One Christmas, she gave our mutual friend Suzanne a bottle of Houbigant perfume. We had to look it up on the internet because we were stunned that they still manufactured it. I recalled the last person to wear it was my great aunt, who made it her signature fragrance when Myrna Loy hawked it in an ad during the press junket for After the Thin Man in 1936. When I told Dottie we were impressed that she had found a bottle in 2017, she sniffed, “You girls are not in the know.”

DBF did not set out to become a New York Times bestselling author of twenty novels set in the South because it was a whim, or because she was a wife and mother with two young kids to raise, or because she wanted a house on the ocean in her hometown (though that might have been a drop of the octane drive that fueled her ambition). More accurately, Dottie was a pile driver on a mission. She was a natural-born storyteller who emerged from her job in the showrooms in Manhattan’s garment district (after fashion school in Atlanta) with an idea. Dottie had an instinct—that her customers, specifically women, needed a respite more than a new blouse. She recognized that women needed time for themselves, a way to feed their intellect and souls, and connect with other women, by way of a good read. Her acumen in business, especially her expertise in sales, marketing, and publicity, bolstered her creative side, making her the name brand she became. She surrounded herself with sharp minds who had even sharper elbows. Her agent, Suzanne Gluck; editor, Carrie Feron; marketing expert Kathy Gordon; and confidante and daughter, Victoria Frank, were akin to the Four Horsemen of Notre Dame without the cleats. They were fierce. Dottie was the quarterback. She called the plays and the shots. She was a worthy competitor to any of the greats on the current literary scene, but in the process of climbing higher she was never mean. Make no mistake, though—she played to win.

Dottie didn’t much care that the fancy folks called her emotional, satisfying, romantic, poignant, funny, and yes, southern novels “beach reads.” “Pound sand,” she’d shrug. She also didn’t mind being labeled, as long as that label was easily found in the bookstore.