Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(9)

“Well, darlin’? Maybe that’s why he’s got a hankering to go to Atlantic City! To inspire you!”

“To do what? Wear high heels to bed? Get myself a trashy see-through chiffon robe to wear while I fry the chicken?”

“And here I always thought you were the wild one!”

“Well, now you know. Anyway, we’re going to Atlantic City next week for four days. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“And I’ll keep you posted on Momma.”

“Do that. I’ll call 1-800-Flowers in the morning.”

“So, aren’t you going to ask me how I’m doing?”

I could hear a deep sigh.

“How are you doing?” she said. “What’s new? Nothing, right?” Everyone thought I was a pitiful old maid at thirty.

“Um, actually? I had Archie and his boys over for dinner tonight.” Maybe I said it a little too brightly. The minute she heard a drop of happiness in my voice, I knew I was going to get an earful.

Dead silence. Followed by a slowly drawn out, “Really? Is there anything to report?”

“Beyond one marginally awkward moment when he was leaving? Nope.”

“Hmm. What did you cook?”

“Chicken. Lemon chicken with mashed potatoes, peas, and hot apple pie.”

More silence.

I finally said, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Listen, Holly. You’re my little sister and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Archie has a Ph.D. in world religion from Harvard Divinity School, for God’s sake. You’re a nice girl and all that, but he’s light-years out of your league. Can’t you see that?”

Two could play this game.

“Jesus, Leslie! I made chicken and mashed potatoes, not lobster and caviar. And I did it mainly for his boys. They hardly ever get a home-cooked meal. Do you know how many pizza boxes are in their garbage?”

“So now you’re looking through their garbage cans? Oh, Holly. This is so sad I don’t know what to say!”

“No. It is not sad. And no, I do not go through their garbage. They’re sticking out of the top of the can, and when I roll ours out to the curb on pickup day, there are the boxes poking out of the cans like a cry for help.”

“Oh, okay then. Sorry. Charlie says I always jump to judgment. Maybe he’s right. That was nice of you to make them dinner. Did they have a good time?”

“I think so. There’s not a crumb left. And they did the dishes.”

“You know, Archie’s hot. You know that, right?”

“Yes, for an old dude. I’m not blind.”

“Don’t let him take advantage of you, Holly.”

I wanted to say, Why not? Everybody else does. But instead I said, “Oh, please. What’s a little chicken between friends?”





Archie was staring at my apiary. “Ever read David Foster Wallace?”

“No,” I said. “Should I?”

“Why not? He said, ‘Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.’ ”

“He’s right. They flap their little wings two hundred and thirty times a second to hover.”


Chapter Three



Buzzing Along

Our old house was a classic clapboard island cottage, painted white some years ago, with a silver tin roof and porches around the front and the back, their floors slanted for runoff during the horrific rains that regularly saturated all the islands. We had working shutters on every window and slim French doors with their original glass from 1860. There was a Pawleys Island hammock, four rockers, and a glider from the 1950s on the front porch. They had more mileage than my sister. A table and four chairs stood on the back porch that no one ever used, along with garbage cans and an old Weber grill. You would say it was comfortable, and it was.

I had slept peacefully, not having to listen for Momma calling me in the night. I was feeling pretty good at first when I turned over in bed and woke up. But as I became fully conscious, I remembered I was irked with Leslie. Why did she always want to make me feel so awkward? What was the matter with her? What was the matter with me for listening to her? Probably a lot. But to be honest, I carried around a nagging feeling inside, like I was still waiting for my real life to begin. Meanwhile, here I was, thirty, with no real career or prospects of one, even though I had that sweet degree in elementary education and was on a wait list for the island elementary school. I was living in limbo, not a thoroughly unpleasant state, but not a very satisfying one, either. In the meanwhile, I told myself as I brushed the tangles of night from my hair, I would continue to do the few things that time allowed me to do and that I liked to do. And maybe I should get another kind of job. Something part-time. Anything that would get me out of the house. I could hire someone to sit with Momma or to check on her a few times a day. It would be good for me. I knew she would scream her head off if I went to work anywhere out of earshot. Maybe if I did, she would regroup and stop pretending to be sick all the time. And hellfire, she didn’t own me. The thought of breaking out was so delicious, I could already taste my freedom.

It was a beautiful morning, not as warm as yesterday had been, and I thought that was good. After my favorite breakfast parfait of yogurt, fruit, granola, and my own honey, I dressed and went outside with a big mug of steaming hot coffee. The yard was saturated with heavy dew that would surely evaporate as the sun began its daily climb. By midday, people would be shedding their light jackets and sweaters, but by five they’d be reaching for them again: classic Lowcountry weather.