Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot
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sat in the waiting room, a volume of Wordsworth his only company. Mother bustled. Straightening pillows. Filling the water carafe. Adjusting the blinds.
But I sat, willing each new inhalation and realizing how much I loved Grandmama and depended on her. I had never had to work to please her. Even if I’d told her the truth years ago about the cotillion disaster, she would have hugged me and said, “There, there, Bel.”
Later that night after Mother left the room, I found myself humming “I’ll Fly Away” and blinking back tears. Then I felt Grandmama’s thumb caressing the back of my hand. When I looked up, her eyes were open, her mouth curved in the trace of a smile. “Bel,” she murmured.
“I’m here.”
With surprising strength, she drew me closer. I leaned over the bed. “That boy,” she whispered.
“Drew?”
She nodded. “Passion.” The word had the force of an imperative.
I had no answer.
Then came the last words I ever heard my grandmother utter. “Things as they ought to be, ma petite.”
Then she closed her eyes, gave a long sigh and left me.
Baton Rouge
1961
EVEN THOUGH I KNEW in my heart I was betraying both myself and Grandmama, I agreed to marry Drew. Of all the men I had met at college, he was by far the best match. We had much in common. Our families approved. We discussed names for the two children we intended to have. Besides, marriage was the “done” thing. With few exceptions, my sorority sisters either were already married or in the throes of planning their weddings.
Drew’s kisses didn’t send me to the moon, but they were pleasant enough. Heavy petting, while arousing, seemed a bit clinical, but so had the photographs in the book. Back then, though, I didn’t know anything different.
St. John’s was reserved for September 8, the women’s auxiliary scheduled to cater the reception and the Springbranch Country Club booked for the rehearsal dinner. Twink was to be my maid of honor. Mother was in her element. Things were proceeding precisely according to her plan. Daddy spent even more time in his study.
I don’t know if it was born out of a subconscious need for self-preservation or a desire to escape, but I asked my parents for only one thing for a college graduation present. A trip to Atlanta, where the Montgomerys were living, to visit Twink, before plunging into final bridal preparations.
And that, as they say, made all the difference.
Atlanta, Georgia
Summer 1961
TWINK MET ME AT the Atlanta terminal, her smile as infectious as always, her freckles giving her a Doris Day insouciance. We shrieked, we hugged, we jumped up and down and then repeated the process. She loaded my bags into a Lincoln Continental convertible and swooped out of the parking lot, red curls lifting in the breeze. Above the roar of wind and traffic, she pointed out landmarks. Finally we entered an old neighborhood of lovely Southern and Greek Revival homes, with well-tended formal gardens shaded by century-old trees. “Pretty impressive, huh?” She winked. “Wait until you see Tara.”
She slowed, pulling through wrought-iron gates, and we began a gradual climb, past a fish pond, a gazebo and a caretaker’s home. At the crest of the hill, I saw it—the massive three-story white house with Greek columns. Twink stopped the car and leaned back, arms folded across her chest. “The parents are on the upswing again.”
An understatement, particularly by Springbranch standards. Speechless, I realized I was far out of my element. My thoughts flew to the clothes I had packed—store-bought, gauche. Before I could focus on my discomfort, Twink leaped from the car, grabbed my suitcase and put her arm around me. Leaning close, she said, “It’s just me, Izzy. You’ll be fine. All you have to do is pretend you’re in a movie.” Once again she’d read my mind.
Later that night, settled on the four-poster in her spacious bedroom, decorated in a pink-and-white magnolia motif, we shared the six-pack of beer she’d liberated from the restaurant-sized kitchen. “Okay,” she commenced. “I want to hear everything about Drew, and please tell me you’re not choosing fussy organdy bridesmaid dresses.”
She didn’t immediately probe my carefully suppressed reservations, but shocked me by the question she asked after I’d waxed eloquent about Drew’s stellar qualities. “Is he good in bed?”
“Twink!” The sultry Southern night echoed my dismay.
She threw herself dramatically across the bed. “Isabel Irene, surely you’re not marrying before trying him out.”
My fire-engine red face gave me away.
“Oh, God.” She sat up and took both my hands in hers. “Honey, it’s no big deal.” She smiled impishly. “Mostly it’s a lot of fun.”
My stomach soured. “You mean, you’ve done it?”
“Me and most of your lah-de-dah sorority sisters.”
“You think?” I couldn’t process the images bombarding my brain.
“Is it Drew? You don’t think he’s…?” She waggled her fingers back and forth in a this-way, that-way fashion.
I was horrified. “What a thing to say! And no, I’m sure he’s not.”
“Well, my advice, sugar, is to try the merchandise before buying.”
Deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew she was right. I wanted fireworks and shooting stars. I’d experienced none with Drew. Before Twink’s question, I’d successfully buried my doubts, but her honesty forced them to the surface.
Sensing my discomfort, she reached for the church key and opened another beer, thrusting it into my hands. “Drink up. You don’t have to decide anything this very minute. Anyway, I want to tell you about the garden party we’re throwing in your honor tomorrow night, not to mention the country club dance on Saturday. We’re going to have so much fun.” She flopped over onto her stomach. “You will not believe the dreamy men in this town. Why, chile, I just flit from one to another like a bee sippin’ honey.” Her low laugh had a distinctly seductive sound.
I studied the diamond on my ring finger, incapable of imagining how she handled multiple suitors. I took a swig of beer, suddenly missing Drew. All this talk of sex, parties and glamorous men made me long for the mundane, the dull, the safe. For my fiancé.
I REMEMBER THE MOMENT as if it happened yesterday. There is no way I can adequately describe the impact. Let me set the scene.
Chinese lanterns strung from tree to tree illuminated the flagstone patio leading to the Olympic-size pool in which colorful blossoms floated. A white tent stretched over the manicured lawn; inside, a quintet played romantic dance music. Jacketed waiters manned the buffet table and fully stocked bar. Our hostess, Honey Montgomery, was stunning in a silver-lamé evening gown. Mr. Montgomery, a cigar in one hand, mingled with groups of tuxedo-clad gentlemen. Twink had given me good advice when she told me to pretend I was in a movie. I fully expected Elizabeth Taylor to make a grand entrance. Twink had been accurate about the young men of Atlanta—tall, well-groomed, mannerly and utterly gorgeous in their white dinner jackets. Not to mention a trio of handsome young lieutenants from Bainbridge Air Force Base.
To my utter horror, before we sat down for dinner, Honey stepped to the top of the stairs leading to the pool, signaled for quiet and introduced little ole me from Springbranch, Louisiana, to the assembled partygoers. Clutching the skirt of my pale blue chiffon gown, I felt frumpy and exposed.
As soon after dinner as I could politely excuse myself, I escaped to the seclusion of a garden bench nestled in a bower of roses beyond the tent. I knew I couldn’t remain cowering there, but I needed to gather myself. I had always known that Twink’s world was vastly different from my own. I just hadn’t realized how different. She took the opulence and sophistication in