You'll Always Have Tara

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Because I have a job and a life here in Charleston.”

  Emma Lee snorts. “Gimme a break!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you hate Charleston. You couldn’t wait to go off to college and get away from here. Isn’t that why you chose the University of Texas at Austin instead of the University of South Carolina or Clemson or Duke?”

  I chose to go to school in Texas because I was plumb worn out from trying to get my daddy to notice me. I am not as clever as Manderley, nor as beautiful as Emma Lee. Both of my sisters have our daddy’s blonde hair and blue eyes, but I inherited my momma’s red hair and hazel eyes. Too green to be blue and too blue to be green. In between. Always in between. I know my daddy loved me, but he often overlooked me. I don’t blame him. He was probably tired from encouraging Manderley, the over-achieving academic, and soothing Emma Lee, the high-maintenance baby.

  “I don’t hate Charleston, Emma Lee.”

  “But you don’t love it, either. So why stay? Life is too short to spend it being a squatter in the Land of Mediocre. If you’re not happy where you are, move. If you’re not happy with your boyfriend, dump him. If you don’t like your dress, charge a new one!” She draws a smiley face in the condensation on her iced tea glass with her finger. “You’ve been searching for your place for a long time, Tara. Maybe your place is in Ireland. You won’t know unless you go.”

  What is this? Life advice from my baby sister, the girl without a job who has spent the last two months avoiding her responsibilities by watching reruns of Millionaire Matchmaker?

  “Besides,” she continues. “You don’t want to forfeit your claim on Aunt Pattycake’s castle. You always loved going there.”

  “What am I going to do with a rundown old castle in Ireland?”

  “What are you saying, Tara Maxwell?” She speaks with the comical sort of Irish accent usually reserved for cartoon leprechauns hawking sugary cereal. “Don’t you know that land is the only thing worth fighting two strange men for?”

  “What was that?”

  “I was imitating the speech Scarlett O’Hara’s father made to her at the beginning of Gone with the Wind. It’s your favorite movie, isn’t it?”

  Gone with the Wind isn’t my favorite movie, but it was one of our mother’s favorite movies and when I watch it I imagine her sitting beside me, sighing over Clark Gable, sniffling when Scarlett falls down the stairs. My mother loved Gone with the Wind so much, she named me after the O’Hara’s plantation.

  “I thought we were talking about your life plan.”

  “We were. You were telling me not to be a Vermeer—though I don’t see how being like a talented and famous artist is a bad thing—and you were going to pull a Manderley and ask me a zillion pointed questions meant to pop holes in my happy, floaty balloon.”

  I reach across the table and grab Emma Lee’s hand.

  “Is that how you see me, as a balloon popper and dream crusher? If it is, I am sorry. I don’t mean to pop your balloon.”

  She squeezes my hand and smiles. “You’re not a balloon popper, Tara, not usually. Lately, you’ve been ratcheted up, stressed out, and sad is all. I know you and Manderley feel responsible for me, especially now that Daddy is gone, but I am going to be fine. You’ll see.”

  I squeeze her hand back before letting it go.

  “Can I ask you one question?”

  “Just one?” She chuckles. “Sure. Ask away.”

  I have half a zillion questions, like: Are there a lot of lonely singles knocking around the Cotswolds willing to pay money to be matched by an amateur matchmaker from America, a matchmaker whose longest romantic relationship lasted three months? Does she realize she will have to pay an inheritance tax if she keeps Aunt Patricia’s cottage? Has she applied for a work visa? Instead, I toss a softball her way.

  “How will you pay for your ticket to England?”

  “I am selling Momma’s ring.”

  The bile in my stomach rolls back and forth, like a storm tossed wave, until I can taste the acid in the back of my throat.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am totally serious.”

  “But Emma Lee, Daddy gave you that ring because he wanted you to have something that belonged to Momma. You can’t sell it. You just can’t!”

  The waitress arrives, a massive dinner plate balanced on each hand. She puts the plates down on our table, asks if we need anything, and hurries back inside.

