My Magnolia Summer

by Victoria Benton Frank

If you were to cut me open, you’d find the water of the Atlantic instead of blood, driftwood instead of bones, and seashells in place of everything else.

The South is different from anywhere else on earth. Every time I returned, it seemed it was the beginning of my greatest story, like something was about to happen, the kind of something music was written about. There was a touch of magic in the air, and the Lowcountry was extra special. It must have something to do with the region’s history, or maybe it was just the weather, but I felt more alive here. Even the sky was different. The sunrises were more jubilant, the stars brighter in the evenings, and the flowers more fragrant.

In the evening when the sun would set, the horizon looked as if it were in flames. Alice said that it was God playing his finale for the day. During a summer storm, giant blue-gray clouds pregnant with heat lightning rolled across the sky, making you run indoors filled with terror.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, or how old your children are, you will always go to their rescue.

The sky was what we called Carolina blue. It was just gorgeous, despite the mood of the day.

This was exactly what I needed—wonderful liquid energy that would pull the Jesus right out of me and make me nicer.

Everyone thinks Georgia is the peach state, but it’s really South Carolina. Our peaches are the best, and every peach we eat is from here. I inhale one, smelling the sunshine on it. My mouth salivates a little.

It took me a long time when I moved to New York to learn that you don’t say hey to a stranger. God forbid you wish them a good evening! But I was in the South now and was reminded that people value things differently here. It’s a kinder and gentler existence.

Quick note: if you ever want to really piss someone off when they are on the verge of getting angry, tell them to relax.

Ronny wasn’t and would never be my boyfriend because I wasn’t enough for him, and that was no longer enough for me.

There was something about the sea and its roaring, thunderous power that humbled and inspired me. I knew that feeling small beside something so large would make my problems seem smaller.

“You need a lighthouse.” “What?” “A lighthouse to bring you to shore. Something or someone to make you recognize your surroundings.” “Yeah, that would be Gran.” “I see.”

Alice stared at me, both of us running movies behind our eyelids of past benders. I could see Alice pushing them into the back of her mind. She always thought the best of everyone and always gave people second chances, and thirds, and fourths. I wasn’t as forgiving. I’d always held it against my mother when she indulged herself, leaving me, a small girl, wondering why my mom was a little too friendly with every man who crossed her path, or where she was for days at a time. I understood that she wrestled with darkness.

“Lillian Grace, you listen to me. We know you are sad, but sadness can’t be a weapon you use against your own family. Maggie is your child! You can’t drag the world down with you because you have a broken heart. Those things you said . . . she might never forget them! You are being selfish and foolish, and I know your momma taught you better than this. You lay yourself down and I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours. You think long and hard about what you said. You owe your daughter an apology, because what you said is just not true. Come on, Maggie.”

“I just want to help out tonight, and for the next couple of days while she figures things out.” I was trying to focus on dinner service, not on our mother, the emotional terrorist.

Sam set down two new drinks. He gave me a sideways glance as he slipped onto the barstool next to me. His proximity to me made me straighten my back and inhale the unmistakable smell of danger. The good kind. The kind that drew you in and made you beg for another dose.

Passionate people are rare. So many people are too afraid to feel something real, so concerned with cultivating the right image that they are afraid of being themselves. The heart’s a powerful thing, and I love it when it obviously drives someone.”

I just love to cook for other people. It’s such a gift to be able to nourish someone else and entertain them at the same time. Being able to be creative with a different herb or spice, giving home recipes a little twist or refinement.

I kissed Gran gently on the forehead and I did the same to Alice. She was the living, breathing definition of a great friend.

According to my palate, though, no crab was tastier than one that had been swimming a hundred yards from your table earlier in the day.

Whoever he loved, he loved fully. It was a world of black and white for him, not a mess of gray, like it is for me. He just loved me, period. He didn’t want anything except to make me happy. I’d never experienced that before. Love for me always came with a price, and his love only came with a feeling of always.”

When she spoke her heart, it was shattering.

One of the lessons my mother had taught me was never to try to save money on paper towels or garbage bags. Life’s messes required the good stuff.

Mississippi Roast. Now, don’t judge me, y’all, but I found some good recipes on Pinterest, and this was one of them. You just needed a giant roast, a stick of butter, a packet of dry ranch seasoning, a packet of au jus seasoning, a jar of pepperoncini, a slow cooker, and you were good to go. I inhaled its delicious smell. I wasn’t a chef like my sister, but I could work a Crock-Pot.

