Dottie respected her readers, and because of that, there was always something extra—a beach towel or a tote, a gift, a bonus if you will—that went with the latest novel, a grace note that reflected her southern upbringing. She thought so highly of her readers, she welcomed them into her home for Fanfest. That same kindness was extended to her fellow authors. She took her generosity a step further with writers when she insisted we stay over in her house on the ocean. She would put us up in a guest room where even Martha Stewart could pick up a decorating tip or two. You left the Frank home better than when you arrived. You’d be laughing, well fed, and if you weren’t hungover, you were Sunday brunch-tipsy. Dottie’s cocktails were never delicate, though her sips were. Her manners were impeccable. Her largesse was legendary. Her taste exquisite. She did everything just right, but there was nothing fussy about the presentation.

Dottie was a rare beauty, inside and out. Her eyes were Carolina blue (UNC’s color, though Dottie was a South Carolinian all the way) and yes, she had the bone structure of those English/Scots-Irish beauties of Hollywood’s Golden Age; the straight nose, strong jaw, and bright smile made her a classic beauty.

Dottie knew every inch of her beloved Lowcountry and Sullivan’s Island of South Carolina. Her home on the water was warm and welcoming. The decor was chic/cozy Billy Haines meets stately Jezebel; there was always a story behind the crystal replacement drops on a chandelier, the wallpaper print in the powder room, and the fabric she found to cover the chair in Peter’s office. Her rambling kitchen was so well-appointed, it was straight out of a Nancy Meyers movie, though I never saw a box of Bisquick in a Meyers film. There was a dining room outfitted with fine china, silver utensils, and art, yet the grandeur wasn’t on display to impress, but to serve you. She prepared a delicious meal, included you in the family, and, ultimately, lifted your spirits by making you a part of things. As her guest, you were wrapped in her thoughtfulness like exquisite cashmere. Lush flowers including roses, hydrangeas, peonies, sunflowers, in big, loose arrangements spilled off tables that could hardly hold them.

The elements of gracious living were just a backdrop for the party—which was a noun, verb, and the Eleventh Commandment in Dottie’s world. She had passionate interests in all sorts of areas, and she was the hostess of the grandiose-est, but nothing meant more to her than her family. Writing was her second love. It was obvious who Dottie loved the most after Peter, Victoria, Will, Maddie, Carmine, her grandson Teddy, her sister Lynn, extended family, and friends. It was you. Her readers.