  We eat our food in silence. Emma Lee fiddles with her shrimp while I dunk my hushpuppies in the honey butter and then practically swallow them whole. I am stress eating. I know it, but I don’t stop until I have devoured every small, savory, deep-fried ball of cornmeal.

  Emma Lee is the first to break the silence.

  “Mrs. Nickerson says inheriting Aunt Patricia’s cottage is a sign.”

  I dab the greasy cornmeal crumbs from my lips before responding. “Who is Mrs. Nickerson again?”

  “Isabelle Nickerson is only the sweetest, smartest, most encouraging woman I have ever met. She was at the Turn Up. We got to talking and it turns out she knows, like, practically everyone. She’s friends with the Cravaths and she knew Aunt Patricia.”

  “Aunt Patricia? How did she know Aunt Patricia?”

  “They went to boarding school together. She knew Momma, too. And get this . . . she lives in the Cotswolds!”

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “I know, right?” Emma Lee picks a lemon wedge off her plate and squeezes it over her shrimp. “Mrs. Nickerson said she would introduce me to everyone in the village and start spreading the word about my matchmaking skills.”

  I don’t want to be a balloon popper, but . . . matchmaking skills? Did listening to Patty Stanger instruct gold-diggers on how to land a sugar daddy really give Emma Lee skills? I mean, really?

  “What else did this Mrs. Nickerson say?”

  “She said I should follow my dreams or I will spend the rest of my life working for someone who followed theirs.” Emma Lee pins a shrimp tail to her plate with her knife and draws the pink meat from its shell. “She said I should be fearless in the pursuit of what stirs my soul; that to do anything else is cowardly and a waste of a life.”

  Of course Mrs. Nickerson is going to tell Emma Lee to chase her dreams, because she won’t be the one picking her up when she stumbles and falls head first into failure, poverty, homelessness. Mrs. Nickerson sounds too good to be true, like the fairy godmother sort that pops up in children’s books. I imagine an older woman toting a carpetbag in one hand and a parrot handled umbrella in the other. I want to warn Emma Lee to be wary of strangers dispensing officious advice, but Mrs. Nickerson has clearly made an impact on my baby sister, motivating her to step away from the Cane’s fried chicken and reality television shows. Poor Emma Lee. When our daddy died, she not only became an orphan, she became a homeless orphan, tossed out of the only home she has ever known.

  The first night at my condo, she padded into my bedroom, climbed into my bed, and curled beside me like she used to do when we were children.

  If Mrs. Nickerson has appointed herself Emma Lee’s fairy godmother, who am I to complain? Truth be known, I could use a fairy godmother myself. A plump, sweet-faced old woman to wave her magic wand and take away the bitterness and pain losing my daddy . . . and now Grayson . . . has left in my heart.

  Chapter Four

  Text from Emma Lee Maxwell, Matchmaker:

  Did you order my wellies yet? Mrs. Nickerson says it rains a lot in the Cotswolds and owning a pair of ‘proper rain footgear’ is essential. Don’t forget to order the shine kit. Must keep my proper British footgear shipshape in Bristol-fashion, right?

  Text to Manderley Maxwell:

  Has Emma Lee told you she is moving to England or is she avoiding it because she knows you will try to talk some sense into her?

  Text from Manderley Maxwell:

  She told me about her scheme to live in Aunt Patricia’s cottage a
nd open a matchmaking business. She asked me how she would go about obtaining a work visa. She sounds quite serious.

  Text to Manderley Maxwell:

  Well? What did you say?

  Text from Manderley Maxwell:

  I told her I think the idea rather absurd, but youth is the time one should pursue absurd schemes. And then I wished her a hearty and heartfelt Bon chance.

  Text to Manderley Maxwell:

  Did Emma Lee ask you to buy her rain boots? She tried to get me to buy them for her by saying “everyone wears wellies in the Cotswolds.” Are you sure we should be encouraging her matchmaking scheme?

  Text from Manderley Maxwell:

  Yes.