Sometimes life gives you moments like that one, where you can pause for a second because you know better. I knew that I needed to be smart. His hump was up, and it was because he viewed me as putting him against a wall, but I hadn’t.

It was low tide now, and I could see the sandpipers pecking around the oyster shells that dotted the marshlands, hoping to get lucky. It was a privilege to coexist with these wild creatures in their natural habitat.

“How do you feel about a Tuscan kale and white bean soup?” I asked the kitchen. “Sounds good to me! We actually have a ton of canned white beans in dry storage,” Miller said. “Perfect, let’s use it. Zero cost. I like it. How about potatoes and lemons?” I asked. “Do we have enough chicken stock?” Ben spoke up. “We still have tons from the other day. We had some leftover bones, and I just thought why not use all the scraps and make some extra. We can freeze extra, right?” “Yes, absolutely, but don’t worry about that, we’ll use it. A good stock is the spine of most recipes. I’m really impressed by your initiative, man! Go grab a gallon of stock, some potatoes, lemons, red pepper flakes, and the beans, and let’s give this a whirl,” I said. “What about adding some sausage? We’ve got a ton of it, and we need to use it,” Miller said.

the cooks gathered around a large bowl that I had topped with bacon and a little Parmesan cheese.

Slightly Spicy Tuscan Kale, Sausage, and White Bean Soup,”

You’re not going anywhere, toots. Might as well cozy up with the farmer and fight for your family’s business,”

know you, girl. You aren’t selfish . . . or as tough as you want us all to think you are. You don’t walk out on the people you love when they need you.”

Everything that’s worth a lot requires a lot of effort. You can’t grow while you’re comfortable, y’eh?”

was glad the mood was lightening up. We had gotten good over the years at putting bad things in tiny compartments under our beds.

Now I had a reason to go back to New York, but many more reasons to stay in Charleston.

“Maggie, I’m sorry, I should have told you the full story. I will never lie to you again,” Sam said. I looked at him, waiting for more. “That’s it?” “Yep, that’s it. When one is truly sorry, the only words that matter are the apology, identifying what exactly the apology is for, and a promise to not do it again. You don’t need an explanation. I was wrong, and I’m sorry I hurt you.” “Oh,” I said. “‘Oh’? You look disappointed.”

I felt a pit in my stomach that had nothing to do with the baby. He wasn’t ready and wouldn’t be anytime soon.

something inside me snapped. I decided that I had had it with him not being ready. I felt like I was always pushing him. I pushed him to move in, to buy a house, to get serious. He had dragged his feet at every life-changing event. It was exhausting. I didn’t want a man who had to be convinced about me or this life we had built together. If he didn’t want to be a part of it, fine. I could deal with him shortchanging me, but not me and the baby growing inside of me. It was clear at that point that I wasn’t making decisions for myself anymore. It was for both of us. Me and the baby. “You know what, Chris? I’m done,” I blurted. “What do you mean you’re done?” he said. “I’m done with you! This is over,” I said. “How can you say that, Violet? We love each other!” “Yes, we do. But love isn’t enough, Chris. We need commitment. Full commitment. I am pregnant and I need you on board right now . . . and you’re not there. It was one thing about marriage, but now it’s marriage and a baby, and you will be away for months! I’m tired, Chris. I don’t want to be with someone I have to keep convincing to stay and move on to the next level. I want to build a life with you, but it’s time we stop pretending that that’s what you want, too.” “I do want that . . . just not now.” “Well, what am I meant to do with that? We can’t undo this!” I gestured to my stomach.

No, sir. No, thank you. No more. It’s over, you’re off the hook.” We stood there for what seemed like ages staring at each other, waiting for the other to hit the undo button or say something to go back to the peaceful morning we were having before the onesie. But that was it. Truth is like that. Once all parties involved know it, you can’t take it back. In that moment I had drawn a line in the sand. I was for the family, and he was for himself. It wasn’t fair to my unborn child to have a half-in, half-out dad. He or she deserved more than that, and to be honest, people voted with their feet. He didn’t want this, he wanted an escape, and I needed to give it to him. He was too much of a coward to ask for one himself.

felt capable. I could be a momma, and a good one, too. I had just conquered the first of what was sure to be many tough decisions in the realm of parenthood.

Summer was here in the Lowcountry, and she doesn’t play. We were officially in the time of year when the afternoon microburst storms would break the heat, but then cause humidity so thick you could swim through it.

“Momma, you can’t pour from an empty cup. You can’t be of help to anyone if you aren’t helping yourself.

It felt more than great to be there. I finally felt like I belonged.