Porch Lights (4 page)

“He did. Remember? Years ago.”

“Oh, shush. I know that. I’m just saying it was a funeral for a movie star. Bagpipes with all that mournful music. Limousines. Television cameras. Streets closed. Unbelievable. All his friends were there in their formal dress uniforms, walking beside the truck. They even put the darn casket on the top of his fire truck. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, that’s all. Those firefighters have a real brotherhood.”

“That’s probably part of the appeal that makes them sign on in the first place.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Well, I’m sure I would’ve cried my eyes out even if I didn’t know the man who died.”

“Absolutely. And the honor guard at the wake? They had a fireman in full dress positioned on either side of the casket, standing as still as those Beefeater guards at the Tower of London. The whole thing was some spectacle.”

“Golly, I imagine it was. And how is Charlie doing?”

“Not so hot. He idolized his father.”

“Poor thing. I’m sure we’ve got a book at the library on children and how they grieve. Would you like me to bring it home for you?”

“No, but thanks, though. I think I just want to be with them a little while, and then I’ll figure out what to do.”

“Keeping them both busy is probably the best thing.”

“Probably. You’re probably right.”

We were quiet for perhaps maybe twenty-three seconds and then Deb leapt right into our other most favorite topic. The gorgeous single doctor next door. Steven Plofker. “I saw Mr. MD’s porch light on until after midnight last night. Then he went out in his car. He was alone.”

“So did I. I saw the whole thing, sitting on my porch in the dark, enjoying the ocean rolling in and out. I could almost smell his cologne wafting through the oleanders. Mother McCree. I went to bed and couldn’t sleep for hours, tossing and turning.”

“Ooo, honey! You’ve got a thing for him, Annie. You got it bad, girl!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to have been his babysitter. Besides, I’m a married woman.” It was a game; didn’t Deb know that?

“Only on a technicality. How many years have I known you?”

I could feel blood rising in my face. I had two hormones left. Benedict and Arnold. “Hush. I’m just curious, that’s all. Just like you. What do you think he was up to? A midnight house call? Hmmm? A little late-night delight?”

“Who knows? He’s a man, isn’t he?”

I sucked my teeth. I loved Deb, but I didn’t love that she was implying that Steve Plofker was just like any other man, on the late-night prowl for a skirt. Wait! I had implied the same thing. But somehow it sounded very different coming from me. I mounted my high horse.

“Deborah Ann Jenkins. He’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake! Maybe there was an emergency.”

“He’s a dermatologist, Annie Britt. You think there was a midnight outbreak of contagious acne? Do you think we’ve got a poison ivy pandemic on our hands?” Deb giggled and I shook my head. She was a hopeless giggler, but she made me laugh.

“Would you listen to us? We’re turning into the Snoop Sisters.”

“Well, when the day arrives that you find something better to do than monitor the comings and goings of the George Clooney of Sullivans Island . . . you’ll let me know?”

“We’re pathetic.”

“No, we’re not. We’re curious. You said so yourself. Anyway, I think he’s gay. I’ve always thought that.”

“You just say that because he flirts with me and not you. Besides, he was married.”

“Yeah, to some woman who didn’t have the sense not to go out on a boat during a thunderstorm.”

“Bless her heart. She was on her way back to the dock when she got struck by lightning and the boat capsized. Not her fault.”

“Here’s to barometers, right?” Deb took a long drink of her tea, draining her glass. “She should’ve checked the weather.”

“Amen. Anyway, he’s got to be lonely, don’t you think?”

“If you say so. So far I haven’t seen any women around his house, have you?”

“Nary a one. But he’s probably still grieving.”

“Maybe Jackie will like him. We should introduce them.”

“He’s too old for her.”

“But not too young for you! Ha! Mercy! It’s almost one! I have to go, or I’m gonna be late. I wish you’d come with me, Annie. It would do you so much good.”

“Do me good. Humph. I walk the length of this island every day of my life. That’s plenty of exercise for one woman. Besides, I’m too old to be jumping around.”

“Oh, come on! It’s fun!”

“Maybe another time,” I said, wishing she’d get on with the business of leaving. I could feel my nerves starting to act up. Jackie and Charlie could arrive at any moment, and I wanted that moment for myself. If that sounds selfish, you haven’t longed for your child like I have.

“Okay, then, Mrs. Robinson. I’ll see y’all lay-tah! Tell that precious Charlie I’m baking him a blueberry pie.”

“That’s his favorite! He’ll love it! How did you know?”

“Because I actually listen when you ramble on and on!”

“Oh, you! Stop!”

I blew her a kiss, and the screen door closed behind her.

I sighed hard and leaned back in my rocker. Then I rocked forward and stood, moving to the edge of the porch to have a good look at Steve’s house. His very charming cottage was nestled in the dunes about ten yards from mine. Deb was jealous because she lived two houses on the other side of him and her house was positioned in a way that denied her a direct view of his deck and porch. And, although she wouldn’t admit it, his bedroom. I had the
ideal
view. Yep. I did. I saw plenty, and yes, I looked on purpose. Seriously? I would’ve used my binoculars except I was afraid he’d see me. And if you’re thinking I’m a peeping Thomasina, this was a very different affair from sneaking through the bushes in the dark and peering into random windows. It was specific and enjoyed from the safety of my own property.

Most of the island houses like ours were built of clapboards, perched high on stilts because of the occasional flooding tide from a hurricane. His, like mine, had louvered shutters that actually worked when we needed them closed to protect our windows from things like branches that took flight in high winds. His tin roof was red, and mine was silver. His house, which bore the misleading name of “The Dew Drop Inn,” was painted bright white with red and black trim. It looked like a greeting card for a real estate company in all its optimism, but the fact was, he wasn’t the kind of fellow you just dropped in on for a visit without calling. Or maybe I wasn’t the kind of woman who just went willy-nilly knocking on a single man’s door, especially one like him, whom I had no business visualizing in any other capacity than a nice neighbor. Good luck with that.

