Folly Beach (13 page)

Ella finally got the door open and came back to help Aunt Daisy navigate the stairs but of course Aunt Daisy was already halfway inside the house. Between her cane and holding on to the handrails there wasn’t much that could stop her from moving when it suited her but any fool could see she really was incapacitated by her broken foot.

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” she said, calling out to Ella, who was turning on all the lights inside the little house.

A funny thing happened then. When the sun came from behind a cloud and through the trees, the ugly little weather-beaten cottage became adorable. It was absolutely charming and I was completely surprised by it. I felt an instant psychological lift as though this house was going to be my friend. But I knew the insides were very old, the plumbing and so forth, and I wondered how I would fare, trying to cook in a kitchen from the Dark Ages. This whole scene was going to be a cosmic test of my true mettle.

I stepped inside to a small living room that had been set up like a miniature museum exhibition, with Heyward and Gershwin paraphernalia all around on easels. There were playbills from the original production of
Porgy and Bess,
original copies of piano sheet music for “Summertime” and other hit songs from the musical. There was a glass case that held small glasses for cocktails and a decanter collection.

“I don’t think they used this room too much except to pour booze,” Aunt Daisy said. “Come see the kitchen.”

“Quaint,” I said. “My piano should go in this room.” I reminded myself to talk to Mark about shipping it down here.

“Maybe.”

“What piano?” Ella said.

“My mother gave it to me when I was little.”

“This house don’t need a piano!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Hush, Ella! That piano is an heirloom! Anyway, I’ve kept everything this way on purpose. Can’t you just see Dorothy Heyward standing here making supper for DuBose and Jenifer? Although, I understand she wasn’t much of a cook. But this is history! Isn’t it exciting?”

“Oh, goodness yes!” I said to make her happy, but if I had known the words to the song from
The
Rocky Horror Show
I would have entertained them with my version of “The Time Warp.”

The kitchen was, well, really sort of pathetic compared to my Rolls-Royce kitchen in New Jersey. There was an ancient white ceramic sink on the far wall to the right of the back door. In the center of the left wall was a white stove with one oven, and a cabinet and a counter stood to the right. A white refrigerator stood to the left of the stove. Both appliances were from the fifties or sixties and could be replaced with period examples if this place was to be a museum. But I decided to keep my mouth shut for the moment. A round pine table stood in the center of the room with a few chairs. Any one of the home decorating programs on HGTV would have eaten this room alive, taking it on as the almighty challenge. But the apple-green trim was certainly authentic to the period and I wondered how I might help Aunt Daisy enhance the décor. Anthropologie sold those hand-embroidered dish towels that were reminiscent of the thirties. And mercury-glass plates would look good on the plate rack. I had seen them in some catalog in pink and green, if memory served me. And there were the flea markets. Maybe I’d make this kitchen a project. It could be charming.

Aunt Daisy and Ella were already outside on the side porch.

“What’s that funny look on your face, Cate? Is my funny little house already working its magic on you?”

“Maybe,” I said and thought maybe it really was.

Aunt Daisy and Ella exchanged knowing looks. Perhaps there was more to the house than I knew but it didn’t matter. I was anxious to get settled. I had to unpack my car and I wanted to call Russ again and Patti. Then I realized that if I had all that to do I had better set up a time to meet with Mr. Risley before the day got away from me.

As if she was reading my mind, Aunt Daisy said, “If you have to leave your car in the shop overnight, you can use mine. I can’t drive now anyway! Go look around upstairs. You can bunk anywhere you want but if and when groups come through . . .”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry. I’ll make my life disappear so much that they’ll think DuBose and Dorothy are in the room next door.”

“Well, actually, they are,” Ella said and laughed so hard I thought she had lost her mind. But Aunt Daisy was laughing, too.

“Okay, you two! What are you saying? This little place is haunted?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself!” Aunt Daisy said.

They smiled a little too serenely for my nervous system and left soon after that, handing me the key.

I went upstairs to see what my choices would be and I quickly decided to sleep in the bedroom in the back of the house. It faced west, so the sun wouldn’t wake me up in the morning. And it was next to the bathroom, which had a claw-foot tub and no shower. Well, I thought, I’ll just buy one of those rubber things from the hardware store that clamps over the faucet so I can wash my hair. Then I thought, Honey? You sure have come a long way from having your hair blown out at a salon three times a week, haven’t you?

“Thanks, Addison. You stupid jerk,” I said to an empty room.

