A Down-Home Savannah Christmas
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Nancy Robards Thompson
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12
Chapter One
Bridezilla.
Elizabeth Clark’s husband-to-be had called her Bridezilla. Right in the middle of their rehearsal dinner.
She’d simply worried aloud to her sisters, Jane and Kate, about the flowers for the ceremony and whether the florist had understood that she wanted the tall arrangements behind the dais, not in front of it where they would block the guests’ view of the wedding party. She didn’t think Roger was paying attention, since he was seated at the opposite end of the table for twelve.
He must have been, because he called out, “Relax, Bridezilla. Just go with the flow.”
There was an edge to his voice, and it carried down the length of the table, past their guests, who had fallen silent in the wake of his words. After Elle had processed the barb, she’d chosen to believe he was trying to be funny.
Sometimes Roger’s humor missed the mark and sounded caustic. On the occasions when she reminded him to check his tone, an argument usually ensued. Tonight, on this night when she needed everything to be perfect, she decided to let his quip slide.
She was a good sport. She and Roger were deeply in love.
Even so, she couldn’t help saying to no one in particular and everyone in general, “Grooms are lucky. They simply have to show up on their wedding day and everything is done. Poof! Like magic.”
She sent Roger an air kiss and a good-natured eye roll.
Everyone, except Roger, followed her lead and laughed.
That was when she thought she’d glimpsed something dark in his eyes.
Over the next twenty-four hours, every niggling doubt and fear that Elizabeth had caged in the wayback of her consciousness had commando-crawled its way to freedom.
Now, as she stood with Roger at the altar in her picture-perfect white dress, in front of their friends and family, holding her flawless bouquet of white and blush peonies, ranunculus and heirloom roses, and listened to the minister proclaim marriage sacred—something that should not be entered into lightly and only after much consideration—her doubts and fears waged all-out warfare, like a terrifying premonition that Elle watched come to life in slow motion.
The minister asked, “Do you, Roger, take Elizabeth to be your wife?”
Roger paused for what seemed an eternity. Elizabeth watched the color drain from his face and then he reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, causing his bow tie to cock to the side like an uncanny smirk.
A hiccup of nervous laughter echoed in the crowded church. Elizabeth tried to snare Roger’s gaze. If he would just look at her, they would take a deep breath together and everything would be fine. But Roger was staring off into the distance somewhere over her left shoulder, in an anxious trance.
Stay with me, Roger. It’s just nerves. Everything will be fine.
He’d never liked being the center of attention. She knew that about her husband-to-be, but for as far back as Elizabeth could remember, she’d dreamed of a humongous wedding. She’d wanted the big white dress, the court of bridesmaids and bushels of flowers.
Most of all, she’d dreamed that this day would be perfect. And it would be. They just had to get through their vows and to the other side of “I do” and everything would be fine.
Elizabeth stole a glance at the 256 people who had gathered at the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah to watch the high school sweethearts marry.
Rogabeth. Elloger. They’d been together so long that many already thought of them as one entity.
The minister cleared his throat. “Roger, do you take Elizabeth to be your lawfully wedded wife? If so, please answer, ‘I do.’”
Good God, was he holding his breath now?
If Roger would just look at her, she’d silently remind him to breathe. And not to lock his knees.
Come on, Roger. Don’t pass out on me now.
Reverend Chambers put his hand on Roger’s arm. “Roger? We need an answer, son.”
Roger opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he snapped it shut again before he could make a sound.
Now Elizabeth was the one holding her breath.
She stole a glance at the congregation. Could a person actually die from self-suffocation...or humiliation?
Breathing was overrated.
Then again, nothing would wreck a wedding faster than the bride dying at the altar. She gulped a breath of air like a drowning swimmer who’d broken the surface.
Now, if Roger would just answer, or nod, or something. Anything. Reverend Chambers could pronounce them husband and wife and they’d walk down the aisle arm in arm and out the doors at the front of the church. She’d fix his tie and they’d take pictures. They’d laugh about how he’d almost passed out in the middle of the ceremony and had given her a case of hives.
Come on, Roger.
Elizabeth was entertaining the thought of nudging him with the toe of her shoe. God knew her dress was big enough to hide the prod. But before she could do it, she locked gazes with Daniel Quindlin, best man.
He reached out and gave Roger’s shoulder a firm shake.
“Come on, man,” he said. “Do the right thing.”
For a moment Elizabeth thought Daniel was trying to help. Until Roger found his voice. “I’m...sorry. I can’t do this. Daniel’s right, Elle. I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”
Roger gave Daniel a resolute nod. “Thanks, man.”
