Chapter 14
By the time I made it home, Gilbert’s car was already parked in my driveway.
“Here. Let me get that.” He took the bin out of my arms and started up the steps.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the other one and we went inside.
Gilbert let me change clothes before handing over the brown bag that I’d begun referring to as the pee pack. Another clean test, then we were heading out.
“Where are we going this late?”
“It’s not even eight yet.”
“Feels late to me.” Especially after working the farmer’s market on very little sleep.
“My support group likes to meet outside so we hold evening meetings.”
At the mention of his mysterious private group, I dropped my attitude. “You got me an invite?”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t blow it.”
“How could I possibly blow it? Is there a secret word I need to know for entry?”
“No.”
I asked Gilbert a million questions on our drive to Downtown Charleston, and he mostly grunted instead of answering.
“Knock it off, kid. You’ll see when we get there.” Gilbert gave me a quick, terse look. “Calm down.”
“I am calm.”
“If your knee bounces any higher it’s going through the glove box.”
“Sorry.”
Gilbert parked on East Bay Street and we walked down the sidewalk a few blocks. Jazz music entwined with the clip-clop of horse hooves on the pavement, adding to the ambiance of the early evening. A tour guide spoke about the great earthquake of 1886 as the carriage moved along at a slow pace.
Gilbert came to a stop in front of one of the famous Rainbow Row homes.
I reclined my head and took in the light-blue three-story historic house. “Wow.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Gilbert opened a giant wrought iron and wood gate and motioned me forward.
I stepped off the busy sidewalk and smack-dab into the most enchanting garden I’d ever seen.
Palmetto trees mingled with all sorts of lush landscaping, and in the middle of the garden stood a slightly smaller replica of Charleston’s famous pineapple fountain.
A magical oasis tucked away just past the facade of stone and stucco.
“Wow . . .” Inhaling the pleasant aroma of freshly cut grass and salty air, I regarded the table off to the right in the shade.
Fancy yet whimsical enough to be straight from the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
Fine china with patterned bands of soft pink and platinum accents.
Flower arrangements filled vases in the same pattern.
The spread included petite sandwiches, mini cupcakes topped with edible flowers, a punch bowl filled with a soft-yellow slushy surrounded by crystal cups.
In bell-bottom jeans and an off-the-shoulder blouse, I would have felt way underdressed had it not been for the other seven people milling around the table, who were all casually dressed too.
One woman stuck out from the small group.
With curly sandy-blonde hair styled in an unruly bob and wearing a colorfully patterned caftan that screamed tropics, she reminded me of Olla’s favorite TV character Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company.
She fluttered among the group but as soon as she spotted me and Gilbert, she rushed over with her arms stretched wide.
“There you are!”
I reversed a step, thinking she was going in for a hug with Gilbert, but the next thing I knew I was in the cocoon of silky soft fabric that smelled like an expensive perfume counter.
“You must be Junie!” The lady put some space between us and placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are so, so lovely, dear!” Her enthusiasm was close to sensory overload. If she was like this when she was sober . . . “I’m Patsy Dupree. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you for including me.”
“Gilbert insisted, and I tend to listen when he speaks.” Patsy winked at Gilbert, then gave me a motherly look. “I hope you’re wise enough to do the same.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “What other choice do I have?”
Her burst of laughter sounded very similar to the tinkling of her bracelets as she slung an arm over my shoulder and led me to the fancy table. “My friends, we have a new friend. This is Junie.”
Everyone turned toward us as a chorus of “Hey Junie,” rang out.
Patsy squeezed my shoulder. “Welcome to the Magnolia Nephalist Society.”
Having no clue what nephalist meant, I shot a quick questioning look toward Gilbert. He replied with a smirk.
“Everyone, please introduce yourself and share a little bit of your story with Junie.”
A thin man with warm brown skin raised his hand.
“I’m Chris Evans. Not Captain America, obviously.
” He motioned toward his lanky body. “I was a sommelier for twenty-eight years and excelled in being a functioning alcoholic. No one would know if it weren’t for the times I pushed past my high tolerance and right into a blackout.
It finally got out of hand a few years ago, so I switched to bread making. ”
An older lady stood from her chair with the support of her cane.
She wore cartoonish glasses, oversized and bright purple, that took up most of her wrinkled face.
