Free The Last Original Wife by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

much better about showing him any either.”
    â€œOh, come on now. You’ve had a nasty accident and you’re surprised that Wes isn’t all over you, seeing to your every need? Are you serious? He was never that kind of guy. Harold’s not either. And to tell you the truth, most successful men aren’t very sensitive to the needs of others.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make it right.”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t make it right, but it’s the way it is. That’s why we need girlfriends. And sisters. Now tell me how you’re feeling otherwise. You still sore?”
    â€œWell, my bruises are all faded and the really terrible one here on my cheekbone I can cover up with makeup. My mouth is still sore. Oh, who cares? I don’t know . . . I just . . .”
    â€œYou’ve got the blues, shugah! And you’re entitled to a good case of them from time to time—we all are. Let’s have some more cake. We’ll both feel better.”
    Danette was right. Sometimes cake was the answer.
    Since we had arrived back at home from Scotland I had been marinating in a stew of marital discontent. But the silver lining was that my sweet brother, Harlan, had been calling me twice a day.
    â€œEvery time I talk to you, you sound a little better!” he said.
    â€œIt’s because I’m hearing your voice,” I said. “Best medicine in the world!”
    â€œAre you, like, up and around and driving and going to the grocery store?”
    â€œOnly if I want to eat,” I said.
    â€œWait a second here; doesn’t Charlotte go shopping for you?”
    â€œOnly on the first day back,” I said.
    â€œOh, and now she can’t because she’s too busy showing houses that she never sells?”
    â€œOh, hell’s bells, Harlan, she has her own life, you know? Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. Danette’s here all the time, and we’re a long way from starving. Believe me.”
    â€œWell, I can’t be there because I have to work, but if I could, I’d be there and cheer you up. And PS, I don’t see why you can’t convalesce in Charleston. Lord, here I am in this big old house all by my lonesome, except for my ghosts and my little darling! I’d love to have you here to fuss over!”
    Harlan had an adorable little dog, Miss Jo or sometimes he called her Miss JP, named for the aristocrat who had once owned his home. Josephine Pinckney was her name, and Harlan’s historic house was as incredible as Josephine Pinckney’s life had supposedly been.
    â€œThere’s nothing to fuss over. I’m fine, really I am.”
    â€œWell, we’re just going to have to find an excuse for you to come for a visit, and I think I might have just the ticket. Did I tell you about my summer plans?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œI can’t believe I didn’t tell you! But then I’ve been so focused on your accident and all . . .”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Harlan! Tell me!”
    â€œWell, it seems that I have been asked to lead a group of trustees and donors through the ancient art and ruins of Italy for a month.”
    â€œA month?”
    â€œYes. It’s a pretty posh trip—we’re staying at the Gritti Palace in Venice and the Hassler in Rome—first class everything. I haven’t been there since Leonard and I went to Carnival in Venice years ago. I’m superexcited.”
    â€œNo kidding! Who wouldn’t be? It sounds like the experience of a lifetime!”
    â€œIt should be. I wish you would come with me. I promise you’d have a better time than you did in Scotland.”
    â€œVery funny. Listen, you could take me waterskiing on the river Styx and I’d have a better time than I did in Scotland. Anyway, I can just see me walking out of here for a whole month. Wes would die.”
    â€œOh, please. No, he wouldn’t. Seriously, Les, I’m not