A Lowcountry Wedding (37 page)

Atticus cracked a wry grin. “So the mouse roars?”

“She damn well does.” Harper sipped her tea. Atticus saw her eyes sparkle over the rim of her cup. She lowered her cup to the saucer and returned it to the table.

Atticus leaned forward. His mother had worked for her father. She was pregnant with Atticus at the same time Georgiana was pregnant with Harper. They were both connected to the same damn novel. He wanted to know more about this father he never knew.

“Wasn’t your father a writer? Parker Muir.”

“He was. Never published, though. That’s how he met my mother. She never said so, but I think she was supposed to edit his book. There was only one. A lifetime’s work.”

“Did you ever read this book?”

She shook her head. “No. It breaks my heart that Carson lived with him all those years, but she never even picked it up. I can’t imagine not grabbing it and reading it under the covers at night with a flashlight. Anything . . . just out of curiosity. But Carson’s not much of a reader.”

“What happened to the book?”

“Parker destroyed it. Such a waste,” Harper said with feeling. “The only copy. He must’ve hit rock bottom.”

“That was the only copy?” Atticus asked, astonished.

“Yes. And it’s lost.” She sighed. “I would have liked to have read it. Good or bad.”

“Do you remember your father?”

“Yes, but we didn’t have many precious father-daughter moments. Mummy wouldn’t allow it. She hated him, you see. Still does, and the man has been dead for years. She never wanted me to so much as mention his name growing up. I couldn’t even keep a photograph of him. So you can imagine how she felt when I told her I was writing a book. She went nuclear, told me—again—that I had no talent. Mummy can be so supportive,” Harper said with heavy sarcasm. “Her hatred of him is positively pathological.”

“That sounds harsh.” Atticus was shaken by this description, knowing the facts of Parker’s affair.

Harper shrugged. “It’s the truth. Like I said, anything to do with Parker Muir was anathema to her. And by association, his mother, Sea Breeze, and the entire South. As I mentioned, we had a big argument on the phone, and the gist of it all is, she said she’s not coming to the wedding.”

Atticus knew that the mother-daughter relationship loomed large during the wedding process. And that children of neglectful parents were, unbelievingly, often all the more attached to them.

“How do you feel about her not coming?”

Harper’s mask of bravado slipped off to reveal a face of sorrow. “Sad,” she said in a soft voice. “There’s a part of me that still wishes she could be happy for me. Of course I want my mother at my wedding. I don’t have my father, either. Or a grandfather.” Harper sniffed so hard for a moment that he feared she might burst into tears. But she held herself together. She lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and said in a wobbly voice, “Who is going to walk me down the aisle?”

Atticus looked at her, and his steady eyes met hers. “Who
do you want to walk you down the aisle? It doesn’t have to be a man,” he prodded gently.

Harper had such an expressive face. He knew the moment the answer came to her. There was relief and lessening of grief followed by a look of wonder.

“Granny James,” she said clearly, her mouth breaking into a wide grin. “And Mamaw. Can I have two women walk me down the aisle?”

“You can have whatever you want.”

“Then of course. I want my grandmothers.”

It is inconsiderate as well as impolite not to send a reply to a wedding invitation which includes R.S.V.P.

—Etiquette, Emily Post

T
he MacKenzies are a yes?” Granny James exclaimed, flabbergasted. “That old laird hasn’t left his castle in twenty years, but he’s coming all the way from Scotland for the wedding?” She shook her head. “If this keeps up, we will have to rent another tent.”

“At least they responded,” Harper said. “I can’t believe how many people haven’t yet. It’s so rude!” The two women were sitting together at the desk in Harper’s office, accompanied by a crackling fire and a tea service, sorting the invitation responses.

“What’s happening in a world where people don’t RSVP to something as important as a wedding? The planning involved, the cost . . .” Granny James sniffed haughtily. “Raised by wolves.”

“What do I do with all the ones we haven’t heard from yet?”

Granny James lowered the cards in her hand and looked up, her glasses slipping down her nose. “I suppose we can try and follow up with a phone call. But I tell you, my dear, if anyone waltzes into the wedding without having responded, they’ll be escorted out! I don’t care if they did fly in from Europe.”

“Watch your blood pressure, Granny,” Harper said with humor in her voice. Then, setting down her pen, she said with feeling, “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done. I had no idea how difficult things must have been for you this past year. And you still finding time to plan my wedding. I’ve been so selfish, thinking only of myself.”

“Not at all, child. You weren’t meant to know.” Granny James smiled. “You’re the bride. Besides, the wedding has been the one bright spot in a long annus horribilis.”

“Granny James,” Harper began hesitantly, remembering the scene in Granny’s room the other day that had ended with the older woman near tears. “I know you’re not happy Mamaw is in the cottage. That you’d expected to be in there.” She added ruefully, “You’ve made that abundantly clear. But I hope you know that you are welcome here—for as long as you want. This is your home.”

“Thank you, dear. I appreciate you saying that. And Marietta and I seem to be managing just fine,” she said lightly, sifting again through the response cards.

Harper paused. “Do you remember you asked me to talk to Taylor about a prenuptial agreement?”

Granny James looked up, fingers stilled. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, he doesn’t want to sign one.”

“He doesn’t
want
to?”

“No. We had quite a heart-to-heart.” Harper gathered her strength. “And if he doesn’t want to sign, I won’t make him.”

Granny folded her hands on the table. “I see.”

