The Hurricane Sisters by Dorothea Benton Frank

thought, Oh boy, this isn’t going to be much fun. I came here bearing sugar and she shows no signs of sweetening up anytime soon. So either I could continue to be nice or I could take her on. Two could play at this game.
    “Well, you may not be out having fun but you’re sure not sweeping the steps or cleaning out the refrigerator either, are you?”
    “Mom? It rained like hell this week.”
    “Please don’t curse. It’s common.”
    “Whatever. You know that rain always messes up the yard. And I’m sorry the refrigerator isn’t squeaky clean. I was going to throw out a lot of stuff this morning. I got up early to do laundry and clean house. It’s not like I have a housekeeper, you know. And I work forty hours a week. Sheesh!”
    She stomped out of the kitchen. I could hear her feet and in a few minutes she returned with a stuffed hamper of dirty laundry.
    “Excuse me,” she said, squeezing past me to the laundry room. There was a little bit of twenty-three-year-old balsamic vinegar dripping from her voice.
    “Want some help?” I asked.
    “Nope.”
    “Okay.” What could I say next? “So, babe? I need to talk to you about something.”
    There was silence, except for the water filling the machine, and then she said, “I knew there was another reason you showed up.”
    I heard the lid of the washing machine slam, and I could feel her annoyance radiate from the other room. Well, too bad, I thought.
    I sat on a barstool at the counter.
    “Come sit with me for a minute,” I said.
    She sat down, pushed her hair back from her face, blew some air, and rolled her eyes.
    “Okay, what’s going on, Mom?”
    “Look, Ashley, you’re practically a grown woman and I know you don’t think you need any advice on anything . . .”
    “No, that’s not it. It’s that I just wish people in this family told the truth more often. If you wanted to come over here to talk to me, why didn’t you just say so?”
    “Maybe I was hoping the subject would come up naturally in the course of conversation.”
    “Porter Galloway?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Maisie called you?”
    “Yes, but please don’t tell her I told you.”
    “Sure. Another secret. Look, Mom. Porter Galloway is a douche.”
    “Really?” Douche? What did that mean beyond the normally accepted definition of a feminine hygiene product? Or in French, a shower?
    “Yeah. He asked me to come meet him for a drink last night. So I went to the bar at Charleston Place Hotel expecting to find him there. Turns out he wanted me to come to his room. I was like, yeah, right. In your dreams, Senator. So I left, but I charged my glass of wine to his room.”
    I knew she was telling me the truth.
    “Good for you! How insulting.”
    “I thought so too. He can kiss it.”
    “Well, yes.” I searched her face. Her disappointment and annoyance were all over her. I didn’t blame her. “Men can be so stupid.”
    “Yep. Mom? Don’t worry about me. I’m not stupid and I’m a good girl.”
    I reached out and ran my hand down the side of her face.
    “I know that, baby. Anyway, I thought I might take you shopping. You know, somewhere out there is a little black dress that’s slightly less lethal. I’d be happy to help you find it. We can make it an early birthday present?”
    “Maybe sometime this week,” she said. “Thanks. So Maisie thinks my dress is dangerous?”
    “Don’t you?”
    “Maybe.” The tiniest of all smiles in Christendom crept across her face. “Anyway, say what you want about Porter, but he’s going places. I wouldn’t mind being the governor’s wife.”
    “Governor! Darling, I think he’s got a long row to hoe before he gets that job. Although there is talk. And would you really want to be a politician’s wife? Politics are such a sordid business.”
    “So is everything. He’s got to marry somebody, doesn’t he? Then I could paint all the time.”
    “Baby? I think that price tag for your artistic freedom might be way too high. Besides,