a lot of changes after you leave.” She swiveled her head from side to side. Something about the way she stuck out her lips gave me the idea she wasn’t happy with the way I’d arranged the desk and chairs. For a second I went defensive, but then I reminded myself that soon this would be Brenda’s domain.

  Despite her trainability, I gave in to moping through a good part of the day, listening to my mind screaming at me that I was soon to be sans paycheck. The troubling thoughts were momentarily silenced when Jack called and invited me to lunch on Friday. We still had, he reminded me, a great deal of catching up to do.

  Patty scooted into my office as soon as I put the phone down. Excitement had her eyebrows practically dancing a tango.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I heard the last part of your conversation. Was that a man inviting you to lunch?”

  Not eavesdropping? She’d been lurking outside my door like a spy too lazy to find a real hiding spot. I glanced pointedly at Brenda who’d just come back from Odell’s office. Patty didn’t take the hint. I guess she figured that since I was leaving it didn’t matter if Brenda told Odell about me taking a personal call.

  “It’s not a date. Jack’s an old friend who moved back to town recently, so it’s only polite for me to catch him up on how the area has changed over the years.” Right. Lunching with Jack was all about manners.

  Patty held her arms straight up toward the ceiling. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she aimed the slits about a foot over my head to stare at the wall behind me. Then she started swaying her hips like a belly dancer warming up for a performance. “Right. Right. Susan, it’s good news. The Universe told me Jack is your destiny, and I am just soooo happy for you.”

  “It spoke to you without benefit of the tarot? Despite the newsflash from the beyond, Patty, you can rest easy. Due to a complete lack of chemistry between us, which he was quick to remind me of last night over coffee, Jack and I are nothing more than friends. Besides he has a girlfriend.”

  “The Universe doesn’t lie,” Patty said in tones of deepest respect. The bell at the front of the store rang, and she scurried back to her register to wait on a customer.

  I had a feeling she wanted to light a candle, but Odell doesn’t allow lit candles in the shop. I glanced at Brenda. Her mouth hung open, and she was fingering a little gold cross hanging around her neck.

  “Don’t mind Patty,” I said. “She’s harmless and her predictions are about as accurate as what you read in the tabloids.”

  “I don’t read the tabloids.” Brenda sniffed. “But I’m well able to deal with difficult co-workers.”

  “I’m sure.” The secretarial school I’d already grown sick of hearing about must have had a required class on the subject.

  I’d planned to stay late to work with Brenda, but she had errands to run and I had no doubts she was planning to lay in a supply of new office decorations. I was able to leave promptly at five, my usual quitting time. I made a side trip to Publix and pulled into my driveway exactly forty-five minutes later. I was not surprised to see Mama’s aircraft-carrier-sized green Cadillac taking up most of my driveway. She’d invited herself to supper, no doubt prompted by the fact that I’d finally worked up the nerve to phone her last night with the announcement about the new job. She’d reacted predictably, which meant I’d had to drink about a gallon of herbal tea.

  I shouldn’t say I’d worked up nerve. I didn’t need Mama’s permission to rearrange my life. What I needed, rather, was enough time and energy to listen to her wear herself out trying to get me to stay in my safe little world, a world much like hers. It was a world I’d been resigned to inhabiting until yesterday when I’d woken up and met the new me. Now I picked up my two grocery bags and marched to the front door, determination showing in every stride. Mama yanked the door open before I could do more than point my key at the lock.

  “I carried in your mail. It’s on your desk on top of all that clutter. Your electric bill would be lower if you’d reset your thermostat. And there is a huge packet from Veronica about the Blackthorn House. I’m quite sure that does not bode well, but it is not like me to interfere, so I won’t say a thing about it. You really should keep your refrigerator stocked. I was going to finish making dinner, but you don’t have a single tomato for the salad.”

  “I bought some.” I held up the bag on my right. A couple of reddish globes shone through the opaqueness.

  “And no bread.” She sighed with profound weariness and then shook her head vigorously, a move that didn’t have any effect on her lacquered hair. The Chihuahuas hovered in the background, growling softly at my incompetence.

  “Bag on my left.” I looked down and wriggled my eyebrows at the closest Chihuahua, a little tan number named Tiny that seems to think he’s a lot bigger than he really is. He curled his lip.

  “Don’t tease my babies.” Mama was already pulling the bags out of my hands. “I’ll have supper done in ten minutes.”

  I didn’t want her to have supper done. This was my house, my state of the art kitchen, and my life. But, judging from the delicious smells wafting toward me, it was too late to tell Mama to sit down and have a cup of tea while I did my own cooking.

  I took the only way out, nodding and stepping carefully around the Chihuahuas as I moved toward the hallway. I concentrated on my yoga breathing.

  “What’s wrong? Your lips are pulled together like purse strings and at your age there’s a serious chance of wrinkles if you hold that expression. I declare, you look like someone shoved a sour lemon down your throat.” Mama pulled me around to face her and peered into my face.

  A sour lemon? Was there any other kind?

  “I’m good, Mama. Give me a minute to change and I’ll help you in the kitchen.” If I made my voice any more cheery, she’d think I was trying to sell her a beach condo.

