The Summer's End (41 page)

While the final preparations for dinner were being readied, Granny James guided Taylor to the back porch, away from curious ears, for a private discussion. On this lovely night the humidity was low, the moon was high, and Imogene thought, glancing around the porch, that Marietta had been wise enough to set out those Tahitian-looking candles that kept the mosquitoes at bay.

Imogene sipped her vodka martini and studied the man standing across from her. He was handsome, to be sure. A tall, strapping young man who would turn any girl's head. He was neatly dressed in tan pants, an ironed shirt, and a navy-blue jacket. Though not well tailored, she noticed. Unquestionably off-the-rack. Unlike Dora's young man, who looked quite smart in his nicely tailored jacket and silk polo shirt. Still, that was hardly a condemnation of Taylor. And unlike the haircut on Dora's man, Taylor's head was shorn as a sheep.

She'd picked up a few details more important than his style of dress. He certainly wasn't skilled at making idle conversation, but then neither was Harper. But like Harper, he seemed to be bright enough—sharp minded and quick-witted. Imogene prided herself on being skilled at wheedling out important information from unsuspecting guests—their family ties, connections, and address (always a clue to status). Taylor was unabashedly open about all these things. There were no surprises.

Sadly, she thought as she took a bracing sip of her martini, he was just as Georgiana described. The son of a fisherman, a soldier . . . or rather, a Marine. He'd corrected her on that distinction.
He had little money, lived with his parents, and was all around not a suitable candidate for her granddaughter. Though overall he seemed to be a nice young man.

A waitress with lavender hair came out on the porch to announce that dinner would be served in ten minutes' time.

Best to get started, then, Imogene thought with a sigh. She took a final swallow of her drink and handed the young woman her empty glass. The woman's arm was covered with tattoos. When she left, Imogene sniffed derisively, “I don't know how they can hire a woman with purple hair and tattoos to serve dinner. It's absolutely off-putting.”

Taylor half smiled. “I don't think that will have any effect on her performance.”

“Rather a bold comment, coming from an officer.”

“How so?”

“I understand that tattoos are not permitted among officers in the military.”

“In some branches of the service, that's true. But the lady in question is not in the military.”

“Do you have a tattoo?”

“I do not.”

Granny James nodded yes, as though proving her point. “Neither are you in service any longer.”

“No, ma'am.”

“We British always admire a man's sense of duty. The Prince of Wales served in the military service. As well as Prince Harry. If I'd had a son, I'd like to think he, too, would have done his duty.” She paused. “I don't mean to be a nosey parker, but now, what is it you do?”

Though her tone was mildly insulting, intended to be, he
answered with a composure that impressed her despite her best intentions. “I'm a project manager.”

“Yes, but what does that mean, exactly?”

“I manage men.”

Granny James narrowed her eyes. “Ah, like you did in the military, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And do you enjoy this line of work?”

“I do.”

“I imagine you're good at it.” She thought he would be. His natural reticence and his strong-minded answers would serve well as a leader of men. He didn't prattle, a trait she found annoying in men. Every word he said was meant to be heard. “Do you also manage women well?”

“There are women who will work under me, yes.”

“I meant in your private life.”

He laughed at that and shifted his weight. “I don't think of it that way.”

“What way would you think of it?”

His smile fell. “I don't think of it at all. I don't try to
manage
women.”

“And yet”—Granny James arched a brow—“you seem to be managing my granddaughter quite well.”

Taylor's brows furrowed in anger. Granny James licked her lips, glad to see that she'd at last gotten a rise out of him.

“If you think that I am managing Harper, then you don't know your granddaughter very well.”

“Oh, I think I know her far better than you,” she replied haughtily, then elucidated, “Harper is a people pleaser. She gives of herself, especially to those she loves.”

Taylor crossed his arms and looked at Imogene steadily.

“My daughter, Harper's mother, I'm ashamed to say, is a narcissist. Her love of self and her career is paramount. She has little room for others in her life. Never has had, even as a child. Not even for her own child. She has railroaded that girl to fit her own mold since the day she was born. She used Harper's gentle, willing nature against her.”

“
Abused,
don't you mean?”

Granny James scoffed. “Please. It was not all
that
unfortunate. She lived a life of privilege. Was well cared for. She was never abused.”

“Neglect can be worse than physical abuse.”

Granny James felt a shaft of shame shoot through her heart. “That's not true.”

“It is true. As Harper would say, look it up.”

Imogene was shaken and griped her fingers together. “Even if it is true, for all her selfish motives, Georgiana wants the best for her daughter. Harper has had every advantage. My husband and I, too, have seen to it that she will want for nothing.”

“Perhaps nothing material. Things that money can buy. If you're referring to her trust fund, you do know that Harper already rejected that?”

“To marry you.”

After a challenging silence, Taylor said, “Even before she agreed to one day be my wife, Harper chose her own path. It just happened to be the opposite of what her mother wanted for her.”

“Her mother is a very strong, determined person. Rather, I think, like you.” Imogene paused for effect. “You must know Harper has always let herself be controlled by Georgiana's will.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure she's not doing the same with you?”

Taylor's face went very still, and Imogene knew her words had hit their mark. He paused, put his hands on his hips, and looked at his feet. When he lifted his head to speak, his words were measured. “I admit, I was worried about that.”

Granny James appreciated his honesty. It surprised her, as few things did any longer.

Taylor narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “The difference is, I love her.”

He, too, hit his mark. “I believe you,” Granny James said softly.

Taylor's face softened.

