Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [33]
“I don’t believe in driving at night. Too many crazy truck drivers on the road, all hopped up on something!”
“You’re probably right about that,” I said. I knew the kitchen was closing, so I said good-bye to her, too, and ran a brush through my hair.
Downstairs there was a ballroom, a solarium, a library, and the walls and decorative ceilings—all of it with innumerable architectural details. It fascinated me, because it was so old and all done by hand. Hundreds of wood rosettes decorated the huge beams, probably hand-carved on the spot by an immigrant from Italy or Poland, some poor fellow perched up on a scaffolding, who spoke two words of English. You could almost feel the ghosts of all the craftsmen and artists who had made this home so beautiful. There I was, recently sprung from a culture that screamed NEW, and Lord, OLD was so much more warm and appealing. It was absolutely charming and I wished suddenly that I had more time to spend there, just to sightsee, since Petersburg, according to the brochures by the front door, had more eighteenth-century homes than anywhere else in the country. Somehow, and by God’s grace, that devil Sherman missed it.
To my delight, I was not the only guest of the Ragland Mansion. There was a family from Pennsylvania there with their children, traveling to Washington, D.C., to see all the monuments and the Smithsonian. All of them had red hair, shining like new copper pennies, and the map of Ireland all over their faces. I had forgotten about spring breaks and winter breaks for schools. Those days were behind me as were so many things, which gave me a sentimental pause, remembering my trips to Boston and Washington with my children. Not now and not ever again. Now I was The Widow. Not to be confused with the merry one. Traveling alone. Tell us your story . . . Thankfully, they could not have been less interested in me. I could’ve been a Russian spy or an escapee from a mental institution for all they knew. But then, would my future be anything more than occasions where I was the silent bystander, of no interest to anyone? Would I shrivel up with each passing holiday until I was a wizened old crone? Screw that, I thought, I ain’t gonna let that happen. Hell, I used to dance on Broadway! I had a story! I’d find my way. I would.
The good news was that the McDonough family was a highly conversational and energetic group of five, who kept the innkeeper busy all through dinner, peppering him with questions about the history of the house, local points of interest, and were there any nuts in the bread, because Junior, their five-year-old mouth-breather kid whose finger rarely left the inside of his nose, was deathly allergic. I kept my novel open under my left hand, and avoided them all. The meal was actually pretty good—roast beef, mashed potatoes, and some kind of mixed vegetable casserole. Dessert was a simple baked apple with a cinnamon stick propped inside against its missing core like a straw, and I washed it down with my third glass of a mediocre red table wine that was there for the taking. It’s good for my cholesterol, I told myself. And my attitude. And after my date with the soaking tub, I slept like someone had shot me dead.
The next morning arrived, bright, clear, and beautiful. I was downstairs in the dining room again, reading the local newspaper, munching away on a warm cranberry-pecan muffin and drinking a mug of delicious coffee laced with almond, when Junior the Allergic appeared at the breakfast buffet without the benefit of adult or sibling supervision. I watched his germy little hand approach the muffin basket in slo-mo, all the while he was eyeing me, just daring me to say something. I knew his kind. But, still, I had a conscience.
“There are nuts in them,” I said.
“So?”
“So, you’re not my kid, but I just thought you might want to make an informed decision about how you die.”
“Oh.” The hand retreated.
“You could probably get pancakes, if you