With her heart filled with lavender light, she walked toward Sea Breeze. Her footfalls reverberated on the dock with the force of her steps. She loved Delphine enough to keep walking away. Only when she reached the door of the house did Carson dare to turn and look back. Delphine was cloaked in the silvery shadows, but Carson could still hear the dolphin’s mournful whistles and clicks.
Inside the house, sounds of dinner preparations and conversation sang out from the kitchen. Carson remained standing at the door, listening, chilled to the bone, until, at last, the whistles stopped. A deep quiet descended in the purple sky.
Only then did Carson walk to the center of the porch and peer out over the water of the Cove. In the dim light she could barely make out the sight of a dolphin’s silvery dorsal fin far out in the purpling water. A single dolphin, swimming farther away down the creek toward home.
“Good-bye, Delphine.”
In another house on Sullivan’s Island, Mamaw stood at the window staring out at the moonlit Cove. Her long white gown appeared gauzy in the filtered light. One hand lay against the window glass, cool to the touch. Tonight, however, instead of being drawn to the water, her attention was on the opposite shore where the deep shadows appeared looming and unfathomable, like the thoughts running through her head.
“Marietta, you seem troubled.” Girard came up behind her to rest his hands on her shoulders. “Care to talk about it?”
She felt his hand, so strong and so comforting, and leaned back against him. He rested his chin on top of her head.
“It’s Imogene. We played cards today and you’ll never guess what the prize was.”
“I give up.”
“The cottage.”
“The cottage? Your cottage?”
“Yep.” She laughed lightly at the reality of how high the stakes had truly been.
“Save me from the suspense. Who won?”
She turned in his arms, slipping hers around Girard’s neck. “You had to ask? Me, of course.”
Girard chuckled and his gaze was admiring. “I never should have doubted you.”
Marietta dropped her hands to his chest, patting over his heart. She thought about Imogene’s face when she’d called out, Gin! The obvious defeat, and something more . . . a complete and utter sense of loss.
“I’m so fortunate to have you in my life. I’d be terribly lonely without you,” Marietta told him. “Poor Imogene. Despite her British stiff upper lip, she is suffering. It’s been very hard for her to put Jeffrey into the Memory Center. After fifty years of marriage, it feels to her like a divorce. Or even a death. Only she can’t mourn him, which leaves her with no closure whatsoever. It’s no wonder she wants to be near Harper now. She’s her only family.”
“Doesn’t she have a daughter in New York?”
“Georgiana?” Mamaw sniffed. “She’s a cold one. Imogene would find little comfort there. No, it’s Harper she needs. And now with the baby coming, it’s a lifeline.” Mamaw turned to look again out the window toward Sea Breeze. “Imogene is desperate to be in the cottage. It’s become a fixation in her mind. She can afford to move anywhere in the world, but all she can see is that small, insignificant cottage.”
“Not so insignificant in her mind.”
“No, you’re right about that. And there I am, roosting in it like a fat hen when it was Imogene who was the goose that laid the golden egg in the first place. Without her, we’d all be living somewhere else. Seems rather heartless of me not to let her move into the cottage. I could take the guest room in the main house. I should. After all, I spend most nights here anyway.”
“I have another idea.”
Mamaw looked up quickly.
“Why not move in here with me?”
“Move in? With you!” Mamaw held up one hand to her chest, genuinely aghast at Girard’s suggestion.
“Why not? We both know you don’t want to stay in the guest room at Sea Breeze. You said yourself you’d feel like a third wheel, always in the way. And I’m rattling around in this big old house by myself. Moving in together makes sense.”
“I suppose, when you put it in that light, it does.” But she was still caught off-balance.
Sensing her hesitation, Girard pressed on. “You do like it here, don’t you? It’s a rather nice house,” he said modestly of his impressive home, larger than Sea Breeze. “I know Sea Breeze will always have a special place in your heart. That this house won’t be the same. But you won’t be far. You can look out the window and there it is. You’ll still be close to Harper, Dora, and Carson.”
She reached up to place her palm against his cheek. “You are the dearest man.”
“But I don’t want you to do this if it makes you at all uncomfortable, Marietta. I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed in front of your friends.”
Mamaw laughed and shook her head. “Hardly. They’d be terribly jealous.”
His lips twitched with amusement. Then his face grew still. “I have another idea. A proposal, if you will. 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?” Girard took her hands. “Marietta, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Marriage?” Mamaw was utterly floored.
“Of course. Unless you’d rather live in sin,” he added wryly.
Marietta laughed. Her heart felt infused with the moonlight, as though it could soar right from her body directly into the heavens. She smiled at this old friend who had reappeared as a gift to her in the later years of her life.
“Oh, Girard, my friend, lover, neighbor. I love you. With all my heart. But marriage? I don’t want some fool snickering about a triple wedding. At our age. As if . . .”
“Why not?” Girard said with a twinkle in his eye. “Apparently, you can wear white.”
She slapped his chest, blushing. “Oh, don’t remind me of what I said. I’m so ashamed.”