As the world moved in slow motion, Elle watched her groom exit through a side door. Her sister Jane slid her arm around Elle’s waist, propping her up and shielding her from the astonished faces greedily gobbling up the drama.
Elle couldn’t feel her legs. Through the blood pulsing in her ears, she heard Jane hiss in a low, venomous voice, “How could you, Daniel? Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”
Six years later
Elizabeth Clark had been back in Savannah less than twenty-four hours and already she was questioning whether coming home had been the right decision.
Home was the Forsyth Galloway Inn, the sprawling mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast on Whitaker Street that had been in her family for six generations—more than one hundred fifty years—and had been a thriving business since 1874. She’d grown up in the big Victorian house with its turret, ornate gingerbread and creaking mahogany floors. The place was simultaneously comforting and claustrophobic. It evoked a certain nostalgia, not so dissimilar to memories of Great-Aunt Gertie’s overzealous bear hugs. Everyone tried to avoid her hugs, until she’d cornered them and they had no choice but to be smothered in the pillow of her enormous bosom. But years later, when Great-Aunt Gertie and her propensity to invade personal space was gone, her hugs seemed kind of sweet, a throwback to simpler times.
The Forsyth was Elizabeth’s smothering hug. When she was there, she couldn’t wait to get away from it but it always drew her back when times were tough. Like yesterday, when the bottom had fallen out of her life in Atlanta.
It was the last day of school before the holiday break. Some of the teachers were making plans to go out after work for some holiday cheer, when Principal Wescott had buzzed Elle’s room and asked her to come to the office for a quick meeting.
The long and short of it was, her job as an art teacher had been eliminated. She knew her position was tenuous when they hired her two and a half years ago. The money for art education wasn’t in the school’s budget, but a group of tenacious parents thought art was important. Via the school’s foundation, they’d raised enough money to hire an art teacher for two years. The parents thought if they got the art program off the ground, the county would work it into the budget. That didn’t happen, and despite raising enough money to cover her salary for the first semester, the foundation finally realized the county wouldn’t budge and had redirected its efforts behind a new pet project.
For the foreseeable future, the school didn’t have a job for her. Principal Wescott couldn’t make any promises, but she said she would try to find Elle another position after the first of the year. There would probably be something in the fall. Not in art, but it would probably be a teaching job.
“In the meantime, I’ll understand if you need to look for another job.”
Merry Christmas to her.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. Elle had applied for a mortgage to buy a condo in the Buckhead area. She’d scrimped and saved and brown-bagged so many ramen-noodle-soup-and-peanut-butter-sandwich lunches that she couldn’t stomach the combo any longer. But it had been worth it to get the home of her dreams. She’d saved up enough for a down payment, she’d found the perfect place and the sellers had accepted her offer.Without a job, there was no way she would qualify for the mortgage. It had taken her a long time to find this condo—the perfect size, in the perfect area, at the perfect price. The sellers were building a house. They couldn’t hold it for her, and at that price, it wouldn’t be on the market long. Her own real estate agent had caught wind of the listing before it went public. They’d moved fast, but without a job, there was nothing she could do. She had to be honest with the lender about her change of employment status.
Mortgage aside, she needed money to cover her expenses while she looked for a new job. She had enough money to cover living expenses for a few months, but after that, she would have to dip into her down payment savings.
At least she had a little bit of leeway. Even so, she hadn’t been able to take a full deep breath until she’d packed her car and found herself fifty miles down I-75, heading straight into the big smothering bosom of Savannah and the Forsyth Galloway Inn.
Now, after a fitful night’s sleep, she stood on the wrought iron balcony off her bedroom, sipping coffee from a china cup with a matching saucer and breathing in the heady morning air—that intoxicating punch of the humid subtropical flora, spiced with hints of sulfur from the river. She closed her eyes and inhaled the comforting perfume. No matter how long she stayed away, she could always count on Savannah smelling the same when she returned. She was counting on the sameness of it to help her get her head on straight.
Even in December, Savannah was warm by northern winter standards.
And then there was that sunrise.
It dawned so brilliantly over Forsyth Park, which was decorated for the holidays with pine garlands and red bows wrapped around the old-fashioned light posts and swagged along the black iron fence surrounding the majestic fountain. The vision took Elle’s breath away. She was tempted to believe the magical scene was a sign that coming home had been the right move. She stood admiring the splendor of lavender, persimmon and amber blooming in the sky. The fickle breeze flirted with her hair and kissed her cheeks before it flitted away to toy with tangles of Spanish moss dripping from the ancient live oaks in the park across the street.