“However”—Granny James looked him squarely in the eye—“if you truly love her, you'll let her go. Harper has a brilliant mind. With her education, her connections, her experience and talent, she can rise to the top of her career. Yet you would keep her here? A big fish in a small pond?”

Taylor shifted his weight and clasped his hands behind his back. When a smile cracked his stern expression, Granny James was taken aback.

“I wonder how well you know Harper, after all. Not Harper the child, but the woman she is today. She is not one to be pushed around. That was at the crux of her argument with her mother. Georgiana ordered her to come back to New York. And Harper said no.”

“And you told her to stay. And she said yes.”

Taylor rubbed his jaw and laughed lightly. “She's not some trained animal who responds to
come
and
stay.
Give her some credit. She knows her own mind. She came to the decision to stay here all on her own.”

Imogene shrugged in the Gallic manner that implied
we'll see.

“Mrs. James, are you aware that she doesn't want to be an editor?”

Imogene's eyes widened with surprise. “What?”

As though on cue, Harper came out on the porch, her face aglow with happiness. She wore a soft, strapless blush gown that swirled around her slender legs as she made her way across the porch to their sides.

“There you are!” she sang out, immediately linking arms with Taylor. Looking from Imogene to Taylor, she said, “Oh, my, such serious faces. Granny, are you giving my fiancé the third degree? Nails pulled out? Waterboarding? I should warn you, Taylor's a Marine. He's trained to withstand such treatment.”

Taylor laughed and patted her hand on his arm. “Nothing I can't handle.”

Granny James looked at Taylor shrewdly and said with a smile to reassure her granddaughter, “He handled himself quite well.”

“We should go. We don't want to hold up dinner.” Harper reached up on tiptoe to lightly kiss Taylor. “We're the guests of honor.”

This was her favorite time of a dinner party, Mamaw thought satisfactorily as the catering staff cleared away the last of the plates. When the push of the meal was finished, the dishes were cleared away, and her guests were sated with good food and good wine. Many toasts had been offered tonight, and the conversation had been lively. Now they were ready to settle into brandy or coffee.

Mamaw leaned back in her chair and let her gaze wander from face to face. Girard, Dora, Nate, Taylor, Harper, Carson, Devlin. All of them dear. Her gaze fell on Imogene. Well, almost all, she amended. She wanted to always remember this night, like a photograph that she could bring out from time to time when the girls were gone and she was alone at the retirement home. Her girls were radiant tonight. Her summer girls, she thought with a smile. The dears were thoughtful and had all worn the pearls that she had given them the night of her party when they'd arrived at Sea Breeze in May.

Harper was wearing the triple-strand necklace of gleaming ivory pearls with the ruby-and-diamond clasp. They showed off her creamy complexion perfectly and punctuated the striking red color of her hair. The showy choker made Harper look like a queen tonight, as well she should on this occasion. Tonight was her night. Her face shone with joy and confidence. Mamaw had never before seen her so lovely.

Dora looked chic with her blond hair wound in a French twist and the boat neck of her gorgeous scarlet dress. A perfect accompaniment to the opera-length strand of pearls that dripped down her voluptuous body. Marietta had worn that impressive strand at her wedding and had a special fondness for it. Thirty-six inches of perfectly matched pearls. Over the summer, Dora had gained a luster that was a match for them.

Mamaw's gaze rested last on Carson. She looked stunning in her burnished-gold dress that clung to her athletic body and contrasted dramatically with her deep tan. Carson was wearing the magnificent baroque-shaped South Seas black pearls that only a woman with a dramatic flair could carry off. Yet tonight, unlike her sisters, Carson behaved less like an exotic flower
and more like a wallflower. She was present for the dinner, responded to questions, and laughed at the appropriate times. Yet her usual sharp humor and joie de vivre were gone. She'd refrained from drinking, but she'd spent most of dinner staring at the wineglasses. It worried Mamaw.

Her attention was brought back to her guests by a gasp of indignation from Imogene. Mamaw cringed. That woman had been nothing short of annoying all evening. Imogene had flirted shamelessly with Girard throughout dinner. Mamaw wouldn't be surprised if the brazen hussy had played footsie with him under the table.

Imogene drew herself up in her chair and glared at Devlin across the table. “What do you mean, the monarchy has no relevance today? I'll have you know England has had a monarchy long before your country had a democracy, and we're doing quite well, thank you very much. We may be a small country but we have a proud history. The queen is beloved by her people.”

Devlin shook his head with a laugh that rumbled low in his chest. “Hell, that's one mare that should be put out to pasture. When's she going to give her boy a chance? She's holding on to that scepter like a terrier with a bone.”

Mamaw covered her laugh with a napkin. Not that she agreed with Devlin. She was fond of Queen Elizabeth, a contemporary. But Devlin was being a bit of a devil tonight, and didn't he know it. He was deliberately playing the good-ol'-boy card, dropping old southern expressions and exaggerating mannerisms, just to rile Imogene.

Imogene lifted her chin with hauteur. “Let me stop you before you mix any more metaphors. You Americans certainly know how to brutalize the English language.”

Devlin guffawed, but others at the table took offense and began grumbling in dissent.

“I don't mean to be rude,” Imogene said.

“Of course you do,” Mamaw replied with a short laugh.

The two grandmothers' gazes clashed.

Carson leaned over to whisper to Harper, pretending she was keeping score on a napkin. “Mamaw, four . . . Granny, three.”

“If you'll excuse me”—Imogene lifted her napkin from her lap—“I've had a perfectly lovely evening. And this wasn't it.”