A Lowcountry Wedding Read online

  “First, I’m not your father. I come from a long line of steady, hardworking stock. Secondly,” Blake said with a hint of humor, “independence isn’t the key to a good marriage.”

  Carson shivered, feeling chilled. She reached out to pull the sheet up over her shoulders. Carson knew that commitment of any kind, much less marriage, was difficult for her. She didn’t like long-term leases, jobs that kept her tied to one city, one place. In the past, whenever a boyfriend had started getting serious or mentioned the word ring, she’d run. Only with Blake had she found herself able to consider a pledge of commitment. For better or worse, through sickness and health, till death do us part. Blake never had any doubts, was steadfast in his belief in her. In them. But she was beginning to feel shackled by the promises she’d made last fall, bound not only to marry but to give up her independence.

  Carson answered seriously, “I know you’re not my father. You’re as far from him as a man could be. But . . .” She looked down and tugged at the sheet, pulling it closer.

  “But what?”

  “But as for my independence, I’m worried.” She twisted the sheet in her hands, taking a breath, looked up, and met his eyes. “I’m not prepared to give it up.”

  Blake’s dark gaze sharpened. “What are you saying?” Then, visibly paling, he said with caution, “Are you breaking our engagement?”

  Chapter Two

  It is always a stressful situation when the wedding of a daughter—or a granddaughter—brings together parents who are divorced. It is especially difficult when both families are bitterly estranged.

  To Harper’s mind, planning a wedding was not much different from studying for an end-of-term exam. Considerable research had to be done—traditions, venues, music, cake designs, flowers, recipes, decor, goodie bags. Though she admitted to being surprised by how many books and magazine articles had been written on the topics. She’d always been an excellent student and felt up to the challenge. People had to be consulted, lists made, files kept.

  What she had been unprepared for, however, was the emotional challenge of wedding planning.

  Harper sighed and closed her laptop screen, then leaned back in her chair. It was no use pretending she was working. She’d spent the past hour searching the Internet for still more ideas for her wedding bouquet. Her wedding was only two months away and she hadn’t yet selected her flowers.

  Harper’s venue was decided on, thank heaven. Charleston was the number one destination-wedding location in the country, an accolade that had venues booked two years in advance. This made it frustrating for local girls such as herself hoping to plan their wedding within a year’s time. Harper’s wedding was scheduled for late May—peak wedding season. She’d gotten lucky and scored a prime venue even though she was late booking. Some bride had canceled a May date at Wild Dunes Resort for a Grand Pavilion wedding the very day Harper’s grandmother had called. So Granny James immediately booked it and laid down her deposit—without consulting Harper. Harper’s fingers drummed the desk. Most of the wedding was being planned by Granny James, all the way from England. Harper sighed again. It was rather like studying for the exam and having someone else take the test.

  Harper let her gaze wander across the room to the bookshelves. Dozens of wedding books lined them. Burgeoning manila folders were stored in the pale Tiffany Blue boxes, each neatly labeled and filled with clippings and photos. Her sisters teased her about her passion for organization and the pretty boxes she was always buying. Harper owned this was true. But what good were all those carefully filed ideas when no one was paying attention to them?

  Granny James had been over the moon at the prospect of planning the wedding for her only grandchild. Harper’s mother, Georgiana, was Imogene James’s only child. Georgiana’s wedding to Parker Muir had been a hasty, impromptu affair in New York that had marked the marriage a disaster from the start. They divorced five months later, before Harper was born. Granny James had tucked away her visions of a formal wedding at the family estate, Greenfields Park in England, to save for her granddaughter.

  Harper, however, became engaged to a lowcountry boy, moved into Sea Breeze as her home, and intended to live out her life on Sullivan’s Island rather than in England. She wanted to be married here, too. On that point she would not budge.

  Granny James took Harper’s decision with disciplined good nature. Georgiana had prepared Granny James well for disappointment. With her dreams of staging a formal wedding unrealized, she had rallied and launched herself into the task of a beach wedding.

