Sullivan's Island Read online

  “The setting and the characters are blazingly authentic…. Frank evokes the eccentric Hamilton family and their feisty Gullah housekeeper with originality and conviction; Susan herself—smart, sarcastic, funny and endearingly flawed—makes a lively and memorable narrator. Thanks to these scrappily compelling portraits, this is a rich read.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Dorothea Frank and I share the exact same literary territory…. Sullivan’s Island is hilarious and wise, an up-to-the minute report on what it is like to be alive and female in the South Carolina Lowcountry today. It contains the funniest sex scene I have ever encountered.”

  —Pat Conroy

  “Dottie Frank’s take on the South Carolina Lowcountry is tough, tender, achingly real, and very, very funny. Sullivan’s Island roars with life.”

  —Anne Rivers Siddons

  “In Sullivan’s Island, southern womanhood has found a new voice, and it is outrageous, hilarious, relentless and impossible to ignore.”

  —John Berendt

  A satisfying treat…. Dorothea Benton Frank ventures into the territory of another three-named writer, Anne Rivers Siddons.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “Frank’s wit, her fast pacing and the details of Lowcountry life and place give the novel a solid grounding…. The book’s greatest pleasure lies in the delightfully realized Susan, who has all the pluck, charm and gutsy good humor anyone might wish for…. Sullivan’s Island is really a treat. It’s fun, fast reading…. a good writer with a fictional creation who—as they say in the movie biz—has legs.”

  —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “One heck of a beach book…. Frank keeps you reading compulsively.”

  —The Charlotte Observer

  “Those who enjoy Pat Conroy or Anne Rivers Siddons will not be disappointed.”

  —Library Journal

  “A novel with such authentic characters and setting that the reader is reminded of the rich storytelling of Pat Conroy and Anne Rivers Siddons…. Filled with Lowcountry and Gullah legend, this delightful contemporary romance is a very moving story of family, love and place.”

  —Knoxville News-Sentinel

  “A novel that should be on every ‘beach reading’ list this summer.”

  —The Greenville News (Greenville, SC)

  “A guaranteed reading pleasure.”

  —News Chief (Winter Haven, FL)

  “Rarely in contemporary fiction have we encountered a heroine so real, so sympathetic, so at once courageous and outrageous…. Sullivan’s Island is the kind of novel readers are always asking for—and, usually these days, can’t find.”

  —Putnam County Courier (Carmel, NY)

  PRAISE FOR

  Plantation

  “Effortlessly evokes the lush beauty of the South Carolina Lowcountry while exploring the complexities of family relationships…Readers will enjoy immersing themselves in the lives of these deftly drawn, heartfelt characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review

  “Filled with entertaining characters and lots of humor.”

  —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “Think Terry McMillan meets Rebecca Wells by way of the Deep South and you’ll be barking up the right bayou.”

  —The Mirror (UK)

  Sullivan’s Island

  A Lowcountry Tale

  Dorothea Benton Frank

  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Berkley Book

  Published by The Berkley Publishing Group

  A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 1999 by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  Cover art by Jason Seder

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, or distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. BERKLEY and the B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Frank, Dorothea Benton.

  Sullivan’s Island: a Lowcountry tale /Dorothea Benton Frank.

  —Berkley trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-2069-6

  1. Sullivan’s Island (S.C.: Island)—Fiction. 2. Women—South Carolina—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 4. South Carolina—Fiction. 5. Sisters—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3556.R3338S85 2004

  813'.6—dc22

  2003057846

  For my dear friend and mentor, Mary Kuczkir.

  And for Ella Wright, who was my Livvie.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. The Porch

  2. The Outhouse

  3. The Lawyer

  4. Beth

  5. Livvie

  6. First Dates

  7. Hurricane Denise

  8. Hurricane Maybelline

  9. The Aftermath

  10. Write Away

  11. Tipa

  12. Hank

  13. Taking Control

  14. Thanksgiving 1963

  15. Thanksgiving 1999

  16. Operating in the Christmas Theater

  17. Christmas 1963

  18. Simon

  19. School

  20. Lowcountry Magic

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following wonderful people who helped me at every stage of developing this crazy tale of mine.

  Special thanks to my McInerny cousins, Michael and Mary Jo and Father Larry, who helped me remember so much and set the tone with their hilarious stories of crabbing and being disciplined by the nuns of Stella Maris Grammar School. Also my Blanchard cousins, Judy Linder and Laura. I love every smart and funny bone in their bodies!

  Speaking of the nuns, I’d like to acknowledge Sister Miriam, my old principal at Stella Maris; Father Kelly, my principal at Bishop England High School; and oh, Lord, Sister Rosaire, my biology teacher; all of whom told me that my sassy mouth and lack of personal discipline would bring me to no good someday. If they hadn’t beaten the guilt into me, they would’ve been right. But it was Stephen Spade, my tenth-grade English teacher, who taught me to love the cadence of words. God bless them all.

