Read Online The Hurricane Sisters by Dorothea Benton Frank - Free Book Online Page B

from Belk. It hung suspended from the top drawer of the filing cabinet. My shoes and makeup were on the floor in a Vera Bradley tote bag I got for Christmas when I was in the eighth grade. Maybe seventh. It’s hard to remember now but it was plain to see that I wasn’t exactly drowning under the weight of overindulgence. And, yes, I’d brought that dress to wear simply because it was the best one I owned.
    I wouldn’t be doing anything special that night except checking in people on the guest list, directing people to the bathroom, and so on. Still, I was excited to see him in real life. Porter, that is. Ashley Galloway! What a beautiful name. Ashley Galloway, First Lady of the United States of America! Even better.
    We were coming to the end of an exhibition of watercolors, which was a fortuitous thing because they were all protected behind glass. In case somebody tripped and accidentally tossed a glass of red wine in the wrong direction, only minimal damage could happen to the art, unless, of course, they broke the glass that protected the painting, which has never happened. Besides, we only rented out the gallery when there was very small risk to the installation. I was still debating my scheme to rent out my parents’ house for events, and leaning toward doing it, especially when I opened the envelope containing a check for twenty-five hundred dollars from the Friends of Porter Galloway. That was what the Turners were earning for merely opening the doors and turning on the lights. Twenty-five hundred dollars was some serious bank. No doubt about it. Even though Ivy gave me enough money to give the first floor of our house a coat of paint to make it presentable, I was nervous. And even though Mary Beth had figured out how to serve decent wine and hors d’oeuvres for less than twenty dollars a person, mostly self-served, I was still nervous.
    I wasn’t going to do anything until I was very sure we had a foolproof plan, one where my parents would never ever find out. If Big Liz and Big Clay caught me in a lying scam that huge, they would throw me into the streets. I’d be living in a refrigerator box from somebody’s recycling garbage, pathetically begging strangers for time on an electrical outlet to recharge my iPhone. I did not want to live in a cardboard box. No, ma’am.
    The afternoon blew by. Around four, Mary Beth’s catering company showed up and started setting up. It was time to take the dress out of the bag and attempt to put my hair up in a French twist. I thought an updo and a string of pearls might make me resemble a young blond Jackie Kennedy. With cleavage. She was my idol. I slipped into the tiny bathroom and did my best. When I came out, Bill Turner was there, using the copier.
    He took one look at me, slapped his hand over his heart, and gasped.
    “Great God!” he said, trying to determine the length of my legs.
    “Bill? Leave that child alone!” Judy called from the gallery as though she had eyes in all the walls. Maybe she did. Or radar maybe.
    I giggled and squeezed past him intending to find Mary Beth. I had legs like a flamingo but what was I supposed to do about that? Wear a toga?
    I loved our special events. The gallery always looked so glamorous with all the flowers and the glow of all those tea candles. The food and bar tables were draped in black to the floor with square white cloths laid over them in diamond shapes. On the ends of the tables were dozens of sparkling glasses in perfect lines like soldiers at attention. All the waitstaff stood at the ready wearing black shirts and pants with white aprons from their waists to their ankles. Very Parisian, I thought and sighed. A sign from God that once again it was clear I was going to have to do something drastic to get to France. Or Italy or how about just Tribeca in New York?
    I spotted Mary Beth. She was fanning stacks of cocktail napkins with a highball glass.
    “Hey, girl” I said and gave her a hug.
    “Ooooh, honey! Look at