“Hiya. I’m Pearl,” she began with a thick Northern accent.
“I lost my mind but I don’t miss it so much.
” That was the first thing she said, I kid you not.
She tucked her dyed jet-black hair behind her ear, showing off the biggest pair of pearl earrings I’d ever seen.
I’m talking giant gumball size. “I’m a retired subway train operator from Queens, New York.
But I picked up an excessive gin martini habit before calling it quits.
I’ve made more mistakes than I have teeth. Teeth!”
Before she could go off on a tangent, which clearly she could, a young woman, perhaps only in her late teens, spoke.
“My name is Mei. A classically trained violinist. Been playing since I was three. Some call me a prodigy.” She shrugged her thin shoulder, as if wanting to dismiss that claim.
“I learned under the top instructor in the United States. Sounds like a dream, right? Well, he was Satan himself and the pressure of performing became too much. To cope, I snuck liquor from my parents and it got so out of hand that I started stealing it at orchestra after-parties. And well, here I am.” She shrugged again and offered a sad smile.
After her, the rest introduced themselves.
Bruno, a youth pastor from Peru who helped build a church in Guatemala last summer.
His missionary work had taken a toll on him and he coped by drinking himself into a stupor every night.
Jackée, a single mom from Alabama who had battled addiction since her youth.
Axil, just Axil, no other information came from the bald brute of a man.
“I’m Gilbert. Y’all already know that and Junie does too.” Gilbert placed his arm around my shoulder, such a fatherly gesture. Or so I thought until he used his grasp on me to shove me forward. “Junie, tell these folks who you are.”
“I’m Junie.” I paused to glare at Gilbert, and a few laughed.
“Been to rehab twice. Apparently, the first trip didn’t stick.
Here’s hoping it does this time around.” I thought about stopping there but in the next breath, more spilled from my lips.
“I was sixteen when I met my first love and he introduced me to my second—alcohol and drugs. Pills to pours, that became our routine. He made me a widow and a single mom by the time I turned twenty-three. And I’ve done everything I could to ruin my life ever since.
” I finally hushed after that when everyone looked at me with pity. I hated pity.
Thankfully, Patsy spoke up. “My name is Patsy Dupree. I’m an alcoholic.
Coming from a wealthy family, I used to think I was invincible and above the law, the rules.
I woke up from that nonsensical thinking twenty-two years ago.
Driving three sheets to the wind, I hit a pedestrian right down the road here near the Battery.
Almost killed the young man. He recovered, praise the Lord, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.
I’ve been sober ever since.” She gave the group a meaningful look.
“Our stories aren’t pretty, but that doesn’t mean we stop living.
We should celebrate that we’ve been through hell and back and are still standing.
We are from all walks of life but have one main commonality, to overcome our addictions.
We support each other in our sobriety and help lift one another up on the hard days, because there will always be those pesky days. ”
A few agreed quietly and then Patsy dusted her hands together. “Okay. So I splurged and got us some yummy treats from Carmella’s. Mini cakes. The key lime tart is my favorite. Plus there’s some chicken salad sandwiches, Lowcountry dip, and pickled veggies. So please help yourself.”
Gilbert, clearly hungry, made it to the table first, picking up a delicate plate and filling it with all sorts of treats. “Come on, Junie.”
The pack of crackers I had for lunch was long gone, so he didn’t have to tell me twice.
This unorthodox meeting was more like a garden party or a cocktail hour without the booze than an AA meeting, but I was here for it.
I filled a punch cup and took a sip, enjoying the sugary slush of pineapple juice and the fizz of ginger ale. “Mmm. This is what my grandmother called shower punch.”
“Mine too!” Patsy raised her crystal cup and clinked it to mine. “This is actually my grandmother’s recipe.” She leaned in and whispered, “The secret ingredient is pureed pineapple. Gives it more tang than just the juice.”
After everyone was seated with their fancy plates, I expected Patsy or a leader to stand up and call order to the meeting, maybe start with the Serenity Prayer, but nothing.
Everyone just ate and chatted. Jackée sat beside me and with great pride in her voice, she told me all about her two sons, Najee and Omar.
How the preteen boys were big into baseball, one the star pitcher, the other known for his batting skills.