Folly Beach Part 17

I forced myself to giggle so that she wouldn't feel like it was a direct insult or reprimand and would then take it in stride. I winked at Russ, who was grinning, thankful that I had not really taken Alice to task, evidence of my vow to walk softly but think whatever I wanted. Let's be honest, everyone knew what I thought of Alice, because it was a widely shared opinion.

"Ah, well, okay kids. I'm going to be on my way. Thanks for the pie, Ella. Y'all have a great evening! Oh, by the way? The piano is coming soon. Aunt Daisy? You don't mind if I park it at the Porgy House for a while do you?"

"Absolutely not," she said. "That's your little red wagon."

"Oh, my! Well? Whatever that meant!" I gave her a little kiss on the cheek and left.

I returned to the Porgy House, freshened up my face, spritzed all the important targets with cologne, and then went downstairs to look around the downstairs den. The piano would have to go in there. The stairs that took you to the larger room upstairs were definitely too narrow and frankly, I wouldn't ask the deliverymen to even chance it. They would be singing soprano in a choir. Even so, I'd have to make room in the cramped downstairs. I was thinking of different ways to rearrange things when John knocked on the door. I ran my hands through my hair and answered it.

"Hey! Come on in," I said.

He breezed past me, smelling predictably addictive, and then turned to face me. "Wow, you look so pretty! What did you do?"

I just stared at him.

"That didn't come out right," he said. "What I meant was, you're always pretty but I thought maybe you'd done something to yourself? You know, different hairdo or something?"

"Pink lipstick, but it's not new," I said. "Bobbi Brown says you should always wear pink lipstick because it brightens up your face."

"Well, I'll have to try that," he said.

"Oh, please." I shook my head and said, "Let's get out of here."

"Yes, ma'am!"

There was very little traffic on Folly Road and we were just sailing along. I fell in love with the landscape every time I came this way, crossing the little bridges, spotting the snowy white egrets standing majestically in the quiet marsh and the occasional great blue heron swooping by.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

"Beyond," I said. "I can't tell you how many times I tried to remember all of this and describe it to someone but there are no words."

"Yeah, you really have to see it to believe it."

"And every time of year is different . . . so pretty."

The marsh gra.s.s was a beautiful tawny color, like the fur of a chinchilla. Whether it was green in the summer or brown in winter, it always seemed like you could just run your hand across it and it would feel so good, like streams of silk. The reality was it would cut your hands to ribbons while you sunk into the pluff mud, waving good-bye cruel world, and banks of c.o.o.n oysters wouldn't even blink as you went down, never to be heard from again. Take my word for it: don't wear your good shoes clamming. In fact, if you ever do go out in the marsh, make sure it's dead low tide and don't bring those shoes into your house. Ever. Unless you like the smell of sewage.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Fabulous. I'm going to be a grandmother!"

"Oh Cate, how wonderful!"

"Yep, in September!" I was thrilled. "And I spent the better part of the day today and yesterday at the Historical Society, reading until I was bleary-eyed."

"Fantastic! I want to hear all about it."

"Dorothy and DuBose were a couple of real characters, but you already know that."

"Yeah, but I am anxious to hear your take on them."

He began whistling a tune.

"Well, somebody's chipper over there, Mr. Bluebird!" I said.

"And why shouldn't I be?" he said as he stopped at a traffic light. "I'm with you and we're going to have a fabulous dinner together and talk about my favorite subject in the world!"

"I'm beginning to understand the obsession. Reading those papers is like eating potato chips or b.u.t.tered popcorn. Once you get started . . ."

"Yep! That's what happens. Most people don't take the time or have the time to do what you're doing right now, but wouldn't it be a great way to spend vacations? I mean, visit different cities and read what they've got in their libraries and special collections of other people's papers?"

"I don't know. I mean, I'd like to visit a lot of places like Angkor Wat and Patagonia and the Galapagos Islands but on the other hand, you're probably right. There are so many thoughts I have about Dorothy and DuBose, Dorothy especially. But I wouldn't be able to verify my suspicions unless I went to Ohio and dug up all of her childhood and got the scoop on her aunts. I feel like Nancy Drew on one hand and like a cheesy reporter for a creepy tabloid on the other."

"Cheesy reporter?"

"Yeah, you know, out in Hollywood there are these crazed paparazzi who go through people's garbage cans, looking for receipts to see how much money they spend on clothes and count their liquor bottles to see how much they drink?"

"And their mango skins to see what's in their smoothies?"

"Exactly! How do you decide who someone was, based on the papers they leave behind? It's impossible. Especially in this case, because I don't think Dorothy wants me to know all about her."

"Why do you say that?"

"There are too many holes. Stuff that's missing. And things that don't add up."

The traffic on Folly Road grew heavier and then it seemed like we caught every single traffic light.

"Hmmm. By the way, we're going to a very cool restaurant. The Wild Olive. It's out on Maybank Highway. It's actually real Italian, if you can believe it."

"Oh, come on. The only Italian food in Charleston is Pizza Hut."

"Not true! There are a few now. Anyway, they have this chef, a guy named Jacques Larson, and he's great."

"A French guy cooking Italian? Come on."

"Nope, he's from Iowa but he trained with Mario Batali . . ."

"No kidding?"

Well, of course, all you have to do is mention Italian food and the next thing I know, I'm salivating, my stomach is growling from ma.s.sive hunger pangs, screaming to be fed, and I'm already trying to decide what I want to eat before I even see the restaurant much less a menu.

"Was that you?" he said.

