A Lowcountry Wedding

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “You have good taste,” Carson pressed. Then snickered. “Present outfit excluded.”

  “You think we didn’t notice your fine wool suits? And your shoes,” Harper added wryly.

  Atticus was feeling cornered. “But why me? Ask Dora.”

  Carson glanced at the door, then lowered her voice. “Dora likes all the dresses, bless her heart. You don’t have to know anything. You’ll be like the tiebreaker in a sports game. Thumbs-up or thumbs-down.”

  Atticus almost had to laugh at the idea of him in a bridal salon with his half sisters, who didn’t know they were his half sisters, giving dress advice. His buddies would never let him live this down if they found out. “Ladies, I don’t know.”

  “We need you there more for moral support than your fashion opinion. Right, Carson?” Harper looked pleadingly at her sister.

  “Right.” Carson put her hands together like in a prayer. “Pretty please?”

  Atticus closed his eyes. They got him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’m only ever truly happy when you’re here with me. And I want you here with me every day. Every night. Isn’t that love? Isn’t that the basis of a good marriage?

  The following afternoon Imogene carried a bottle of the Firefly sweet tea vodka in one hand and held the railing with the other as she painstakingly made her way down the front stairs. She was a fool to have overdone things as she had in the garden. She’d needed to work out her frustration. But now her old, tired body was certainly giving her what for about it, and she needed something to take the edge off. Only one person could help her.

  She walked across the gravel driveway and up the three short stairs to the cottage front door. She looked with distaste at the rusted pineapple knocker, which she tapped briskly. She would have to change that, she thought to herself as she let her gaze wander the porch. She spied the two rocking chairs and the small wood table. Those would do for what she had in mind, she told herself, then whipped her head around as the front door opened.

  “Marietta!” she exclaimed with a broad smile.

  “Goodness, Imogene, I didn’t expect you. What brings you here this afternoon?”

  “Do you have iced tea? I seem to recall that’s a staple in your house.”

  “As a matter of fact, I just made a batch.”

  Imogene lifted the bottle of vodka. “Good!”

  Marietta laughed, eyes sparkling. “Oh, yummy. ‘“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly.’ ” Marietta stepped aside to allow Imogene space. Her eyes swept through the room, picking up details she’d forgotten. It was the same sweet place she remembered. Nothing had changed, she thought with contentment.

  Marietta followed her into the living room, moving quickly to fluff up a pillow and pick up her used tea glass and lunch plate and carry them to the kitchen sink.

  “You have cards, I presume?” Imogene asked.

  “Of course.” Marietta opened the vodka, poured a liberal amount into the pitcher of tea, then gave the concoction a good stir. After putting ice into two tall glasses, she filled them with the spiked drink, then dropped a sprig of mint into each. She handed a glass to Imogene.

  “To the weddings.” Marietta lifted her glass.

  “To Sea Breeze.”

  As they each sipped, Imogene noticed Marietta studying her circumspectly over the rim of her glass.

  “Can we sit down?” Imogene asked.

  “Of course.”

  “How about on the porch? There are two pretty rockers there.”

  “Follow me.”

  “Don’t forget the playing cards!”

  Marietta led the way to the two rockers, picking up a deck of cards from the desk en route. Imogene groaned softly, again, as she lowered to the seat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a twit. I was working in the garden and may have been a bit overeager.” Once settled, Imogene took a long sip of her drink. “That’s better. For medicinal purposes, of course.”

  Marietta took a long draw from her drink. “Of course. And there’s plenty more where that came from.” She set down her glass and skewered Imogene with her gaze. “Okay, old girl. What’s this all about? This isn’t my first rodeo with you.”

  Imogene sat back and rocked her chair with her foot. “Oh, I just experienced my own personal O. Henry play.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “You recall ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ where the young couple each give up what’s most precious to them so they can buy a gift for their loved one?” Imogene paused, bringing the story to mind. “I believe it was her hair and his watch.”

  “Yes, of course I remember it. O. Henry was an American short story writer,” Marietta added with smug pride.

