“Sorry.”
“Here, let’s cut across to the bandstand, then we’ll head directly to Sara’s party. So, tell me, what’s the relationship between Williams and Bonnard?”
“Williams saw a painting by Bonnard at an art fair in San Francisco in 1939, and he wrote a poem about it. But Jamie has worried me that I may have the wrong painting.”
“Jamie? Your Jamie?”
“Yes.” The sound of Jamie’s name threw her off balance. “My Jamie.”
“Interesting, so what do you think you will do?”
“You mean about the painting?”
“No—staying on at the Courtauld or—”
“Oh. I’m not sure, I’ve got to figure that out.”
Henry was smiling at her.
“Henry, you know I just came for Sara’s party. I’m going back in two weeks.”
“I know, Eliza, I am . . . well, I’m just happy to see you. That’s all. And since you haven’t asked me one question about myself, I’ll be brave, launch forth, and tell you. I am the publisher of The Charleston Courier.”
Eliza tilted her head sideways, as if she did not understand what he was saying.
Henry put his hand on his chest. “Really. Eliza, cross my heart.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Not sure I believe you.”
“You should, you really should. See for yourself, proof is on the back page of the paper every day.”
As they approached the large Greek Revival house owned by Sara’s godfather, the faint sounds of a band could be heard. The Robert William Roper House was the grandest house along High Battery. With its south-facing double-height portico supported by massive Ionic columns that stretched almost twenty feet high, it was the most photographed house in Charleston. White tents had been set up in the back of the property on a well-tended rectangle of lawn. The older crowd had been invited for 6:30 P.M. The under-thirties for 8:00 P.M. It was now that time of dusk when the grass and foliage appeared greener, the men’s white dinner jackets sharper, and the women’s evening dresses more colorful than at any other time of day.
Eliza waved to Sara, who stood with her father and Eliza’s mother. Eliza signaled to her mother and Ben they were going to bypass the receiving line. Ben winked and blew her a kiss. As they moved forward, they heard, “Well, I’ll be damned. Eliza Poinsett. We all heard you had gone and married an English lord.” The man who spoke was Edward McGee, looking just as disheveled as always. “Come here, sughah, and give a kiss. So what are you doing with this scoundrel?”
“How are you, Edward?” Eliza asked.
“I’m heading home,” he said. “I’m handing it over to the young people. Eliza, it’s great to see you, sughah. Don’t stay away so long next time.”
Edward stepped closer to Henry. He pulled his face into a long frown. “When is my article going to appear?”
“It’s under consideration,” Henry said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing it, you hear.” Edward started to turn away but then stopped to add, “Let me know if they need a photograph.” Edward stretched his neck and smoothed the front of his dress shirt down with the palm of his hand, as if preparing for that very moment.
Henry nodded. “I will certainly do that.”
“You watch out for him.” Edward looked at Eliza and pointed to Henry. “You take care of yourself, sughah.”
Eliza turned to Henry. “What article?”
“He’s written a long article, in fact, a very long article, on the difference between northerners and Yankees, northerners being the educators and Yankees being the carpetbaggers. Edward calls my office every week for the publication date.”
“So you are the publisher.”
Henry nodded.
“You aren’t going to publish it, are you?”
“No, of course not. But now you see what I’ve saved you from. Let’s go find a drink.” He took her hand and serpentined their way through the clusters of people. Waiters and waitresses glided around the crowd with trays of ham biscuits, shrimp paste sandwiches, and mini crab cakes. Bartenders stood stationed behind tables covered in white tablecloths. White lawn chairs had been arranged in small groups for the weary.
The band was playing a repertoire of Nat King Cole songs and had just started “Mr. Cole Won’t Rock and Roll” when a large top-heavy man, drink in hand, stepped alone out onto the empty dance floor. He started sliding across the floor, swiveling his feet, dipping and raising shoulders and elbows, marching knees up and down, as if he were trying to disassemble his skeleton to the beat of the song. Arms now down at his side, shuffling baby steps, as if wearing flippers, he tilted his head and smiled beatifically at someone on the edge of the dance floor. The bass player was laughing so hard he could hardly keep playing. Henry and Eliza watched until the song finished and the man stepped off the dance floor, mopped his brow, and headed straightaway to a bar.
