Charleston

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  “Yes, yes, it is. Hopper’s watercolor was painted in 1929, seven years before this one.”

  Eliza turned back to the painting and leaned forward to look more closely. “Do you know why Ruellan painted the same house?”

  “We don’t. Mr. Marshall is trying to find out.”

  “The Hopper doesn’t have this metal structure behind it. Do you know what this is?”

  “You’d have to ask Mr. Marshall.”

  As if on cue, the door to Peter Marshall’s office opened. Issie walked out followed by Peter Marshall. Issie was dressed in a pale pink tank top and a long flowing skirt of Indian fabric arranged in panels. She wore large gold hoop earrings, and her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Eliza couldn’t decide if Issie dressed in such a Bohemian style to define herself as an artist or to signal to Charleston that she rejected its conservative sense of decorum. She carried a large portfolio case in her right hand. Peter Marshall was dressed in a seersucker suit and colorful bow tie. A shiny alligator belt with a large antique silver buckle was cinched around his sizable girth.

  “Give me a week or so with these watercolors, and I’ll let you know if we can do something. Now don’t forget”—he patted Issie on the shoulder—“if you happen to come across anything in your grandmother’s collection that you have questions about or need help in making an attribution, we are here to help.”

  Issie wore no makeup, which only added to her allure. Her left wrist was covered in three inches of beaded bracelets that made a light jingle-jangle sound as she moved. “Thank you, Peter.” Issie smiled, and Eliza understood that the tone of her voice would result in Peter doing more for her than he might otherwise have done.

  “Mr. Marshall,” his assistant stepped forward, “Eliza Poinsett is here to speak with you.” The assistant faded back away from the middle of the room.

  Peter Marshall pulled up sharply and held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Eliza, presumably you know each other,” he said and turned to Issie.

  Eliza looked at Issie and wasn’t sure what to do except to nod an acknowledgment. Issie took a few steps back and pivoted toward the door, as if turned by a strong breeze. “I should go,” she said.

  Eliza felt as if she had just walked through a glass door that was shattering all around her. She couldn’t hear anything. She had never meet Issie. Many years ago, when Issie had come down from Boston to visit her grandmother, Eliza had seen her once or twice at a beach party or regatta, but Issie was a few years older and always had a crowd of the older boys around her.

  Peter Marshall was now standing by the Ruellan painting, pointing out aspects of it. Was he speaking to her? Eliza turned to face him—something about the large metal octagonal structure behind the house being an oil tank owned by South Carolina Electric and Gas. She nodded, as if taking in his words and considering them, but she could not comprehend one thing he was saying. Could Issie not know who she was? Could that be possible? The assistant had said her name, and Peter had said only “presumably the two of you know each other.” How innocent or how calculated was his use of the word presumably? Eliza dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand to try to brake her thoughts, to shock herself into focusing on what Peter was saying—something about the house being owned by an African-American dressmaker.

  “I was hoping to speak to you about Mrs. Vanderhorst’s painting.” Eliza cut across his perfectly rehearsed paragraph.

  Abruptly Peter stopped speaking and made a small lurch backward. “Yes, yes, by all means,” he said. “Let’s go into my office. Can I get you some coffee or iced tea? Water? You know, someone mentioned you to me the other day. I, for the life of me, can’t remember who.” He pressed his fingers into his forehead. “Maybe it was Kit come to think of who. No, maybe not,” he said as he shuffled through his memory. “Well anyway, tell me what I can do for you.”

  As Eliza took him through her research, she felt herself steady. Peter never let on that he had sent an assistant to do research. When Eliza had finished, he asked her what she thought Mrs. Vanderhorst wanted to do.

  “Depending on your offer, either sell it directly to you or sell it through you on commission.”

  “Let me give this some thought. I have a couple of clients who would love a Henrietta Johnston, but I’m not so certain they would buy one that doesn’t have a rock solid attribution. It’s such a pity, Kit’s portrait would be worth so much more if we knew for certain it was a Johnston or even if we knew the identity of the sitter. That would help, too.”

  Eliza stood up to leave.