The rest of the morning was spent trying to figure out what to do with my meager belongings. There was a tiny two-room guest cottage in the backyard of the house, which I had yet to examine, which I thought might be good for out-of-season clothes and some boxes of books. There was really no point in unpacking every last thing, because surely I wouldn’t be here that long. I went out there to see what kind of shape the guesthouse was in and, to my surprise, there were hundreds of conch shells in there all over the floor and not a closet to be found. It occurred to me then that Aunt Daisy had mentioned at dinner last night that this was where Dorothy and DuBose did their writing. That must have been true, because between the tiny windows and the miniscule rooms that were no larger than jail cells, I could not envision anyone living in there comfortably. It must have been murderously hot in the summer, too, because there was very little ventilation.

I was musing over the details of the Heywards’ life and my cell phone rang. My caller ID said College of Charleston. I am embarrassed to admit this but there was a distinct fluttering in my stomach. I wasn’t too old to flutter.

“Hello?” I said, trying to sound normal and not giddy.

“Hi! Remember me? This is the guy who creamed your SUV at the Pig last night? John Risley?”

“Oh, yeah! I remember you! How are you?”

“Still feeling awful about it and wondering if I can come pick you up and take you to the body shop and maybe out for lunch or something? I don’t have any more classes this afternoon.”

“Sure! Yeah! Why not?”

We decided I’d meet him at Taco Boy, we could eat there and I’d follow him to the body shop. Then he’d bring me home to Aunt Daisy’s. When I told him I was staying at the Porgy House, he was stunned.

“Well, my aunt Daisy McInerny owns it.”

“Well, it’s a small world, that’s for sure. I know Miss Daisy really well! I teach the Charleston Literary Renaissance at the college, in addition to creative writing and some other things when they need me to. But I love the Porgy House! I bring students out there all the time.”

“Yeah, she told me that last night. Well, okay then. I’ll see you at one?”

“Yep. I’ll be there.”

We hung up and my first thought was what in the heck is the Charleston Literary Renaissance? How could I have missed a whole
renaissance?
Oh. Wait. I was shuffle ball changing in a black leotard and pink tights, singing my heart out in auditions and trying to get into Juilliard. Oh, so what, I told myself. He’s not going to ask you to write a paper, for heaven’s sake! He just wants to fix your car!

I got there at about five minutes past one, not wanting to be the first to arrive, which was really stupid, because he had to be completely unaware that I had entertained any kind of lewd thoughts about him. It was dark inside. I looked all around at the faces in the crowd and couldn’t recognize him. But then a man at a table in the back stood and waved. It was him and for some reason, I wasn’t nervous anymore.

“Hey! How are you?” I said, fumbling around with my sunglasses and purse. I didn’t shake his hand or give him a hug, because both seemed like a weird thing to do. But I smiled at him and he smiled back, seeming happy to see me, even though it was going to cost him time and money to do so when he didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat. Okay. Maybe I was still a little nervous.

“So, you’re Miss Daisy’s niece. How about that?”

“So far it’s worked out okay,” I said. Don’t be a smart ass, I told myself. “Actually, Aunt Daisy raised me and my sister Patti after our parents died. She’s pretty amazing.”

“Yep, she sure is. You grew up on Folly?”

“Yeah, well, to the extent that I ever grew up . . .” You sound like an imbecile, my inner voice warned. “I mean, living on the beach keeps you young, you know?”

“Yeah, I think it does. Keeps you lighthearted anyway. So are you a surfer?”

“No. My sister surfed. I danced. Musical theater variety of dance.”

“Ah!”

A waiter appeared to take orders but I hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“Drinks?” said the deep-tanned, multi-tattooed, and dyed-blond ponytailed waiter, who obviously surfed whenever possible, all year-round, hence the tan. He was adorable and exactly the kind of young man that my Sara might fall dead in love with and take another ten years off her poor (literally) mother’s life.

“Iced tea?” John suggested.

“Sure, why not?”

“Sweetened?”

“No, thanks,” I said and thought, gosh, I’ll have to get used to drinking iced tea in the winter again. There were a lot of things that were going to take getting used to, such as the freedom to go to places like Taco Boy, which was basically a beachside restaurant, which is also to say they served pretty cheap good food and the whole place smelled like salt and beer. Which I loved. If I had ever brought Addison Cooper to a place like this he would have informed the Health Department that there was a situation on Folly they might like to look into. Then he would have put on an Hermès ascot, which he never wore, just to be obnoxious, some attempt to look like the millionaire from that old television program
Gilligan’s Island.

