Lowcountry Summer Read Free

mother,” Trip said, and chuckled.
    “It was my idea but I don’t know where the idea came from,” Amelia said. “You never said anything about liking balloons before.”
    “Well, I adore them!” I said, and took the ribbons into my hand. “I really do!”
    “Yeah,” Eric said. “Amelia asked me what to buy you for a gift and I said you didn’t need anything. So she said what about balloons?”
    “It’s so perfect, you just don’t know!” I said, gave them a kiss on their cheeks, and turned to Millie. She was giggling like a schoolgirl and I joined her in a burst of laughter. Then I looked around the room at my slack-jawed gathering. “Oh, come on! You know Mother! Isn’t this the grandest feat?”
    “Freaky,” Eric said.
    “Completely weird,” Rusty said.
    “For once I agree with her,” Amelia said, and hooked her thumb in Rusty’s direction.
    “Thanks,” Rusty said.
    “Well, I think it’s completely wonderful,” Miss Sweetie said. “Completely wonderful.”
    “I think so, too . . . is that the kitchen doorbell?” I said.
    “I think that door is locked up,” Millie said.
    “Finally!” Trip said. “Probably my dear estranged wife with my daughters . . .”
    I saw Amelia cut her eye at Rusty in disgust as though Rusty were the living embodiment of Hester Primm. I was glad Rusty had missed it because I didn’t want there to be trouble and why insult her? Like most people, bad manners made me uneasy.
    “I’ll see about it,” Mr. Jenkins said, making his way toward the dining room.
    It buzzed and buzzed with such persistence that Millie and I and then Trip followed. What we found was a horror show. There in the doorway was off-the-wagon Frances Mae, gathered upright by the muscular arms of Matthew Strickland, the sheriff of Colleton County. On his other side stood Chloe, crying like a baby. Her forehead was cut and there was blood all over her. She was entirely disheveled, and Frances Mae, for once in her slovenly, drunken, miserable life, appeared to be penitent—that is, if her silence could be translated into regret.
    “Oh Lord!” Millie cried, and hurried to the sink to wet a clean dishcloth.
    “Daddy! Oh, Daddy!” Chloe had begun great gulping sobs. She was traveling toward hysteria and I didn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t be hysterical?
    What had Frances Mae done now?
    Trip swooped up his pudgy seven-year-old Chloe and sat her on the kitchen counter like a rag doll. Millie moved in and gently applied pressure to the wound, handing Trip a second cloth to wipe the rest of the blood away.
    “It’s all right, baby,” she said to Chloe in the sweetest voice she had. “It’s just a little bitty cut. You’re not even gonna need stitches.”
    “Head wounds bleed a lot. Should I bring this one into the kitchen?” Matthew Strickland said, bringing our attention back to my low-life sister-in-law.
    “Good grief!” I said. “Well? Let’s see if you can park old Hollow Leg at the table. I’ll make some coffee.” I reached into the refrigerator for the coffee and into the cabinet for a filter.
    Matthew poured Frances Mae into a chair and she put her head down on her folded arms and appeared to pass out. I began filling the coffeepot with water.
    “It’s all right now, sweetheart,” Trip said to Chloe, and then asked, “So, what happened, Matthew?”
    “I saw her Expedition swerving a little going down Highway 17, so I followed her. I knew it was Frances Mae because of the bumper stickers. So I figured she was liquored up. Then, no surprise, she turned on Parker’s Ferry and I kept on behind her. When she went to turn into Tall Pines, she bounced off the gate and then slid into the ditch. So I picked them both up and brought them to you.”
    “Nice,” I said, and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. “God in heaven, Matthew, and that’s a prayer of thanksgiving. What in the world would we do without you?”
    “Well, you might be spending some more time in the