Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [45]
Ella went to the front door and began fumbling with keys, trying to find the right one. I hopped out to help Aunt Daisy and she turned around, eyes narrowed and focused on my bumper.
“You can’t drive that car in that condition,” she said. “And you’ll get a ticket in about two seconds for not having a taillight!”
“Yeah, you’re right. But your friend Mr. Risley promised to call today and get it fixed.”
“My friend? Humph.” She raised her eyebrows and said, “We’ll see just whose friend he is soon enough!”
“Oh, please,” I said but I was talking to her back.
Ella finally got the door open and came back to help Aunt Daisy navigate the stairs but of course Aunt Daisy was already halfway inside the house. Between her cane and holding on to the handrails there wasn’t much that could stop her from moving when it suited her but any fool could see she really was incapacitated by her broken foot.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” she said, calling out to Ella, who was turning on all the lights inside the little house.
A funny thing happened then. When the sun came from behind a cloud and through the trees, the ugly little weather-beaten cottage became adorable. It was absolutely charming and I was completely surprised by it. I felt an instant psychological lift as though this house was going to be my friend. But I knew the insides were very old, the plumbing and so forth, and I wondered how I would fare, trying to cook in a kitchen from the Dark Ages. This whole scene was going to be a cosmic test of my true mettle.
I stepped inside to a small living room that had been set up like a miniature museum exhibition, with Heyward and Gershwin paraphernalia all around on easels. There were playbills from the original production of Porgy and Bess, original copies of piano sheet music for “Summertime” and other hit songs from the musical. There was a glass case that held small glasses for cocktails and a decanter collection.
“I don’t think they used this room too much except to pour booze,” Aunt Daisy said. “Come see the kitchen.”
“Quaint,” I said. “My piano should go in this room.” I reminded myself to talk to Mark about shipping it down here.
“Maybe.”
“What piano?” Ella said.
“My mother gave it to me when I was little.”
“This house don’t need a piano!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Hush, Ella! That piano is an heirloom! Anyway, I’ve kept everything this way on purpose. Can’t you just see Dorothy Heyward standing here making supper for DuBose and Jenifer? Although, I understand she wasn’t much of a cook. But this is history! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Oh, goodness yes!” I said to make her happy, but if I had known the words to the song from The Rocky Horror Show I would have entertained them with my version of “The Time Warp.”
The kitchen was, well, really sort of pathetic compared to my Rolls-Royce kitchen in New Jersey. There was an ancient white ceramic sink on the far wall to the right of the back door. In the center of the left wall was a white stove with one oven, and a cabinet and a counter stood to the right. A white refrigerator stood to the left of the stove. Both appliances were from the fifties or sixties and could be replaced with period examples if this place was to be a museum. But I decided to keep my mouth shut for the moment. A round pine table stood in the center of the room with a few chairs. Any one of the home decorating programs on HGTV would have eaten this room alive, taking it on as the almighty challenge. But the apple-green trim was certainly authentic to the period and I wondered how I might help Aunt Daisy enhance the décor. Anthropologie sold those hand-embroidered dish towels that were reminiscent of the thirties. And mercury-glass plates would look good on the plate rack. I had seen them in some catalog in pink and green, if memory served me. And there were the flea markets. Maybe I’d make this kitchen a project. It could be charming.
Aunt Daisy and Ella