“Did you hear me?” John said.

“God, I’m sorry, my mind just drifted. What did you say?”

“I said, I’m ordering some guacamole and the taquitos to begin and I think the sautéed shrimp taco is pretty great. We could share some quesadillas, too. And the chili con queso with chorizo. Love that. Or you just order whatever you feel like.”

“I think that sounds perfect!” I heard myself say and had no idea what I had just agreed to. To be truthful, I was staring at his hands, which were large and masculine and beautiful and I wondered if they corresponded to other body parts, which people always said they did. I was being ridiculous.

“Okay!” he said and rattled off what sounded like enough dishes to feed six people.

“Awesome,” the Heartbreak Kid said. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

When he had walked away, John looked at me and I thought holy hell, it might take every bit of strength I had in my body, but even if my clothes blew off in a hurricane, I was not having an affair with a married man. N. O. WAY.

“Tell me everything about you, Cate,” he said. “I want to know who you are.”

Oh great. That was all it took, that one simple request was all it took for me to understand that I had no idea anymore who I was. Moreover, how many decades had it been since someone wanted to know about me?

We had lunch, made pleasant conversation, not too heavy, drove to the repair shop, and he brought me back to Aunt Daisy’s. I thanked him, died internally one thousand times to see him drive away, took Aunt Daisy’s car, and bought groceries. Later I called Russ to let him know the mother ship was out on Folly if he and Alice wanted to have supper one night, that it would be great. And I called Sara and even though I didn’t want it to, the story of John Risley slid out and she asked me if my heart was all aflutter for him. Of course I denied it, ha-ha, don’t be silly, I said and I knew she was upset with me. Then I said that she
had
to come to Folly for Easter and how was the mixology business coming along? Hmmm? But my face was in flames.
Who is the Risley guy, Mom? No one, sweetheart, no one.
And I passed on dinner with Aunt Daisy, ate a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk for supper, soaked for hours in Dorothy Heyward’s bathtub, and didn’t fall asleep until after three in the morning, worrying about what would become of me. And what was I going to do about John Risley? The greater question was would I have the opportunity
to do
anything about him? I needed to talk to Patti. Where had the day gone?

Chapter Eleven

Setting:
The Porgy House upstairs parlor, daybeds and afghans.

Director’s Note:
Photos of the book
Imitation of Life,
Fannie Hurst, Zora Neale Hurston, Claudette Colbert, Langston Hughes, Sterling Brown,
Porgy
playbill on the backstage scrim. Then photos of the music room, where the barware and brandy were kept. Now to photos of younger Dorothy in Puerto Rico, New York, and finally a photo of Josephine Pinckney. All DuBose Heyward lines spoken off-stage.

Act II

Scene 1

Dorothy:
It was that same winter, not long after the night I heard all the crying that DuBose thought was a cat but I knew better. I was thinking about the nature of Fate.

We were in the upstairs parlor, curled up on our own daybeds. During the winter we used them as sofas, but on many of the steamy summer nights when there was not a breath of air to be found indoors, we simply rolled the daybeds out to the porch and slept there, dreaming of wonderful things, lulled by the sounds of the ocean across the street and cooled by the gorgeous salt breezes. Not so
that
February. It was
cold
. The supper dishes were put away, a small fire burned in the fireplace, and we were warm and relaxed, each of us absorbed in our reading, with afghans covering our legs and feet.

“You must be enjoying your book, little one,” DuBose said. “I haven’t heard a peep from you in over an hour!”

I moved my bookmark to the page I was reading, closed the book, placed it by my side, and sighed a long sigh of exasperation or frustration. I knew DuBose was not entirely sure which it was.

“I’m not sure if I like it or not but I can’t put it down!”

I was reading
Imitation of Life,
a novel published the year before that was the subject of wicked high praise from
some
quarters and suspicious derision from others. Some people said it was a sensitive story, one that portrayed the race issues carefully and truthfully. Others said it stereotyped the African Americans and the idea that black people wished to be white was racist and absurd. I was beginning to think it was wonderful and well done.

“Well, you’ve heard about the author? Fannie Hurst? She’s all involved with the Harlem Renaissance.”

“Good for her,” I said.

“No, seriously! I think I heard she even had Zora Neale Hurston working for her doing secretarial work or something,” DuBose said. “The world is changing every day and right before our eyes.”

“Yes, but is that change for the better? They’re saying that Claudette Colbert is going to play Bea in the film. Can you imagine?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“I guess so, if you like that slick kind of Hollywood look. Big eyelashes? Shiny lips?”

