Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [78]
“I’m beginning to understand the obsession. Reading those papers is like eating potato chips or buttered popcorn. Once you get started . . .”
“Yep! That’s what happens. Most people don’t take the time or have the time to do what you’re doing right now, but wouldn’t it be a great way to spend vacations? I mean, visit different cities and read what they’ve got in their libraries and special collections of other people’s papers?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to visit a lot of places like Angkor Wat and Patagonia and the Galápagos Islands but on the other hand, you’re probably right. There are so many thoughts I have about Dorothy and DuBose, Dorothy especially. But I wouldn’t be able to verify my suspicions unless I went to Ohio and dug up all of her childhood and got the scoop on her aunts. I feel like Nancy Drew on one hand and like a cheesy reporter for a creepy tabloid on the other.”
“Cheesy reporter?”
“Yeah, you know, out in Hollywood there are these crazed paparazzi who go through people’s garbage cans, looking for receipts to see how much money they spend on clothes and count their liquor bottles to see how much they drink?”
“And their mango skins to see what’s in their smoothies?”
“Exactly! How do you decide who someone was, based on the papers they leave behind? It’s impossible. Especially in this case, because I don’t think Dorothy wants me to know all about her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There are too many holes. Stuff that’s missing. And things that don’t add up.”
The traffic on Folly Road grew heavier and then it seemed like we caught every single traffic light.
“Hmmm. By the way, we’re going to a very cool restaurant. The Wild Olive. It’s out on Maybank Highway. It’s actually real Italian, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, come on. The only Italian food in Charleston is Pizza Hut.”
“Not true! There are a few now. Anyway, they have this chef, a guy named Jacques Larson, and he’s great.”
“A French guy cooking Italian? Come on.”
“Nope, he’s from Iowa but he trained with Mario Batali . . .”
“No kidding?”
Well, of course, all you have to do is mention Italian food and the next thing I know, I’m salivating, my stomach is growling from massive hunger pangs, screaming to be fed, and I’m already trying to decide what I want to eat before I even see the restaurant much less a menu.
“Was that you?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassed to death.
“Holy hell! Do you want to stop for bread? I mean, can you make it there?”
“You’re hilarious, Risley. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Yeah, all the time.” He was so pleased with himself. So pleased.
“Listen to you! All that rumbling from such a little person.”
He reached over and gave my leg a friendly slap. It was funny but about every two minutes my stomach would start wailing again. And John would snicker and I would tell him to knock it off.
“This is truly disgusting,” I said.
“There are some crackers in the glove compartment,” he said.
I looked and there were a few packaged saltines in pairs, left over from a chili order at Wendy’s.
“Fine,” I said. “Great.”
“But I can pull into the 7-Eleven if you think you’d like me to. I mean, you know, feed the beast?”
“Just shut up and drive, okay?”
We were both laughing at that point, because what could you do? I turned up the radio. This had happened to me before and it was usually the result of too much acid and not enough carbs. Maybe. Honestly, who knew why it happened but I hated it and wished my digestive system hadn’t started going into overdrive when I was planning to become The Seductress that night. Some siren I was.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and got out. The building was white and new, beautifully lit and landscaped. I had no idea it even existed.
“When did they build this place?” I said.
“I don’t know. A year ago or maybe a couple of years ago?”
“So many things have changed since I grew up here,” I said.
“You’ve been spending too much time in enemy