The Girls of August Page 9

  But he would not have fit in here, nor would any of the other spouses. Ours was a female circle and the men would have been broken links. We all knew that. Besides, it wasn’t as if we didn’t go on “real family” vacations. Mac and I went on at least one a year—a single trip that was huge and fabulous, and then weekend getaways as time allowed, to favored spots such as Asheville to go skiing or even Manhattan to catch a new musical. We’d been to Paris, London, Rome, Morocco. We’d sipped champagne at a café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. We’d cruised down the Thames in a Mississippi-style stern-wheeler. We’d kissed like passionate teenagers in St. Peter’s Square as a flock of nuns from some Eastern European country looked on and giggled. I have ridden a camel, by God, in the Sahara freaking Desert. But over all the years and all the places, neither Mac nor I has ever said, “Hey, let’s go spend some time by the sea. St. John. Acapulco. Hawaii.” For the two of us, the sea never made it onto our radar screen. It was as though beach-side vacations were the sole realm of the girls of August and so Mac and I instinctively avoided them.

  As I pulled the sheet up to my chin, I thought that perhaps I would try to change that. I conjured an image of the two of us, hand in hand, strolling along a beach that looked pretty much like Tiger Island’s shore. In my imagination he kissed my lips.

  “I miss you, sweetie,” I whispered.

  Lying there in the dark alone, I listened for an answer. And though one never came, my ears caught scraps of what was happening elsewhere in the house. I heard Barbara tossing and turning. It sounded as though she were having a wrestling match with the sheets. And then, muffled, came the sound of someone weeping. Rachel weeping. Tough-as-nails Rachel, a woman I’d rarely even seen tear up, was bawling. Oh, dear God, why? I wondered if I should go to her, but quickly thought better of it. She had her pride. My barging in would be an act of thievery.

  So I lay there, listening and fretting, and then I realized that the only person who seemed absent was Baby. From her room, nothing. It was so quiet, I wondered if she was roaming the night, near naked, a moonchild, lost in her own strange innocence.

  Chapter

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  4

  I rose early the next morning and all was still. I made coffee and put extra cream in my mug, hoping to ease my stomach, which was threatening to revolt. I decided to let everyone sleep in as long as she wanted. After all, this was, technically, a vacation and not a how-to-have-fun boot camp.

  Cup in hand, I headed outside. The sand pathway that led from the stairs to the ocean cut the sodded, extravagantly planted yard into perfect, equal halves. I thought it looked like a white stripe down an alligator’s back. A zebra butterfly flitted among the roses and a hummingbird hovered over the deep throat of some sort of yellow blossom on a climbing vine. Bees buzzed all about. This was paradise. A great blue heron fished the shallows and beyond the breakers, a pod of dolphin made their way south. They were probably following a trough rich with mullet and baitfish, I thought; and indeed, just then a mullet jumped, jumped, jumped three times, and my mouth suddenly watered at the idea of a fish fry.

  But the girls of August, I thought, sipping my coffee and heading to the water’s edge, have never fished together. Who, after all, would bait our hooks?

  “Yum,” I said aloud, a platter of golden fried fish blooming in my mind’s eye. “I will. I’m not afraid.”

  Surely Baby and Teddy had fishing gear around here. Maybe even some frozen bait. What was that unidentified brick I had spied in the freezer when I was getting ice cubes last night?

  A line of pelicans glided inches above the water’s surface and a battalion of seagulls in their gray-and-white frock coats ventured near, probably in the hope that I had food and was in the mood to share. The sand was stippled with footprints that headed out of the yard and followed the dune line north. They were petite little prints. Baby’s prints, if I had to guess. And I did not see a return set. “Interesting,” I murmured, coffee mug aloft.