  “Whatever, the characters in this particular homespun play are our own Harper and Taylor. And the item being given up was Sea Breeze.”

  Marietta became suddenly alert. “What about Sea Breeze?”

  “Harper said she and Taylor were going to move.” Imogene was not too proud to admit it brought her quite some pleasure to see Marietta’s face pale.

  “Move?”

  “It was all a big misunderstanding. We sorted it out,” Imogene hurriedly added. She didn’t want Marietta to pass out on the floor. “You see, I suggested Harper get a prenuptial agreement.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did,” Imogene confirmed archly. “Surely it can’t be a total surprise to you, a woman of your property. Harper discussed it with Taylor, and, in his words, he didn’t like it.”

  “I should think not.”

  “Will you stop interrupting, you daft cow? Anyway, this morning, Harper tells me that she is not signing a prenup and that I should make Sea Breeze my home since I’d paid for it. And because Taylor feels that the house is not his, she declared that she and Taylor were moving.”

  “Oh, dear Lord . . .” Mamaw put her chin in her palm.

  Imogene skewered her with her gaze. “Anyway, yesterday morning, while I was digging in the garden, working up a lather, I might add, Taylor comes out and informs me that he will sign the prenup—although a more limited version than I would like—and that he will continue living in Sea Breeze.” Imogene was gratified to see Marietta’s eyes well at this conclusion to the story. “It seems,” Imogene said, her tone softening, “that those two are very much in love and would do anything to make the other happy.”

  “Oh, Imogene, that’s just as sweet as sugar,” Mamaw crooned.

  “I confess, it made me teary eyed to witness.” Imogene reached out for her glass. “God, I do love happy endings.” She took a hearty drink.

  Marietta’s expression shifted to bewilderment. “But why would Harper think you would want to live in Sea Breeze?”

  Imogene lowered the glass. “I might have mentioned something about the cottage. . . .”

  “Oh, Lord, you’re not still nattering on about that?”

  “I know, I know.” Imogene gave a sorry shake of her head. “I was acting like a spoiled child. But you knew very well my intention was to stay in the cottage. You were supposed to go to some”—she wagged her hand—“some retirement home.”

  “Really, Imogene, you must let the cottage issue drop.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Imogene muttered. Then she pointed her finger at Marietta. “You know, if they do still somehow decide to move, I could end up your landlord,” Imogene said smugly.

  Mamaw merely shrugged and smiled beatifically. “Squatter’s rights. They hold firm stateside.”

  Imogene reached for her sunglasses and slipped them on. “Careful, dear, your pirate’s blood is beginning to show.”

  “It’s our heritage, you know. They called him the Gentleman Pirate. That’s because the story claims he never killed anyone.” Marietta smirked and wagged her brows with meaning. “But how likely was that?”

  “I thought as much.” Imogene rocked forward in her chair, then reached out to tap the deck of cards with her nai
l. “Care to play for it?”

  Marietta appeared taken aback. “Play for what?”

  “The cottage, of course.” While Mamaw’s eyes widened with shock, Imogene picked up her glass and relished the moment, taking a sip. She leisurely set her glass on the table, then leaned toward Marietta. “You like to brag about your pirate’s blood and how good you are at gin rummy. Well, matey, put your cottage where your mouth is.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m always serious when I talk about cards. Here are the terms. If I win, I move into the cottage and you go to the main house. If you win, I’ll buy another house on the island.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just did that anyway?”

  “No,” Imogene said succinctly. “Now don’t delay. Yea or nay?”

  Marietta’s back stiffened and she reached for the cards. “Yea.”

  Two hours later, Marietta lay down her discard and called out, “Gin!”

  Imogene stared at the two of hearts on the pile for a moment, then tossed down her playing cards on the wood table. She leaned back and with her foot shoved the chair into a rocking motion. “That’s two out of three. You won,” she said glumly. “Fair and square.” She stopped rocking and looked at Marietta sharply. “Or did you? I’m a bit blitzed, to be honest,” she slurred. She pointed at Marietta. “How much did you have to drink?”