  “Before you go, I would love to get your opinion on some pieces I just got in.” Peter picked up a stack of watercolors separated by pieces of tissue paper. He showed Eliza the first watercolor and then moved the painting over and removed the tissue paper to reveal the second one. Eliza looked without saying anything as Peter neatly restacked the images of primitive tropical scenes rendered in shades of brown. He was careful to place the tissue paper uniformly back on each painting. “They aren’t very good, are they?”

  Eliza pressed her lips together and shrugged her shoulders. All she wanted to do was to get out of the gallery and back to her house.

  “I didn’t think so,” Peter said. “I fear my cat could do better. And the colors are so dreary. If these scenes were brighter, I could sell them to all those people at Kiawah who don’t care what they put on the walls as long as it is upbeat.”

  WALKING DOWN CHURCH STREET, ELIZA FELT AS IF SHE were being carried away by a rip current, and no matter how hard she tried to push her way back, the current took her out farther and farther. The trick was to give up her instinct to fight and let the current take her where it wanted. She had to concentrate to keep her mind in one place and to be patient and not overreact. Unlike Issie, she had always followed the rules. She had never crashed into other people’s lives. She would never take what wasn’t hers. Was Issie panicked that Eliza could replace her as Lawton’s mother? If she did fear that, then Issie didn’t understand her son. Lawton had made it clear he could not be won over easily. Eliza wasn’t even sure he could be won over at all. Issie was still mesmerizingly beautiful, and she used her looks to get what she wanted. She had done it ten years ago, and Eliza could only assume she was doing it now. And even though Henry had done his best to reassure her that nothing could change between them—that what had happened between Issie and him was an impulsive mistake—if it had happened once, it could happen again. And even if it couldn’t, couldn’t Issie’s presence recalibrate equations among them all and make it all but impossible for Eliza to stay? She didn’t know what Issie wanted, but she felt sure she wanted something. Maybe Issie dreamed that she could come back to Charleston and start a life with Henry and Lawton. Maybe Charleston was where she thought she had a rightful place, and Eliza knew, despite the agreement signed when Lawton was born, she did. Didn’t Issie really belong here more than she did? She was Lawton’s mother. And ten years ago—Henry not wanting her had made her run far away—and Eliza understood that, too. Hadn’t she done the same thing? Eliza remembered the feeling that had jolted her when she had seen Issie two days ago on Broad Street—the realization that the three of them—Henry, Issie, and Lawton—shared something she would never have access to.

  HENRY WAS WAITING FOR ELIZA WHEN SHE RETURNED. TRYING to keep her voice even and unemotional, she told him she had run into Issie.

  “Where?”

  “At Peter Marshall’s gallery. I went to see him about Mrs. Vanderhorst’s portrait, and when I arrived he was in a meeting with Issie. When they came out of his office, he didn’t formally introduce us, he just said, ‘Presumably the two of you know each other.’”

  “How was she?”

  “Sort of skittish, like she didn’t want to meet me.”

  Henry nodded. “Why was she there?”

  Eliza knew Henry was collecting information before he formed an opinion. She had seen him do this before. But it still felt cold. And yet, she did not know
how else she wanted Henry to act, what more reassurance she needed. Talking about Issie was hard for both of them. “I don’t know, but she did have a large portfolio case with her. And at the end of my meeting with Peter, he showed me some very primitive, not very interesting watercolors of beach scenes with palm trees. He asked me what I thought of them. They weren’t very good, but I didn’t say anything because I suspected they came from Issie. I wonder if they were done by her boyfriend, didn’t you say she was living with a painter or art dealer in Tangiers?”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Could be, but who knows with Issie. I doubt Peter is too interested in them—whatever they are. He’s probably feigning interest as a way of getting his hands on some of her grandmother’s pieces. Mrs. Estabrook had a wonderful collection of Alice Smith watercolors of rice fields and cypress swamps and a complete set of Mark Catesby engravings.” Henry fiddled with his watch. “After all this time—we are finally together and she appears. I don’t want to leave, but I should get back. I asked Cora to stay an hour longer, so I could come see you. She is cooking chicken pilaf and fried okra for Lawton. Come for supper.”