  Maybe she had ventured into the night and encountered a wild pig. Or that Earl fellow. They were awfully friendly with each other. But would she cheat on Teddy? This soon? I turned away from the footprints and gazed out at the Atlantic, but it didn’t give up any secrets. Mac was probably already at work, seeing his first patient, telling him or her to say, “Aaaaaah.” He loved being a family practitioner. He didn’t make as much money as the other guys—Oliver the oncologist; Hugh the heart surgeon; Teddy the pediatric surgeon—but we did all right. And we were steady. Good together. The surf bubbled over my feet and for a moment I felt as though it were sweeping me back to Charleston and Mac, something I both wanted and didn’t. I sipped the last of my coffee and headed up to the house to see what the girls were doing and perhaps get a head start on my fishing idea. At the dune line, I paused and placed my foot—a size eight on a good day—next to what I estimated to be a diminutive size-six footprint, a faint worry rising inside me. I hoped nothing bad had happened to crazy Baby.

  * * *

  Barbara sat at the kitchen table, her face buried in an ice pack.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, pouring another cup of coffee.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Hangover,” she murmured into the washcloth that encased the ice cubes. Then she moaned.

  “Coffee?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what’s good for that, don’tcha?”

  She pulled the ice pack away and looked at me, her platinum streaks falling across her face. “Hair O’Dog.”

  “That,” I said, sliding a steaming mug her way, “and a day spent surf-fishing!”

  “Oh, fuck you,” she said. “Do I look like I even know which end of a fish to eat?”

  “Fishing doesn’t require such knowledge.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  I shook my head no. She slumped, resting her head in her hands. Then she sat back up, reached for her coffee, and, as if I weren’t there, stared out the window, her face trembling before it went still. Sad and still. And I realized that yesterday’s merry demeanor had been a facade and that the tossing and turning and inability to sleep were fueled by something more than having imbibed with a tad too much enthusiasm. I sipped my coffee but kept my eyes on her.

  * * *

  After Barbara excused herself to take a shower, I went in search of fishing paraphernalia. I decided the garage behind the house would be my best bet. “Garage,” however, was an inadequate name for the building because it was, indeed, a diminutive and detailed copy of the big house. It even sported a small widow’s walk topped with a shrunken replica of the lightning rod. The hand-painted sign above the door indicated that this was “Tiger’s Third Eye.” There are fishing rods in there, I thought, gazing at the sign. I just know it.

  Hoping that no one had done something silly and equipped the place with a security alarm, I pushed open the door and entered. A ghost crab skittered out. The scent of salt and musty air rolled over me, feeding my near-constant companion, nausea. I stepped inside and paused, allowing my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness.

  The room slowly bloomed into focus, and I was mightily impressed at what I saw. Behold: a masterwork of organization. I did not believe Baby had had a hand in the precision before me because such perfection required rigid discipline with a dose of obsessive-compulsive disorder thrown in. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Teddy was capable of this sort of clockwork tidiness.

  Built-in shelves and organizing nooks complete with labels so that nothing would be misplaced were neatly filled with everything it took to run a house such as Tiger’s Eye and enjoy what the island had to offer. Cleaning supplies, extra everything (including plastic bags, trash bags, toilet paper, cupcake liners, and bug spray), outdoor eating paraphernalia, surfboards and bodyboards, fishing rods, hooks, pliers, buckets, two refrigerators stocked with beer, and one freezer filled with a fisherman’s delight: bait shrimp, finger mullet, and ice. Teddy didn’t know squat about marrying the right girl, but he had a knack, e
ven a passion, for fishing. I suspected he loved Tiger’s Eye with a vigor that rivaled any lust he held for Baby.

  I gathered everything we would need and put most of it in a rolling cart, including one cooler for fish, one for drinks and nibbles, and a small one for bait. As I leaned the rods against the side of the house, Baby strolled up wrapped in nothing but a sarong, her bikini, and the skin God gave her.

  “Well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

  She ignored me so I tried again. “Hey, Baby, where have you been? Were you out all night?” Her hair was full of knots and from the circles under her eyes, it looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink. She gained the steps and waved me off. “Hey, Baby, I’m talking to you.”