  I am sitting in Friday evening traffic on the Ravenel Bridge, a towering, futuristic, cable-stayed suspension bridge spanning the Cooper River. The Ravenel Bridge, an eight-lane superstructure built to withstand the hurricanes that frequently batter the South Carolina coast, was opened in 2005. It replaced the Cooper River Bridge, an outdated cantilever bridge that simply couldn’t handle the traffic created by Charleston’s rapid growth.

  The logical part of me knows the Cooper River Bridge needed to go, but the sentimental side of me mourns the loss of the charming, if antiquated, structure. The Ravenel Bridge is symbolic of what has occurred in my hometown: painfully rapid growth that has permanently altered Charleston’s face, physique, and personality. It doesn’t feel like a small Southern town anymore.

  There used to be a roadside stand when you came off the Cooper River Bridge on your way to Mount Pleasant, a rickety wooden shack where a toothless old woman named Ida Mae sold ham-boiled peanuts. She had a big old cast iron pot out back she filled with water, peanuts, and ham hocks. Sometimes she would let me use a wooden paddle to stir the boiling nuts and the salt scented steam would tease my bangs and cause them to curl all up like a pig’s tail.

  The shack was torn down so they could put up a Walgreens. My daddy told me Johnnie Dodds Boulevard, the main thoroughfare through Mount Pleasant, used to be a sleepy country road lined with towering oaks dripping Spanish moss. Today, it is a car-clogged nightmare of a road lined with strip malls and fast-food restaurants. I would trade a dozen Moe’s Southwest Grills for one Ida Mae’s Boiled Peanuts shack.

  Everything has changed. The Cooper River Bridge. Johnnie Dodds Boulevard. Mount Pleasant. My family home. My family.

  Daddy and Aunt Patricia are gone like the wind, if you will pardon the obvious theatrical reference. Manderley is working in Los Angeles and jetting to fabulous places like Cannes, Hong Kong, Berlin, and Melbourne. Emma Lee is about to start a new, if absurd, life in England. Grayson is marrying Maribelle Cravath.

  It’s too much. Too damn much, I say.

  Winter told me the government will auction off my daddy’s home and some Japanese hotel conglomerate will probably want to turn it into a luxury boutique hotel. It’s hard to imagine Black Ash Plantation as anything but a stately, historic low-country home, and the day I drive by and see a parking lot where the rose gardens once stood, a part of me will die, I think.

  The car in front of me begins to move. I shift my Mercedes out of neutral and put my foot on the gas, but only make it a few car lengths before traffic stops.

  My phone chimes. I look at the screen. It’s Callie asking if I want to meet her at Pawpaw’s for dinner and drinks. Even though my soul is aching for a little comfort food, like Pawpaw’s mac and cheese made with sharp cheddar, English peas, and smoked pork, and topped with biscuit breadcrumbs (dying!), I am bone weary. Meeting Callie at Pawpaw’s would mean getting off the bridge, whipping a U-turn, and heading back across the wretched Ravenel into downtown Charleston.

  Text to Callie Middleton:

  Stuck on the Ravenel. Raincheck?

  My phone chimes again, only this time it is another text from Manderley. It’s a picture, actually, of Mandy in an old wedding dress, her head resting on some guy’s shoulder. The guy is tall, dark, and hot as boiling peanuts. I barely recognize my big sister. Gone are her bookish glasses, the smudges as dark as plum eyeshadow beneath her eyes, and the wistful expression I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on her face since she moved to Los Angeles. This Mandy looks relaxed, confident, and happy, like a woman . . . in love.

  I move my thumb and index finger in a flicking motion over the screen, enlarging the photo on Mandy’s hand resting casually on the hottie’s muscular forearm.

  “What the fudge?”

  A ginormous diamond sparkles on her left ring finger.

  Oh my sweet baby Jesus!

  Text to Manderley Maxwell:

  Manderley Grace Maxwell, did you elope?

  I stare at the screen in agonizing suspense, waiting for Manderley’s reply, but the driver behind me aggressively beeps his horn, once, twice, three times.

  “Okay! Okay!”

  The traffic jam must have unjammed itself while I was answering Manderley’s text because the road in front of me is clear. I drop my phone in my lap and put my foot on the gas pedal, gripping the steering wheel so tight my fingernails dig into my palms. Manderley is not married. She can’t be married. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.

