Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5 by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

laughter.
    “He’s got issues,” Everett said.
    “Uh, yeah!”
    As the young waitress approached I closed the folder as quickly as I could.
    “Hi! I’m Gracie and I’ll be your server this afternoon. I’d like to just go over the specials with you…”
    Gracie was as cute as a bug and she chattered on with so much perkiness as though she could save our eternal souls from the flames of hell by convincing us to order the seafood plat du jour. The more she described the food the wider her eyes became. This was one very dramatic young woman.
    “And if you’re really hungry, there’s the Captain’s Platter. That’s a dozen sautéed scallops, a dozen shrimp, two deviled crabs and a whole fried flounder. It comes with two sides. Personally, I’d get the red rice and the collard greens and ask for extra hush puppies, but then the fried okra is banging…”
    “Whew! Gracie! Too many choices! I’ll just have the crab cakes and a side salad. How ’bout you, Everett?”
    Everett ordered a fried fish sandwich with a side of fries. We both ordered iced tea and some crab dip to pick on while we waited for our entrees. The irrepressible Gracie swept away and I pondered youth being wasted on the young for a moment and then checked my watch. How long would lunch take to get here? Knowing I had the evidence to prove Nat was a skunk had left me absolutely ravenous.
    Every now and then I would pull out the folder and sneak a look at the pictures. Everett would say, Good, huh? And all I could think about was Nat’s ass and the old saying about someone who was cheap—that they were tighter than a gnat’s…Well, you get the drift, I’m sure. Basically, I giggled my way through lunch, pausing every thirty seconds to thank Everett and to sneak another peek.
    Cruising back to Pawleys, I fretted over how best to handle the kryptonite in the envelope next to me. Those pictures were so hot I could almost feel them radiating from the passenger seat. Rebecca would probably have hysterical fits when she saw them. It was one thing to think that your husband might, just might be fooling around. It was quite another to hold a photograph in your hands of your husband sprawled across the lap of his mistress, wearing a football jersey and getting his fanny spanked. Naughty dog. And, let’s be honest, Nat wasn’t just fooling around. He was doing drugs and engaging in what the courts would certainly view as unhealthy behaviors.
    I had to consider the location for dropping the bomb. I couldn’t do it in the gallery and it didn’t seem right to invite her over to my place. I decided to call Huey.
    “Huey?”
    “Abigail! Where are you?”
    “I just passed McClellanville. I had an appointment in Charleston today. Listen, I need your advice.”
    “Uncle Huey is all ears.”
    “I’ve got a stack of pictures in my hot little hands that would take the wind out of Johnny Cochran.”
    “And I assume that these photographs are of Rebecca’s Rat?”
    “And his paramour. Huey, I am not kidding, they are so gross and trashy that if Rebecca sees them she is going to die.” I knew I shouldn’t have said that. It was unprofessional. But it was out of my mouth before I knew it.
    “Good Lord.” Huey was silent for a few minutes, and during that eternity I sighed for all the world. “What’s in them? I mean, what are they doing?”
    “Huey, you know I can’t tell you that. I shouldn’t have said anything to you. You have to promise me you’ll keep it to yourself.”
    “I am a paragon of discretion, Abigail. You have my word.”
    “Thanks. I just want to know how you think I can handle this in the most sensitive way possible.”
    “Well? You could always throw them away. I mean, you could just say that your fellow in Charleston didn’t turn up anything, couldn’t you?”
    “I can’t do that. I just can’t.”
    “Well, then, go by her apartment and just hand them to her and then leave. How’s that?”
    “Too cowardly. God, Huey,