The Hurricane Sisters by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

twenty-two. Please!
    Back to my children? Yes. Maisie darn near destroyed them. Ashley actually believes she can support herself painting landscapes and whatever it is she’s doing. Maisie always says, Why not? Of course you can! Outrageous! There is not one shred of evidence that this is true.
    From the time Ashley was a little girl, Maisie’s refrigerator was covered in Ashley’s crayon scribbles. We’d be at Maisie’s making cookies or something and I’d ask Ashley to recite her multiplication tables to show my mother what she’d learned. But my little girl was never a Sea World spectacle who would jump for a fish. Ashley would pout, dig in her little heels, and refuse. Maisie would say, I know what, let’s make a mural of them in Magic Markers, and she’d produce a roll of paper and a bag of markers from thin air. It was as though she was always lying in the weeds waiting to sabotage my plans and undermine my authority. She gave my children money all the time, never came for a visit without an elaborate gift for them, and generally ignored me when I called Ashley and Ivy to dinner, to take a bath, to go to bed, on and on. Seems like I should have been able to expect backup from my own mother, doesn’t it?
    In fact, from the time she understood ambition, Ashley thought she was entitled to pursue her dreams for as long as she liked, no matter how far-fetched they were, and Maisie agreed. God gave her an exceptional talent, didn’t he? Ashley is completely convinced that her talent is superextraordinary and that it would be a grievous sin not to use it. She knows that once the powers that be find out about her, the entire international art community will rear up on its hind legs and cheer her on to her certain and well-deserved immortality!
    And if my son hadn’t met that Chinese man . . . well, he’s just lucky, let’s put it that way and let’s hope it lasts. I guess I should hope it lasts? Listen, it’s just been difficult for me and hard for Clayton, too, to reconcile ourselves to the fact that there will never be a Clayton Bernard Waters V. Living with Clayton’s long list of disappointments these days is just no fun. It’s why I dream of running away to Bali! God knows, I wait on him hand and foot. And while we’re on the subject of being driven to the edge? He’s categorically mistaken to believe he can make things right between us with a little velvet box that has something sparkly inside. Just last week he did something so thoughtless I couldn’t believe it. So I called him an ass under my breath and he heard me.
    “Don’t call me an ass,” he said.
    “Then don’t act like one,” I said.
    That pretty much sums up the current state of affairs between us.
    I pulled up in Maisie’s driveway and got out of my car. Her yard looked gorgeous as usual, as though she was channeling Gertrude Jekyll. I had my key ready, but when I got to the kitchen door, it was unlocked. There was a pile of Skipper’s laundry on the table. For some reason, it irritated me. Maisie was standing in front of the television watching The View.
    “Don’t you love the way these girls just go at it? That Barbara Walters. Boy, she still has juice!” she said and pointed to her cheek. I gave her a kiss. “Where are we going?”
    “Mustard Seed,” I said.
    “Good. It’s my favorite.”
    “I know.”
    An appreciation of The View that bordered on obsession was one of the few things we agreed on. She loved Barbara Walters. I thought Whoopi carried the show, but I didn’t argue with Maisie. In fact, I rarely argued with her about anything because she would just ignore me and do what she wanted to do or think what she wanted to think. I would just be more frustrated. Wrestling the car keys from her was my only success. Then we hired Skipper, never expecting . . . well, Maisie is a grown woman. At first we thought he was a gold-digging gigolo, but it soon became clear that he had his own money and a llama ranch to