PAWLEYS ISLAND.

A Lowcountry Tale.

DOROTHEA BENTON FRANK.

This book is for the beautiful woman who redefined the term sister.

Lynn Benton Bagnal.

TANGLED.

We return to hear the waves rolling onto the beach one after the other connecting us like blood.

We were listening long before we came here, remembering wind spinning salt through interrupted sunlight.

This is a place where dreams return as fish bones tangled in seaweed.

Whatever sorrows come are folded into the sea, rinsed clean and kept-unbearable secrets.

-MARJORY HEATH WENTWORTH.

South Carolina Poet Laureate.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

There are so many people to thank whose patience, good ideas and expert advice made this novel possible. First and foremost, I'd like to extend my gratitude and love to all the wonderful people of Pawleys Island and the surrounding area. You live in one of the most charming and magical spots the Lowcountry has to offer, and I thank you for allowing, encouraging and helping me to place this story in your backyard. I have tried to include some local folklore here for the amusement and edification of my readers, and if those details are incorrect or fall short of expectation, it is entirely at my feet.

I owe the largest debt to Tom Warner and Vicki Crafton of Litchfield Books. They loaned me volumes of historical reference material, took me all over Pawleys Island to feel its unique character, squired me around plantations, answered my questions with patience and grace and tried to give me local color not found in other printed material. Most important, they honored me with their friendship and fed me some extremely fabulous meals. I adore you both. But you know that. Thank you, Tom and Vicki, from the bottom of my pea-picking heart.

Special thanks to Lee Brockington and the late Eugene B. Chase Jr. for their excellent edition of Stories from the Porch, and for his fine book Pawleys Island Historically Speaking and to the Pawleys Island Civic Association. They were very useful and inspiring and contain wonderful information and stories for anyone interested in the true history of the area.

To Frances Graham MacIlwinen, whose generosity and graciousness know no peer, please accept my warmest thanks.

Marjory Heath Wentworth, South Carolina's Poet Laureate, has done it again! Everyone should know that Marjory wrote her fabulous poem "Tangled" just for this book, and here's the kicker: She did it without ever having read a manuscript of Pawleys Island. If you have the patience to slug your way through my story, go back and read her poem again if you want a crisp example of Jung's whole concept of collective unconscious. Or maybe it's just that old spooky Lowcountry magic raising her mysterious head, grinning at us. Whatever the case may be, Marjory's poetry is the perfect reflection of my storytelling, and Marge? Girl? You blow me away! I thank you for your friendship and the tremendous generosity of your beautiful, creative mind. And folks, she makes a wicked good (Marjory is originally from Maine, after all) chocolate pecan pie! I think that recipe came from one of Nathalie Dupree's amazing cookbooks, and if you don't own Nathalie's Comfortable Entertaining: At Home with Ease & Grace, you should go buy it right now. Hey, Nathalie! Anyway, Marjory and Nathalie are two of the greatest women I know, and I am forever grateful for being allowed into their lives.

And speaking of gratitude for being in someone's life even in the slightest way, I thank the following: Roger Pinckney for his fabulous spirit, Antoinette Kuritz and John Hamilton Lewis, Ann Ipock, Bill Doar and most especially the wonderful Nancy Rhyne, whose stories about Alice Flagg and the Gray Man fascinate and inform.

Always and forever Pat Conroy, Cassandra King and Anne Rivers Siddons. Special hugs to Ronda Rich, Josephine Humphrey, and my hurricane girlfriend, Mary Kay Andrews.

Love to my wonderful writer friends of Montclair, New Jersey, Pam Satran, Debbie Galant, Deborah Davis and Benilde Little. I owe y'all the fine southern delicacy of ice-cold Cokes in bottles with a little bag of Planters peanuts thrown in-better than a MoonPie and an RC Cola any day! I'm just so glad I know you.