  “Enough,” Marietta replied, trying hard to enunciate.

  From the main house the relentless hammering that had been going on for the past hour picked up again.

  Imogene put her hands to her temples in agony. “What in the name of all things good in this world is that unholy racket?” She turned in her chair to look back at the house.

  Marietta waved her hand. “Oh, that’s just Taylor. He said he’s starting some project up in the attic. Bedrooms, he said.” Then her eyes widened and she burst out with a laugh. “Oh! Maybe for you!” She giggled again, then hiccuped. “Oops.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Pardon me.”

  Imogene smirked. “You Yanks. Every time you say that, we English have to laugh. We say pardon me when we burp or break wind.”

  Marietta laughed heartily at that bit of knowledge, and Imogene joined in.

  “Are you really looking for a place to live on the island?” asked Marietta.

  “I’d already talked to my man Devlin after I saw that my cottage had been taken,” Imogene said archly, ignoring Mamaw’s eye roll. “In fact, he said he has a pretty little cottage on the creek he’s putting on the market. Great views. He owns it and can work out a special price.”

  Mamaw stopped rocking and pushed herself forward. “Not Dora’s cottage? You can’t be saying you’d buy the house she’s renting right out from under her?” Marietta’s tone was accusatory.

  “Dora’s cottage?” Imogene tried to sit up but slumped back against the chair. “Devlin never mentioned anything about it being Dora’s cottage. Why would he be selling his girlfriend’s house?”

  “Well, it has to be. They’re having a squabble about it. Oh, Imogene, you take the cake. You know Dora’s as poor as a church mouse. She can’t buy that place but she loves it. And you, richer than Croesus. Isn’t it just like you to spark another fire?”

  “If you hit me with one more colloquialism”—Imogene’s eyes flamed—“I’m . . . I’m going to slap you from here to Sunday!”

  Marietta caught her breath, then tilted her head, recognizing what Imogene had said as yet another southern expression. Imogene’s eyes were bright with amusement. Once again, they burst out laughing. Marietta hadn’t laughed so hard since the last time they’d had a good drink together the previous summer.

  “I could really get to like you, you old hag,” Imogene said.

  “Ditto, you crone.”

  They rocked a bit, wiping their eyes, then sat listening to the blessed peace now that Taylor had stopped hammering.

  “Marietta, of course I wouldn’t interfere between Devlin and Dora. Do you think I’m that dodgy? But you’re right.” Imogene sounded down in the mouth. “I do seem to be a source of squabbles, as you call them, among the young lovers. Truly, dear friend, I don’t mean to be a bother to you or anyone. And I’m a good loser.” She looked fondly at the cottage. “I’ll stay for the wedding, then say my farewells.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know,” Imogene replied honestly. “Georgiana’s I suppose.”

  Marietta suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t imagine a worse fate for anyone.

  The hammering commenced again, more vigorous than ever.

  Imogene tilted her head to listen. She turned to Marietta and smiled like a Cheshire cat. “You don’t suppose he’s building a mother-in-law suite?”

  Across the driveway in the main house, Carson was sitting at her desk wearing thick earphones as she worked, not for music but to mute the sound of Taylor’s incessant hammering. On the computer was the long list she and Blake had compiled of nonprofits and companies with possible jobs for her. Over the past four days Carson had gone out on two in-person interviews and talked on the phone to another two groups that had responded favorably to their query blitz. This morning she’d had a second interview with Charleston Waterkeepers. They’d e-mailed her that they would call before the end of the working day. Blake had been right when he’d told her she’d find the company in sync with all she’d hoped to work on with water quality. The people were smart, informed, aggressive, hardworking, and friendly. This small group believed they could make a difference.

  Carson saw rather than heard her phone light up with an incoming call, and she quickly took off the earphones and pressed accept, feeling a churning in her stomach. “Carson Muir.”

  “Hi, Carson, it’s Cyrus from Charleston Waterkeepers.”

