“Periwinkle.” That’s seven, and I can’t take any more. My head hurts, my shoulder aches, and I feel the f-word bubbling up inside me. I don’t want to lose it. I recognize the warning signs, and I don’t want to do anything that might provoke Rattlesnake Patty into baring her fangs. I kiss her cheek good night.
“Periwinkle!”
My eye twitches and I’m hurrying to the doorway when I remember, “Lindsey has the day off tomorrow, and I think she’s shopping for clothes afterward.” At least, I assume she meant clothes shopping when she said she was going to the mall.
“Why?” Mom asks without taking her gaze from Family Feud.
Clothes shopping is something we all need to do—at least, Lindsey and I do. Mom wears velour and doesn’t seem affected. “It’s her day off.”
“She’s fat.”
“Mom!” I thought she’d said that the other night because she was out of her mind and raging. “That’s not nice.” I frown at her, but she isn’t paying attention to me. “Don’t say that to Lindsey.” I see how the girl pulls at her tops, and I suddenly feel protective of her. “She’s a nice girl, and I don’t want you to hurt her feelings.”
“She should have said ‘periwinkle.’?”
When she doesn’t respond, I ask over the sound of buzzers, “Mom, are you listening to me?”
She tears her attention from the television, and her gaze is a little more vacant than it was ten minutes ago. “That Richard is a foxy man.” Before I completely lose my mind, I leave her to gush over the game show host. Cheesy theme music follows me down the hall and up the stairs. Thankfully, I can’t hear it by the time I stop in the doorway of Lindsey’s yellow-and-white bedroom. She is kneeling beside the sleigh bed, tucking in her clean sheets, and I avert my eye from her plumber’s cleavage. Tomorrow will be our first day without Lindsey since we arrived at Sutton Hall. Mom and I’ll be just fine on our own, but I’m nervous that something will set her off and Lindsey won’t be here to defuse Mom’s anger. “When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Ten thirty.”
I’ll have to be extra patient to avoid Rattlesnake Patty. “If you’re near a store that sells insect spray, can you buy a few gallons?”
“Sure.” She laughs, but I’m serious. “I’ll protect you from bugs.”
I’d rather have toxic spray, but I return the favor. “And I’ll protect you from Raphael.”
“Deal.” She walks toward me, and we shake hands. “I hate that evil bird.”
“You’re getting the raw end of the deal. There is only one evil bird but a million evil bugs.”
“I’d rather encounter a million bugs.” She drops my hand and says, “Thanks for the nice mattress and soft sheets and everything you do for me.” I’m about to ask her what “everything” is when she adds, “My new health insurance is better and cheaper than my old Blue Shield.”
“Actually, I’m selfishly baiting a trap so you’ll never leave me and Mom.”
“You’re not selfish.” She laughs as if I’m joking, but I’m not.
It’s hard to admit, but I can be selfish sometimes. In my own defense, it’s embedded in my DNA. Like making myself look good even when I don’t have anywhere to go and I’m not leaving the house.
I tell her good night and turn out the hall lights as I move to the blue room. There are two kinds of selfish: the healthy kind and the unhealthy kind. I’ve written rules and blogs and book chapters on the subject. In speeches and podcasts, I explain the differences.
There is a trick to balancing the two, but somewhere my scales got off-balance and I got absorbed with pushing Lulu to bigger and better heights. Fighting to keep my business going during the hell years with Tony didn’t help my single-minded, borderline-unhealthy focus.
I keep an eye on the chandelier and push a button switch on the bedroom wall. No sparks fall from the ceiling, but in the dim light, the half tester looks just as imposing in this room as it did across the hall. So do the few other pieces of Great-grandfather’s furniture placed about the room, but at least I have somewhere to unpack my clothes now.
The wardrobe can easily accommodate a family of three, and the dresser is almost as tall as I am. The old drawers smell of cedar and beeswax and don’t stick as badly as I’d presumed. Before leaving the cold wind and sleet of Seattle, I’d packed wool suits and sweaters, pink Ugg boots and flannel nightshirts, which just goes to show how chaotic my life had gotten. Boots and flannel don’t go with springtime in Louisiana. At least not when you’re used to March in the Pacific Northwest, where moisture comes in the form of chilly rain instead of steamy humidity. Lindsey has the right idea. I need a trip to the mall.
I swing open the veranda doors and take a deep breath of Mississippi Delta air. Even I, a woman who’d rather be at the Windsor Court Hotel, enjoying pralines and dry air-conditioning, admit that I am enchanted by riverboat lights filtered through branches of towering trees swathed with Spanish moss. I pull another cleansing breath into the bottom of my lungs and let it out. There is a stillness up here on the balcony, a quiet that allows my heart to beat without worry and calms my mind. My head is clearer and I can think about moving forward.
My business has survived the tour cancellations, and I managed to work both yesterday and today. Margie called with an offer from the publisher of my last three books. It was a good offer, but I turned it down. It wasn’t an easy decision. The old Lulu would have sealed the deal with a signature and a glass of champagne in Margie’s apartment on New York’s Upper East Side. There is a huge part of me that misses that life, but as rough as the past few days have been, Mom is my priority. Other business opportunities will come my way, but the opportunity to spend time with Mother will not.
An insect buzzes in my ear, ending my enchantment. I shut the doors tight and change for bed. No more flannel—tonight it’s just a sports bra and panties. Just in case, I shake the footboard and wait for the half tester to collapse. It doesn’t move, and I’m satisfied that I won’t be impaled tonight.
“What’re you planning, tee Lou Ann?” Simon hadn’t even cracked a smile after that. He’d just turned on his heels and walked from the room, leaving the question hanging in the air and me to wonder what tee meant. He’d already compared me to a swamp rat, so I’m not holding out hope that it was a compliment.
I’m still mulling it over when I turn off the lights and pull back sheets that I’d brought from Seattle. Moonbeams pour through the veranda door and windows, spilling a golden path across the hardwood floor to my feet, and I grab my phone from the side table. Beneath the covers, I settle in and plump pillows behind my back. The light from my phone flashes across my face as I Google the meaning of tee Lou Ann. It takes longer than I expect, especially when I get sidetracked with the meaning of Cajun sayings and slang. I also discover that Simon’s rougarou is a swamp-dwelling werewolf. According to legend, I have to be careful not to get entranced and led deep into the swamp, and I should especially avoid the Honey Island Swamp Monster.
Note to self: Avoid the damn swamp altogether. That means the bayou too.