  “We love the beach, don’t we, darling? Just think. It will be a destination wedding for all the family in England,” she’d exclaimed. “So different. We have to have it in the spring so they can escape all the rain. They’ll all come. You’ll see. What fun!”

  A beach wedding was not what Harper had envisioned for herself. Still, knowing how important planning a wedding was to Granny James, she’d bitten her tongue and tried to remember all that Granny James had done for her. Her mother had distanced herself from Harper ever since the engagement. She strongly disapproved not only of the match but of Harper’s moving to the lowcountry. Georgiana had always been angry whenever Harper didn’t meekly obey her wishes, but when she’d revealed to her editor mother that she was releasing a book with another publisher, the line had been drawn in the sand, and it seemed neither woman was yet willing to cross it.

  In contrast to Georgiana, Granny James had been there to wipe Harper’s tears all throughout her youth and, after a testy period of interrogation, finally welcomed Taylor into the family. And most significant, Granny James had adroitly engineered Harper’s inheritance so that she could purchase Sea Breeze when Mamaw had put the house on the market.

  After all that, Harper didn’t have the heart to tell Granny James that what she really wanted was a small lowcountry-style wedding at one of the southern plantations in the Charleston area. She’d envisioned ancient oaks dripping moss, winding creeks, a long flowing dress and veil, flower-draped verandas.

  The wedding that Carson was having, basically.

  Her older sister had also gotten engaged at summer’s end. After a tumultuous love affair, the capricious Carson had finally said yes to Blake Legare. Just before she took off for a job as a stills photographer on a film being shot all the way over in New Zealand. Carson was supposed to have returned at the end of January. Yet here it was March, and her feet hadn’t touched the lowcountry. Not everyone was surprised. Money had changed hands with friends betting whether Carson would return at all. Not that Harper had placed a bet, but she had to admit that at almost two months late in returning, Carson had everyone’s teeth on edge. All except Blake, who’d maintained a stoic faith in his fiancée.

  Oh, Carson, Harper thought with a shake of her head. Her heart pumped with affection. She adored her freewheeling sister. Envied her enthusiasm, her lust for life and fearlessness. Carson had taught Harper how to swim, to row a boat, to run wild along the coast of Sullivan’s Island playing pirates. But that very independence carried a streak of recklessness that could be annoying, too. Their weddings were to be a means to play new games together—choosing wedding gowns and bridesmaid dresses, bouquets and goodie-bag items, together.

  In typical Carson fashion, however, she found herself too busy and had blithely left her wedding plans to Mamaw and her future mother-in-law. In an e-mail from New Zealand, Carson wrote, “Do whatever you think best. I know it will be beautiful!”

  What normal young woman would hand over her wedding plans to someone else? Harper thought. Then, with chagrin, Harper realized she had done virtually the same thing.

  But all that was the past. Carson was coming home now at last, and the wedding plans would kick into high gear.

  Harper felt a fluttering in her stomach. Placing her palm there, she wasn’t sure if it was nerves, anticipation, or anxiety over what all was left to be done. Truth was, Carson’s return home after nearly six months signaled more than just the beginning of a
blitz of wedding plans. Tomorrow night Harper was hosting the first family gathering at Sea Breeze since that mass departure last September.

  She glanced at her watch and with some alarm saw that it was nearing five. Her mind stopped dallying and sharpened on the immediate. Taylor would be home soon, and so much was still to be done for the party. She rose quickly and strode across the thick carpet to the door. Harper took a final sweep of her office. The hearty pine-paneled floors, the walls of bookshelves, the Oriental rug, a painting of the sea. This had once been the house’s library, the male bastion of her grandfather Edward and her father, Parker, complete with hunting paintings, mounted rifles, and the air redolent with pipe smoke. When she and her half sisters began spending summers at Sea Breeze, the feminine accoutrements of dollhouses and pink toys chased the men from their cave. Soon after it became Harper’s makeshift bedroom. As years passed, the west wing of the house became known as “the girls’ ” wing. Mamaw kept the paneling and books and the room was still referred to as the library, but everyone knew it was de facto Harper’s room.