  Robert and Susan Rosen deserve a huge acknowledgment for all their legal and historic facts and research recommendations. Robert is only the funniest historian on the planet, who has written many brilliant books on Charleston. And also to my e-mail author buddy, Julie Dash. Julie, you were so much help on Gullah history, you just don’t know. If you like the Gullah flavor in this book and haven’t read Daughters of the Dust, go get it! (Okay, Julie and Robert, now y’all owe me!) I’d also like to thank author and historian Suzannah Smith Miles for answering all my questions with such grace. And to Morris Dees, of the Southern Poverty Law Center, many thanks for your help as well.

  Everyone should have friends like Dan and Corky Gaby. It was their support and faith that led me to attempt this. Many thanks, y’all. I’d also like to send kisses to the members of my book group, especially Adrian S
helby, Ruth Perretti, Cherry Provost and Jean Kidd, for living through the drama and pushing me forward.

  Special thanks to Dr. John F. Noonan and poet Paul Genega from Bloomfield College who put the official writer’s curse on me and ruined my tennis game.

  Many thanks to John McDermott of the Mount Pleasant Knights of Columbus and Billy of Billy’s Back Home Restaurant. Also to my old friend Dr. George Durst, whose recollections inspired the fort scene.

  To Gloria Steinem, Sean Byrne, Francesco Scavullo, Eric Dominguez, Jim Vayias, Pamela Wallace, Lynn O’Hare, Meredith Metz, Beth Grossbard, Clive and Ann Cummis and my L.A. gurus, Marvin Meyer and Joel Gotler—sincere thanks for your support. Alex Sanders, I believe you’re the kindest of all southern gentlemen.

  This book would be a rumor were it not for the regular beatings, guidance and faith of the most wonderful editor on earth—Gail Fortune—who helped me bring the story to life and gave me this extraordinary opportunity to be a published author. And rightfully, I bow in gratitude to Leslie Gelbman and Liz Perl. It was my mentor and dear friend—Fern Michaels to the world, Mary Kuczkir to me—who kept me going. To Pam Strickler and Russell Galen, many thanks. And let us not forget my new friend, the fabulous Matthew Rich, who helped me get my act together. To my dear friend Linda Lauren who always said this was in the cards, thank you, doll face, for your unending support. And to my wonderful and forgiving sister, Lynn Bagnal. Lynn, this is fiction, I swear it is. To my brothers, their lovely wives, and anyone else related to me or anyone I have ever known, I’d like to apologize for any embarrassment this story may cause.

  Finally, to my family—my beautiful daughter, Victoria, and my gorgeous son, William, thank you for understanding why I turned the house upside down to do this. It’s just your mom, trying to live her dream. And, to my magnificent husband, Peter, who practically walks on water, who ate take-out for two years and just told me to keep going: I want the world to know how grateful I am to you for believing in me. I love you all to your last freckle.

  Sullivan’s Island

  A Lowcountry Tale

  Prologue

  I searched for sleep curled up in my quilt—the one made for me at my birth by my paternal grandmother’s own hands. Southern women have always taken pride in the excellence of their needlework. Over the years it had been abused and then its edges rebound and its tears carefully mended. The design was my grandmother’s own—so unique—a beautiful, pastel-colored garden, with a stream of gray and pale blue silk water running down its center. As a child the scene had seemed so real to me that I could imagine myself there, climbing the garden wall of stone and pale green ivy and then wading in the water.

  The front was pieced together from tiny swatches of fabrics to form flowers, birds, trees and shrubs. She had probably collected those swatches for years. The back of the quilt was now ivory silk, blind-stitched over its original backing of cotton. Hundreds of tiny French knots gave the quilt texture and dimension. Its fragile state was so urgent; it should have been mounted as a wall hanging for the sake of preservation. If there was one thing that Charlestonians did it was to preserve. But, I couldn’t retire it as an art object. I preferred to wrap myself in its cool folds, wondering if my grandmother—the one I had scarcely known—was trying to tell me something.

  I turned in our ancient, creaking bed—my parents’ bed—solid mahogany, with carved shafts of rice decorating each of its four red patina posters, a symbol of long-gone plantation crops. We had once grown the most desirable rice in the world in Charleston’s rice fields—Carolina Gold. The bed was a souvenir of the past.

  I remembered the day we had carried it into the house in pieces, up the steep stairs from the front hall to our bedroom—Tom and I—and together we had assembled it, fitting the neatly labeled pegs in just so. There was not a single nail in it—only handmade pegs. We had just bought our house then—an old Victorian in the historic district of downtown—and my sister had insisted that we have the bed as a housewarming gift.

  My mind moved on. I tried to convince myself that the gentle, rhythmic snoring of my husband was in fact the sound of the tide coming in on Sullivan’s Island. The sounds of the Island had never failed to help me fall off to deep sleep. But that night no amount of imagining or remembering brought the rest I so desperately sought.

