Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [33]
Pushing the door closed he said, “I doubt that will be a problem.”
He drove me down King Street to South Battery and stopped before an imposing three-story crowded with people. Classic Charleston. All the women wore pumps and pearls while all the men were wearing the same brand of four-eye, lace-up leather shoes, the same shade of khakis, same style of blue button-down and slightly varied versions of striped ties.
I stepped out of the car and nearly choked on my own tongue. To my left, the sidewalk looked dark, desolate and inviting. I stared up at the porch, which held up the four huge columns in front of the house. She stood at the banner, engaged in conversation, looking at me.
I straightened my coat and the driver whispered behind me, “Don’t worry, sir. Most of them are just compensating. If the story about you, and what you did for Miss Coleman, is true, you’ll be fine.”
“And if it’s not?”
He studied the scabbing cut across my right middle knuckle and the purple under and around my left eye. “I imagine it is.”
“Thanks.”
I climbed the stairs into the aroma of designer perfumes married to Bermuda aftershaves. I’d never seen more diamonds in my life. Ears, neck, fingers. If these people were compensating, they had spent some money doing it. Mink, cashmere, camel hair and starched oxford broadcloth created the texture where high-pitched laughter echoed above the low hum of conversation.
She slid through the crowd like water. “Thanks for coming.”
“You know all these people?”
“Most.” She looped her arm in mine. “Come on, I want to introduce you.”
We walked through the front door, into a grand entry where five layers of trim accented the fourteen-foot ceilings and the crystal chandelier looked to weigh a ton. Along one wall a tall man in a white coat dipped a ladle into a silver punch bowl and filled china teacups with something that smelled of apple cider, cinnamon, clove and citrus. He offered me a cup, “Suh?”
“No thanks.”
Abbie took the cup from him and said, “Thanks, George.” She offered it to me. “It’s wassail. I made it.”
I sipped it. “Interesting, but…but good.”
She set the cup down, turned right and walked into a den where the firelight was glowing off flush faces and dark mahogany. A white-haired, distinguished, handsome man in a striped suit stood surrounded by forty or fifty people. Some swirled brandy, others sipped Chardonnay, all held a glass. He was the epicenter of attention and conversation. When the crowd parted to make way for her, which meant us, I recognized him. He was broader than I had anticipated and sounded taller on TV.
She led me forward, looping her other arm through his. Looking back, that was the moment I joined the tug-of-war. And he sensed it. “Daddy, I’d like you to meet Doss Michaels.”
I extended my hand. “Senator, sir.”
His handshake was firm, practiced and cold, and his cuff link was sharp and pointy. He had sized me up before our hands touched. “So, I have you to thank for saving my daughter.”
“No, sir. Given a few more minutes, I think she could have taken him.”
He smiled. “Well spoken. Well spoken.” The crowd laughed and then quieted. He addressed them. “Everyone, may I introduce Doss Michaels to you? A man I have just met and yet to whom I am forever indebted following the events of last week.” They clapped and made me wish I could jump through a trap door. She looped her left hand back through mine, interlocking our fingers, and spoke to all the women who’d gathered about—waving her right index finger like a windshield wiper through the air. “Not yet, ladies. He’s mine, you can just wait your turn.”
I had never seen one person more comfortable with and more in command of her surroundings. She had a gift. She led me outside