She sighed and swallowed the last sip of coffee, which had gone cold and bitter.
Yeah, that’s more like it.
Cold and bitter. She laughed to herself.
Despite how she wanted to believe this glorious morning with its painterly sky and philandering breeze was a sign of good things to come, she was a realist. Mother Nature wasn’t in the business of manufacturing miracles. This was merely proof that life went on—whether or not she had a job that would allow her to take care of herself and not rely on anyone else.
Right now she needed to get dressed for the day and help her mom, Zelda, and her grandmother, Wiladean—or Gigi, as she and her sisters called her—prepare for the breakfast meeting they were hosting at the Forsyth.
She hadn’t come home to vacation or freeload. She fully intended to make herself useful.
Last night her family had been giddy when she’d walked in. The corners of Elle’s mouth turned up and her heart tugged at the thought. When she’d entered the inn, they’d been in the middle of setting up for this morning’s meeting, but they’d stopped what they were doing for hugs and tea. Because what would a homecoming—planned or impromptu—be without a steaming cup of tea?
Of course, there had been questions—
“What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Well, I lost my job today, but everything will be fine. I hope.”
It was the truth. Somehow, she would land on her feet. She would either find another position as an art teacher or come up with a brilliant career change.
“Is that you, Elizabeth?” a voice called from the sidewalk below her balcony. Longtime neighbor Mercy Johnston was power walking in her black pencil skirt and athletic shoes, no doubt on her way to work at the Chatham County Courthouse.
Elle waved.
“Good to see ya back in town, hon.”
“Thanks, Mercy,” Elizabeth said to the woman’s back as she continued past. “Have a good day.”
Keeping her stride, Mercy acknowledged Elle with a flutter of her left hand.
As Elle turned to go inside, she saw the lights flicker on inside the Cuppa Joe, the coffee shop that was located farther down the street. Another longtime neighbor, Lisa Reynolds, did a double take and waved as she opened the doors to the Angel Cakes Bakery, a few doors down from the Forsyth.
A couple of cars whooshed by and the delivery truck for the Chat Noir Café slowed as it lumbered around the corner. The brakes whistled and Elle could picture it parking next to the inn’s kitchen door. There was something soothing in all the sameness, the sounds and smells, still knowing her neighbors after all this time and to have them welcome her home without mentioning the Great Wedding Debacle.
In Atlanta, she could be as anonymous as she wanted to be. In Savannah, there was no hiding. Elle felt compelled to hold her chin up and prove that she was better off on her own. She could take care of herself; she didn’t need a man to take care of her. In fact, it had become a point of pride that she remained free and unencumbered, free do to what she wanted when she wanted, without having to answer to anyone.
Roger had done her a favor by setting her free.
Elizabeth glanced at her watch. The guests would arrive in about an hour. Since she’d kept Gigi and her mom away from their work last night, Elle wanted to get down there and pitch in.
She cast one last wistful glance at the gorgeous, changing morning light glowing in Forsyth Park. Now fingers of silver and gold filtered through the ancient live oaks, painting an ethereal picture. That was when she caught a glimpse of a man jogging past the fountain.
Without her contact lenses, she had to squint to bring the details of his masculine form into semisoft focus. But that didn’t matter. He looked fine, even from this distance. She leaned against the wrought iron railing and drank in the blurry, virile beauty of him. Taking care of herself may have become a point of pride, but she still appreciated a hot guy.
This hot guy was definitely worth the second glance.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair that might have been a tad too long, and broad, muscled shoulders that looked to be the natural by-product of honest, hard work.
Nice.
Something vaguely familiar emerged through the soft focus.
Wait.
Did she know him? In a town where everyone knew everyone, except for the tourists, it was likely. She did a quick mental inventory of the various places their paths might have crossed. She quickly crossed off her Atlanta circles, people who worked with her at Stapleton Elementary School and the parents of the students in the art classes she taught at the school.
Even though Savannah was home—she was born and raised here—she hadn’t spent much time here over the past few years. Not since she’d graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design and moved to Atlanta to teach art after the wedding was called off.
She mentally lined through her list of Savannah neighbors, and the various SCAD-related groups he could’ve belonged to and found herself reaching all the way back to her days at Savannah Country Day School.
The jogger stopped on the sidewalk across the street from the inn and peered up at her.