“Who is that?” Eliza asked.
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. But without question someone’s long-forgotten second cousin. What would you like?” Henry asked. “How about a glass of champagne to celebrate your homecoming.”
“A club soda would be great.”
“Always the wild one, Eliza.”
Eliza watched Henry disappear into the crowd. Do we always see with our memories? she wondered. If she had just met Henry for the first time tonight, who would she see? She remembered the first time they had met—twelve years ago—at a summer party at Fenwick Hall. She was seventeen and he was twenty. She had always known who he was, but Henry went to boarding school and always stayed at Oakhurst when he was home. Even back then he seemed to embody confidence and calm—as if he had everything under control and always would. Henry still had that poise.
Eliza looked across the crowd. She didn’t recognize as many people as she thought she would. She had heard that a lot of new people had moved to Charleston and were buying the houses that had been in the same families for years. The property taxes and rising real estate prices had pushed many of those she had grown up with to the suburban areas west across the Ashley River or east across the Cooper River to Mount Pleasant.
Henry returned and handed her a silver plastic cup that was bright pink on the inside. “How does it feel to be back among us?”
“Nice,” she said. “There is something so easy about it.” Charleston was a club, a small society, and if you belonged once you always belonged. You didn’t have to prove yourself or work hard at membership. It had been given to you at birth, and no matter where you lived, it would always be open to you. Eliza understood that she could always come home. “There are many people I don’t recognize.”
“Sure you do.” Henry stood behind her and leaned down. “Over there in the blue dress is Mrs. Middleton—she’ll be by, my guess”—Henry checked his watch—“in five, seven minutes max, to find out what you are doing here. A few years ago she turned to selling real estate. She knocks on the doors of newcomers and tells them she doesn’t approve of northerners moving into the city, yet she can’t resist selling them houses or going to their parties. Apparently she often recites the inventory of their furniture and pictures, both good and bad, to the members of her bridge club. She is speaking to Peter Marshall, a rather tricky art dealer from New York who opened a gallery down here a couple of years ago. He will be trying to find out how to join the board of the Gibbes, and she will be trying to get information on the value of someone else’s painting.” Henry put his hands on her upper arms and turned her. “Over there in the navy dress is Alexandra Lockwood, you remember her, she was in your class at Ashley Hall.”
“A year behind.” Eliza could tell that Alexandra had already become one of the young Charleston matrons who kept busy with the Junior League, church work, and children. In another ten years, her life would be indistinguishable from her mother’s.
“She is talking to Cal Edwards, who is still unmarried and is still living with his mother.
Isn’t he your very distant cousin? Alexandra married a nice fellow from North Carolina or Tennessee, though not the match her mother would have wished for. He is a banker with First Federal in Spartanburg, but they are moving back here soon. He came to see me about a job at the paper, but we didn’t have anything for him. To her left is Mrs. Izard who is still living in that large house on Rutledge Avenue and has turned her swimming pool into a turtle pond. Apparently turtles have become her passion. And your mother is talking to the mayor. He is probably explaining why the board of the Coastal Conservation League is wrong to oppose his plans for port expansion. He had that same look on his face when he came by my office last week to discuss his position. Just beyond them the tall man—heading to the bar—is Dr. Walker—who is still making consistent misdiagnoses. And of course you remember Charlie.”
Charlie. God. She never thought he would make it past thirty. She remembered the night he won his bet that he could drive a car with no hands through the four blocks of the open-air Slave Market going fifty miles an hour. Any small miscalculation and he would have hit one of the supporting brick arches head-on.
“The last time I saw Charlie, I think he was in a Boston Whaler headed out to the jetties to fish for sharks with a baseball bat and a revolver. And come to think of it, I think you were with him,” Eliza said.