"Yes," I said, embarra.s.sed to death.

"Holy h.e.l.l! Do you want to stop for bread? I mean, can you make it there?"

"You're hilarious, Risley. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Yeah, all the time." He was so pleased with himself. So pleased.

"Listen to you! All that rumbling from such a little person."

He reached over and gave my leg a friendly slap. It was funny but about every two minutes my stomach would start wailing again. And John would snicker and I would tell him to knock it off.

"This is truly disgusting," I said.

"There are some crackers in the glove compartment," he said.

I looked and there were a few packaged saltines in pairs, left over from a chili order at Wendy's.

"Fine," I said. "Great."

"But I can pull into the 7-Eleven if you think you'd like me to. I mean, you know, feed the beast?"

"Just shut up and drive, okay?"

We were both laughing at that point, because what could you do? I turned up the radio. This had happened to me before and it was usually the result of too much acid and not enough carbs. Maybe. Honestly, who knew why it happened but I hated it and wished my digestive system hadn't started going into overdrive when I was planning to become The Seductress that night. Some siren I was.

We finally pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and got out. The building was white and new, beautifully lit and landscaped. I had no idea it even existed.

"When did they build this place?" I said.

"I don't know. A year ago or maybe a couple of years ago?"

"So many things have changed since I grew up here," I said.

"You've been spending too much time in enemy territory," he said with a chuckle. "I can show you wondrous things in the Lowcountry! You'll think you're in . . . well, it's the Lowcountry and that's it."

"But it's the updated version?"

"Exactly."

Inside, we were shown to a table for two that was very nicely tucked away near the bar. Once again, as we crossed the dining room, John's hand was resting on the small of my back. How and why had I ever lived for so long without any of these small demonstrations of affection? It just goes to show you that you can get along on very little.

We scanned the menus and I was drawn to the pastas.

"Wow," I said. "I'm thinking about a big ole bowl of spaghetti and the house-cured salumi with the . . . well, with the stuff that comes with it."

"And I'm torn . . ." John finally settled on the braised meatb.a.l.l.s and polenta. "I'm having mussels to begin," he said.

I'm having muscles later, I thought and did not say. Anyway, I loathed mussels and hoped I could watch him eat them without getting ill.

"Sounds good," I said.

He ordered a bottle of Chianti Cla.s.sico and we got down to the contents of the bread basket. As soon as the wine was poured, John said he wanted to propose a toast.

"Sure! To what?"

"I say let's drink to the memory of the Heywards, John Bennett, Josephine Pinckney, and . . ."

"Hold it right there, Dr. Renaissance. It's all I can do to hold the Heywards in my head!"

He laughed and said, "Okay. To Dorothy and DuBose!"

"How about just to Dorothy? DuBose is not exactly my favorite guy right now."

"All right, then, to Dorothy." We touched the sides of our gla.s.ses and took a sip. "So, do you want to tell me what poor old DuBose did to offend you so? We certainly have become a bit judgmental haven't we? A few hours in a library and one of Charleston's greatest icons is a scoundrel? 'Fess up, woman! What did you find?"

"Oh, please. Make fun. I mean, you're right, of course. I'm no expert but the facts are a little strange. Where to start?"

"Start anywhere."

"Well, all right. I'm a.s.suming you've read everything they've got down there. Is that right?"

"Yeah, and everything from Harlan Greene and James Hutchisson and Barbara Bellows . . . but I'll admit, it's been a while. I can give you their books, too, you know, to round out your education."

"That would be great." I took another sip of wine. "I'm really loving this whole era, the beautiful gowns and the way women wore hats and gloves and what went on. Okay, so look, here's the first thing I'm sure of. I am absolutely convinced that Dorothy Heyward was in love with DuBose like Cathy was with Heathcliff. Like Scarlett, like Anna Karenina, like Juliet . . . I mean, her love for him was epic, the stuff of the greatest cla.s.sics in the whole of time. Obsession! Totally consuming obsession."

"And what's the matter with that? Isn't that how a woman should love a man?" John had this tiny little smile creeping across his face.

"G.o.d forbid. That kind of love is a lethal prescription for misery. It's what got me a room at the Porgy House. I mean, if you find yourself falling for someone, really falling? You'd better keep both eyes open."

"I'll keep that in mind. Anyway, tell me more."

Our appetizers arrived and I tried not to look at his so I dove right into mine, taking a bite of the chicken livers on crostini.

"Wow, this looks perfect. Okay, so, as you know, Dorothy got shuttled around from one aunt to another during her childhood and then s.h.i.+pped off to a boarding school, right?"

Then it happened.

"Yes. Say? Would you like a mussel?" John offered me one, with the dark slimy bulbous thing hanging from the tines of his fork like a horrible goober on a miniature gigging pole.

I gagged a little but held on.

"Uh, no, thanks. Listen, you may as well know, the only way that thing is getting in my mouth is if it can fly. Have you ever cleaned one of those bad boys?"

"Can't say I have."

"Yeah, well, it's a totally nasty trip. They've got this beard you have to remove and then this blue cone-shaped phallic thing you have to pull out . . ." I shuddered. "Sorry."

"Gross," he said. "That was truly gross. Maybe I'll have carpaccio instead. Does raw meat bother you?"

"Not at all."

He signaled for the waiter and explained that he had changed his mind, they could charge him for the mussels but I was offended by their presence and this was a very important night. The waiter, thoroughly confused, took them away and promised to take it off the bill anyway.

"Jesus, Risley, I'm sorry. You must think I'm really crazy . . ."