“Wear red, if you have a mind to. Just marry me, Marietta. I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you all those years ago. You know that.”
Marietta nodded as a wry smile eased across her face. “I suspected. And I daresay Edward did, too. He loathed you. Kept a gun by the door in case he saw you sneaking around.”
“You’re kidding,” Girard said unsurely.
“Of course I’m kidding.” She paused. “Or am I?” Marietta laughed again, then looked up and cupped his face in her hand. “Dearest Girard, I don’t want to get married again,” she said gently. “It’s all so complicated at our age. Your children will be up in arms, claiming I’m after your money.”
“What money? I’ve given them just about everything already. The only thing they still have their greedy eyes on is the property in the Adirondacks.”
“What? You still have that gorgeous, virginal property up North?”
“Yes.”
“Girard, that land is priceless! Invaluable to the wildlife in that overdeveloped area. You know what you have to do. Tell me you do.”
“If you’re suggesting I put it into conservation, lock, stock, and barrel, like I did with my property in South Carolina, my children will disinherit me. They’ve been after me for years to sell it to developers. They’ll make a fortune. Though I have to wonder how much money do they need.”
“The little vultures.” She saw his brows furrow and was instantly contrite. “Did I say that out loud? Sorry.”
“Don’t change the subject. I believe I just asked you to marry me.”
“Must we get married? I’m inclined to go with your other suggestion. To live in sin.”
Girard barked out a laugh. “You’d do that?”
“Of course I would! I’m a modern woman, haven’t you heard? No more Emily Post for me.”
“I’m fine with that. If that’s what you really want.”
“It is.”
“You drive a hard bargain. You press me to offer a second proposal.”
“What pro
posal is that?”
“Oh, just something that might appeal to your pirate’s blood.” He tugged her closer against him and smiled leeringly. “A bounty.”
Marietta was intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“What would you say to a swap? My land in the Adirondacks for your consent to marriage.”
“What?” Marietta was stunned and confused. “What do you mean?”
“I will put the virginal land, as you so appropriately called it, into conservation if you say you will marry me. Call it my bride’s price.”
Marietta couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’d do that? The land has to be worth countless millions.”
“You’re worth that and more to me. And”—he grinned wryly—“I’m no fool. It’s a good tax break.” He drew his face closer, so close she could feel his breath upon her ear. “Besides, don’t you know when I put all that land in South Carolina into conservation, I did it for you?”
Marietta gasped and looked into his eyes, as pale a blue as the wispy clouds crossing the light of the moon.
He smiled. “All for you.”
“Girard, you take my breath away. And all my objections. Yes, I will marry you. But,” she said with a gentle kiss on his lips, “not a word about this to anyone until after the girls’ weddings. Do you promise?”
His eyes kindled and he said with import, “I do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
For a bride, her wedding dress was the transition article of clothing that took her from girlhood to womanhood.
Harper struck a silly pose in the long gilded mirror, hands on her hips as she turned this way and that. She dissolved into giggles as she moved the delicate scrap of lace from where it was covering her eyes. She had returned to the LulaKate bridal salon with Carson and Atticus. The girls had been disappointed that the cheerful Lauren was off for the day, but they had a more than suitable replacement helping them decide on their gowns: none other than Kate McDonald, the designer of the beautiful dresses.
“Women still wear these?” Harper, disentangling the face veil from its perch on her head and handing it back, asked Kate.
“Some people think the face veil is old-fashioned. Back in the day, a very young bride might be shy to face the congregation and the young man she barely knew unveiled. Today, if a bride wants to wear a veil over her face, it’s more because she prefers the look of it, or wants to maintain tradition. In any case, the veil is taken off by the maid of honor when she gives the bride’s bouquet back to the bride at the conclusion of the ceremony.” Kate smiled guiltily. “Personally, I’ve always loved the face veil. I think it’s dramatic.”
Kate had appeared surprised and none too pleased when she’d seen Atticus walk in the salon with the women. Her eyes flashed and she tucked her long dark hair from her face. “It’s like bringing a fox in the henhouse,” she’d declared. But the brides had insisted, and there was no arguing with that.
Atticus tried to shrink into the background on this warm and breezy afternoon in the lowcountry. Taylor had called for a pickup game of volleyball, then razzed him when he found out Atticus would be stuck on King Street in Charleston surrounded by white tulle.
Kate suggested, “Girls, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s select the gowns before the veils.”
“Of course.” Harper became serious and turned to Kate. “You know our situation. We’ve run out of time. We all agree we’ll never get the dress I’d selected to look right with my baby bump.” Harper slid her palm around her belly, already considerably larger than on their last visit. “And Carson is at ground zero. What are our options at this late date?”
“Not many, I’m afraid,” Kate replied. “You’re limited to our samples, and of those you’ll have to select something that needs minimal alterations. We’re slammed going into peak wedding season. This is Charleston, you know. The number one destination-wedding spot in the country.” Kate sighed with compassion as she checked her appointment book. “I’m going to try and squeeze your alterations in. Though, thank heavens, we’ve already allowed time for your other dress in the calendar, Harper, so that’s something.”
