Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [65]
“Wow,” I said when he finally stood back.
“Wow yourself,” he said. “Who taught you how to kiss like that?”
“All Catholic girls are sluts. Didn’t your momma ever tell you that?”
He laughed so hard then and I did, too. We laughed, teasing each other, until tears ran down our faces.
Do you know how long it’s been? Are we teenagers or just manic? Or maniacs? The last time I even kissed anyone was . . . who remembers? Is it the Magic Margarita? Oh my God! That was crazy!
“So! Listen!” he said with some seriousness. “Here I was thinking I’m not going to reveal the story of my life to you if the kissing ain’t no good but I think we’re okay there. Whaddya think?”
“I’m thinking I might need a cardiologist. No lie! Feel my heart!”
He was about to place his hand over my heart, which was conveniently located under my left breast, and I thought, shit, he’s gonna know my puppies are store-bought.
It did not appear to matter.
My heart was banging against my rib cage something fierce and I was still out of breath.
“Wow. I don’t think you need a doctor but you might want to join a gym,” he said with a straight face.
“Up yours,” I said and began to calm down. Sort of.
“Actually, normally it’s the other way around. Want to have dinner tomorrow?”
“Can’t. Seeing my son and his wife.”
“Then, the next night?”
“Without a doubt.”
This time he was leaving. I wasn’t stopping him. We’d had our fun, well, we’d learned what our real fun might be like and it was enough to know for the time being. Besides, I wanted to make the Heywards’ bedroom look something more than it did, you know, flowers or candles or some atmospheric enticements from this century. Not that we would need much encouragement. Holy hell. I would have to give the personal grooming issue some immediate and thorough attention. Holy hell. Holy hell. Holy hell.
And speaking of the Heywards, I fully intended to find the South Carolina Historical Society building and spend the day there digging around. I wanted to understand why John was so passionate about this period of Charleston’s history but what I really wanted to know was why would a woman who had a classical education let her high school dropout husband take the bulk of the credit for her work? Or did she? Was it just a perfect collaboration? Because of the times in which they lived? Was that what had really happened? I suspected there was more.
Chapter Fifteen
Setting: The bathtub at the Porgy House.
Director’s Note: Photos of Hanovia’s Alpine sun lamps, the News and Courier, and the streets of Folly paved in oyster shells on the backstage scrim.
Act II
Scene 3
Dorothy: Like I did on so many weekends, I got up early to take a hot bath, deciding to let DuBose and Jenifer sleep for a while. It was a Saturday and there was no reason to rush headlong into the day like the house was on fire. The fog and damp continued to hang over the island as though it had taken up permanent residence and I probably could have convinced Jenifer that we were actually in London.
The wind last night was fierce, thundering around the house like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse! I was surprised and believe me, very glad that Jenifer slept through it. In fact, DuBose slept soundly, too. I was the one up and walking the floors.
Island winters were very different from island summers when the beaches were stuffed with cars and sunbathers and everything was light and full of optimism and liveliness. Winter was its opposite, undeniably strange in the early morning and at night the fog rolled in and out on the tides. It was hard to believe there was a world out there over the bridges