The Last Original Wife by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

hardly remember my own name these days.”
    â€œMy poor sweet sister! Why don’t you take yourself inside and I’ll get your bags.”
    â€œThanks. Come on, cutie.” I turned to Miss Jo, who perked up and yipped as though she meant to say, We’re home! We went inside Harlan’s beautifully restored ancient town house. I stepped into the small foyer. There stood a small demilune over which hung a portrait of Josephine Pinckney in an elaborate gold gilded plaster frame. On the table sat a small arrangement of fresh flowers, a picture of Leonard in a silver frame, and an Imari bowl where I suspected Harlan dropped his keys. To my right was a small living room, and to my left was the dining room. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen, and farther back was a comfortable den with French doors that led to the garden.
    Ahead of me was a gracious flight of steps, each one inlaid with geometrical border insets of blond walnut and deep red mahogany. Each landing had gorgeous inlays of fruit and flowers that must have taken years to construct by hand. I had always thought that Harlan’s house had the prettiest interior stairs in town. There were stairs that seemed to hang in midair and others worthy of a Scarlett O’Hara descent but none prettier than Harlan’s.
    Charleston was chock-full of architectural wonders, to be sure, and every unique detail of her homes was carefully preserved and pointed out when the opportunity arose, but only discreetly and among dear friends, of course. The only thing more important to Charleston than her glorious history was the refined manners of her citizens. Charleston was not a city of braggarts.
    Harlan was right behind me with my bags.
    â€œLet’s give you the whole third floor. How does that suit you?” He was already up the stairs with two bags, and I followed him with my duffel.
    â€œFine! That will be great.”
    I climbed the first flight of stairs and stopped, feeling winded. My heart was pounding. I was awfully out of shape and I knew it. These steps would be good for me. But my initial thought that the third floor would be wonderful to have to myself could have been wrong—it might be dangerous. What if I had a stroke on top of everything else?
    â€œCome on, chickee! Let’s shake it up! It’s cocktail time!”
    â€œHarlan, it’s only three thirty!” I called up the stairs.
    â€œHoney? It’s Sunday, and any time after church is cocktail time!”
    I giggled, thinking that all over Charleston, gentlemen in linen suits and ladies in Lilly were imbibing mimosas and Bloodys, feeling virtuous for having attended services and a little naughty at the same time.
    At last I reached the third floor.
    â€œMoses! Harlan? I sure do wish you had an elevator. Lord!”
    â€œThere’s no way to attach one to the house without compromising its integrity.”
    â€œStill! Mercy!”
    I dumped my duffel bag on the floor and huffed and puffed my way over to the window. The room had a beautiful view of Washington Park across the street. Mothers were there with their children, who played among the live oaks, azaleas, and boxwoods. Tourists and natives occupied the benches, enjoying cool drinks and sandwiches. Everyone seemed to be smiling. It was a beautiful, peaceful sight.
    â€œDon’t go all feeble on me, Sister! We have company arriving at six.”
    â€œWhat? Who?”
    â€œOh, just a few friends I wanted to see before I left. So why don’t you unpack and I’ll meet you in the kitchen? I’ve been making super cubes all week. Gotta refill my trays.” He lifted up my largest bag and put it on the bed.
    â€œOkay, Dr. Cool One, what’s a super cube?”
    â€œA two-inch-square ice cube that’s hard as a rock so it doesn’t dilute your drink.”
    â€œWell, that’s a piece of genius.”
    â€œI’ll say it is. Wish I’d thought of it. I’d have