Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

Trip! She’s completely insane!” I knew I was on the border of hysterics of my own. “Let’s start with her false sense of entitlement and work our way around the barn. She still thinks she’s supposed to have my inheritance!” I tried to calm down. What was the point of getting so upset?
    “Well, she’s not going to have it and you know it. So let’s move past that now.”
    “You’re right, of course, but do you know how it feels to have someone insist that your home is theirs?”
    “You’re talking about the ranting of a drunk. It’s craziness, so forget it! I just hope this place she’s going works on craziness, too.”
    “So does the rest of the world.” I took a deep breath.
    “Great God. I really, really hope this works.” There was a well of sadness in his voice as though he believed the cause of Frances Mae’s problems really could be laid at his feet.
    “It can’t hurt,” I said.
    “I’ve never seen her cry like that. I mean, she was wailing!”
    Trip was obviously profoundly moved by Frances Mae’s passionate grief and that squelched my annoyance considerably. Because the truth was that I wasn’t in my state because I was insulted. Who cared about her ridiculous outburst anyway? Okay, me, but just a tad. No, our concern was quickly redirected to Trip’s crumbling status quo, to his conscience and the fervent desire that Frances Mae’s horrible alcoholism would finally come to an end.
    “I’m gone pray for her,” Millie said, and that meant she would be praying like no other woman I had ever known.
    This episode was a dark chapter in our family’s history. We had hung our share of drunks in the family tree but they had been all male. We’d suffered a fair number of philanderers and ne’er-do-wells like every other family but they were men, too. Nothing compared to the controversy and disgrace Frances Mae and her two middle daughters had brought into our lives. Maybe I cared more about that than I should have but I still hated it. No doubt Frances Mae’s departure would be grist for the gossipmongers, and Lowcountry tongues would wave like flags in a squall on the Fourth of July.
    But Frances Mae was gone and this terrible chapter was in the past. We had to pick ourselves up and go on to the other issues racing to the forefront. Rusty. The girls.
    Suddenly, as though the universe sensed we needed a momentary distraction, the rich and savory smells of the roast filled the air. It still had hours to cook, but if it tasted like anything close to its perfume, I might have found a use for the strawberry-pomegranate jam after all. A small blessing in a day of deep potholes but I would take it and be glad for it.
    “Where’s Oscar?” Trip said.
    “Oh!” I said, not having given Oscar’s whereabouts a single thought since Frances Mae’s arrival. Precious Oscar! “What kind of a hostess am I?”
    “It’s not as if we were giving a tea party here, sister. I’ll go get him.”
    Trip left the room and Millie leaned back against the sink and sighed loudly.
    “This is some day, ain’t it?”
    “You can say that again. I was just thinking, Millie . . .”
    Trip came through the swinging door with Oscar the Possibility on his heels.
    “So, in just a few months I’m a free man,” Trip said, managing to just barely smile.
    “Congratulations. So, Einstein? Have you worked out the details of this colossal change with the kids?” I said. “And Rusty?”
    “Nope. It was enough to organize an intervention and tell Belle to bring Chloe home from school. What’s in the oven? Pork?”
    Had he heard and processed what I said? Well, if he didn’t want to elaborate I wasn’t pushing the issue. Yet.
    “Fifteen pounds of paradise. Bobby Mack’s coming for dinner and I’m trying to unload a quantity of jam impersonating a marinade. It’s just a business dinner.”
    “Oh,” said Trip.
    “Right,” said Millie, who knew better.
    “It smells great,” Oscar the Pelvis said.
    “It is