Next there are the legal minds. Robert and Susan Rosen, Claudia Kelly, Sabrina Grogan, Larry Dodds and the great Judge Bobbie Mallard-I owe the Judge a Coke with a scoop of ice cream! Thank you all for your wisdom and advice and for trying to make this knucklehead understand what life is like in a court of law. Okay, folks, I didn't go to law school like Grisham. And divorce laws are different in almost every state by one little detail or another. In writing class, the first thing they tell you is to write what you know. I have butchered that rule in this novel, and I apologize to the entire legal profession of the world for any glaring mistakes. I'm sure there are more than a few. To them I offer this small consolation: in this story the attorneys wear white hats.

How can I ever thank Ted and Alice Harrelson? All the stories you told me soak these pages with visions of life on the Waccamaw River. And the beautiful afternoons we spent together, walking the breathtaking grounds of Arcadia are emblazoned in my heart. The egrets! Great heavens, the egrets! Thank you so much.

I owe huge thanks and cold Coca-Colas to many others such as Betsy Altman of Pawleys Island Real Estate for her guidance and advice. Betsy, you cannot imagine what a difference our brief meeting made to this story. And also to my cousin Charles "Comar" Blanchard Jr., who did twenty-eight million favors for me and my family all year so I could make this deadline and still have a normal life-well, normal such as it is defined by the Franks. But, hey, Comar? You are the best thing that ever swam our gene pool, bubba, and all the Franks love you, especially this one.

Thanks to Richard H. Moore of Coastal Carolina University for his help in identifying the double-breasted cormorant. Thanks to Chris Skodras from Sam's Corner at Pawleys Island for continuing to sell Cokes in little bottles and sausage biscuits. And huge thanks to Louis Osteen, the gracious and esteemed proprietor of Louis's Fish Camp for sharing your fine taste and your tasty finery with all of us-I wish you all good things. Don't even think about a visit to Pawleys Island without a reservation for lunch or dinner there.

To my great friends, who appear as characters in this story, please tell everyone that this is pure fiction and the use of your name is intended merely to tickle your funny bone: Adrian Shelby, Mary Ann O'Brien, Everett Presson, Anice Geddis Carr, Frank Del Mastro, Karen Tedesco and Frances DuBose. Thanks and I love y'all!

To Amy Berkower and my first mentor, even though he never knew it at the time, Al Zuckerman, what can I say? I love y'all to death! And Sandi Mendelson? Isn't it time to go to the Lowcountry so I can show it to you? Thanks y'all for everything!

To the team at Berkley Publishing, starting with Leslie Gelbman, the epitome of what a publisher should be. Leslie? I am so grateful to you and always will be. Here's our fifth Lowcountry Tale (which, by the way, is borderline Lowcountry territory, depending on who you ask!) and I still can't believe how many wonderful things have happened to me since you came into my life! Kissing your footprints, still! And I always will! Seriously.

And then there's Gail. That's Ms. Fortune, my editor extraordinaire, with the eye of a wizard and the heart of a saint. There's nothing I can say to express my appreciation and gratitude to you. Five books! Five! Here's to five more! We rise together, honeychile!

And always to Norman Lidofsky, Ernie Petrillo, Sharon Gamboa, Don Rieck, Patrick Nolan, Trish Weyenberg, Don Redpath, Rich Adamonis, Joe Crockford and Ken Kaye-y'all could teach the world of sales a thing or two! Always, thanks to Joni Friedman and Rich Hasselberger for the fantastic cover for this book! And of course, a most dramatic curtsy to my dear and precious friend of extraordinary talent, Jack Alterman, the artistic jewel of Charleston, who, with the soul of a true southern gentleman, arrested the quintessential photograph for this cover-wow! I want to crawl in that hammock and read! Man, I love you! But extremely! (In the most correct way, of course.) And Liz Perl and Heather Connor! My knees are calloused from praying for your good health and everything else! Love you, love you!