I often wondered what kind of casseroles he liked. Chicken divan? Probably not. No, he seemed like a man who liked heartier things to eat. Lasagna? I made a passable lasagna. I wondered then if I could ask him to show me how to use the rotisserie on my grill, the fancy one I bought Buster for his birthday that he never used. Buster preferred his Big Green Egg. But figuring out the machinations of my grill was a reasonable excuse to call on Steve.

I had been watching the Food Network too much, which led me to thinking about chickens, marinated in tons of herbs, lemon zest, garlic cloves, and olive oil, turned slowly on the spit, and basted until they were so tender that the meat nearly fell off the bones. I wanted to watch him eat with his hands. Lick his fingers. Moan from the sheer pleasure of a perfectly roasted bird. Okay, there you have it. I’ll admit that I was a little caught up in my silly fantasies. Why shouldn’t I fantasize about a good-looking man within pitching distance of my porch? I wasn’t dead quite yet.

Of course, there were many moments when I wished Buster had not left, but there were just as many moments when I wished there was a nice man around to say something sweet to me. I could not recall the last time Buster had paid me a compliment. Steve would say that my hair was really pretty if we bumped into each other at the mailbox or that he really liked my dress. Was it new? He’d help me carry my bags of groceries or my dry cleaning into the house. He was a gentleman.

Buster, who was the living embodiment of an overgrown boy, never did any of that. It was always Buster and Jackie just standing back and letting me do all the work. But who was going to manage our lives if I didn’t? So keeping things neat and orderly had made me single? I knew what people said, that I had nagged my husband out of my life. Listen, I was tired the day after that wedding ceremony, I mean, bone tired. I didn’t have a single joint in my body that didn’t ache like holy hell from standing in high heels for hours on end the day before, smiling and thanking people for coming, moving mountains of gift packages to help keep things tidy, to . . . you name it, I did it. Anyway, the morning after the wedding I was slicing ham and baking biscuits and setting the table while Buster sat there in his boxer shorts like a postbinge Hemingway watching golf on the television while his fishing mess was strewn all over the back porch as the minutes ticked by, closer and closer to the hour of the arrival of our guests. It seemed like the grass had grown five inches overnight from the rain, which meant there would be mosquitoes eating our out-of-town guests behind their knees, and I just sort of lost my mind. In between wiping away the spots on my champagne flutes and lining them up in a perfect triangle on the dining room table, I asked him three times to please, for the love of God, to clean up his gear. He pretended not to hear me and kept on watching Tiger Woods or whoever was playing golf, the most boring sport in the universe. There isn’t a grown woman alive on this planet who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I was so frustrated I was about to scream, and if I’d had the strength I would have. To my surprise, when a string of advertisements came on, he got up, called me a fussbudget, and walked out. That’s what happened to my marriage, and there’s not much more to tell. Fussbudget? Nice. Thank you very much. Go to Hell, please. And stay there.

Maybe walking Jackie down the aisle of Stella Maris Church freaked Buster out, you know, his job was finished and his game was over? I’ve heard that happens to men. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be married anymore? Or—and the thought of this stung like a jellyfish—maybe he really didn’t love me anymore and had not loved me for years? Or maybe he was worried about his own mortality. The obituaries were filled with men of his age who dropped dead from natural causes. Anyway, it was terrible to think that the father of my only child was all done loving me or loving our little family enough to try and sort out whatever the differences there were between us.

So kill me. Ever since he moved in next door, I’ve thought about Steve to cheer myself up. The welcoming look on his face made me feel alive and attractive and like I still had some worth in the goings-on between men and women. What’s the matter with that?

Ah, mercy me. Steve’s cottage may have been next to mine, but in the sober light of day the differences between us were as blatant as the differences between our homes.

My hundred-year-old cottage, “The Salty Dog”—an undignified name bestowed by Buster and one that I despised—was a creaking box with a porch, sort of a metaphor for me and my abdominal muscles that, when left unharnessed by the miracle of elastic, had settled into something of a relaxed, slightly protruding, cushiony state. Over the years my house had been painted probably every pastel you can name except mint, which is in sync with the pantheon of my changing hair colors. Presently the Salty Dog was pale yellow with accents in white and Charleston green, which for my money was black. But it creaked like my knees and it had seen better days, as I had. And no matter how much and how often I renovated it or myself, we were both still getting on in years. Fat old bald men can have pretty women as young as they pleased, but it seldom works that way in reverse. Maybe I
was
too old for romance or a new love. But I refused to completely believe such a depressing thought because of Deb. She says that on the day you stop believing in love you may as well lie down and die. I think she may be right.

To be frank, it wasn’t like Steve was knocking down my door. And I wasn’t knocking down his. We merely enjoyed coincidental meetings by the mailbox, the occasional glass of wine on my porch, and discussions of what was being done right or wrong by the town fathers. From his deck to my porch, we would call out to each other, remarking on sunsets, agreeing that they were the singularly most spectacular ones on the earth. He waved to me as I watched him jog the beach with his goofy spaniels. When we ran into each other at High Thyme and Poe’s Tavern, we exchanged hellos like old friends. It was enough for me. If it was meant to evolve into anything more, it would. I still believed I could handle Dr. Love. That’s why the good Lord invented dimmer switches. There comes a time when we’re all better off in the dark.

Chapter 3

“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this very night of all others? . . . I lent him the bug. . . . Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”