  Harper made her way down the west hall, her gaze sweeping the rooms she passed to make certain all was ready. At the end of the hall was Carson’s bedroom, the largest of the girls’ rooms, with a spectacular view of the Cove. This had been Carson’s bedroom since she was four years old. Carson’s mother had died in a tragic fire, and Mamaw had stepped in to take care of the motherless girl. Mamaw had been more than a grandmother to Carson. She’d been the only mother Carson had ever known. Their relationship was uniquely special, and neither Harper nor Dora resented their bond . . . much. During the summers when the three young girls gathered at Sea Breeze, Carson naturally claimed her childhood room as her own. Harper had every intention of reassuring her sister that this hadn’t changed now that Harper owned Sea Breeze. Her sister would always have a place here.

  Harper and everyone else were excited to welcome Carson home. But the elephant in the room that no one was mentioning was how Carson resented that her wealthy half sister could afford to purchase Sea Breeze—the only house that Carson had ever considered home.

  Harper didn’t want any arguments or resentments to mar what she hoped would be a happy time for the family as the weddings approached. Satisfied that everything in the room was just as Carson had left it the previous September, Harper closed the door, reminding herself to add fresh flowers to the room before Carson arrived.

  The second bedroom was smaller and faced the front of the house and the ancient live oak tree that shaded the house under its protective foliage. This was Dora’s room, one Harper had shared with her sister for a time. Pink and French in design, it suited their oldest sister. Now living in her own cottage on Sullivan’s Island, Dora didn’t need a bedroom at Sea Breeze. So Harper had decided she’d put Granny James here when she arrived in a few short weeks.

  She entered the living room and paused. Carson would notice the changes here. The large, airy space with lots of large windows faced the front courtyard. Harper had freshened up the room a bit, making it younger in appeal with an icy-blue, and white-trim, palette. Mamaw’s Early American antiques had been placed into storage for Dora and Carson. Having assumed ownership of the house, Harper felt it only fair that her sisters receive the furniture. Besides, she was inheriting a boatload of antiques from her grandmother’s estate in England. More than Harper could ever use. She had selected a few favorites for Sea Breeze—the gorgeous secretary, several side tables, a dining-room table and chairs, and paintings. She’d purchased two new down-filled sofas. She’d spent a lifetime growing up with hard, creaky antiques and was determined to have a comfortable place to sit in her own home.

  Home.

  The thought never failed to take her breath away. Growing up, she’d been carted from one home to another depending on the season, complete with an assortment of faceless nannies. She’d never felt that any one of them was home.

  Except for Sea Breeze. The historic house was so named because it sat perfectly situated, high and proud on the southern tip of the island, facing onshore Atlantic breezes from the front and the racing currents of the Cove in back. This house felt like home because of Mamaw’s consistent love and Harper’s sisters. And her ancestors. Memories were embedded in each nook and cranny of the house that went back more than a hundred years. Harper often felt the whisperings of the past when she wandered the halls, her fingertips delicately stroking the walls, the furniture, the glass.

  This house—this place—had planted the seeds of her love for the lowcountry. A stirring passion that had bloomed with her love of Taylor. And, herself. Harper felt she belonged here. Here at Sea Breeze she’d discovered the strength of family. Continuity. Security. Harper was a wordsmith. And, as of last month, a soon-to-be-published novelist. She wanted to write books that shared her love of these words, their profound influences, and, of course, the lowcountry.

  She caught her reflection in the large Venetian mirror. She saw the same slender, fair-skinned woman who had returned to the lowcountry the previous May. A clever but timid girl without direction. An obedient daughter seeking love. Her red hair was longer now, pulled loosely up in a clasp. Her eyes the same brilliant blue she shared with her sisters. But staring at herself Harper knew that she was not the same girl at all. She had grown up. She’d found her voice. And regardless of what Carson or Dora or anyone else might want or say or think, she was the mistress of Sea Breeze now. Soon to be a wife.