“I might very well have been,” Henry said. “But Charlie has reformed his ways. He’s not nearly as wild as he used to be, in fact, he’s not wild at all. He decided he wanted to be a doctor like his father after all, and now he’s considered one of the best cardiologists in the Southeast.”
“My mother had mentioned how well Charlie was doing. And she said he had married someone from Beaufort?”
“A rather quiet, Junior League type. Ginny is very sweet, always in pink and green. Couldn’t be nicer though. They live up the street from us in Charlie’s grandmother’s house. They have twin boys—very bright six-year-olds who last November set their lawn on fire.”
“How do you set a lawn on fire?”
“Apparently they had convinced the gardener to keep a large pile of leaves for an extra day so they could play Geronimo. Within an hour of the gardener leaving for the day, they set the pile on fire.”
“Sounds like they take after Charlie.”
“Clearly. And you know Drayton,” Henry said, pushing his chin in the direction of a tall lean man with a drink in each hand. “He’s taken over his father’s real estate business selling plantation properties. He’s sold several to people who have made a lot of money on Wall Street. He’s gotten amazing prices for them. He’s speaking with Ralph and Nina Morton. They’re from somewhere in Arkansas. Ralph’s made a fortune in fast-food franchises. They just bought the Sword Gate House, and they, most likely, are now trying to find an important plantation so they can mimic the weekend migrations of Charlestonians out to their country houses. A few years ago Drayton published a book on the plantations of the Cooper and Santee rivers. Now he’s working on one on the plantations of the ACE Basin. He’s asked me to take some photos for it. Here, let’s sit down.”
Henry led Eliza to a cluster of unoccupied chairs. He pulled his chair closer to hers. “Right over there, don’t look now, is Charlotte Pinckney. Her husband, Lucas, just ran off with the male curator of the Nathaniel Russell House. Charlotte is talking to Mary Elizabeth Frampton and Elliott Mikell. Mary Elizabeth is compiling a new recipe collection, Secret Charleston Family Receipts. She’s probably trying to charm Charlotte into parting with one. Her goal is to include only secret recipes. Apparently she formed a Bible studies group for the sole purpose of finding passages to quote when she solicits cherished family recipes. Mary Elizabeth got divorced a couple of years ago. You remember her husband, Tradd, don’t you? Never worked a day in his life.”
Eliza was surprised at how much she was enjoying Henry’s gossip. She felt as if he were reminding her of characters in a much-loved novel she had not read for some time. And Henry knew what he was doing—he was staying on safe territory. In telling her about everybody, he could be close and conspiratorial while avoiding any mention of their past.
Henry lowered his voice, “I suppose you haven’t acquired any secret recipes?”
She shook her head.
“Still can’t cook—still my Eliza.” Henry took a sip of his drink. “So you haven’t changed that much.” He nodded his head toward Mrs. Langdon. “She is still terrorizing tourists she takes on her walking tours. See the woman she is talking to? That’s Catherine Walsh.” Eliza looked at the large woman with perfectly coiffed hair, wearing an aqua chiffon dress, a large diamond necklace, and an emerald-studded brooch in the shape of a peacock. “They moved down from Greenwich. Her husband was chief executive of a Fortune 500 company. They bought Lowndes Grove, up by Hampton Park. She lives rather grandly—butlers, laundresses, drivers, hot and cold running staff. She hired this majordomo—Ian or Roderick or something like that—who was grander than grand. She and her husband left him in charge when they went off to London for the season—Ascot, Wimbledon, you know—and when they came back unexpectedly, they found Ian and all of his friends lounging around dressed up in her clothes and jewelry. She is probably explaining to Mrs. Langdon why she decided to burn all of her frocks instead of giving them to charity.”
“Henry, how do you know all of this? I don’t remember you being such a gossip.”
“I run a newspaper. Remember Louisa Eveleigh, my cousin? You may not. She’s about ten years older than you.”