Oh, gosh, golly, gee whiz! I love this part of my life when a book is finished and I get to thank people! (Even though no one probably reads this except...I don't know. Oprah? Yeah, sure.) Okay, still carrying on here. Can we talk about the booksellers for a moment? Last summer, when I was on tour in August for Shem Creek we had five hurricanes. Not one, not three-five. They were horrible. I wasn't worried about my book sales as much as I was about book readers and those soldiers in the army of the written word who braved the elements to open their stores so the customers could swim in. It was intense. I just want to say thank you in the most serious way to all of you. You know why, and I regret all the many inconveniences caused by the weather and my inability to whip it into submission. Talk about a rough tour? Thank God, I'm a May book this time! And believe me, I will come to every store I can and sign books for you until I can't sign any more. More than anyone, I owe you all the most, and I know I can never repay you for your support except with my respect and admiration. And you have that for sure. Hugely.

Especially Patti and Avery and all the team at Barnes & Noble in Towne Centre in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. I still miss Buzzy, but he's alive and well in Queens! Hooray! And the amazing team at the Waldenbooks in Charleston. And all the grand folks at Bay Street Traders in Beaufort and I could go on and on to the High Point Literary League and the Hilton Head Women's Club, and SEBA, and all the Friends of the Library organizations who asked me to come and run my mouth. Are you kidding me? These people are better than family when it comes to support!

Speaking of family, I've got a big and gorgeous one to thank. First the obvious cast-my sister and brothers. Huge thanks to Ted and Joanne Benton of Winchester, Massachusetts, Mike and Jennifer Benton of Irving, Texas, Bill and Pat Benton of Mount Pleasant, South Carolina-thank you for loving me and asking your friends to read my work. To my only sister, the unbelievable Lynn, and her truly incredible husband, Scott Bagnal, of Edisto Beach, South Carolina, you know how I feel about you and how deep this river runs. But most of all to Peter, Victoria and William, who truly are the lights of my days and nights-never doubt that I love you with my whole heart.

Victoria? She's away at college. Honey? Are you wearing a sweater? Let me tell the world this: there's no one like Victoria Frank. She is beautiful, passionate, brilliant, talented and fall-down funny. And she supports me like crazy when the going gets tough.

William? He's finally a little taller than his father, smarter than anyone in the house and the kind of superbly intelligent young man who can become anything he wants. I don't know a teenage boy with a bigger or more beautiful and loyal heart.

And before closing, another word on loyalty. Debbie Zammit, who came blasting from my past to help me write a book each year, is the best kind of friend a girl could have. Some know that Debbie and I once thought we ruled the world of acrylic sweaters in the garment business in New York. Without nitpicking, talk about lofty aspirations? Um, that's a yarn joke. Ah, well, point is, this book never would have made it to print this year without her. So, Debbie? I owe you and I thank you profusely for everything.

So shoot me. I'm sentimental and don't care who knows it.

PROLOGUE.

PEOPLE have secrets. Everyone does. And, at one point or another, many people say they would like to run away and start life over in a place where no one knows their business. I know that I have felt that way. More than once. And I am no stranger to disaster, and most certainly no one would ever call me a coward. Coward or not, sometimes you just want to slip away into the night.

What drives us to that point? Did you do something horrible? Or, did something horrible happen to you?

Maybe you just feel like you need some anonymity. You have endured all the questioning, opinion-giving and gossiping humanity you can bear. It's time to strip away everything, all the clutter and noise, and look at your life, how it got to that point and figure out what you intend to do about it. At least, that's how it was for me.

When my tragedies occurred and getting through the days felt like pulling a wagon of bricks that was missing a back wheel, the only choice was to move back to Pawleys Island and attempt to put everything in perspective. I should have packed a seat belt. First, I met Huey Valentine. Huey, one of the most wonderful men who ever lived, befriended me and eventually gave me the swift kick I needed to put down my golf clubs for a while. That kick came when Rebecca showed up and Armageddoned the pattern of self-indulgent complacency that ordered my shallow and insignificant life, which in all my precious stupidity, I thought I was enjoying. Yeah, I thought it was fabulous-okay, it wasn't fabulous and I knew it. But it was usually better than bearable, and to be frank, until she appeared, I couldn't think of any better way to occupy my time. Golf and tennis. Tennis and golf. A party here, an opening there. Pretty shallow and useless.

