Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5 by Dorothea Benton Frank

door.
    Precious? Where did she live? The Taj Mahal?
    Crisp described her manner and her dress. She was wearing black Bermudas, a starched white sleeveless shirt, a black alligator belt and a black-and-white visor in the tiniest check print. Although she had on black sandals, I suspected that somewhere in her car there were a pair of black-and-white golf shoes. I watched as she glanced at the row of photographs of my children.
    “Thanks. It belongs to a friend of mine from Atlanta.”
    “Three bedrooms?”
    “Yeah, and a great view of the ocean,” I said. “Come see.”
    I put my portfolio against the back of the sofa and opened the curtain over the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. We stepped outside into the breeze, and Abigail leaned over the rail.
    “Too bad we can’t bottle the air,” she said. “We could all retire tomorrow.”
    “Isn’t that the truth? This apartment is pretty far from the beach, but the view still takes my breath away. Especially at night.”
    “I’m sure. Well, we’d better get going. Huey My Love is waiting for his Coke.”
    “Coke?”
    I slid the door back and locked it, not that anyone was going to scale the building and burglarize the place.
    “Don’t you drink Coke for breakfast?” Abigail said with a laugh.
    “Uh, no. When I was a kid I did, if I could get away with it.”
    “Well, our Huey has a Coke for breakfast every day. Sometimes two. Only in little glass bottles.”
    I grabbed my portfolio and closed the door behind her. “Well, in this sweltering heat…”
    “Sometimes he puts peanuts in them and calls them lunch!” As we stepped into the sun, the heat hit us full force. “Whoo! Gonna be a thousand degrees today! And genius that I am, I’m playing golf!”
    “I never understood golf,” I said. “Especially in the summer…unless you’re in Scotland or something…”
    “You don’t play golf?”
    “Uh, no. A little tennis but that’s about it.”
    She just looked at me, shook her head and added my lack of appreciation of golf to the list of many things that I thought she and Huey intended to change about me.
    Sure enough, I spotted an expensive pair of black-and-white spectator, flapped and tasseled golf shoes in the backseat. Obviously, Abigail had money. Besides her Jaguar and no visible means of support, on the three occasions that I had seen her she had been dressed and accessorized to the hilt. I wondered for a moment why someone as together as Abigail was happy to trot around with Huey. Why wasn’t she married? Where did her money come from, and what was her house like?
    She blasted the air-conditioning, turned down the radio and backed out of her parking space.
    “I really appreciate this,” I said. “My car was fine last night.”
    “Glad to help! I’m stopping at Sam’s Corner. Want something? I’m dying for a sausage biscuit.”
    “Sure. Do you mind if I just wait in the car?”
    “No problem. Want a Coke?”
    “Diet?”
    “Sure.”
    I reached in my handbag to get a dollar and she stopped me.
    “Don’t worry about it. I’ll start a tab.”
    She smiled at me and disappeared inside the restaurant. Sam’s Corner. The parking lot was always crowded. I guessed all the locals got their breakfast there, The Eggs Up Grill or the Litchfield Restaurant. Unless you did fast-food drive-through, which was totally disgusting to me. I mean, there wasn’t anything in the world like McDonald’s french fries when they were right out of the hot oil. But breakfast? I’d rather go without than eat plastic cheese, rubber eggs and greasy sausage on a gummy biscuit.
    Abigail returned in minutes, and we made polite conversation all the way to the gallery. When we arrived, Huey was in a bit of a dither, arranging the sold paintings in stacks along the wall, taking notes in his book.
    “Good morning!” he said. “Did you bring your car keys?”
    Abigail kissed him on the cheek, and I handed him his Cokes and my keys. “Abigail bought you