  There is a perfectly logical explanation for why she was photographed wearing a wedding dress and the Hope Diamond on her ring finger and it isn’t that she eloped with some stranger. Manderley would never elope. Never. She’s not spontaneous or daring enough.

  Once—and if this isn’t the gospel truth, God can shoot a big old blazing lightning bolt at my Mercedes right here and now—Mandy told me she was afraid she had become boring and predictable, so she scheduled “spontaneous time.” She literally scheduled “Do Something Spontaneous” on her iCloud calendar.

  I laugh remembering it.

  The traffic continues to flow off the bridge and down Johnnie Dodds, a steady stream of blinking taillights. By the time I finally pull into my condominium complex, I have concocted a plausible tale to explain Manderley’s unusual attire. She’s in Cannes, surrounded by movie types. She was probably asked to be an extra in an indie film and the wedding gown is her costume.

  I pull into my parking spot and kill the engine. I am walking up the stairs to my condo when my phone chimes again. I fish it out of my purse and read the text.

  Text from Manderley Maxwell:

  I eloped.

  Sweet baby Jesus in heaven! Manderley is married.

  I jab the phone icon next to my sister’s name and hold my breath while the line connects. One ring. Two rings. Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system . . . Voicemail? Seriously?

  Voicemail? Seriously?

  This is not happening. My dependable, responsible big sister did not elope with a stranger, a foreigner with swarthy skin and shifty eyes. I look at the picture again, this time focusing on Manderley’s man—the gigolo with the I-just-married-a-trust-fund-baby grin. Expensive suit. Expensive watch. Expensive sunglasses. Perfectly groomed stubbly beard. Angled jaw. Square chin tilted at a slightly arrogant angle.

  I jab the phone icon again.

  One ring.

  Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system . . .

  Text from Tara Maxwell:

  This is a joke, right? Seriously. Who is that man? Why were you wearing an old wedding dress in that picture? Why aren’t you answering your phone?

  I finish climbing the stairs to my front porch and sit on one of the white-painted rockers I rescued from the veranda at Black Ash. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and listen to the frogs croaking in the nearby pond. Thank Jesus the frogs are still croaking in my new topsy-turvy world.

  Text to Tara Maxwell:

  Not joking. The man is my husband, Xavier. I got married in that beautiful old dress. I will call to explain soon.

  Text from Tara Maxwell:

  Married?!?! Have you lost your damned mind? You’re supposed to be the responsible one. What am I going to say to Emma Lee?

  I stare at the screen, watching the litt
le flickering dots as Manderley composes her answer. The dots disappear and reappear again.

  Text to Tara Maxwell:

  Tell her being the responsible one is overrated.

  Chapter Five

  So much can change in two months. Fate can grab the snow globe that is your life and shake it fiercely, creating a maelstrom that obliterates your bucolic scene.

  In two months, Manderley has gone from being my cautious big sister with no prospects of romance on her horizon, to a glamorous jet-setter who eloped with a French gigolo (she assures me Xavier de Maloret didn’t marry her for her fortune, that he is independently wealthy, but I still smell a trust-fund-cheese-seeking rat).

  Emma Lee has gone from being a matchless, aimless party girl to an ambitious would-be matchmaker. Emma Lee Maxwell, the consummate daddy’s girl, who seemed destined to spend her life as a lilting Southern flower, carefully tended to and admired for her sweet, tender beauty. Our little flower is striking out of the hot house, letting the breeze blow her to a village nestled in England’s rolling hills.

  I glance over at my baby sister, sitting in the passenger seat, her long, slender legs crossed despite being confined in dark skinny jeans, her new Burberry trench folded in her lap—a generous Bon Voyage and Bonne Chance gift from Manderley (because Mrs. Nickerson said a proper, classically stylish raincoat is a staple of every British woman’s wardrobe).

  “Did you remember your passport?”

  “Yes, Tara.”

  “What about your iPhone charger? I want you to call me as soon as you land and when you have arrived at Wood House.”