Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [144]
Well, later on we were to learn that Sara did indeed win the part.
“Mom? Julia Roberts is so cool.”
“Do you call her Julia?”
“Yeah! She’s like totally grounded and normal and I love her, but so does everybody . . .”
Sara gushed. I listened, happy to know she was at last getting that chance she wanted, to act in a grand arena. Movies. What could be more exciting for her? I still preferred theater, but I was so happy for my Sara.
Maybe it was a week later, or maybe it was two weeks, but I know it was sweater weather on the beach. I found one of Dorothy’s recipes for something called Widow’s Punch and thought, what the heck? John and I both qualified for that one. So I mixed up a batch, chilled it, and poured it into a thermos. We had plans to take a walk down to the far end of the beach that overlooks the Morris Island Lighthouse. He was bringing sandwiches and I had beverage duty. I put the thermos in a canvas tote bag and when he arrived I got in his car and off we went. We passed locals, surfers, and tourists and finally came to the place where we parked and walked the distance to the part of the beach we wanted to see. Once there, I spread a blanket on the soft sand and John sat down beside me.
“Want a glass of Widow’s Punch?”
“What? You want turkey or ham?”
“Let’s share half and half,” I said. “Yeah, it’s Dorothy’s recipe.”
“Hmmm. Well, I brought something else with me,” he said and pulled out a pair of wire-cutters. He was going to cut my ring off and I was going to cut his.
“Finally!” I said and stuck out my palm. In one snip and a twist, the shackles of Addison Cooper were off. “Let me do yours.”
And I did.
“What should we do with them?” he said, holding the broken rings in his hand.
I stood up and offered him my hand. We walked to the water’s edge.
“I’ll bet you ten bucks you can’t throw them to the lighthouse,” I said.
“Really?”
He did the windup for the pitch and threw them far out into the water, but not far enough. The same thing happened with the second one.
“Too bad,” I said. “Ten dollars is a lot of money.”
“Too bad,” he said, “what a waste of two good rings.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m thinking pretty soon we’ll just have to buy two more.”
“John Risley! Are you asking me to marry you?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking of making an honest woman of you. Really. That’s all.”
“Oh, you want to marry me for the sake of the neighbors? The bohemians out here on Folly Beach? You think they care? You’re such a terrible liar.”
“Nah, I guess I wanted to ask you to marry me because I really love you, Cate.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a little satin sack. “Tricia Gustofson at Crogan’s said you’d like this. What do you think?” He held up a perfectly gorgeous diamond ring, the center stone surrounded by so many little diamonds it was almost blinding in the afternoon sun.
“You’re asking me to marry you?” I said, as he slipped the ring over my knuckle.
“What would you say if I did?”
“Well,” I stepped in close to him and kissed one cheek. “I’d say they got married on Folly Beach,” I said, and kissed his other cheek. “And then they moved into the Porgy House and lived happily ever after.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence? That’s exactly what I’d say, too.”
Author’s Note
I became interested in the Charleston Renaissance when SCETV Radio’s finest personality, noted historian and friend to authors everywhere, Walter Edgar asked me if I had read Three O’clock Dinner by Josephine Pinckney. I had not and he loaned me a copy, which I read and enjoyed tremendously. It seemed so contemporary but in its day (1945) it must have been controversial, as it touched on some topics that were still taboo in 2011.
I couldn’t forget the book or the writer’s voice, and as fate would have it, I mentioned that to Faye Jenson, the executive director of the South Carolina Historical Society, where I have served on the board for a few years. She said that she thought I should come down and read the papers of Dorothy and DuBose Heyward and others. So last summer, the summer