“Vaguely, she had long dark brown hair and was rather wild as I remember.”
“More loud than wild. She’s our new society editor.”
“The Charleston Courier has a society page?”
“By all means. Louisa founded it. Her husband got into some trouble four or five years ago. He was in the Trust Department at Citizens and Southern, he almost went to jail, they divorced, and Louisa had to get a job. She worked in a jewelry shop on King Street for a while, got bored, and came to me with this idea. It was hard to say no, given that our great-grandfather was the founder of the paper. She’s been amazingly successful. You’d be surprised what people will do to get their name in the paper. Every Tuesday. It’s called ‘Doin’ the Charleston’—Louisa’s idea, not mine,” he added with a raised brow. “You should have a look at it. In fact, I should get you a subscription to keep you up-to-date, so that the next time you come home, and”—Henry lifted his silver cup in a gesture of a toast—“I am pulling for a next time—you can save me from moonlighting as the town gossip for you.”
Henry took a sip of his drink. “And look who is approaching—right on time.” As the rather large woman in a deep blue satin gown approached, Henry stood up. “Mrs. Middleton.”
“Henry, my dear, how are you? I haven’t seen you at one of these parties in, I don’t know how long. It’s a shame, you know, Virginia was just in town. If I had known you were going to be here, I would have made her stay and come.”
“Mrs. Middleton, you remember Eliza.”
“Oh my, Eliza, I wondered if that were you. Virginia was just saying how she hadn’t seen you for such a long time. She reminded me of the time the two of you performed Macbeth in our back garden. My word, Virginia and I had a laugh about that. I was convinced one of you would go on to become a famous actress. Now tell me, I ran into your mother, and she said you were living in London.”
“I am. I just came back for Sara’s party.”
“Now someone told me you were engaged to an English lord.”
“No, just a rumor.”
“Well, what a pity,” Mrs. Middleton said, though she looked pleased with Eliza’s answer. “Now where did I hear that? I think it was in your paper, Henry. Yes, I’m sure I read it in Louisa’s column. Anyway,” Mrs. Middleton continued without pausing, “I’ve just been speaking with Lydia Alston. I tried to talk to her about who should replace Charles Lowndes on the Symphony Board, but all Lydia can think about is Allington. She and Richard are be
side themselves about Allington. After three years studying art history at Georgetown, he says he is changing his major from art history to criminal psychology. Apparently Allington took a course last year where they went on a field trip to one of the Washington prisons, and now all Allington wants to do is visit prisons. Can you imagine the type of people he meets in those places?”
As Mrs. Middleton continued, Eliza wondered if Mrs. Middleton’s scattered monologue was a result of years and years of going to the same parties with the same people. She was shrewder than she appeared though. Eliza remembered Mrs. Middleton being correctly suspicious twenty years ago when Eliza and Virginia had used her Jean Patou Joy Eau de Toilette as a substitute for the extract of vanilla called for in a batch of cookies they were making for the Ashley Hall bake sale.
“Eliza dear,” Mrs. Middleton called her to attention. “Do you know anything about the University of Lyon? Lydia and Richard sent Allington there to study French as a way of trying to deflect his fascination with the underworld. It was Richard’s view that dealing indirectly—not hitting anything on its head—was the way to go. He even arranged for a friend with a villa in Cap d’Antibes to have Allington for the weekend. Glorious villa, you know, but apparently Allington learned enough French to find his way to the prison outside of Marseille. Allington came back with a pierced ear, a strand of that glorious blond hair of his dyed black, and a tattoo across his derriere relating to, well, something, some nonsense. I told Lydia that maybe Allington was going through some poetic phase, you know like that French poet, oh what is his name, when Virginia was here we watched a movie about him played by Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Rimbaud,” Eliza said.
“Who?” Mrs. Middleton looked confused.
“Arthur Rimbaud. The Fr—”
“Yes. Of course. Exactly.” Mrs. Middleton snapped her fingers. Henry pretended to take a sip of his drink.
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