Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [77]
“No, sweetie, that would be discretion. Big difference. Now, if any of you ever see me having dinner with a known criminal then please, be my guest and alert the authorities. Anyway, he’s a friend and that’s all. It’s nice for me to have a friend, don’t you think?”
I forced myself to giggle so that she wouldn’t feel like it was a direct insult or reprimand and would then take it in stride. I winked at Russ, who was grinning, thankful that I had not really taken Alice to task, evidence of my vow to walk softly but think whatever I wanted. Let’s be honest, everyone knew what I thought of Alice, because it was a widely shared opinion.
“Ah, well, okay kids. I’m going to be on my way. Thanks for the pie, Ella. Y’all have a great evening! Oh, by the way? The piano is coming soon. Aunt Daisy? You don’t mind if I park it at the Porgy House for a while do you?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “That’s your little red wagon.”
“Oh, my! Well? Whatever that meant!” I gave her a little kiss on the cheek and left.
I returned to the Porgy House, freshened up my face, spritzed all the important targets with cologne, and then went downstairs to look around the downstairs den. The piano would have to go in there. The stairs that took you to the larger room upstairs were definitely too narrow and frankly, I wouldn’t ask the deliverymen to even chance it. They would be singing soprano in a choir. Even so, I’d have to make room in the cramped downstairs. I was thinking of different ways to rearrange things when John knocked on the door. I ran my hands through my hair and answered it.
“Hey! Come on in,” I said.
He breezed past me, smelling predictably addictive, and then turned to face me. “Wow, you look so pretty! What did you do?”
I just stared at him.
“That didn’t come out right,” he said. “What I meant was, you’re always pretty but I thought maybe you’d done something to yourself? You know, different hairdo or something?”
“Pink lipstick, but it’s not new,” I said. “Bobbi Brown says you should always wear pink lipstick because it brightens up your face.”
“Well, I’ll have to try that,” he said.
“Oh, please.” I shook my head and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
There was very little traffic on Folly Road and we were just sailing along. I fell in love with the landscape every time I came this way, crossing the little bridges, spotting the snowy white egrets standing majestically in the quiet marsh and the occasional great blue heron swooping by.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Beyond,” I said. “I can’t tell you how many times I tried to remember all of this and describe it to someone but there are no words.”
“Yeah, you really have to see it to believe it.”
“And every time of year is different . . . so pretty.”
The marsh grass was a beautiful tawny color, like the fur of a chinchilla. Whether it was green in the summer or brown in winter, it always seemed like you could just run your hand across it and it would feel so good, like streams of silk. The reality was it would cut your hands to ribbons while you sunk into the pluff mud, waving good-bye cruel world, and banks of coon oysters wouldn’t even blink as you went down, never to be heard from again. Take my word for it: don’t wear your good shoes clamming. In fact, if you ever do go out in the marsh, make sure it’s dead low tide and don’t bring those shoes into your house. Ever. Unless you like the smell of sewage.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Fabulous. I’m going to be a grandmother!”
“Oh Cate, how wonderful!”
“Yep, in September!” I was thrilled. “And I spent the better part of the day today and yesterday at the Historical Society, reading until I was bleary-eyed.”
“Fantastic! I want to hear all about it.”
“Dorothy and DuBose were a couple of real characters, but you already know that.”
“Yeah, but I am anxious to hear your take on them.”
He began whistling a tune.
“Well, somebody’s chipper over there, Mr. Bluebird!” I said.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” he said as he stopped at a traffic