Folly Beach (32 page)

I just shook my head.

“Listen, Miss Matchmaker, I’ve got enough going on with John Risley. He’s practically sending me back to college with this whole Charleston Renaissance business. I don’t
want
to go to medical school.”

“I’m meeting him tonight,” Patti said. “But here’s the big question: Is he worthy?”

Aunt Daisy sat up a little and looked down her nose at Patti. Then she fell back into her pillows and began fanning herself.

“Got the message,” Patti said and giggled.

“Oh, Aunt Daisy,” I said.

There was no lack of drama in this family.

We stayed for most of the afternoon. Ella had returned and Aunt Daisy began drifting off to sleep.

“We’re going to go back out to the beach,” I said. “John’s coming at six.”

“Just call us if you need a single thing, okay? You’ve got our cell numbers, I hope?”

“I put them into Ella’s speed dial,” Patti said.

“I marvel at your tech talents,” I said.

We got in the car and rather than rush right back to Folly, I had this nagging urge to swing by the Charleston Museum to see the piano.

“Do you mind if we make a stop?” I said.

“No, of course not.”

“I just want to check something out before we see John tonight.”

It was a short ride and in minutes I swung into the museum’s parking lot and parked the car.

“This will take five minutes,” I said.

We paid our admission and hurried upstairs.

“Remember the old museum on Rutledge?” she said.

“Are you kidding? Remember that mummy?” I said.

“That thing used to give me nightmares.”

“Me too. You know, during the twenties and thirties the museum was run by a woman, which was a big deal at the time.”

“I’ll bet it was.”

“Yep, Laura Bragg was the first woman in the country to run a publicly supported institution of science and natural history. And she was a
lesbian.
”

“Oooh! Le Scandal!”

“Right? Lemme tell you, sister, back in the day? Charleston was wild! I could write a play just about her!”

“Who knows? Maybe you will.”

“I just might. Where are we? I’m lost. I thought it would be in this room . . .”

Patti asked the guard to direct us to the piano and he pointed the way—after this gallery, turn right, two more galleries, turn right again
 
. . .

Inside of a minute or two we were standing in front of the glass case that held the piano George Gershwin used to write some of the music for
Porgy and Bess.
It was identical to mine.

“How weird!” Patti said.

“It sure is.”

On its top was a bottle of Rheingold champagne with two lovely cut-glass champagne saucers that looked like ones Aunt Daisy might have used decades ago for a special occasion. On the floor stood an old banjo and a cigarette in an ashtray rested next to the sheet music for “Summertime.”

“I wonder who played the banjo,” I said.

“Didn’t lots of people play it then?”

“Yeah, but I never read anything about DuBose or Gershwin playing one.”

“Maybe it’s just a random decoration.”

I walked around the side of the glass case and got a glimpse of the back. It was uncovered. Mine was covered with a panel of wood, finished just like the piano itself.

“Maybe. Hey, Patti. Look at this.”

Patti came around and stood in the exact same spot where I was and looked.

“Cate? I think most upright pianos have an open back anyway.”

“Yeah, I know. Usually they’re up against a wall. And it’s probably for sound, too. So why is mine covered up?”

“Mom or Dad probably had it in an open space or something. Aunt Daisy might know. Let’s get out of here before we get stuck in rush-hour traffic.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost four thirty.

“Too late. We’re screwed,” I said.

And, as predicted, we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, not arriving at the Porgy House until ten minutes past five.

“You take the bathroom first!” she said.

“Thanks! Maybe he’ll be late!” I said, rushing up the stairs.

Patti and I made ourselves as presentable as we could in a short period of time and at six o’clock he wasn’t there. Ten after six, no John. Six fifteen, no John.

“Should you call him?” Patti said. “You know, maybe he’s got a flat or something.”

“Nice girls don’t call boys,” I said. “You want a glass of wine?”

“You’re not a nice girl. Call him.”

“If he’s not here in ten minutes, I’ll do it.”

I went down to the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine from the open bottle in the refrigerator. I tasted one and then poured them both down the drain. There was nothing quite like cheap wine that had been sitting in a refrigerator for a couple of days to make you want a Diet Coke.

Finally, there was a knock at the door, which he opened himself and called out, “Cate? Sorry I’m late!”

“I’m right here!”

He gave me a kiss and said, “Wow, you smell good.”

The man was a veritable poet sometimes. Freaking Keats. But it should be noted that he smelled good enough to, well, you know what I mean. Pretty delicious is what, okay?

“Thanks! So, what happened? I was getting worried. You know, dead in a ditch?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from you. Don’t you know that by now? There was a terrible wreck on Folly Road and my cell is dead. How’s Miss Daisy?”

“Doing great, thanks! She’s probably coming home tomorrow.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“Patti? John’s here!”

“Coming!” she called back and I could hear her feet scurrying about overhead.

“Oh! Guess what? We went to the Charleston Museum today and saw
the
piano.”

“And?”

“You were right, of course. It is absolutely identical to mine.”

“Isn’t that something?” John said.

“Yeah, it’s another one of those crazy coincidences.”

“There are no coincidences, Cate. This is another confirmation that you are the one to write Dorothy Heyward’s story. Plain and simple.”

“I’m buying a laptop tomorrow,” I said. “It’s time.”

“Hi!” Patti called out too loudly from the top of the steps. “Are y’all coming up or am I coming down?”

