Part 37 (2/2)
”Tonight. He's so excited to meet you he got a haircut.”
”He did?”
”Yeah.”
”That's pretty sweet.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes.
”Uh, Mom?”
”Yeah?”
”We can go now. Why don't we all try to be adults here and give your plan a chance? But if I get scared all by myself in that big house, can I come over?”
”On occasion. Not too often.”
”Wow. He must be something.”
”He is.”
”Russ likes him. He said so.”
”So does Alice.”
”That's it! I'm not saying one freaking word. If Alice likes him he must be a G.o.d. That snippy thing doesn't like anyone.”
”That snippy thing is so sick that I actually feel sorry for her. But between us? Her behind is as big as Texas.”
”Oh my G.o.d! Really? When are we seeing them?”
”Tomorrow . . .”
We talked and gossiped like old friends the whole way out to Folly Beach. Once the boundaries were established, she took a deep breath and appeared to be acting her age. I hoped it would last. And when I told her that we had the piano Gershwin used in our possession she was absolutely astounded.
”Mom, that's like totally amazing!”
”I know.”
I helped Sara get her bags into the house and gave her the key I had made for her. Fortunately, there was a guest room on the first floor-and it was a beautiful one-so we didn't have to push and pull those horrible bags of hers up the steps. I pulled back the curtains and there was the Atlantic Ocean, and Sara stood at the sliding gla.s.s doors with me, awestruck. There were millions of white caps and ripples and the ocean was rolling in its glistening cobalt expanse as far as the eye could see.
”Wow,” Sara said.
”Yeah, that about sums it up,” I said and smiled.
”Not a bad room, huh, Mom?” She threw herself on the queen-size bed and bounced, making a guttural noise that suggested exhaustion.
The room was a pale shade of apple green and the fabric on the curtains and headboard was a dusty tangerine and green wide plaid that was embroidered over the plaid with olive green vines and flowers a deeper shade of peach. I realize that sounds ungapatched and maybe even fachalata but it was really beautiful. Aunt Daisy's taste in fabrics was absolutely top-drawer.
”Not too shabby.”
”You can come over and wash your hair any time you want.”
”Thanks, honey. So get yourself settled and call me to let me know you're ready. John's picking me up at six so we'll be right over. Oh, and here's the key to Aunt Daisy's car, so you have wheels.”
”Thanks. You're right, Mom, as usual. This is the perfect place for me to stay.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. ”See you in a bit,” I said and left.
Dinner that night was just wonderful. We went to Oak Steakhouse on King Street. They gave us a table downstairs near the piano and as coincidence would have it once again, the pianist was playing Gershwin, but he also played a lot of Cole Porter, so I wasn't completely spooked.
But the most important thing was that John and Sara took one look at each other and nearly drowned in their mutual delight. All through a dinner of outstanding rib eyes, filets, and asparagus so fresh you could almost hear them growing, we talked about Dorothy and DuBose and that famous summer of 1934 when Gershwin stayed on Folly Beach for seven weeks.
”I think Dorothy thought he was a colossal pain in the derriere,” I said. ”There's a letter somewhere in her papers where she talks about Gershwin saying that there were so many alligators on Folly that they walked right up to his door, which of course is a wild exaggeration.”
”Oh, I think old George was just rapturous about being here,” John said.
”Rapturous?” Sara said, and giggled. ”Twenty-five-cent word. Good one.”
”No seriously, y'all, here comes George Gershwin, Mister Bon Vivant of New York and Hollywood, to a crazy little island surrounded by mosquito-infested marshes and there's not even a phone. What does he do? He takes off his s.h.i.+rt and goes around the town showing off his muscles and getting a tan. There's even a story about how he hired Abe Dumas . . .”
”From M. Dumas and Sons on King Street?” John said.
”Yep.”
”Gee, even I didn't know that!” he said.
”Or maybe it was his brother or his son, but anyway he hired one of them to be his driver slash tour guide and there are plenty of stories there, too. Anyway, he was quite the character, way bigger than life, practically flamboyant, and I have no doubt that his bohemian shenanigans worked Dorothy's nerves.”
”Why? I would think George Gershwin would be a blast?” Sara said.
”Well, I'm sure he was fun but remember he made the Heywards, who were arch-conservatives, to the outside world at least, wait for years until he got around to making the musical with them. Dorothy was struggling to live on DuBose's income and that was no easy task.”
”Oh, I get it. Gershwin was rich and they knew it. And he probably knew they weren't and she thought he didn't mind stringing them along?” Sara said.
”My smart daughter,” I said and blew her a kiss. ”What Gershwin didn't know was that Dorothy was loaded, too.”
”Wait, I don't get it. Why was she living on like bread and water when she had a lot of money? I saw those recipes of hers.”
”Because she didn't want to emasculate DuBose with her trust fund,” I said.
”Although,” John said, ”it should be pointed out that DuBose didn't mind dipping into Dorothy's resources to build a house for his mother.”
”Listen, John. That could've been Dorothy's idea. Remember they were living with his mother, Janie, and she was some piece of work.”
”What a story,” Sara said.
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