Her stomach clenched.
Wait.
Oh, crap.
Is that...? Oh, no, is that Daniel Quindlin?
She turned away too fast. The clumsy motion made her spoon fall off the saucer and clatter on the balcony’s wooden floorboards. Feeling foolish, she bent down and retrieved it.
What’s wrong with you? He probably saw you do that. Of course he saw you do that.
With a deep breath, she straightened, pulling herself up to her full height and pushing her shoulders back before she stole another glance.
Oh, God. It was him.
Her stomach lurched and she gritted her teeth against a gamut of perplexing emotions. If the pretty sunrise and everything familiar had been an omen of good things to come, Daniel Quindlin was standing there staring up at her like a harbinger of doom.
What was he doing in Savannah? When had he returned? She would’ve thought her mother or grandmother would’ve warned her.
Not that it mattered. When they were in high school, he’d made it very clear that Savannah was the last place on earth he wanted to be.
He stared at her for a moment before he lifted a hand in greeting.
Elizabeth’s heart thudded and heat burned her cheeks. Why? She had no reason to feel embarrassed or care what Daniel Quindlin thought of her. She raked her hand into her hair, trying to casually smooth the humidity-induced bedhead that she hadn’t bothered to fuss with before she’d stepped out here with her coffee.
This was Savannah. Not Atlanta. And knowing everyone in town—or at least most of the historical district—was the breaks of being a sixth-generation Savannah native.
She knew better.
Head held high and cheeks still burning, she pulled her hand out of her hair and gave a quick wave to prove that she was fine, that all these years after he’d succeeded in talking Roger out of marrying her and leaving her at the altar, humiliating her in front of God and everyone, she was perfectly fine.
Common sense dictated that Roger couldn’t have been talked into doing anything he didn’t want to do. But she blamed Daniel for the way it all unfolded. Seeing him again after all these years reopened a wound she thought had healed.
Shortly before the ceremony had started, Jane had gone to her car to get a safety pin. She’d passed by the choir room and had overheard Daniel telling Roger he had no business getting married. She’d heard him say, “It’s better to get out now than to get a divorce later.”
Jane had beaten herself up for not telling Elizabeth, for letting her walk down that aisle. But Roger had sounded so resolute when he’d told Daniel, “Stay out of my business,” and Jane thought Roger was fine. That Daniel was being a jackass.
A few minutes later, when Roger was waiting for Elizabeth at the front of the church and everything seemed to be going as planned, she’d made the snap decision to not say anything to Elle.
Elle had understood. She had forgiven Jane. Actually, she’d never held it against her sister, because it hadn’t been her fault. The music had been playing. Roger had been in place, seemingly prepared to get married. What was Jane supposed to do? Stop the wedding over a snippet of conversation she hadn’t even been sure she’d heard right?
For a solid year after the wedding Jane had beaten herself up, saying if she had one do-over, she would’ve confronted Roger and Daniel and asked them to clarify and she would’ve stopped Elle from walking down the aisle.
For Jane’s sake, Elle had tried so hard to prove she was fine that she’d actually convinced herself she was.
Until now.
After all these years, the mere sight of Daniel Quindlin made her feel clumsy and out of control.
But wait—why was she giving him so much power over her? When she thought about it that way, it was easier to push Daniel out of her mind and go inside to get ready for the day.
She wasn’t going to get anything done if she stayed out here on the balcony all morning acting like a forlorn Juliet. Instead, she showered and dressed in a lightweight pink-and-green sweater and jeans. She took a couple of extra minutes to dry her hair, smooth it into a high ponytail and apply makeup.
She felt more like herself as she walked down to the kitchen, greeting several guests that she passed on the grand staircase. In the lobby, she paused to admire the stately Christmas tree decorated with beloved family ornaments. It was standing sentry in its usual place of honor, the same spot it had occupied for as far back as Elle could remember.
As usual, her mother and grandmother had transformed the inn into a tasteful Christmas wonderland with wreaths and red flower arrangements, gold beaded garlands, large nutcrackers and boxes wrapped to resemble large presents.
No one was in the kitchen, but a large foil-covered serving pan from the Chat Noir waited on the kitchen’s long trestle table. The aroma of breakfast food made Elle’s stomach growl. After she washed her coffee cup and saucer and put them away, she lifted a corner of the foil that covered a large aluminum pan. A waft of steam carried the delectable scent of homemade biscuits. She inhaled deeply and replaced the lid. She needed to get out of the kitchen before the temptation to help herself got the best of her.