“Let’s get going,” I called up to her. “For the first time in my whole life, I skipped lunch.”

“Starving?” John said.

“Like an animal,” I said.

“Yeah, you are,” he whispered, with a naughty expression.

“Hush!” I mumbled.

Patti hurried downstairs, took one look at John, and I wouldn’t say she gasped or went all gooey, but there was a marked change in her normal demeanor. Maybe giddy was the way to describe her.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, in her usual way, but I knew better, because she was talking too loud.

He took her extended hand and put his other hand on top, holding on to it as though she was a rare and tender orchid he was protecting from a bruising tropical rain.

“So, you’re Patti, Cate’s
beautiful
sister I’ve heard so much about. You’re much younger than I thought you’d be. You’re a pastry chef, aren’t you? How do you stay so . . . I mean, Cate said you were a knockout but she didn’t prepare me for
this
! No, ma’am, she did
not
prepare me for this!”

Patti’s eyes opened wide; she leaned her head to one side and said in a new voice, one just above a whisper, “Please marry my sister. We’d love to have you in the family. I’m not kidding.”

Among the many qualities John Risley possessed, he was also able to lower the volume on my sister.

Massive giggles overtook us and countless disingenuous admonishments flew around the room like a swarm of crazy bees.

My sister’s such a great kidder, making jokes all the time! Who’s joking? For God’s sake, marry her! Do you think your sister would have me? Are you serious?

On and on they went until finally I said, “All right, you two? We can plan the wedding over dinner, okay?”

“I’ll make the cake. John, what kind of cake do you like?”

“I like every kind of cake,” he said. “Whatever you make is delicious, I’m sure!”

“And you’re so sweet to take us out to dinner. Can we make dinner for you tomorrow night?”

“I think that would be wonderful,” he said.

“Have you seen the things my sister can do with a chicken?”

“Well actually, only once but I can’t wait for an encore,” he said.

“I’ll make dessert. Do you like chocolate?”

“Hoo, boy,” I said, and sighed.

I followed them, turning out lights, but leaving one on so I could find my way to the door in the dark. Patti was completely, totally, and thoroughly taken by John. I know this to be a fact because she kicked the back of my car seat about every two seconds the whole way downtown and she kicked my shins under the table all during dinner at Rue de Jean. And whenever she thought John couldn’t see, she leaned over and pinched me. I was going to be black-and-blue if dinner didn’t end soon. But truly? I was so happy, blissful really, to see that Patti approved so enthusiastically of him. For the very first time in my life I was with the right man. I had found someone who was genuinely right for me, my sister was talking like a normal person, and I was thrilled.

He was giving her the story on some aspect of the Poetry Society of South Carolina and Dorothy Heyward’s involvement with the Dock Street Theater, even after DuBose was long gone. Patti was entranced.

“And I am insisting that your sister write her story,” he said. “She’s always wanted to write a play . . .”

“That’s true,” Patti said. “She made up tons of plays when we were kids but you should know she always gave herself the best parts. Just once, I wanted to be the princess, just once! But noooooo! Cate always got to wear the crown.”

“Would you like some more wine, Cate?”

“No, thanks, two glasses are plenty. The crown was cut from cardboard and covered with aluminum foil,” I said. “And just for the record, she never let me use her Easy-Bake Oven.”

“So, you were a baker even as a child?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Patti’s always been brilliant in the kitchen,” I said, thinking, oh Lord, how much manure can these two shovel in one night?

Apparently, their skills in this department knew no ceiling and they continued piling it on until we were interrupted by the jittery vibration of my cell phone, which I had left on in case someone needed me. It was Russ.

“Hey! Is everything okay?” I said.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I just dropped Ella off and I wanted to tell you that Aunt Daisy was asking for y’all. That’s all.”

“How’s she doing?”

“I’d say she’s a little cranky but she’s sure better than she was.”

“So, we’ll stop by. How’s Alice?”

“Alice? Let’s say we talk about babies a lot. Maybe nonstop. I mean, do I really need to know all this stuff?”

“Oh, honey, it’s her first baby. She’ll settle down.”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, tonight at supper I said,
Can’t we talk about something else?
She started crying and went in the bedroom and slammed the door. I finally just left to go see Aunt Daisy.”

“Nice. Listen to your momma on this one. Before you get home? Buy her some flowers. And when you get there, tell her she’s beautiful and that you’re sorry. That’s all.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll stop at the grocery store.”

“And we’ll stop by and see Aunt Daisy to tell her good night.”

We hung up and I said to John and Patti, “It’s only eight. We have one short command performance and then we can go do whatever y’all want to do. Go listen to some music or something?”

“Not a bad idea,” John said. “There’s a new jazz club on Market Street.”

“Hey! Is paradise rumbling?” Patti said.

“No. My son is being insensitive and Alice is weepy. Classic first pregnancy baloney.”

“Let’s get going,” John said. “We can’t keep Miss Daisy waiting!”

“Boy, that’s for sure,” I said. “And there’s a storm coming.”

“Typical Charleston weather for this time of year,” John said. “One day you’re playing tennis or you’re out on your boat and the next day it’s freezing rain.”

On the ride there, it had begun to drizzle and the temperature was dropping. We told John about how Aunt Daisy wanted us to bring her martinis and he laughed his head off.

“She is such an original character,” he said. “So adorable. I just love her. Everyone does. You should see how she entertains my students when I bring them over.”