“Just grab me a white dress that fits,” Carson said. “Or rather, an off-white dress.” She winked at Harper.
“Don’t pay her any mind,” Harper said. “Though, with her figure, she really could wear any dress and she’d look gorgeous. Can you show us what we have to choose from?”
Kate guided them to the sample racks. “I’ve seen a lot of wedding dresses on a lot of brides, and one thing I’ve learned is that the right dress can transform a bride from beautiful to extraordinary. It has a lot to do with the bride feeling good about herself in the dress.” She turned to Harper. “You don’t want to settle on any dress just because you have to. Tell me a little about your sense of style.”
Carson piped up, “She’s all high style. Never showy or ostentatious but always in good taste.”
Atticus spoke up. “Something elegant and understated. Only the best-quality materials.”
Harper turned to look at Atticus, wonder etched on her face.
Carson crossed her arms. “I didn’t know you brought Mr. Frigging Dior to our fitting.”
Atticus lifted his brows and shrugged.
Carson flashed him a wide grin of approval. “Okay then.” She cocked her head in challenge. “What do you see for me, fashion king?”
Atticus heard the challenge and didn’t back down. He put his hand on his chin and studied Carson. She was wearing a cream-colored dress featuring a mix of lace and cotton with a full sweep skirt and dramatic hi-lo hem. On her feet were calf-high cowboy boots. He thought of the sheath of white silk she’d worn at the engagement party that revealed her long, incredibly fit body. Only a woman confident of her looks could wear such a bold choice.
“A vintage look,” he told her with authority. “Not frilly but avant-garde. You know what you like and don’t care if anyone else likes it.” He looked into her eyes and saw the sudden vulnerability. Atticus had a flash of intuitive insight. “The dress has to hold memories,” he said more softly. “One that reminds you of someone very dear to you.” He took a breath as he felt the connection. “Family.”
Carson blinked slowly, almost like one coming out from a trance. “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s it exactly.”
There followed a moment’s silence.
Then Kate put her hands on her slim hips and said to Atticus, “Hey, are you looking for a second job?”
Atticus laughed with the others and shook his head, feeling a bit sheepish for having spoken at such length. “Sorry.” He ducked his head and backed up. “I’ll shut up now.”
Kate said, “Let me go back and see what I can find in stock.” She held up her hands as she headed to the stockroom. “Lord God in heaven, let there be something there. Y’all help yourself to some champagne. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The three of them strolled to the table where champagne and bottled water were on ice. They all automatically reached for the water, laughing as they realized their common choice.
“So, how do you do that?” Carson asked, unscrewing the top of her water bottle. “I felt like you reached into my brain, sorted through the mess, and pulled out what you were looking for.”
Atticus only smiled and drank from his water bottle, then wagged his brows. “It’s Spidey sense.”
Carson released a short laugh, but it wasn’t dismissive.
“Ladies!” Kate was waving the two women back into the fitting room. She had several gowns in her arms.
While the brides were in the fitting room, Atticus took a moment to stroll through the racks in the main room. With so many different dresses, so many different styles, no wonder a young woman’s head spun at the prospect of choosing only one.
He flashed back to the time his father had taken him to Tyrone’s tailor. It was a favorite memory, one of the few good moments Atticus had had with his father. Atticus had turned eighteen and Tyrone had ex
plained to him that this was a rite of passage. Inside the small men’s shop in Buckhead, Atlanta, the air was thick with the scents of cedar and wool. Heavy wooden racks along the walls were filled with men’s suits in different fabrics, sizes, colors. Atticus had been what his father called a flashy dresser. Brand names were de rigueur for everything—clothes, shoes, watches, sunglasses, even the logo on Atticus’s ball cap. On this day, however, his father wanted to show him the quiet power of a bespoke suit.
Tyrone was welcomed into the shop with a handshake. When Atticus was introduced to Mr. Sydney Ball, he could tell that the old man with the wizened face, white hair, and eagle eyes was already mentally taking his measure. Mr. Ball led them through the shop and opened the door to a back room. They entered a walnut-paneled dressing room—old-school with crystal decanters filled with amber liquid and a single tall mirror hanging from an elaborate brass frame. Atticus undressed, then stood on the small platform as instructed, feeling nervous and exposed in his boxers. Mr. Ball came up to him and, without a word, held his hand up to Atticus’s mouth.
Atticus startled and looked into the old man’s eyes. There was no question there. He saw respect in those rheumy eyes. Respect for his craft.
Atticus promptly spit out his gum.
His father then offered him a crystal glass filled with a small amount of bourbon.
It was a coming of age, he’d realized years later. He learned that day to respect the beauty of skill and talent. A month later, Atticus received the most beautiful suit he had ever owned or would, likely, ever own again.
“This suit,” his father explained, “is your transition article of clothing. It will take you from boyhood to manhood.” When Atticus had put it on, his father had looked at him with pride. “This is your ceremonial honor. You are a man now. Equipped to go into battle.”
A Lowcountry Wedding Page 30