  She waved a hand at me and reversed direction. Mission accomplished. I’d gotten safely in the door and past Mama and her mini guard dogs without getting into an argument. I was saving myself for later when Mama went into high gear over my upcoming career change, a high gear made higher by the fact that she’d had all day to prepare her argument.

  Mama considered herself a gracious southern lady, a member of the club made up of women with accents that sounded as if the words were dipped in honey and stretched out into extra syllables. Like all of them, Mama was tough as old leather. She was a strong woman who’d survived widowhood—my father. And desertion—my sister’s father. She’d managed a career as an accountant’s secretary, raised two girls, and retired comfortably with her dignity intact.

  I’d win the argument, though. Of course, me winning meant that Mama would finally throw up her hands in defeat and blink her eyes at warp speed, leading me to believe she wanted to frown, but didn’t dare risk the wrinkles. Then she’d say in that low, melodious voice of hers, “You mark my words, Susan Nicole Caraway, you are making a large mistake, bless your heart. A very large mistake.”

  She’d gather the Chihuahuas and dump them into the straw basket--woven by a Gullah woman--that she called her purse. Then she’d stagger out to her Cadillac leaning sideway
s from the weight of the little dogs.

  I thought of this now as I changed from business casual into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt sporting the logo from some metal band Christian pretends to like. Mama never really gets angry, doesn’t raise her voice. Voice-raising isn’t ladylike. Even when she reminds me she said to mark her words—such as when the minivan I’d bought against her advice developed a problem with the radio—she is always ready to pitch in and help pick up the pieces. Mama is fond of saying, “There is no love greater than a mother’s love for her offspring.”

  I’ve given up trying to get her to say children instead of offspring. Offspring always makes me think of a science experiment involving genetics and multiple generations of albino lab rats that specialize in running mazes.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and padded barefoot down the hall into the kitchen. I discovered that Mama had already fixed salad and garlic bread to go with the vegetarian lasagna she’d baked earlier.

  The table was set and Mama had brought white carnations for a centerpiece. She’d arranged them in a bowl so they sat low between the salad and a pitcher of iced tea, all the better for her to see me from the opposite end of the table. A gracious lady always has flowers in the house, I’ve been told a million times, and plastic flowers don’t count.

  Somehow I’ve never managed to become a gracious lady. Mama has to keep reminding me I’ve fallen short and my sister hasn’t even made the effort, and Mama doesn’t know why she keeps trying with two daughters who are simply doing their best to torment her into an early grave.

  I waited until she locked the Chihuahuas on the back porch with a bowl of tiny kibble, a food recommended by Mama’s best friend, Lydia Freeman. Lydia is a Chihuahua breeder active with the local dog rescue organization. She has a Cadillac identical to Mama’s, except for a bumper sticker that reads, “If you don’t rescue, don’t breed.” Before I knew she raised dogs, I had no clue what the bumper sticker meant—I thought Lydia was simply anti-sex.

  Mama carried the food to the table. We ate, chatting about the new gift shop near Calhoun Street, and how Ruthie Ames’ daughter Cindy, who was as flaky as her Aunt Lou’s pie crust, had dropped out of the College of Charleston to “go find herself in Idaho.”

  “Can you imagine?” Mama said, dabbing her lips with her cloth napkin. “If she can’t figure out where she is right here in the city where she was born and raised, then there is no hope in Idaho where all the people are roughnecks. No hope at all.”

  I knew Mama was thinking of my younger sister DeLorean as much as she was thinking about Cindy Ames. DeLorean had gone to LA a couple of years ago--not to find herself, but to let LA find her. So far, all she’d managed to do was move in with a stuck up movie producer and have a baby. There seemed slim chance of her ever being discovered, if that’s what she really expected. I doubted if even DeLorean knew what she wanted out of life.

  But then, I was one to talk. Married for nineteen years, divorced for one and I was finally getting around to figuring out I didn’t want to be stuck in a loan office answering phones and soothing the feelings of entitlement-minded customers. I wasn’t sure that running ghost tours was what I wanted to do either, but I’d been forced into the situation and maybe that was what Patty’s Universe had had in store for me all along.

  “Mama?” I got up and started filling the dishwasher. “I hope you’re not still upset about my phone call last night.”

  “Your phone call?” She made phone into two-syllables. “You mean that nonsense about selling the house to live in a bed and breakfast and going off to hunt for ghosts like some common street person with pagan beliefs? I’ve raised you better, the good Lord knows I have, and by now you’ve surely to God realized you simply can’t do such a thing. I mean, people will think you’ve been mentally unhinged by the divorce, positively gone around the bend and that you need help before you ruin your life entirely. Though no one could blame you after T. Chandler dumped you for that gold digging home wrecker with the huge bosoms. I’m sure they were fake; pure silicon--or is it carbon they’re made of? What was her name?”

  “Crystal,” I said. “Crystal Rose.” I gritted my teeth and hunted under the sink for the dishwashing powder. A year later and Mama still brought up the incident like it had happened an hour ago and, of course, it was my own fault and she wasn’t going to let me forget.