  A short while later Harper was standing in the kitchen before the great Viking stove. A storm had blown in, coloring the sky a gunmetal gray. Looking out at the Cove, the choppy gray water mirrored the sky. A gusty wind whistled, rattling the windows. A cold front was moving fast over the island bringing with it icy rain. She shivered, feeling the damp to her bones. She looked in the nearby corner at Thor, Taylor’s behemoth of a black dog, part Labrador, mostly Great Dane. The dog would curl up on his cushion by the warmth of the oven in inclement weather.

  “Don’t you worry, boy. The weather promises to be all blue skies tomorrow,” she told him. Thor raised his head to look at her with deep brown eyes, and his tail thumped the floor in a heavy staccato. “At least I hope so,” she muttered to herself. Carson couldn’t abide cold weather, either, and Harper wanted her sister to be in the best spirits possible.

  Harper’s small hands moved quickly, efficiently, to add the sautéed okra, celery, bell pepper, garlic, onion, and chicken to the roux. She lowered her head and inhaled the scents, tracing a finger over the gumbo recipe on the counter. The old recipe was one of dozens created by the family’s former housekeeper, Lucille. They were handwritten on index cards and assorted sheets of paper. Yellowed and stained, some of the pencil lettering was so faint Harper could barely read them. She had spent months attempting to re-create the recipes as a gift to her sisters.

  Thor’s head shot up, ears alert. In a leap he was on his feet, trotting to the door, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors. A moment later the door swung open and a gust of cold, wet air swept through the room.

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

  Harper turned at the sound of Taylor’s voice, a wide smile on her face. His tall, large frame filled the entryway. He carried a large green cooler in his arms. Thor whined with joy at his side, torn between greeting his master and sniffing the shellfish inside the cooler.

  “You’re home late.”

  “Crazy day. My meeting finished early, so I headed up to McClellanville and got that shrimp you asked for.” He set down the large cooler on the floor, stretched, then slipped off his rain jacket. He stood a moment, shaking off water that splattered the floor. “Mama and Dad send their love.”

  Again she felt fortunate that Taylor’s father was once a shrimper. Like many others, Captain McClellan had tied his boat up at the dock and looked for work on land. He couldn’t afford to stay in the business. Imported shrimp was priced too low and diesel fuel was priced too high. Shrimping was a vanishing south
ern industry. But he still knew the few shrimpers left and could always get his hands on fresh shrimp right off the boat.

  Taylor hung his jacket on a peg and immediately crossed the room, slipping his arms around Harper’s waist. “How’s my girl?”

  Harper leaned back against him, relishing the feel of his strong arms around her. Over six feet, his broad frame dwarfed her slender five feet two inches. From the moment she’d met him, Taylor had made her feel safe. It was a new sensation for a girl who’d never known security. She ducked away when he nestled his lips at her neck.

  “Stop,” she protested. “I’m cooking!”

  “I’m starved.” He leaned over her shoulder and sniffed loudly. “Smells good.”

  “This isn’t for tonight.” She turned in his arms to slip her own around his neck. “It’s for tomorrow night. For Carson’s welcome-home party. I thought . . .” She laughed when he dove in for another nibble at her neck.

  “I told you I was starved.”

  She laughed again and pushed him, this time more firmly, away. “Bide your time, man. You’re going to make me burn my gumbo.” She turned again, this time successful in being released. “I thought tonight we’d have chicken salad.”

  “Nope.” Taylor walked to the fridge. He tugged it open, pulled out a beer, and flipped off the top. “Salad isn’t going to do it. I need something that’ll stick to my ribs.”

  “How about you order a pizza?”

  “Done.”

  While she stirred at the stove, she watched as he moved with easy familiarity to the kitchen drawer and drew out a wine cork, then walked to the pantry, where bottles of wine were stacked. Such a domestic scene, she thought contentedly. They could already be husband and wife. Taylor had moved into Sea Breeze last September after the papers were signed and Granny James returned to England, Carson flew off to LA, and Dora moved to her own cottage on Sullivan’s Island. Mamaw had promptly declared that she didn’t want to be a third wheel in the main house and had taken up residence in the guest cottage. Taylor had felt awkward at first, tiptoeing around as though he were a guest. She enjoyed seeing him comfortable at Sea Breeze now, accepting that this was his home.