I didn't think I had much in common with Rebecca until the divorce was all over, only to discover we had everything in common; we were simply at different stages in our lives. If her parachute hadn't landed on Huey's doorstep, I'd still be treadmilling in my sandy island rut. And if we all weren't there to engage Huey's mind, his life would have been one narrow garden path slowly tiptoeing back to the eighteenth century.

Here's the other lesson I've learned. You only see what you want to see and believe what you want to believe. I'm not talking about the Gray Man or Alice Flagg, Pawleys Island's most famous walking dead residents. No, no. This goes back to my eyes and those of my Pawleys friends. I thought we were all lonely and making the best of it, and we were to some degree. But my vision was warped. I was everyone's mother; Huey was my chaste and antiseptic spouse; Rebecca was our daughter. Huey belonged to me, and Rebecca did too. Wrong!

What we all taught each other was stunning and, honest to God, life altering. But here's the thing. I will never accept that these changes could have come about any place but Pawleys Island. Sure, you've heard about the hand-made hammocks and the pristine beaches. You've seen gorgeous pictures of the sunsets and the marsh teeming with wildlife. But you don't know Pawleys until you've been there and experienced its tremendous power. It is only a tiny sandbar south of Myrtle Beach and north of Georgetown. But be warned. It is there that the Almighty Himself would like to engage you in conversation and redirect your soul. Listen to me: for all the jokes I make, this time I'm not kidding.

If you're happy in your misery and determined to remain so, don't ever go to Pawleys. If you do make the trip, be on guard. Truth is coming to get you, and peace isn't far behind. But it all comes at a price. You'll have to be the judge of whether it's worth all the hullabaloo.

This is how it happened to me.

ONE.

WELCOME TO GALLERY VALENTINE.

I looked out across the dunes and up and down the beach. Another gorgeous day. Blue skies, billowing clouds and the sun rising with the mercury. Eastern breezes rustled the palmettos and sea oats. Sun worshippers by the score had accepted early invitations to assume the lizard position. They were scattered and prone, armed with coolers, beach chairs, novels, visors and canvas bags of towels, toys and lotions, littered all along the edges of the Atlantic in both directions. They looked like clusters of human solar batteries recharging themselves in drowsy warmth. The waves rolled in low murmurs of hypnotic suggestion, washed the shore and pulled away.

The weather that day seemed without guile, but I knew better. As soon as the hands of time crossed noon, Mother Nature would bellow the flames of hell's furnace, blowing unspeakable heat all over the Lowcountry, and the sensible lizards would retreat to shade and hammocks until later in the day. The others would fry, fooled by the breeze and lulled into a comfortable stupor by the ocean's song.

Let me tell you something, honey. You'd never catch me in a swimsuit smelling like cocoa butter and fruit, sticky with salt and sand, half catatonic and dehydrated from exposure. No. I had better things to do with my time, like feeding Huey. Or playing golf in that same sun. It was the lying around part that was a problem for me. Besides, who needed to see me in a bathing suit? I assure you, no one.

But back to my current priority...feeding Huey.

After his call, I picked up sandwiches from The Pita Rolz and drove over to his gallery in the Oak Lea Shops. He had been practically breathless on the phone, but private-audience breathless drama was pretty much Huey's modus operandi.

"Abigail! Darling! Drop everything and come! You must meet Rebecca!"

"Who's Rebecca?"

"Our savior! You'll see!"

"Well, we could use a savior..."

"And, would you be a dear and bring us some lunch? Just tuna for me, on rye, but only if it looks fresh, and turkey on white bread with mayonnaise for our darling girl, and of course get something for yourself. My treat."

Huey Valentine had not missed a meal in all his fifty-five years. I had to laugh. When Huey got excited, he thought about food. When he was depressed, he thought about food. What can I say except that Huey was well fed. I imagine the least insulting but most accurate term one might use to describe Huey's appearance would be portly, but in a way portly suited his entire demeanor, which, when in the company of close friends, grew a shade larger than life itself.