  “Whatever. Sounds like a made up name to me, like she’s one of those low women who take off their clothes in bars and fit themselves into all kinds of suggestive positions around metal poles. But didn’t I say to mark my words? I said, I don’t know how many times, I said, ‘Susan, when a man claims a best friend who’s a woman, and that woman isn’t his wife, then there’s trouble brewing.’ As sure as peach blossoms turn into peaches you can expect trouble.”

  “Yeah, Mama, you did all but spell it out. I still walked around oblivious, cooking and cleaning and taking care of my home while T. Chandler worked himself into a lather over a pair of size 40D faux breasts and an enhanced butt. Dumb me. No surprise when I eventually found myself in divorce court.” I made my voice deep and ominous when I said “divorce court” as if I were talking about the deepest pit of hell.

  I should have been able to figure things out for myself without Mama’s warning—which I’d ignored. What forty-two-year-old man has a bubble-brained flirt for a best pal? To be fair, though, my sin was apathy more than cluelessness.

  “Don’t be flippant, dear. The point is, I believe, we were going to discuss this horrible plan of yours so I could advise you.”

  I sighed. I was positive I hadn’t asked for either a discussion or her advice. And equally positive that no force on earth could prevent her from butting in.

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve already told Veronica I’ll do it.” I would not tell her Odell had fired me and Veronica’s offer was the only one on the table.

  “I must say, I am shocked.” Mama pulled a lavender spray bottle out of her purse and spritzed the air around her for about a three-foot radius. She sniffed delicately and sat back in her chair. I knew she was counting on the lavender aromatherapy to help her get over her shock while she thought up ways to influence me. Naturally she wanted me to continue to sit around and grow bitter, yet remain a true southern lady who holds her chin up and keeps a prominent display of her best wedding photos--with the lying skunk cut out of them--on the mantle.

  “It’s a done deal and I am not changing my mind.”

  “I hope she hasn’t spent any money yet. Because it’s just a matter of a few days before you realize what a fatal mistake you’ll be making.” Mama shivered. I half expected her to reach for the lavender again, but a yelp from the direction of the porch caused her to swivel to face the door. “That Tiny, he thinks he’s a Great Dane. Always beating up poor Sweetpea.” Sighing, she started to rise.

  I waved her back down. “I’ll get them.” I marched out to the porch where a growling Tiny, his dark marble eyes bulging from his skull with the effort, stood over the cowering Sweetpea. He’d placed one nickel-sized paw on Sweetpea’s black and tan chest.

  “Stop that right now, you little beast,” I snarled. “If the Dog Whisperer didn’t live clear across the country, I’d haul you in for rehab.”

  When my warning did no good, I squatted and cupped my hands around Tiny’s body. He sank his needle teeth into my wrist, but they hardly made a dent. I carried him back into the kitchen and dumped him on Mama’s lap, leaving the other dog on the porch.

  “Mama, I’ve made up my mind about the new job. I mean, look at me. For the first time in I don’t know how long--at least a year--I actually feel enthusiastic about something.” Sort of true. “I’m looking forward to living at the Seaside View. It’s beautiful, it’s close to the harbor. I’ll be able to walk all over the historic district enjoying the sights and the fresh air of one of the most beautiful cities in the country. I won’t have this huge house to work me to death. It’s a new beginning.”

  “
Four bedrooms isn’t exactly huge.” Mama sniffed and looked around as if she could peer through walls and see the rest of the house, mentally measuring the dimensions. “And you don’t look anywhere near death.”

  “That isn’t the point,” I ground out. “I’m ready to do something for me. Maybe I’ll like conducting ghost tours and maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll know I tried. I can always look for something else if it doesn’t work out.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be without a home, and you know you love this place and you love working in your garden. And you’ll have no job. Lack of a paycheck is the first step toward winding up in the streets.”

  “I promise I’ll stay out of the streets. And I wouldn’t quit the ghost tours until I found something else.”

  “Yes, no doubt you’ll end up at the reins of one of those poor horses that pull those overloaded carts--carts simply full to bursting with sightseers.” She grabbed Tiny’s rhinestone encrusted collar and pulled him back into her lap before he could climb on the table.

  “The carts aren’t that full,” I said in clipped tones.

  “And you’d have to empty those horse diaper things. I can just imagine the condition of your poor fingernails. I can almost smell the manure.”

  So could I. I rolled my eyes. The phone rang and I started to say I’d let the machine answer, but Mama threw up her hands in her patented “I give up” gesture that really meant “I’ll keep hounding you until you admit I was right, because you are going to land on your face.”

  “You will crash and burn, Susan. Mark my words, you will wish you never lowered yourself to being a ghost walker.”

  “Ghost tour operator.”

  “Call it what you will. I won’t be able to hold my head up in church when my friends spot you parading around Charleston leading tourists looking for wisps of fog.” She sucked in air like she was taking her last breath, dropped Tiny into the purse, and went out on the porch to gather the other dog. I spared a moment of pity for Sweetpea who’d be forced to ride home in a confined space with the ferocious Tiny.