Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5 by Dorothea Benton Frank Read Free Book Online Page B

there was his dad, Tisdale, but I was guessing that he already knew. Funny. I hadn’t heard from Tisdale in weeks. Yes, he probably knew.
    I was pretty damned depressed but hiding it quite well, or at least I thought I was. In the tradition of sailors surviving stormy seas, I seized Claudia’s port. I knew that the sight and sounds of the ocean would make me feel better. I didn’t know a soul at Litchfield. I would not be bumping into people day and night who would say, Oh, Becca! I heard! We are so sorry! Is there anything we can do? You knew in the pit of your guts that all they wanted was a tidbit of juice they could rehash over a gin and tonic with their spouse that night. It may be human nature to behave so disingenuously, but I wasn’t ready to face them.
    My plan, as I was driving from Charleston to Claudia’s condo, crying so hard I could hardly see, was to dive into painting. Hopefully I would find some kind of a job to keep myself alive and fed until I could sort out my life. And there it was: Huey Valentine’s gallery, right on Highway 17, sitting there like Christmas morning. I had seen the sign that said Oak Lea and Gallery Valentine listed among the tenants and pulled over.
    Did I have an inkling that they didn’t sell little statues of shrimp boats made from shells with little peg-legged captains on the bow? No. Did I know that it was a legitimate art gallery? No. Did I know he needed a framer? No. Luck! What a wild card. I had often thought about luck. Pretty arbitrary. It was better not to depend on it.
    I was still adjusting to the idea of selling my work and Huey’s excitement over it. And Abigail’s. Last night’s opening had been your basic baptism by fire, but I somehow had managed to survive the craziness. I was bone tired, I’ll admit that much. The muscles in my arms ached from making so many frames.
    I was late getting dressed and gathering up other watercolors I hadn’t taken to show Huey the first day. It must have been ninety-five degrees and it was just early morning. The air was oppressive and the sun was a burning laser. Just a glance into its face made my eyes stream water.
    I decided to turn on the car and let the air conditioner run for a few minutes to cool it down, and then I would drive to work. The worst part of the car was that it had dark charcoal leather seats—a gift of torture from Nat. You don’t know what hot is until your bare legs have been stuck to dark leather seats in a car that’s been baking in the Carolina July sun.
    My steering wheel, not my seats, had been special ordered in beige leather because the standard one was black. Forget black steering wheels, unless you’re a criminal and want to have your fingerprints removed. Just like folks in Minneapolis preheated their cars in February, we precooled our cars in July.
    When the cars cooperate and start, that is. My car was as dead as Kelsey’s cow, whoever Kelsey is or was. Not a sound came from the dashboard area when the key was turned. I must have tried it ten times, and nothing. When I started to perspire and could feel that the hair on the back of my neck was already sopping wet, I gave up and ran back inside to make an air-conditioned call to the gallery.
    “Huey?”
    “Rebecca? Sweet angel? Are you on the way?”
    “Yeah, well, I was, but my car won’t start. I don’t know what’s wrong. It was fine yesterday.”
    “Listen to Uncle Huey. Don’t fret. Abigail is coming here in thirty minutes. I’ll call her to pick you up. And I’ll get Byron to see about your car.”
    “Oh! Thanks! Huey, seriously, thank you so much!”
    I hung up realizing I was on the verge of tears. It had been so long since anyone besides Claudia had offered to do anything for me that I choked up and wanted to cry. What did that say about my mental state? Pathetic.
    My cell rang moments later and it was Abigail, saying it was no big deal and she was on her way.
    “Precious place!” she said, when I opened the