She pushed through the double doors and into the butler’s pantry, which connected the kitchen to the private dining room. Surely there was something in there she could do to help finish setting up for the breakfast meeting?
With its oversize windows and wall of French doors, the inn’s dining room was one of her favorite places in the ten-thousand-square-foot house. The room was light and bright and offered a gorgeous view of the inn’s garden. This time of year the garden was still green, but the springtime bounty of roses, pink blossomed cherry sage, white pincushion flowers and cheery black-eyed Susans were replaced with voluptuous poinsettias and whimsical Christmas decorations.
While most of the floral paintings that hung on the walls in the dining room were originals Elizabeth had painted while she was in art school, the scene through the French doors looked like a wall-sized holiday-themed painting that changed with the light.
Her wedding reception would have been in that garden. She hadn’t even thought about it in all the times that she’d come home over the past six years. All it took was seeing the guy who’d instigated the breakup to make it all come flooding back.
Now he knew she was home, and if he was any kind of gentleman he’d stay in his neighborhood—wherever he was living now—and out of hers. Forsyth Park was a huge green space. All he had to do was stay away from the Whitaker Street side.
A memory flooded to the forefront. It was the day of the wedding, after Jane had helped her escape to the bride’s room. Daniel had had the nerve to come to the door. Of course, Jane, her protector, had shifted into full-on attack-dog mode. She hadn’t given him a chance to speak, or to explain or gloat or whatever he’d come to do.
Elizabeth had been surrounded by her mother, her grandmother and her younger sister, Kate. They were fussing over her, each one doing her best to console her, while Jane played gatekeeper, answering knocks and taking messages and assuring the well-wishers she would convey their condolences.
Then Daniel had knocked.
Elle hadn’t even seen him, but she knew it was him by the how-dare-you tone of her sister’s voice. She’d swiftly stepped outside and the rest of the conversation had been muted, leaving Elizabeth to fill in the missing pieces. Her favorite version had Jane chasing Daniel away—literally. Striking a fear in him so raw that he’d turned and hightailed it away.
It hadn’t really happened that way, of course, but on the rare occasion that she felt blue over the way things had ended, Elle imagined her sister chasing away the monster.
Elle had even gone so far as to paint a picture of the scene in her art journal, a private book of sketches, doodles and experimental paintings that she showed to no one. The art journal was her catharsis. It was a private place where she could leave what was haunting her on the page and close the book.
She took special care to ensure the painting of Jane, in her pale pink maid-of-honor gown, hadn’t looked like a bride chasing a groom in a church.
Because a bride shouldn’t have to chase the man with whom she was supposed to spend the rest of her life. What kind of a marriage would that be?
For the first six months or so, Elle had half expected Roger to come back all apologies and remorse, kicking himself for making the worst mistake of his life. She wouldn’t have taken him back, of course. But at first she’d imagined him walking through the door, contrite and blaming cold feet on a momentary loss of reason, begging her to give him another chance.
She’d abandoned that foolish daydream in a hurry. She’d traded it in for the belief that she needed no one. She could take care of herself. Never again would she be so foolish.
It hadn’t taken her long to get the job at Stapleton teaching first grade. Later, they’d created the art teacher position for her.
She’d moved to Atlanta and moved on with her life. Yeah, and losing that job had sent her back to where it all started. Running into Daniel in the place where everything fell apart wasn’t helping.
Well, she wasn’t staying long. She’d only come home to regroup, to see her mother, Gigi—and maybe even her youngest sister, Kate, if she could get away from the salon where she cut hair. They were such strong women, and through them she would remember she was strong, too.
She would make it through this temporary roadblock and she’d come out all the stronger for it.
As she watched the red and gold garlands on the garden topiaries sway in the gentle morning breeze, she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the past. This was a new chapter, a new page for her art journal.
She turned away from the window and surveyed the festively decorated room to see what she could do to help. The tables and the speaker’s podium were already set up. Someone had set out holiday themed tablecloths, silverware and china plates and arranged the eclectic mix of porcelain coffee cups, similar to the one she’d drunk from this morning, on silver trays next to the sterling coffee urn. The tables needed to be dressed and set and the food from the Chat Noir needed to be set out.
Where were her mother and Gigi?
Elizabeth lit the Sterno pots to warm the water in the chafing dishes. When she was a kid that had always been her favorite job. Gigi had supervised, but she’d let Elizabeth light the little pots. The thrill she’d felt watching the purple jelly pop into an orange-and-blue flame was a visceral memory and it warmed her from the inside out.
