Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [120]
“I’ll bet it was.”
“Yep, Laura Bragg was the first woman in the country to run a publicly supported institution of science and natural history. And she was a lesbian.”
“Oooh! Le Scandal!”
“Right? Lemme tell you, sister, back in the day? Charleston was wild! I could write a play just about her!”
“Who knows? Maybe you will.”
“I just might. Where are we? I’m lost. I thought it would be in this room . . .”
Patti asked the guard to direct us to the piano and he pointed the way—after this gallery, turn right, two more galleries, turn right again . . .
Inside of a minute or two we were standing in front of the glass case that held the piano George Gershwin used to write some of the music for Porgy and Bess. It was identical to mine.
“How weird!” Patti said.
“It sure is.”
On its top was a bottle of Rheingold champagne with two lovely cut-glass champagne saucers that looked like ones Aunt Daisy might have used decades ago for a special occasion. On the floor stood an old banjo and a cigarette in an ashtray rested next to the sheet music for “Summertime.”
“I wonder who played the banjo,” I said.
“Didn’t lots of people play it then?”
“Yeah, but I never read anything about DuBose or Gershwin playing one.”
“Maybe it’s just a random decoration.”
I walked around the side of the glass case and got a glimpse of the back. It was uncovered. Mine was covered with a panel of wood, finished just like the piano itself.
“Maybe. Hey, Patti. Look at this.”
Patti came around and stood in the exact same spot where I was and looked.
“Cate? I think most upright pianos have an open back anyway.”
“Yeah, I know. Usually they’re up against a wall. And it’s probably for sound, too. So why is mine covered up?”
“Mom or Dad probably had it in an open space or something. Aunt Daisy might know. Let’s get out of here before we get stuck in rush-hour traffic.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost four thirty.
“Too late. We’re screwed,” I said.
And, as predicted, we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, not arriving at the Porgy House until ten minutes past five.
“You take the bathroom first!” she said.
“Thanks! Maybe he’ll be late!” I said, rushing up the stairs.
Patti and I made ourselves as presentable as we could in a short period of time and at six o’clock he wasn’t there. Ten after six, no John. Six fifteen, no John.
“Should you call him?” Patti said. “You know, maybe he’s got a flat or something.”
“Nice girls don’t call boys,” I said. “You want a glass of wine?”
“You’re not a nice girl. Call him.”
“If he’s not here in ten minutes, I’ll do it.”
I went down to the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine from the open bottle in the refrigerator. I tasted one and then poured them both down the drain. There was nothing quite like cheap wine that had been sitting in a refrigerator for a couple of days to make you want a Diet Coke.
Finally, there was a knock at the door, which he opened himself and called out, “Cate? Sorry I’m late!”
“I’m right here!”
He gave me a kiss and said, “Wow, you smell good.”
The man was a veritable poet sometimes. Freaking Keats. But it should be noted that he smelled good enough to, well, you know what I mean. Pretty delicious is what, okay?
“Thanks! So, what happened? I was getting worried. You know, dead in a ditch?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from you. Don’t you know that by now? There was a terrible wreck on Folly Road and my cell is dead. How’s Miss Daisy?”
“Doing great, thanks! She’s probably coming home tomorrow.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“Patti? John’s here!”
“Coming!” she called back and I could hear her feet scurrying about overhead.
“Oh! Guess what? We went to the Charleston Museum today and saw the piano.”
“And?”
“You were right, of course. It is absolutely identical to mine.”
“Isn’t that something?” John said.
“Yeah, it’s another one of those crazy coincidences.”
“There are no coincidences, Cate. This is another confirmation that you are the one to write Dorothy Heyward’s story. Plain and simple.”
“I’m buying a laptop tomorrow,” I said. “It’s time.”
“Hi!” Patti called