Huey was the consummate southern gentleman, an aristocratic Nathan Lane, never rude to anyone's face but felt no remorse about a wicked comment to me about others, especially tourists.

You could set your wristwatch by Huey. He was never late for an appointment or a dinner party. He wrote thank-you notes on his Dempsey & Carroll ecru hand-engraved stationery that was so stiff, folding it cracked it like an egg. And he always used an ornate fountain pen, signing with the flourish of John Hancock. Speaking of John Hancock, Huey Flagg Valentine could probably trace his ancestry back to Charlemagne's grandparents. Evergreen, the plantation where he lived with his mother and houseman, had been in his family's name since fifteen minutes after the land was claimed for King Charles II.

I had never seen him dressed in anything but all white, summer and winter, and yes, he wore a hat. But not to affect a grand attitude so much as to save his balding head from the terrors of melanoma. Everything about him was stylish and elegant. He couldn't help it. All those generations of social grace and good taste were imbedded in his DNA.

I just adored him. Everyone did.

It was on Huey's arm that I had gladly attended every party, concert, dinner or gallery opening for the past three years, since my return to Pawleys Island.

Life was so strange. I thought I was going to move into my family's house and write my memoirs, but I was slightly embarrassed to admit that all I had done was exercise and slide in and out of social commitments with Huey. It wasn't the worst thing, really. I mean, heaven forbid that I had a little fun. Besides, the thought of reliving my past through writing it all down? Well, let's just say that I had yet to arrive at the moment where I felt comfortable enough to play with my inner gorillas. They could wait. In any case, I questioned the real value of an autobiography because it seemed like vanity in the extreme. It wasn't like I abandoned a career as a backup singer for the Rolling Stones and that my writings would become the latest zeitgeist on sex, drugs and rock and roll. Frankly, my therapist recommended that I give writing a whirl, saying it might be good for an exercise in closure. Instead, I had closure with everything else-my frantic law practice, my marginal personal life and my nice expensive therapist. I simply closed up my house in Columbia and came back to Pawleys just to think about things.

I imagine you could say I'm a lucky woman, at least in terms of inheritance and assets. My mother died when I was very young, and then Daddy finally gave up the ghost after a short bout with leukemia six years ago. Since I am an only child, the house on Pawleys came right into my hands. The old rockers, the creaking floorboards, the tongue-and-groove walls, the ancient kitchen and the claw-footed bathtubs were all mine. The only changes I made were to add a furnace, a fresh coat of paint, window boxes of flowers and new screens. Oh, and I did update the bathroom and kitchen fixtures but that had to be done-you know how salt corrodes everything in its path.

If you looked twice at my house you would scratch your head wondering why I loved it so much. Anyone with a developer's eye would want to knock it down and replace it with a home with central air-conditioning and heat and, probably, God forbid, wall-to-wall carpet, an in-wall vacuum system, doorbells and every other invention of the twentieth century. No thanks. I still preferred floors I could sweep, friends calling out to announce their arrival over the roar of the ocean, and I could not have cared less what mysterious wonders the damp air performed on my hair. Once I crossed over that causeway, leaving the mainland, the plantations and the Waccamaw River, the world ceased to exist.

On very hot nights I used the ceiling fan in my bedroom because I loved to hear the waves at night and the birds in the morning. And I loved the memories. If I closed my eyes, I could hear my mother's gentle voice, negotiating with Philemon, the creek man and an island institution during my childhood. He had a bucket of fresh flounder and another one of shrimp, and from them Momma would buy our dinner.

I could see us at the table, Daddy telling Momma how delicious the meal was. Later I would squeeze in between them on the porch swing, while Momma sang sweetly and I drifted off to my dreams. When you lose a parent at a young age, those few memories you have are more precious than any single ring or necklace left to you. Whenever I was here, even alone as I am now, I could stand where they once stood and somehow in the magical workings of the Pawleys Island salt air, I could bring them back to me. For that and for a thousand other reasons too, I would never sell this house or leave it for too long.

