On Folly Beach by Karen White Page A

finding it difficult finding ladies’ hosiery. All the silk seems to have been requisitioned by the military.”
    He nodded and was silent for a moment as he continued to peruse the shelves. “You have a very nice store here,” he said as he walked to the back, where the bookshelves stood. Lulu and Maggie followed him. “Ah, books.” With reverence, he slid a volume from the shelf and examined the cover.
    Maggie leaned over to look and read the cover, Porgy and Bess. Feeling the need to impress him, she said, “The author, DuBose Heyward, had a cottage here on Folly. He invited George Gershwin to stay in it while writing the music for his opera based on the book. I was only a little girl—about Lulu’s age, I think—but I saw him a few times.”
    She knew she was rambling with nervousness, but when he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, she took it as encouragement and continued. “When he first got here, he was all New York and very formal with suits and proper shoes. It didn’t take him long to go ‘native,’ though. He was going barefoot and had a beard within the first few months.” Maggie’s smile faded as she noticed that Peter didn’t seem as enthusiastic as she was about the renowned musician.
    His eyebrows knit together as he slowly flipped through the pages. “I’m familiar with the book although I can’t say it was one of my favorites.” He turned to Maggie. “George Gershwin—he’s a Jew, isn’t he?”
    Maggie’s eyes widened. “I have no idea. I love his music, probably because I was raised on it. My mother played piano and Rhapsody in Blue was her favorite. Why do you ask?”
    Peter closed the book with a solid thud before reshelving it exactly where it had been, making sure it was lined up with the edge of the shelf. “Just an observation. In Europe everyone knows who the Jews are, yet here in America, they’ve been assimilated into the culture so much that it seems as if it’s merely an afterthought.”
    Maggie turned back to the bookshelves with a shrug. “I can’t speak for the rest of the country, but here on Folly, we’re pretty accepting. We have our own little melting pot here, with people of different races and religions rubbing along with very little friction.”
    A smile tightened the corners of his lips as he let his index finger drift across the shelves. “I suppose that’s what makes America so charming—your little ‘melting pot’ concept where everybody is equal.”
    Maggie looked at him sharply. “But that’s exactly why you’re here—why your parents were welcomed here and allowed to succeed in business. Because here a man’s measure is determined by how hard he works, not by who his father was or what religious faith he practices. I would think that would make you proud.”
    Lulu, apparently bored with the conversation, returned to the front of the store, and they both watched her go. Peter’s voice was gentle when he spoke. “And you are absolutely correct, of course. I was merely making a social commentary. We have a war raging in Europe seemingly against a single race of people, whereas here it’s not even a concern. I am very proud of my adoptive country, and very thankful that my family and I are here now instead of over there.”
    His tone indicated that he was finished with that line of conversation, and he turned back to the books. Maggie watched as he slid his index finger along the shelves, silently reading the titles. He paused at Romeo and Juliet but continued without picking it up. She still wasn’t sure why he was in the store, and she began to interpret his silence to mean that he was there to look for a book. But she stayed near him while he browsed, telling herself it was because she was unsure how to leave without being rude. She found herself studying his hands, noticing that his fingers were long and elegant like the rest of him, and it made her wonder if he played the piano. On the third finger of his right hand, he wore a gold