Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [10]
He was twenty-five. She, barely twenty-two. They courted, appropriately, for nine months and then married in a wedding that shook most of Charleston with jealousy and unending speculation and gossip. For a wedding gift, he gave her a convertible Mercedes 450 SL Coupe.
After an Austrian alpine honeymoon topped off with a Tanzanian safari and a trek up the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro, they returned to his family home on the Battery in Charleston where he strategized for a run at the governor’s mansion. Eighteen months later, she bore him a daughter, Abigail Grace Eliot Coleman—the sixth generation. During the inauguration ceremony the following January, Abigail Grace smiled through her bonnet at every camera flash and drank up the attention like chocolate. Even then she had a knack.
But life took a turn.
Abigail turned two, and Ellen fell ill. Bruises that wouldn’t go away. Tests confirmed ovarian cancer run rampant. It didn’t take long. The widowed father placed Abigail Grace in Miss Olivia’s arms, put the car in cold storage, hid his mourning and focused his aim. He gave himself to “the people,” and after two terms as governor, he ran for Senate—where’s he’s been ever since.
When Abigail was ten, the then junior senator remarried. Like her predecessor, Katherine Hampton was everything Charleston. She could trace her lineage to one of the founders of Charleston and signers of the Declaration. In his search, he had done the unimaginable—he had found a woman who could dance on glass. She was strong enough to step out of Ellen’s shadow while not dishonoring her memory.
ABBIE GREW UP A DEBUTANTE, a graduate of Ashley Hall, the only daughter of the senator from South Carolina and the poster girl for the social elite. She had more class in five minutes than I had all day. Or all week. While I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, stepped in dog crap or spilled mustard across my white button-down, she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lacy napkin, made friends with stray dogs and levitated down sidewalks like Mary Poppins. We were as different as two people could be, and why she chose me is still a mystery. If you could see me, I’m scratching my head.
Christmas break my freshman year at the College of Charleston. I was working the late shift at the Charleston Place Hotel bar, located just off the Gone With the Wind double staircase that led upstairs. It was near midnight, I was bussing a table and four girls walked in. Everything about them said “Charleston.” Their walk, their clothes, the way they held their mouths. It’s not a snobbish thing, it’s upbringing. Sure, it could get snobbish, but in that moment, it was a seamless fusion of culture and class.
They ordered cappuccinos, lattes and a sampler plate of finger desserts. I screwed up the espresso, burned the milk with the steamer and squirted runny whipped cream across the top of their cups only to have the canister erupt and splatter my apron—which at the end of the day is a pretty good description of me.
They whispered and laughed ’til nearly 1 a.m. It used to be that when I saw a group of girls like that, my mind would sort of lump them all together. I’d see the group while no one person really stood out.
Except her.
She was one part Julie Andrews and two parts Grace Kelly. She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen, and trust me, I’ve spent some time studying pretty faces. With her, it wasn’t the high cheeks, the lips, chin or nose. It was her eyes—and something behind them.
At Charleston Place, we catered to a lot of famous people. From Arab sheiks to Hollywood A-listers, the only thing uncommon is the absence of commonality. I knew she was famous, I knew I’d seen her face before, but I’d been on my feet for fourteen hours and things were a little fuzzy.
Finally, the most giggly girl in the group waved me to the table. I tried to act all waiterly, refilled their water glasses and stood back, towel hanging across my forearm. Her friend, Elizabeth I would