  “Thanks, but maybe it’s better if it’s just the two of you. Maybe he will open up a little more.”

  “I don’t know.” Henry took a slow deep breath and shook his head. “Whenever I mention Issie, he shows very little emotion. He doesn’t say anything or ask any questions, and when I told him I thought we should have dinner with her, he just shrugged his shoulders. I would have thought he would have wanted to meet her, but so far he hasn’t expressed any desire to do so. Issie’s lawyer called today about coming by with her tomorrow afternoon to try to agree to a schedule of visits. I think the best thing is to go slowly, let Issie meet him, let them spend some time together, and then if she wants to collect him from school or take him to a tennis practice, that’s fine. But what I don’t want to happen is for her to try to be his mother and then lose interest and decide to leave. That could be devastating for him.”

  “Can you prevent that?”

  “No, but I can control things up to a point. Issie did legally give him up. So I could prevent her from seeing him.”

  “But you aren’t going to do that, are you?”

  “No, I’m not, but I want to go slowly, let Lawton get comfortable with the idea or as comfortable as he can with the fact that his mother has come back and not try to force things too much. But Issie, if she is anything, is very headstrong and, in some ways, spoiled, so even if we agree on a schedule, I’m not sure she will follow it. I guess I can only try.” Henry looked away for a moment and then back at Eliza. “You sure I can’t persuade you to come?”

  “I think it’s better if Lawton has you all to himself. All of this has to be incredibly confusing for him.”

  “You’ve been great with him.”

  “He’s dear, but he’s fierce.” They both laughed.

  “He is, isn’t he? All seventy-two pounds.”

  “He’s good company. I enjoyed working with him on his owl project.”

  “I should warn you. I sense he is plotting to include you in his campaign to get a dog sooner than his birthday.”

  “Too late.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, WHEN HE STOPPED BY AFTER WORK, Henry found Eliza with her papers and books spread out on the kitchen table. “This looks serious. Like you’re planning an assault.”

  “I’m giving it my best shot,” Eliza said and pushed her chair back. “So how did your meeting go?”

  “With Issie?” Henry took his jacket off and hung it on the back of a chair. “Who knows. I told her we could start with a few visits, and then if that went okay, she could collect Lawton from school some days.”

  “How did she react to all that?”

  “She seemed fine with it. Her lawyer did most of the talking. My goal is to keep everything as calm as possible. Fortunately, I suppose, right now much of Issie’s time is taken up with getting her family’s plantation on the Combahee River ready for sale. Apparently, according to her grandmother’s will, the plantation was left to seven grandchildren, but Issie’s father had been given sole use of it during his lifetime. Issie said, of her six cousins, five had no interest in owning property down here, and so the only option is to sell it. Who knows what she will do when everything is sorted out. I assume when her grandmother’s estate is settled, she will inherit quite a bit. Though whether she will get it outright or in trust, I don’t know.”

  “Do you think that’s the reason she came back here?”

  “Don’t know.” Henry shook his head. “It certainly is possible.”

  “How’s Lawton?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Henry unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up one sleeve. “He pretty much shuts down when I try to talk to him—I can’t tell how he really feels—I’m not sure he even knows. I just dropped him off at a friend’s house for supper.” Henry stood up to move physically away from any discussion about Issie. He picked up a jar of marinated shrimp on the counter and turned to Eliza. “Did you make this?”

  “Would I impress you if I said yes?”

  “Completely.”

  “Okay, then assume the best.”

  “Indeed I will, but first”—Henry hid the jar behind his back—“a truth check—what, besides shrimp, is in this jar?”

  “Olive oil, vinegar, onions, celery, capers, and bay leaves.”

  Henry brought the jar close to his face and examined the contents. “Correct. Did you make only one?”

  “No, there’re more in the fridge. I just took one out—it was going to be my dinner.”

  “Then I came just in time.” Henry opened the refrigerator door and leaned down. “Excellent, five more jars of shrimp, lettuce, tomatoes, an unopened bottle of white wine, we have everything we need. How about a picnic outside?”

  “May be a bit humid and buggy.”

