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much preferred the company of other forward-thinking writers and artists, which was why I liked Jo Pinckney so much. And it was that very frame of mind that led Jo and DuBose to get together with some others and form the Poetry Society of South Carolina way back in 1920. Now a poetry society may sound stuffy and boring to you but let me assure you, the Poetry Society brought every wild hare of the day to Charleston and we had a ball with them all!
    But back to Mr. Gershwin. I was insightful enough to recognize George Gershwin for all he was—a monstrously talented man with a very healthy ego, who could or might, as though he was a big dry sponge, absorb all the credit for Porgy and Bess just by being so unforgivably comfortable in the glare of the limelight. The theatrical world shoveled critical praise at his feet, and he took bow after swooping bow. I didn’t blame him for that but I knew doing business with someone as successful as Gershwin could be a slippery slope. DuBose and I might be swallowed up into history and forgotten altogether.
    I didn’t mind so much if the world didn’t give me credit as the playwright for Porgy . In those days it was still downright unthinkable that a woman from elsewhere, meaning anywhere north or west of the Lowcountry, could possibly understand the complicated relationships, the unusual customs, the issues of faith, the Creole language, and the deep passions of the Gullah people. But I did. Yes, by golly, I surely did. And I swore I would live out my days working for the credit that was due, if not for myself, for my husband. We had bills to pay like everyone else. I remember thinking, Look out George Gershwin, I’ve got my eye on you. And please, let’s get this show on the road!
    Fade to Darkness

Chapter Four
    Needs a Plan
    T he windshield wipers scraped and strummed across the glass in an irregular rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. It was driving me crazy. I barely remember the trip back to the funeral parlor to pick up our car, or the ride back to my house, but I would be haunted by the sound of windshield wipers shaving away ice for the rest of my life. My brother-in-law, sweet Mark, just herded us like a small flock of weary sheep from the limo to our SUV. He and Patti did the driving from that point on. What I do remember is that we were nearly silent for the duration. What were my children thinking? First, we were numb with shock and grief and now we were numb with another load of shock. Affairs left and right? A mistress with a condo? A baby? What other secrets did Addison have? What had Shirley Hackett meant? What else on God’s green earth could possibly happen? All I wanted to do was go home and have this day push itself into the past.
    I was never so happy to have an enclosed garage as I was that horrible day. Little blessings. Little blessings. What a dreadful, horrible day it had been. Surreal. The garage doors tumbled down behind us and clunked with a kind of finality not unlike a guillotine. The underside of the cars were encrusted with salt and sand from the roads. I don’t know why I thought about that except it had to be from habit. If Addison ever saw anything like that, he would have a panic attack and rush his cars to the drive-through brushless car wash to rinse the offending mess all off to the last spec of grit. His precious vehicles could not be exposed to corrosion. I looked at the wet tire marks on the floor of the garage and the thick mud, sprayed and spattered all along the fenders, and thought, screw it. Let them all rot and see if I care.
    I went up the few steps to the door and stepped into the mudroom and then into the kitchen. Suddenly, I felt sweaty and achy. My coat was too hot, my feet ached from the damp cold, and I was feeling thoroughly miserable. All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a thousand years.
    My old friend, Richard Millman, who owned a catering company called Contemporary Foods, was waiting. He had promised to