Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

The second thing I notice is that the whole city seems to be under construction. There are cranes and the skeletons of half-finished buildings everywhere.

Fashionably dressed hipsters mingle with tourists in white sneakers and sun hats on the sidewalks. My car trundles over the uneven pavement that shimmers in the heat of a five o’clock sun. I turn left on Calhoun Street, and then right on East Bay, and all that new construction gives way to the historic charm you see in pictures.

My head is on a swivel as I head south. There’s the famous Charleston City Market on my right. On my left, there’s a hulking cruise ship in the harbor. Farther down on my right, I get a tantalizing glimpse of a narrow cobblestone alley. It’s lined with a series of enormous gas lamps, the live flames like licks of fire. A sign, small and simple, hangs below one of the lamps.

The Pearl.

A restaurant?

I catch a whiff of something delicious. Smoked meat.

Smoked something.

My stomach grumbles. It hits me that I’m suddenly hungry—ravenous—for the first time in days. Luckily, I’m in a foodie town. I read a lot about the incredible bar and restaurant scene during a teary Google search last night at The Holiday Inn Express in Harrisonburg. Seeing pictures of shrimp and grits, biscuits and craft cocktails, and fried chicken sandwiches made me feel the tiniest bit better.

The tourists—and the traffic—disappear when, according to my GPS, I enter the South of Broad neighborhood. It’s leafy and beautiful, and it’s unlike any other place I’ve been. Antebellum mansions line either side of the street. Shutters and porches and enormous window boxes galore. Gardens teem with flowers and mossy fountains behind wrought iron gates.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the clomp of horse hooves.

I’m more than a thousand miles from my life in small town New York. And while the distance is real, I feel like I’m even farther away than that. Like I’m on a different planet.

It’s terrifying.

If I’m being honest, it’s also a relief. I feel like I can breathe again down here.

Longitude Lane is up on the right. My final destination.

After my freakout during the proposal, I decided I needed to hit the pause button on my relationship with Ted. Take some time to myself after the whirlwind of the past three years. In that span, I’d met and moved in with Ted, published my dissertation, and gotten tenure in the English Department at the university where I teach. I haven’t had time to step back and process it all.

I also haven’t had time to play around with that novel I’ve wanted to write. No matter how hard I try to quash it, the itch to write this damn thing won’t go away.

So I’m taking that time now. I’m going to write, if only to prove to myself that the grass isn’t greener and that my life with Ted really is the right life. Then I’ll be ready to walk down the aisle. I’m probably just suffering from a classic case of burnout anyway. Some time away is just the ticket.

Surprisingly, Ted was on board with the idea. We agreed to take a real break, which means we’re allowing each other to be with other people if that’s what we need.

Part of me thinks it’s strange that the two of us agreed to such an arrangement. Especially considering the fact that Ted just tried to put a ring on my finger. But he’s clearly eager to give me as much space as possible. I want to give him space, too, after the way I reacted to his proposal.

Besides. I want to spend my time in Charleston writing. Not hanging out with other men.

“Go. Sow your wild oats,” Ted told me. “When you’re ready, come back to me wearing the ring.”

His confidence soothed me a bit. At the end of the month, I will be ready. I will be wearing his ring.

I will have it all.

In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy my freedom. The day after the proposal, I called Julia Lassiter, one of my friends from graduate school. She’s a beautiful southern belle who comes from big Charleston money and has a raging crush on early twentieth century female British writers. In true Virginia Woolf fashion, she recently accepted an offer of a room of her own in Barcelona in exchange for teaching at a university there for the year. Ever since, she’s been bugging me to use her vacant carriage house in Charleston.

“Get away from all those uptight Ivy Leaguers and come hang down south. Charleston’s kind of a wackadoo place. And I mean that as a compliment. It could be just the change of scenery you need to start that novel you know you need to write.”

Julia was thrilled I finally took her up on the offer.