  “What do you want?” She stood on the porch and stared at the ceiling fan.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Well, she had certainly gotten up on the wrong side of somebody’s bed. “I don’t think wandering around alone at night is the best idea.”

  “For your information, Maddy, I wasn’t wandering. What are you doing, anyway?”

  “We’re fixing to go fishing.” And even though I didn’t want to bother with her sassy self, I also didn’t think it was right to leave her out. “You game?”

  “Sure. Why not.” She flung open the front door, bumped into Rachel, who was on her way out, and slammed it shut.

  “What the hell was that about?” Rachel asked, looking behind her and then eyeing the rods.

  “I have no idea. Nor do I care.”

  Rachel was clear-eyed, showing no sign of last night’s tear-storm. She was showered and fresh, with a different bathing suit on from yesterday’s green number. This one was black and sexy with a jewel glinting between her boobs. She nodded at the rods. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m setting us up right out there, in front of the house, close to booze and bathrooms. Easy-weezie.”

  “All right,” she said, biting her lower lip, “but I promise you, if I catch a shark, somebody is going to have hell to pay.”

  “You might catch a baby shark,” I said, hoisting rods in one hand and a bucket in the other, “but a big guy would break the rod or snap the line before you could bring it in.”

  “Sort of like cut bait and run,” Rachel murmured, staring at the ocean.

  “What?”

  “The shark,” she said, bitterness under her words, “it’s always in charge.” Then she bent down and grabbed the tackle box I’d set beside the cart stacked with coolers. “Fuck it. Let’s do this thing.”

  She marched on ahead of me, her footsteps falling hard against the sand, and I got a sinking feeling that Rachel Greene was trying to stomp the life out of something.

  * * *

  Baby, as it turned out, was a good fisherman. She was confident and fearless, and it dawned on me that in addition to her youth and beauty, Teddy had probably been attracted to her skills with a rod and reel.

  Barbara, on the other hand, was a mess. She landed the first fish of the morning—a red drum—but she screamed like an apoplectic schoolgirl until we unhooked it and sent it on its way.

  Rachel snagged a nice-size snapper, but was uncharacteristically winded by the exertion of bringing it in, and said, as I slipped the pretty fish onto ice, “That’s all for me.”

  I caught a couple more snapper. Mainly, though, I lost my bait to I don’t know what…probably crabs and catfish.

  But Baby reeled them in as if she were in a tournament. She even, for some reason, kept her sarong on and had planted an Atlanta Braves baseball cap on her pretty little head.

  “How in the hell did you learn to fish like that?” Rachel asked from her prone position in the lounge chair she had pulled down from the house.

  “All my summers were spent here,” Baby answered, unhooking a catfish, successfully avoiding its barbs, then tossing it back into the sea with the admonition “And don’t come back!” She re-baited her hook, threading it twice through a cold, dead shrimp. “You can’t claim to be a Gaillard if you don’t know your way around a pole.”

  “I’m not touching that one,” Rachel growled.

  Barbara, who was slowly nursing a wine cooler, having given up on any hope of catching a fish, said to Baby, “You really are from here. Flat-out crazy.”

  Baby shot Barbara an if-looks-could-kill glance and then said, “Here.” She held out her rod. “Use mine.”

  This attitude made no sense. Where had our silly Baby gone? “If she doesn’t want to fish she doesn’t have to,” I said.

  “Stay out of it, Maddy,” she snapped, keeping her gaze on Barbara. “Come on. Up. I’ll teach you how.”

  Barbara lowered her sunglasses and looked first at me, then at Rachel. We both shrugged our shoulders.

  “You’re on your own this time, Barbara,” Rachel said in her deep, smoky voice. “I’m going for a swim.” She stood, headed down the beach until, I suppose, she felt she was out of the reach of any wildly flung lines, and waded into the surf.

  “Let me see your fishing stance,” Baby ordered.

  Barbara stared at the rod as if it were a staff covered in snakes. “What do you mean?”

