Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [139]
“Mom! Come on! I want to be with you.”
“And the Porgy House has no shower . . .”
“No shower? So, like . . . how in the world do you wash your hair?”
“With considerable determination and about fifty different yoga poses. And it has no television, either.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
“So, what are you doing there? I mean, like what the hell, Mom. You’re a creature-comfort kind of girl.”
“When you see it, you might understand. It grows on you.”
“Oh, wait. This is about John, isn’t it? He sleeps over and you don’t want me to hear you guys getting crazy.”
I pulled the car over to the side of the road and said, “You listen to me and hear me good, young lady. Yes, it’s because of John and you’re right, I don’t want you to hear your mother having sex. Happy? And guess what else? John Risley is the nicest, finest man I know and he makes me happier than anyone I have ever known in my entire life. Furthermore, the only reason you are here is because of him. He is the one who insisted on you playing Dorothy. Sight unseen, he wanted you.”
“Mom . . .”
“I’m not finished. I also don’t think it’s a good idea for us to rehearse all day and then be together all night. You’re twenty-five years old. When it gets dark, all adults should retreat to their own camps. You and I have a tremendous opportunity here, Sara. The world comes to Piccolo Spoleto, scouts from every casting company on and off Broadway. Let’s not blow it because you don’t like the idea of your mother being in love with someone you don’t know. Give this a chance, Sara. Now, if you don’t think you can abide by my wishes, tell me right now and we’ll go straight back to the airport and I’ll buy you a ticket to Los Angeles. No hard feelings.”
“Jeesch, Mom. Seems to me somebody else memorized their lines.”
“What’s it gonna be?”
“So when do I get to meet John?”
“Tonight. He’s so excited to meet you he got a haircut.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty sweet.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes.
“Uh, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“We can go now. Why don’t we all try to be adults here and give your plan a chance? But if I get scared all by myself in that big house, can I come over?”
“On occasion. Not too often.”
“Wow. He must be something.”
“He is.”
“Russ likes him. He said so.”
“So does Alice.”
“That’s it! I’m not saying one freaking word. If Alice likes him he must be a god. That snippy thing doesn’t like anyone.”
“That snippy thing is so sick that I actually feel sorry for her. But between us? Her behind is as big as Texas.”
“Oh my God! Really? When are we seeing them?”
“Tomorrow . . .”
We talked and gossiped like old friends the whole way out to Folly Beach. Once the boundaries were established, she took a deep breath and appeared to be acting her age. I hoped it would last. And when I told her that we had the piano Gershwin used in our possession she was absolutely astounded.
“Mom, that’s like totally amazing!”
“I know.”
I helped Sara get her bags into the house and gave her the key I had made for her. Fortunately, there was a guest room on the first floor—and it was a beautiful one—so we didn’t have to push and pull those horrible bags of hers up the steps. I pulled back the curtains and there was the Atlantic Ocean, and Sara stood at the sliding glass doors with me, awestruck. There were millions of white caps and ripples and the ocean was rolling in its glistening cobalt expanse as far as the eye could see.
“Wow,” Sara said.
“Yeah, that about sums it up,” I said and smiled.
“Not a bad room, huh, Mom?” She threw herself on the queen-size bed and bounced, making a guttural noise that suggested exhaustion.
The room was a pale shade of apple green and the fabric on the curtains and headboard was a dusty tangerine and green wide plaid that was embroidered over the plaid with olive green vines and flowers a deeper shade of peach. I realize that sounds ungapatched and maybe even fachalata but it was really beautiful. Aunt Daisy’s taste in fabrics was absolutely top-drawer.
“Not too