Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [79]
“But it’s the updated version?”
“Exactly.”
Inside, we were shown to a table for two that was very nicely tucked away near the bar. Once again, as we crossed the dining room, John’s hand was resting on the small of my back. How and why had I ever lived for so long without any of these small demonstrations of affection? It just goes to show you that you can get along on very little.
We scanned the menus and I was drawn to the pastas.
“Wow,” I said. “I’m thinking about a big ole bowl of spaghetti and the house-cured salumi with the . . . well, with the stuff that comes with it.”
“And I’m torn . . .” John finally settled on the braised meatballs and polenta. “I’m having mussels to begin,” he said.
I’m having muscles later, I thought and did not say. Anyway, I loathed mussels and hoped I could watch him eat them without getting ill.
“Sounds good,” I said.
He ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico and we got down to the contents of the bread basket. As soon as the wine was poured, John said he wanted to propose a toast.
“Sure! To what?”
“I say let’s drink to the memory of the Heywards, John Bennett, Josephine Pinckney, and . . .”
“Hold it right there, Dr. Renaissance. It’s all I can do to hold the Heywards in my head!”
He laughed and said, “Okay. To Dorothy and DuBose!”
“How about just to Dorothy? DuBose is not exactly my favorite guy right now.”
“All right, then, to Dorothy.” We touched the sides of our glasses and took a sip. “So, do you want to tell me what poor old DuBose did to offend you so? We certainly have become a bit judgmental haven’t we? A few hours in a library and one of Charleston’s greatest icons is a scoundrel? ’Fess up, woman! What did you find?”
“Oh, please. Make fun. I mean, you’re right, of course. I’m no expert but the facts are a little strange. Where to start?”
“Start anywhere.”
“Well, all right. I’m assuming you’ve read everything they’ve got down there. Is that right?”
“Yeah, and everything from Harlan Greene and James Hutchisson and Barbara Bellows . . . but I’ll admit, it’s been a while. I can give you their books, too, you know, to round out your education.”
“That would be great.” I took another sip of wine. “I’m really loving this whole era, the beautiful gowns and the way women wore hats and gloves and what went on. Okay, so look, here’s the first thing I’m sure of. I am absolutely convinced that Dorothy Heyward was in love with DuBose like Cathy was with Heathcliff. Like Scarlett, like Anna Karenina, like Juliet . . . I mean, her love for him was epic, the stuff of the greatest classics in the whole of time. Obsession! Totally consuming obsession.”
“And what’s the matter with that? Isn’t that how a woman should love a man?” John had this tiny little smile creeping across his face.
“God forbid. That kind of love is a lethal prescription for misery. It’s what got me a room at the Porgy House. I mean, if you find yourself falling for someone, really falling? You’d better keep both eyes open.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, tell me more.”
Our appetizers arrived and I tried not to look at his so I dove right into mine, taking a bite of the chicken livers on crostini.
“Wow, this looks perfect. Okay, so, as you know, Dorothy got shuttled around from one aunt to another during her childhood and then shipped off to a boarding school, right?”
Then it happened.
“Yes. Say? Would you like a mussel?” John offered me one, with the dark slimy bulbous thing hanging from the tines of his fork like a horrible goober on a miniature gigging pole.
I gagged a little but held on.
“Uh, no, thanks. Listen, you may as well know, the only way that thing is getting in my mouth is if it can fly. Have you ever cleaned one of those bad boys?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a totally nasty trip. They’ve got this beard you have to remove and then this blue cone-shaped phallic thing you have to pull out . . .” I shuddered. “Sorry.”
“Gross,