  “Pretend. You’ve already cast and the line is in the water. How do you hold this thing?”

  Barbara cleared her throat. It was evident that Baby wasn’t going to let up. Barbara gripped the rod tighter and then held the rod in front of her with the end pointing downward.

  “No. Lift it up. It’s a fishing rod. And you need to keep your finger here.” Baby adjusted Barbara’s grip. “Real light on the line. That way you’ll feel what’s happening out there. Under the water.”

  Barbara tightened her mouth and I surmised she was weighing two options: let Baby teach her, or tell Baby to shove it. She settled on the former. “OK. But you cast it for me.”

  “No,” Baby said, emphasizing the vowel. “I’m teaching you!” She shook her head as if disgusted.

  “Fine,” Barbara spit. She marched into the water, ankle-deep, and cast her rod perfectly. Except no line was released. “What the hell happened?”

  I started laughing as I baited my hook.

  “You have to release the bale. Look. Watch me.” Baby grabbed the rod, executed a flawless cast, and handed it back to her. “Here.”

  Baby walked over to the cooler, fished out a Bud Light, flopped down in the lounge chair, expertly shimmied her sarong down to her hips, and said, her barely sheathed boobs aimed at the sun, “Let me know if you need me.”

  * * *

  Our first indication that Barbara had had a strike was her shrieking, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  Baby, who had dozed off with the Bud bottle between her legs, opened her eyes in a flash and said, “What?”

  “I’ve got something! I’ve got something big!”

  “Probably a stingray,” Rachel called from down the beach.

  I looked at the rod. It was bending pretty good. Not a stingray.

  “What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” she shouted.

  “Let loose on the tension,” Baby said, running to aid Barbara, the sarong falling down around her ankles. She ran out of it, and nothing on that fine body of hers jiggled. It was enough to make a middle-aged woman cry.

  Baby fiddled with the tension and then shouted instructions: “Let it run. Exhaust it. This is a slow game and you’re gonna win!” A Little League–coach gleam brightened her eyes.

  And Barbara? She actually looked jazzed. I mean, really jazzed. Not fake merry, but loose and happy, as if this exercise in the visceral and primal act of taking the life of one of nature’s creatures had unleashed in her a warrior goddess. She cut first left, then right in tandem with the movements of the underwater question mark. That old Hemingway line came to mind: Grace under pressure.

  “It fits you,” I yelled over the surf roar.

  “What does?”

  “The battle.”

  “You have no idea!” And sh
e started reeling in her catch.

  * * *

  As it turned out, Barbara landed a redfish. A big one. Baby claimed it was just under the legal limit. But I suspected it might have been a centimeter or so over. Barbara was beaming. We took a picture of her holding it at just about breast level, her hair swept up in a cascading ponytail and her sunglasses sliding down her long, thin nose. I could tell the poor dead creature made her a tad squeamish, but her pride at having landed it gave her the courage to boast.

  “My kids aren’t going to believe this!” she said.

  “Hugh isn’t going to believe it,” I said.

  “He’ll say it was all staged,” Rachel chimed in.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “We’re going to put it in the fish cooler with the snapper and then we’re going to have one hell of a fish fry!” I was pleased as punch that my early-morning vision was about to be realized.

  Everyone pitched in. I had to hand it to Baby. She not only knew how to fish, she knew how to scale and fillet them too. Rachel made a to-die-for cucumber salad with dry dill and cream. Barbara, who’d gotten a second wind thanks to the hair of the dog and her triumph over the redfish, made a pitcher of mojitos, muddling mint she’d brought with her from her home garden. I went all out, fixing hush puppies, corn salad, and black bean caviar. I hummed a tune whose name I didn’t know as I dredged the fish in cornmeal spiked with a touch of cayenne.

  We ate outside and laughed and told secrets and lies. Barbara said that Hugh had a third nipple, a little number down near the bottom of his rib cage.

  “Do you suck on it?” Rachel asked.