Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank

it. I sighed, remembering the precious contractor who did all the work. He was Irish, complete with blue eyes the color of the sky and a brogue so thick he was almost impossible to understand. Michael was his name and we didn’t do a whole lot of talking anyway. Lord, he was amazing! I finally stopped seeing him because it was getting too serious and the last thing I wanted was another husband.
    I decided to call him and see if he had a good electrician who could get the kind of lighting I wanted. I couldn’t remember his last name, so I wound up going through my files and found it right where I had left it, stapled to the folder that held all the invoices of the renovation. Michael Sullivan. How could I forget a name like that? It seemed that lately I was forgetting things all the time. It was probably nerves. Maybe a reunion with the contractor would be what I needed to put me back on track. I hesitated, knowing that the phone call would lead to “why don’t we get together” and I put the folder back, not wanting to reopen that can of worms. When a love affair was over, it was over.
    I called Rusty.
    “Caroline?”
    “Hey, girl! Want to have lunch today? Millie’s making her fabulous Waldorf salad.”
    “Absolutely! I’ve been working in the yard since the crack of dawn, hacking away at the bamboo with a machete like Indiana Jones. I’ll tell you what. Once bamboo gets going, it takes over.”
    “I hear you! I’ve got to get on Mother’s roses, too. They’re a mess. If it’s not black spot, it’s aphids.”
    “Maintaining a garden is never ending, isn’t it? What time?”
    “How’s noon?”
    “Great! I’ll hop in the shower and see you soon!”
    I hung up and thought what in the world was wrong with Trip’s girls that they couldn’t see with their own eyes just how wonderful Rusty was? Didn’t they know by now that it was Rusty who bought every card and gift they received from their father? Didn’t they know that it was Rusty who made sure that every parents’ night, play, and recital they had was on Trip’s calendar in red letters? Hadn’t Rusty chosen Amelia’s and Isabelle’s cars? And arranged their insurance, all of their tuition payments, and everything else? She did all this, operating quietly in the background, not asking for or expecting a single word of thanks from them. Whenever we talked about the animosity of the girls, she always said that she took it in stride because she understood how problematic her relationship with Trip was for them to understand and reconcile. No, by anyone’s measure, Rusty was a wonderful woman whose sole purpose in life had become seeing about my brother’s happiness and well-being. He was lucky to have her and his hardheaded quartet of ignoramuses was lucky to have her working on their behalf.
    It wasn’t long before we were outside on the portico, clinking our glasses of tea and remarking on the weather. What a day it was! Millie was right. It was too beautiful to stay indoors all day long. Wonderful breezes were coming off the river. They carried the salty, addictive smells of mud banks and mollusks, spun together and laced with the smells of pinesap and all the robust and earthy fragrances of the woods. Enormous cumulus clouds floated across the brilliant blue sky, igniting gratitude in my heart that I had not felt in a long while for the gift of my life and for being in this glorious place.
    “I love this time of year,” I said. “Mother Nature is like a giant dose of Prozac.”
    Rusty giggled. “Prozac. You are too much. But it’s true. Everywhere you turn, something is coming into bloom.”
    “I love it.”
    “Me, too. Trip and I love to eat outside. Somehow everything tastes more flavorful. You have to come over and see the new grill. It was just installed. Trip is dying to have a barbecue.”
    “I’ll bet so. I’ll get Bobby Mack on the phone and get him to bring us something. You know, I saw Trip this morning.”
    “Oh? I knew