The Summer's End

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.”

Everyone at the table stopped speaking as Imogene walked out of the room in the manner of the queen they were just discussing.

Mamaw leaned over to Girard but said loud enough for all to hear, “That woman thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.”

Nate, who had sat beside his mother and behaved like a perfect gentleman throughout the meal, saw his chance for an escape. “Can I go, too?”

“Yes, you may,” Dora told him. “Thank you for being such a gentleman.”

Harper rose to her feet and skewered Devlin with a glare. “I’m glad someone at this table was a gentleman.”

“Oh, come on, Harper,” Devlin said good-naturedly. “She was grilling us all night. I only gave back a little of what she was dishing out.”

“Harper’s right. She’s a guest in this house, Devlin,” Dora scolded.

“What does that make me?”

Dora caught Devlin’s eye and tried to stop her smile. “Family.”

Devlin sat back in his chair, eyes gleaming.

Harper looked to Mamaw. Her grandmother sat erect in her chair across the table, eyes bright, deliberately silent.

Harper leaned close to Taylor at her right to whisper in his ear, “I’ll be right back. I want to check on her.”

“You sure you’ll be all right? Want me to come with you?” She’d sensed a tension in him tonight, ever since his conversation with Granny James. During dinner she’d seen him glance at her grandmother a few times, as if he were scoping out the enemy.

“Heavens, no. I’ll be right back.” Setting her napkin on the table, Harper hurried to the kitchen after her grandmother.

The caterers were almost finished packing up the food and washing the dishes. The two women and one man, all dressed in black pants and white shirts, moved about the kitchen with focused intent, eager to finish the gig and get out as soon as they could. Granny James was standing at the counter, pouring herself a liberal glass of red wine. Seeing Harper, she reached for a clean glass and lifted it in the air, asking whether Harper would like one.

Harper nodded.

Granny filled the second glass, handed it to Harper, then reached for her own and lifted it high in the air. “That, my dear, is the big question of life. Do you see the glass half empty or half full?”

“Granny, what went on in there?” Harper demanded, feeling her temper spike.

Granny James glanced at the catering staff busy in the room. “Come outside a moment, dear. I could use some fresh air.”

Harper glanced anxiously back toward the dining room, where the hum of voices could be heard. Reluctantly she followed her grandmother to the back porch. She didn’t want to be rude and leave the party but needed a few words with her grandmother. Outside, the night was not much cooler.

“Granny, are you angry or upset?”

“Neither, darling. I just wanted a break.”

“A break? From the performance you gave in there? I’ve never seen you act like that.”

“Like what?” Granny took a sip of her wine.

“Like a bad stereotype of an upper-class British snob.”

Granny laughed, almost spilling her wine. “Me, a stereotype? That’s rich. What about that Devil fellow?”

“His name is Devlin.”

“That man is going to marry your sister? Why, he’s a . . . a redback.”

Harper had to laugh. “You mean a redneck.”

“Either way.” Granny waved her glass in the air.

“Granny, he was just playing with you.” Harper sighed. “You made it so easy.”

Granny James sipped her wine, then said in a superior tone, “I was just playing with them.”

“Were you just playing with Old Man Bellows, as well?” Harper asked smartly.

A sly smile crossed Granny James’s lips. “You mean Girard?” she purred, exaggerating for a moment Mamaw’s southern inflection.