“She’s not nearly as pretty as you are, dear.”

“Humph. You know that movie is going to come off as a, well, a racist disaster, polarizing everyone one more time. I mean, your buddy Langston Hughes liked the concept fine until that mean old Sterling Brown clobbered it.”

“The devil has a special place in hell for critics of all types,” DuBose said.

“What’s that again?”

“I said, the devil has a special place in hell for critics of all types.”

What a marvelous and consoling thought that all the critics might actually be in hell. We’d certainly wished them there often enough!

“I’ll say. We had some of the same kind of rubbish over
Porgy
. Remember? It takes
place
in Charleston but it can’t be
performed
in Charleston? Bigots. It’s so wrong.”

“I wish I
could
forget! I’m going to pour myself a little bit of brandy to warm my bones. Can I get some for you?”

“Oh, why not? Now I’m all riled up again! I mean, DuBose! Listen! What’s life without risk?” I threw back my afghan and stood, slipping my feet back into my flats. The floors of the house were cold and drafty.

“Pretty darn dull if you ask me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe I’ll have a pretzel.”

“This book really has your motor going, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Look, all this brouhaha is a little bit like saying that you can’t write about Italians if you aren’t Italian. Or that you can’t write about women if you’re a man! It’s just ridiculous!”

DuBose opened the cabinet and took out two snifters. He reached for the decanter of brandy, removed its heavy top, and poured out a measure with his left hand. I stood there ready to help him. DuBose’s left arm had been greatly compromised by polio when he was a young man. Fortunately or by necessity he was right-handed. We didn’t talk about it and he was very modest, keeping it hidden as much as possible. But the task was completed without incident and he handed a glass to me.

“You’re right, my dear! Here’s to taking a leap, to taking chances with words and in life!”

“Cheers, darling! Cheers!” We touched the sides of our glasses and took a small sip. “Oh, DuBose! That’s so perfect! I can feel the brandy warming me up all over!”

“Good, sweetheart! Shall we check on Jenifer?”

“I’ll go. In a minute. DuBose? Do you remember
my
big leap? When I left the University of Minnesota and moved to Puerto Rico?”

“I didn’t know you then, little Dorothy.”

“Oh, phooey! You know the story well enough.”

“But tell me again!”

He was humoring me and I didn’t even care.

“Oh, you . . . all I’m saying is that there
is
such a thing as the hand of Fate or something because think about it. When I was in Puerto Rico at Uncle Charles’s house I wrote that mess of a play? Then I had the pure temerity and stupidity to send it to Professor Baker. I remember that all I wanted to do was be in New York City. Oh! I wanted to be in New York so badly!”

“You are a born playwright, my dear.”

“Thank you. But remember? Professor Baker told me to keep at it so I went to Columbia? And there I wrote
Jonica
and that landed me at MacDowell! If I had not taken that risk, I would never have met you! Don’t you see? Sometimes Fate pushes you to take a chance on something in life and it can make all the difference!”

“Thank heavens you had the courage to roll the dice!”

“Yes! Or you would have married Jo Pinckney!”

“What? Ho! I don’t
think
so! I was not meant to marry Jo.”

“That doesn’t mean you never
considered
it.”

DuBose paused for a moment and I could see his wheels turning. He always wondered how was it that women were so sly and clever? How did I know things I had never been told? There was no real reason for me to be jealous of Jo Pinckney, her social standing, or her intelligence. But I kept my ear to the ground and the gossip mill said that Jo’s mother had made it plain ages ago when DuBose was scratching around Jo’s door that he didn’t have enough to offer her daughter and that was the end of that business. They remained good friends to this very day. Besides, he knew Jo was happier to be single, to entertain
numerous
gentlemen, and to have her freedom to travel the world. I hope you all got what I meant to imply.

“The moment I met you, my dear, the whole world stopped spinning and I knew I was meant to be with you.”

I smiled then, reasonably placated and satisfied. It might have sounded like baloney, but in my heart I knew it actually was true. DuBose and I
were
meant for each other.

“We even look alike,” I said with obvious pride.

“Yes, yes, we do. Ah, Dorothy. Come now, tell me. What’s bothering you?”

“There’s going to be a drastic change, DuBose. Something or someone is coming. I can feel it in my bones.”

“A storm?”

“I don’t know . . . something . . . someone. I don’t know.”

“Hmmm. And your bones are never wrong.”

Fade to Darkness