“He also told me he feels uncomfortable living at Sea Breeze because it’s my house. Not ours.”

“Well, dear, the house
is
yours.”

“Actually, it isn’t. Not until I turn thirty when I pay back the loan. It’s yours.”

Granny looked at her sharply. “What are you trying to say?”

“I love Taylor, more than any house or any amount of money. If he’s not happy, I’m not happy. So, what I’m suggesting is that you make Sea Breeze your home. Taylor and I will move.”

“What?”
Granny James’s voice was sharp. She whipped off her eyeglasses. “Don’t be silly. That’s not what I want at all.”

“But it makes sense. You need a place to live. You already paid for the house. Taylor has some money saved, and a nice income from his job, and I’ve made money off the book. Although not much,” Harper added with a laugh. “We can rent a place.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I realize you’re pregnant, but really, Harper, must you be so dramatic? We’re British. We don’t let our emotions rule. Let’s table this discussion for another time. Neither of us is going anywhere for the moment. Do I make myself clear?”

Harper sat back, unaccustomed to Granny’s sharp tone.

Granny’s face appeared contrite. “Forgive me. It’s that I’m quite flustered. Please, be a good girl and don’t mention this again. Sea Breeze is your home. If anyone should go, it will be me. Now”—she slipped her glasses back on—“tell me again how many yes responses came today?”

Harper hesitated, then lowered her gaze and resolutely began counting the list of names on the paper. Granny James took a breath, relieved that Harper didn’t notice her hands were shaking.

Later that afternoon Imogene was on her hands and knees in Harper’s garden, Harper’s wide-brimmed hat on her head and a sharp spade in her hand. She’d been attacking weeds with a vengeance. Her conversation with Harper had her so vexed she needed to get outdoors and put her hands in the soil. If the word
soil
could be applied to whatever she was digging in now, she thought wryly. As far as she could tell, it was all sand and mud.

Imagine, Harper telling her that she could live at Sea Breeze. She’d think her insolent if she hadn’t said it so sincerely. Imogene paused, leaned on her hands, and caught her breath. In truth, she did feel homeless. She missed her extensive gardens at Greenfields Park. Now
that
was soil, she thought wistfully. Her gardens had been her private sanctuary, which she’d tended carefully for more than forty years. If she closed her eyes, she could see the rows of perennials, touched by dew when she took her morning walk. This time of year the air would be crisp and fragrant.

Imogene opened her eyes and wiped the sweat from her brow. But she wasn’t at Greenfields Park, she reminded herself, shaking from her doldrums. She would never live there again. That part of her life, her life with Jeffrey, was finished. This was her new life, here in the lowcountry. She rested her spade and looked out over the Cove. The sun was shining in a sky a piercing
blue. For as far as she could see, water and sea grass swirled together with as much color and energy as a painting by van Gogh. The view was so different from the rolling fields of England. Yet she would never tire of it. Of this she was certain. The mystery and magic of the lowcountry, unlike anywhere else, she found unusually comforting. She sighed and, with a half smile, thought she could use a little mystery and magic in her life now, after so many years facing harsh realities.

She heard a birdcall and looked up, her eyes darting about trying to spot the source behind the unique sound. She loved the variety of birds along the coast, especially now as birds migrated, choosing their summer range. She’d seen plenty of the winter residents—cardinals, sparrows, mockingbirds, and blue jays—but she was eager to spy a bluebird or yellow-throated warbler, a South Carolina wren, and most especially a ruby-throated hummingbird.

Instead of a bird, however, she spied Taylor. He was coming her way carrying a tall glass. Dear boy, she thought, feeling her thirst acutely. She tugged at her gardening gloves and looked up, smiling, as he approached.

“You are an angel of mercy,” she told him, reaching up to accept the glass.

“Granny James, do you have a minute? I’d like a word.”

Imogene drank the glass of tea to the dregs. She had an inkling what Taylor might want to discuss and suddenly wished this tea had some of Mamaw’s secret additive in it.

“Help me up, then,” she said briskly, offering Taylor her hand. “I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to look all the way up at you.”

She offered her hand, and with an easy pull Taylor had her
standing on her feet. They walked together to the porch, where she sat in a large black wicker chair under the welcome shade of the awning. Granny sank into the cushion with a weary sigh and fanned her face with her gloves. Taylor, she noticed, did not sit. He stood wide legged with his hands behind his back, his face completely unreadable. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was about to salute her.

“So, Taylor, what is so important that you pull me from the garden like some old weed?”

“I spoke with Harper the other night about the prenup,” Taylor said in an even voice, not mincing words. “I don’t like it. Just saying.”

Granny James tsked with impatience and opened her mouth to speak, but Taylor put up his hand to silence her. “Let me finish.”

Granny James snapped her mouth shut, but her eyes narrowed.

“The James estate means nothing to me. But I gave it a lot of thought, talked it over with Blake, and he helped me understand why it means a great deal to you. Back in the day, Blake’s family once held a large plantation here in the lowcountry. The Legares tried to hold on to it for generations, keeping the land in the family. It was considered a sacred trust. But in time . . . the war, it was sold off, bit by bit. Now it’s no longer in family hands.” Taylor looked out at the Cove. When he turned back, he met Granny James’s eyes levelly. “So I can understand you wanting to keep your property in the bloodline. Still, the balance of power shifts to Harper within this arrangement. She already owns the house.”