Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [131]
“God, you are so gorgeous,” I said, “move over.”
“Go to bed, you bad girl. I’ll have my way with you all weekend.”
He stood up, pulled me to my feet, pushed my hair away from my face, and laid one on me.
I opened my eyes. “Okay, ’night!” I said, surrendering, and went to brush my teeth. If he had said go sleep in the yard, I might have thought about it. Good grief.
Patti was in the bathroom, drying her face.
“God, Cate,” Patti said, “it’s like I’ve known John forever. It’s so funny.”
“Yeah, we all just fit. It’s just right. It’s as right as old Addison was wrong.”
“God rest his evil soul; I didn’t say it. You did.”
“That son of a bitch,” I said, “but I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Amen.”
Maybe because of the wine or because I knew that John was under the same roof, in fact just in the next room, I slept more soundly than normal. I got up as soon as I stirred instead of indulging my usual slugabed rolling around and trying to recapture the fragments of that last dream. It looked cold outside but at least it wasn’t raining. We could use a nice day.
I slipped into the bathroom, not wanting to wake him or Patti and went about the usual business of my morning toilette. I left a new toothbrush and a razor on the counter for John. Then I tiptoed downstairs to get the coffee going. The kitchen was clean. I could not remember doing the dishes and I wondered if Patti and John had done them without me. Hmmm, I thought, maybe all this conversation about Dorothy and DuBose is bringing them back from the dead? With sponges? Nah, too far-fetched, even for me. But how wonderful would it be to have a housekeeper who you never had to talk to, deal with, or pay? It was a nice idea that could only happen in the movies, like that old film with Cary Grant, Topper. Maybe it was something I could use in a play. Like my daughter, I always woke up with one foot left in fantasyland.
Ah well, they’d be downstairs soon and all I had to offer them was coffee and the remains of Ella’s coffee cake. And then I thought of Aunt Daisy and hoped she was coming home that very day.
Before John left, he pulled the piano out and had a good look at the back. The towel on the sill was soaked through.
“That’s a pretty impressive leak in that window,” he said. “Better get that fixed right away.”
“Aw, shoot!” I said. “Look at the back! It’s shot!”
“Yeah, but wait, look at this. The way it’s attached is from under the top piece. I can probably lift this whole panel off with a flat-top screwdriver, fill in the holes with wood fill, let it dry, give it some shoe polish, and you’d never know it was there to begin with.”
“Oh, John! I’d be so happy!”
“Making you happy is what I want to do,” he said and I sighed and thought, when was the last time somebody said things like that to me? High school, Tommy Brolling, backseat of a car, mission impossible . . . sorry Tommy, wherever you are.
Patti cut him a big slice of her pound cake and another for Ella.
“I loved meeting you, Patti,” he said.
“I think we’ll probably see each other again,” she said and hugged him.
“I sure hope so,” he said, “and thanks for a wonderful night.”
We watched him drive away then Patti turned to me.
“You sly dog,” she said.
“Woof,” I said.
We got dressed, went to pick up Ella, and let ourselves into the house.
“Ella? Good morning! We’re here!”
“I’m in here!” she called out.
Ella was in the kitchen, as always it seemed, watching Good Morning America, emptying the dishwasher and putting dishes away, giving them a swipe with a dish towel first.
“Does Willard Scott know you’re cheating on him?” I said.
“No, and don’t tell him but isn’t that George Stephanopoulos the cutest thing?” Ella said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s a honey,” Patti said. “I brought you some of my cake . . .”
“Thanks, Patti!” Ella said.
“Which is like bringing coals to Manchester,” I said.
“Newcastle,” Patti said.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Y’all eat?”
“Yeah, we’re good. You ready to go see the