Daddy inherited our home on Myrtle Avenue from his father, and his father inherited it from his mother. Our family's Pawleys Island history went back almost as far as Huey's plantation origins. Somewhere around the time Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, Daddy's father's mother's husband hauled it in sections (we think) to this parcel of land from Butler Island and put it all back together. If you were inclined to inspect the underside of this great relic, you would still find the mortise-and-tenon joints with pegs.

When I was a girl, Daddy and his friends would fix cocktails and go under the house to have a look, reappearing later, amazed by nineteenth-century building skills. It was no doubt that her meticulous construction kept Miss Salt Air from flying to Kingdom Come during Hurricane Hugo, our most foul visitor of 1989. Oh, she got her bonnet blown off (lost the roof) and there was water damage to be sure, but Daddy brought a team of men up from Charleston and raised her from the dunes to new and dignified heights on sturdy pilings of brick.

Anyway, it's the island, really, that spins the spell. The house helped, but the most compelling reason for my return here was to languish in great peace as opposed to despair. For all of my life, any time spent here made everything right.

I could stand on the porch and breathe in with all of my lungs, exhale my troubles in a whoosh, and the breezes carried them away. My shoulders dropped back to their natural position. I moved differently, slowly but with deliberateness. I slept soundly remembering all my dreams.

That seemed to be the general consensus of everyone on Pawleys Island. It's a simple retreat for some and a spa for the soul to others. One thing is certain: it's unlike any other place in God's entire creation.

Even Huey agreed with that. As much as the Waccamaw waters flowed through his veins, on many evenings I had seen the look on his face when we shared the end of day, watching the moonrise over the Atlantic. You can't paint this, he would say. And he, who possessed the heart and soul of the artist, was right.

With that statement, Huey claimed a corner in my heart, which until then had been under lockdown. So, if Huey said, Drop everything and come meet our new savior, I dropped everything and did as he asked. I bought lunch and drove my old Jaguar sedan right over to him, cursing the entire United Kingdom over their wimpy air-conditioning.

I pushed open the door and spotted him right away by the framing table in the rear of the gallery. Huey was the Rosetta stone for body language. His hands were in midair, whirling with excitement, and he shifted from one foot to the other. He turned at the unobtrusive musical sound of the automatic doorbell, saw me and rushed to my side.

"There you are! Come! Say hello! Let me help you with that!" He took the bag and cardboard tray of iced tea from me, delivered two air kisses to my cheeks, stood back and smiled. "Did they have decent tuna?"

"Huey, baby? The tuna is life altering. I watched them make it, which is what took me so long." The tiny brunette was waiting patiently with her portfolio opened, and what I guessed to be her work was spread all over the counter. "You must be Rebecca."

She extended her hand to shake mine. "And you must be Abigail. But please call me Becca. My friends call me Becca."

"No! No! No!" Huey said, researching the contents of the sack of food. "You must be Re-becca! We cannot defile the great name of Rebecca. I'll get plates."

"Didn't anyone ever call you Abby?" she said to me, looking for some support.

"Over their dead body," I said. "My parents named me for Abigail Adams."

Huey placed three plates on the counter and began unpacking lunch. "Abigail Adams was one of America's first feminists, you know. She was always giving John the business about the inequality of education between men and women."

"Oh," Rebecca said.

"Well, it makes sense today too," I said. "People used to think that education was wasted on women because they wound up staying home with children. Of course, I'm not sure how an education could ever be wasted." What an inane thing for me to say, I thought.

"You can say that again," Rebecca said.

"Anyway, this generation of women works. And not necessarily because they want to." Another pearl of genius from me, but people said vapid things to each other just to put the other at ease.

"You can say that again too!" Rebecca said.

I took the plate from Huey and eyeballed this diminutive Rebecca, thinking that if she agreed to agree with every word I spoke, then surely there was an exalted position available for her in our little tribe.