  “Then kitchen table it is.” Henry rolled up his other sleeve and began to wash his hands. “I’ll make the salad.” He looked at the last pile of papers Eliza was clearing off the table. “So have you definitely decided to pursue Dave?”

  “I’m thinking about it. That’s what all this is,” she said and raised the stack of books and papers in her arms. “I’m trying to read all I can about Edgefield pottery. So far though, I’ve only found a few articles that mention Dave. But I did find one article on buttermilk in the Edgefield Advertiser that mentions him.”

  “Buttermilk?”

  “Buttermilk. I’ll read it to you if I can find it. It’s here somewhere.” Eliza shuffled through her pile of papers. “Here it is.” She waved a manila folder in the air. “It’s dated April 1, 1863. Simple title of ‘Buttermilk’—See,” she said and turned the copy to Henry. She began to read, “‘One day in years gone by we happened to meet Dave Pottery whom many readers will remember as the grandiloquent old darkey once connected with a paper known as the Edgefield Hive in the outskirts of his beloved hamlet. Observing an intelligent twinkle in his eye, we accosted him in one of his own set speeches, “Well, Uncle Dave, how does your corporosity seem to sagitate?” “First rate, young master, from top to toe—I just had a magnanimous bowl-full of dat delicious old beverage buttermilk.”’”

  “So he was quite a character?”

  “Whether he was or wasn’t, I don’t know, but I suspect Dave might have been playing the role of the ‘grandiloquent old darkey’ to make life easier for himself.”

  “So what do you think you will end up doing?”

  “I spoke to Helen Halsey, and she said the Gibbes and Charleston Museum would consider a jointly funded exhibit on Dave. They have one pot and have just been given a second. She didn’t say from where, but I wonder if it’s not the pot that Lucas said Charles Lowndes had donated to the Gibbes.”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Could be.”

  “Anyway, Helen said she’s always wanted to have an exhibition of Dave pots but needed more information and someone to write a m
onograph that could serve as an exhibition catalogue. She asked me to write a proposal, and she said she would speak to Matthew Cuthbert.”

  “That sounds great.” Henry looked in the refrigerator again and got a lemon.

  “What else do you need?”

  “Mustard, onion, vinegar, and olive oil.”

  “I’ll get them, they’re in the pantry.”

  Eliza returned with her arms full and set the jars and onion down on the counter. “I can’t remember if I told you this, but Peter Marshall called Mrs. Vanderhorst and agreed to take the picture on consignment at eighty thousand with a twenty percent commission or buy it at forty-eight.”

  “I didn’t know you had come to a definitive view on her portrait,” he said.

  “I haven’t, but I don’t think I ever will. The shape and size of the eyes are different enough to nag me. But it’s tough because I know of examples of contemporary artists modifying their style for brief periods, and I know, too, that if we examined their work two hundred years later, we might not be convinced the work was by the same hand. Mrs. Vanderhorst asked me what I would do, and I told her I would take the commission arrangement. Even though her portrait cannot be attributed decisively to Henrietta Johnston, I think, given the quality of the picture and the rarity of Johnstons, it would sell. It seems that having original Charleston art is important to the people who come down from the North and buy these historic houses. But I don’t know what Mrs. Vanderhorst will do.”

  “Forty-eight to sixty-four thousand is a clever spread. Perfectly calibrated between certainty on one side and uncertainty on the other with just enough upside. I guess it will depend on how quickly she needs the money.”

  “You’re probably right.” Eliza laid two linen place mats and two wineglasses on the table.

  Eliza drained the marinated shrimp and put them in a bowl on the table, and Henry opened the bottle of wine, and they sat down to supper. Henry described the situation at the paper. “I’m going to have to spend the first part of each week in New Orleans. The New Orleans Gazette is proving to be more difficult to turn around than I had thought. The major problem is the advertisers and the senior editors. The advertisers are taking advantage of the change of ownership to try to squeeze margins. And the senior editors are upset that they were not offered an equity interest in the paper as part of the sale. As a result, they are threatening to quit. It doesn’t help that the new owner is Yale educated and thirty-two.”