  “Yes, hello, Cyrus. I was expecting your call.”

  “I have to say, you’ve really impressed all of us.”

  “Thank you. The feeling is mutual.”

  “We followed up on your résumé and the recommendations were glowing. There was one from Jason Kowalski. Between you and me, I was wired to get his e-mail. I’m a big fan of his movies. Thought you’d like to know what he wrote. After he sang your praises, he said . . .” Cyrus paused, then read, “ ‘I don’t want you to offer Carson a job because I’m hoping to hire her myself. But that said, you should fight for her. She’s worth it.’ ”

  Carson clutched her phone tighter, stunned by the generous praise.

  “You’ve got the credentials. But more than that we all thought you were a great fit. Your enthusiasm, your personal story. We’re a small group. Like a family. And we all agreed you’d be a great addition. I hope you’ll join us.”

  Carson sat still as a stone, dazed. “You’re offering me the job?”

  Cyrus laughed. “Yes, Carson. We’re offering you the job.”

  Carson couldn’t talk to anyone quite yet. Not even Blake. She had to hold this news close, to slowly digest it before she could share it. She slipped out of her dress and into yoga pants and a fleece jacket. The soft fabric felt like a security blanket around her. She tucked her hands into her pockets and walked out the back door to the dock. Dusk was just setting in, lending a lavender cast to sky that was reflected in the water. It was a mystical time, those fleetingly brief moments before day ended and night began.

  She sat looking at the racing water below the dock, struggling to find the words she’d need to tell Blake of her decision. To thank him. He’d never lost hope. He’d worked tirelessly by her side, leaving no stone unturned. His faith in her—in the two of them working together—had convinced her they needed to be together. More than she needed any job. She would stay in the lowcountry and marry her lowcountry boy. Her mind was at last in sync with her heart.

  From below the dock came the unmistakable sound of air pushing out from a blowhole. Startled, Carson gripped the dock railing and bent over to see Delphine swimming below. There was no question it was her. Even in the lavende
r light, the sorry scars were visible.

  Carson hurried to the lower floating dock. Delphine spotted her and immediately brought her large gray head out from the dark water, revealing her limpid dark eyes. Her mouth was open, revealing rows of pointed teeth. Carson stood at the edge of the dock, close to Delphine, staring down at her. But she didn’t speak. Did not call out her name.

  Delphine tilted on her side and swam leisurely alongside the dock, exposing her belly. Carson chuckled to herself, amazed at how bloated Delphine had become. Blake had confirmed that the neonate Carson had been called to on the shore last week was, in fact, not Delphine’s baby, and Carson was thrilled to see that Delphine looked happy and pregnant as ever. She was likely to give birth soon, which was a risky business in the wild. There were sharks, for one thing, and other threats. Carson wished she could be there for the birth, to witness and to support her friend.

  But Carson knew there was one way she could help Delphine. As with her decision with Blake, her heart was in sync with her mind. With a final look at Delphine’s beguiling face, Carson turned and, without a word, walked away.

  Delphine made a series of clicking noises and whistles. She splashed the water with her rostrum to show her displeasure. Carson couldn’t understand the language of the whistles. No human could. She only knew that dolphins were smart and excelled at communication. Underwater they released myriad vocalizations with meaning, such as a signature whistle for a newborn calf that was akin to a name. Throughout the waterway, the dolphins maintained family and community bonds through sound.

  Yet, in her own humble way, Carson could understand the emotion of Delphine’s sounds. Her eh eh eh noises when she was happy; the clicks and guttural growls when she was not. And the whistles—high-pitched queries, short bursts of surprise, and now the plaintive calls of beckoning. Oh, yes, Carson heard and understood the heartbreak. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  This was the moment of truth for Carson. There was no going back on the decisions she’d made today. She’d given her word that she would help Delphine remain wild. She’d also given her word to Blake that she would be his wife and settle here in the lowcountry. And, too, she’d promised herself that she would stay sober, true to herself. A lot of promises, she realized. These promises would be the foundation upon which she’d build her new life.