  It had been well past one o’clock when I finally got to bed and I twisted and turned until past two. Somewhere around then I kicked off the covers and opened a window. At that hour the city noises of Charleston had at long last given up to near silence, except for the occasional foghorn from the harbor or the lone car engine revving up and flying away from a red light. The car’s driver—probably a college student—knew no one was around to stop him at that hour.

  As I raised the sash, the night air rushed through my window, causing my curtain sheers to billow, and my bedroom air became damp all at once. Damp and slightly chilled. I should have recognized the smell of impending disaster, but I didn’t. I hurried back to bed and when the alarm failed to wake me at six-thirty, I woke in a panic at seven.

  The day began in a whirlwind of petty grievances. Beth didn’t like the cereal I put out for her and whined about it as though I were trying to feed her poison instead of a bowl of healthy fiber. Tom couldn’t find his favorite cuff links and accused me of being nosy for rearranging his jewelry tray. I had done no such thing. Who had the time for that sort of housekeeping? Rearrange his jewelry tray? What a joke that was. I had barely had time lately to remember my name. He had probably left them at the gym, I told him.

  Half apologetic for his foul humor, Tom took our daughter to school so that I could get to my office at the Charleston County Library on time. Even he knew I had to make a major presentation that afternoon at work. “Good luck!” he called out on his way out the back door.

  I had been up late working on a proposal for the South Carolina Electric and Gas Company. It was pretty much a done deal, but I still worried. I got paid to worry. I raced to work like a madwoman. I couldn’t be late. An ugly side of government employment involved time-clock punching and score keeping at an obsessive level. If you were fifteen minutes late, your salary was docked. Absurd. I had two master’s degrees, but if I was fifteen minutes late for work, eyes rolled, eyebrows arched and the bookkeeper had a smug moment of glee. Where had they been at one in the morning? Forget it. It wasn’t an argument worth the blood pressure. You see, I’d learned. Pick your battles carefully.

  Anyway, I felt like a plate spinner. Remember those guys on television? The Ed Sullivan Show, I think—some Russian fellow who had twenty plates on flexible poles, all spinning at once over his head. That was my life. My daughter, Beth, was one plate—her academic career, her social life, her complexion and her compulsion to spend. Oh, she spun all right. My husband, Tom, was another—spinning somewhere out of my direct line of vision. The house was another—threatening to fall down around my ears. It was always something—a broken pipe, a leaking gutter—and it was my job to see about it all. Tom was too busy. Or whatever. My sex life was another plate. That one spun backwards, along with my wallet plate—slightly cracked. Don’t ask. I just kept thinking that soon, things would be better—as soon as I got to the bottom of the paper on my desk, filled out all the health insurance claims, as soon as I did this or that.

  I should not have been in the least surprised to discover, when I made it to the library, that I had left the support materials for the charts at home. Well, I thought, I could put a Band-Aid on that one too. Instead of lunch, I’d just fly home as fast as I could, grab the papers and fly back in time for the two o’clock meeting. It wasn’t a big deal—just a mosquito bite in the scheme of things.

  I gave my diskettes to our development department secretary, who swore up and down that it was no problem to print the graphs on sixteen-by-twenty paper for the easel. I blew her a kiss and ran back home at around eleven. If I got back by twelve, it would give me two solid hours to assemble everything and go over it again.
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  It was a gorgeous South Carolina morning. I don’t know why, but I was struck by the clearness of the sky—all that blue. So beautiful. I raced down Meeting Street, passing all the tourists crossing the streets, thinking how pleasant it was to live in a place that everyone wanted to see. And Charleston is no cheesy resort. She is noble and grand. People came here to learn, to be enriched. Of course my enthusiasm was tempered by the natural reserve with which Charlestonians have the good fortune to be born. No, no. During Spoleto Festival, we do not drive down Murray Boulevard blowing our horns and swilling beers like in the football towns. Heaven forbid. We open our gardens and serve iced tea with mint sprigs to total strangers, treating them like favored friends.

  I was thinking about all this graciousness and hospitality, and singing “Sixty-Minute Man” along with the radio, as I swung into my narrow driveway on Queen Street. I didn’t even slam my car door, but left it open, intending to stay only long enough to get what I needed. I was already bounding up the steps to Beth’s room (somehow the family word processor had migrated there) when I heard the voices. I stopped dead. Someone was in my house. Someone was in my bedroom! “Oh, God!” I heard a distinctly female voice cry out. “Oh, my God!” Was it Beth? Was someone hurting my Beth? It sounded like someone having sex! With my heartbeat loud in my ears, I sneaked back downstairs as fast as I could and grabbed the fireplace poker. I was shaking all over. I didn’t know whether to call the police first or try to stop what was happening myself. I stood outside my bedroom door and listened for a minute. My box spring was creaking and groaning.