“I’m really not concerned, Mama. I was just curious. The woman seemed so lonely.”
“That’s sweet of you, but Grandma Judy wouldn’t be much company for her, even if they did know one another. I’ve just had to ask the Monday Girls not to visit Magnolia Manor anymore. Too many old friends stopping by just frustrates your grandmother. She’s embarrassed that she can’t place names and faces. It’s harder when it’s not family. She worries that people are talking about her.”
“I know.” Maybe I should let this go. But the question nags me. It whispers and pesters and teases. It will not leave me alone all afternoon. We chat; we schmooze; we clap when my father cuts the ribbon. We spend time in the VIP lounge at the local country club, rubbing elbows with the governor and talking with corporate higher-ups. I’m even able to offer some free legal advice on the battle over natural gas fracking and ongoing legislation that could throw the doors wide open to it in neighboring North Carolina. Economy versus environment—so often it comes down to those two heavyweights duking it out in the ring of public opinion and, of course, upcoming legislation.
Even as I’m discussing the cost-benefit questions, which I honestly do care about passionately, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking of the cellphone in my purse and Grandma Judy’s reaction to the photo.
I know she recognized the woman. Queen…or Queenie.
It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be.
Arcadia. Arcadia…what?
In the car on our way back to my father’s Aiken office, I offer up a few innocent-sounding excuses to slip away from my parents for a while—errands and whatnot. The truth is that I’m going to see May Crandall again. If there is something going on here, I’m better off knowing about it. Then I can decide what needs to be done.
Daddy actually seems a little disappointed that we’re parting ways. He has a strategy meeting with his staff before finally going home for supper. He was hoping I’d sit in.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Wells. Avery is allowed a personal life,” Mom interjects. “She has a handsome young fiancé to keep up with, remember?” Her slim shoulders rise, and she offers me a conspiratorial smile. “And a wedding to plan. They can’t plan if they never talk.” The end of the sentence rises, singsong with anticipation. She pats my knee and leans close. A meaningful look flashes my way. Let’s get this show on the road, it says. She busies herself with her purse, lets a moment pass, and pretends to be casually switching topics. “The gardener brought in some new form of mulch the other day…for the azaleas…on a recommendation from Bitsy’s landscaper. They put it out last fall, and their azaleas were twice as thick as ours. Next spring, the gardens at Drayden Hill will be the envy of…well…everyone. Around the end of March. It should be just…heavenly.”
The phrase perfect for a wedding hangs unsaid in the air. When we announced our engagement, Elliot made Bitsy and Honeybee promise they wouldn’t sweep in and hijack the decision-making process. It’s killing them, really. They’d have this thing all sewn up if we’d just get out of the way, but we’re determined to make plans in our own time, in the way we think is best. Right now, my father and Honeybee should be focusing one hundred percent on Dad’s health, not worrying about wedding arrangements.
You can’t tell Honeybee that, though.
I pretend not to get the drift. “I think Jason could grow roses in the desert.” Jason has managed the gardens at Drayden Hill since long before I left for college. He’d be thrilled to have the chance to show them off. But Elliot will never go for a wedding idea that originated with the moms. Elliot loves his mother, but as an only child, he’s exhausted by her constant focus on arranging his life.
One thing at a time, I tell myself. Daddy, cancer, politics. Those are the big three right now.
We pull up in front of the office. The driver opens the door for us, and I slip out, glad that I’m free.
One last thinly veiled hint follows me out the door: “Tell Elliot to thank his mother for the suggestion about the azaleas.”
“I will,” I promise, then hurry off to my car, where I do call Elliot. He doesn’t pick up. Chances are he’s in a meeting, even though it’s after five. His financial clients are international, so