Making herself smile in the spirit of “fake it until you make it,” she picked up one of the tablecloths, gently unfolded it and spread it over the closest table. She smoothed the surface a little too hard, trying to get it to lie flat, and she realized Daniel Quindlin was still lurking in the recesses of her mind.
If he was living in her head, it was because she was allowing him to be there. She needed to block him out. She needed to think of something worth dwelling on.
She glanced around the dining room—she had to think of something worthy, like the women in her family who had come before her.
Those women had made the delicate linens—like the one she’d nearly rubbed a hole in as she tried to smooth it out—by hand. Each generation had taken loving care to preserve these heirlooms and pass them down. They were guardians of the legacy. To Elle, the linens and the stories attached to them were nearly as important as the inn itself. The women from whom she and her sisters were descended had taken such pride in sharing their finery—the linen, china, crystal, the silver coffee service and chafing dishes—with the guests who’d stayed at the Forsyth. It was the little touches that made people feel at home and brought them back.
Elizabeth heard the rattle of a food cart in the butler’s pantry.
“There you are,” her mother, Zelda, said, after she butted open the doors and pulled the food cart through, a smile overtaking her face. “I’m so happy you’re home, baby girl, I can hardly stand it.”
Her mother’s eyes searched Elizabeth’s face. Her unasked questions hung in the air.
Last night, Elizabeth had been too tired to get into many of the details. She’d simply said there wasn’t money to fund the art department. She didn’t want her mother to worry about her. Zelda had been through her own trials and tribulations over the years. As long as the Forsyth Galloway Inn was in the family, Elle would always have a roof over her head and food to eat, but she would never have a lot of extra money. The inn gobbled up most of the proceeds, leaving very little left over. In fact, the place was looking a little tired, like it could use some attention. They still needed to fix the water damage sustained during the last hurricane, and even her beloved dining room would only benefit from a fresh coat of paint. All it took was money.
Elle didn’t want Zelda worrying about what she would do for work if the county couldn’t place her in another position—or better yet—find a way to fund her job teaching art.
“Thanks for starting the Sterno,” Zelda said as she lowered a tray of food into a chafing dish. “On my way down to the dining room, the Gibbons, who are in room twelve, stopped me and said they needed fresh towels. I went to the linen closet to get them some, but it’s empty. That’s strange because last night when I checked, we had at least three sets of washcloths, bath and hand towels. I wonder where they went?”
Zelda frowned and raked a hand through her auburn curls. She was in her midfifties and still had a shape that most thirtysomethings would envy and a peaches-and-cream complexion that was pretty near flawless except for the worry crease at the bridge of her nose and the faint lines around her eyes.
“I don’t know, Mom. I’m sorry. There were plenty of towels in my bathroom. I’d be happy to call the linen service and arrange for a delivery if you want.”
Zelda waved her hand. “We had to cut linen service. We do the laundry in-house to save money. It’s a lot of extra work, but it’s part of the belt-tightening process.”
Belt-tightening?
Elizabeth was about to ask if everything was okay when Zelda chatted on.
“You know, to afford this renovation we’re wanting to do. But anyway, I was downstairs a few minutes ago throwing in another load of towels. I did several yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t have a chance to fold them and put them away. But I know I saw towel sets in the downstairs linen closet last night.”
“Someone must’ve helped themselves,” Elle said. “No worries. After we get the breakfast meeting set up, I’ll fold the towels for you, deliver a fresh set to the Gibbons’ room and restock the linen closet. I’m happy to help out while I’m here.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” The crease between her mother’s eyes eased a bit. It sounded as if she’d been working hard. Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to lighten her load. While her grandmother seemed to thrive in this business, her mother was more of an introvert.
“Where’s Gigi this morning?”
“Lately, she doesn’t make it downstairs until mid-morning,” Zelda said.
Gigi had been talking about retiring and turning the place over to Zelda. When she did, her mother would need to hire someone at least part-time to help her. Especially on days like this. The Forsyth Galloway was not a one-woman operation.
“You look tired,” Elle said as she took a tray of blueberry muffins off the cart and set them on the buffet. “Not in a bad way. You’re as beautiful as always. But I worry about you with this load and cutting back staff. Are you holding up okay?”
“Oh, honey, I’m fine. This place is just...” Zelda’s words trailed off and her brow furrowed again. “It’s fine.”
She smiled, but Elle detected a certain note in her voice. She decided to take another tactic.
“Then, if everything here is fine and you’re tired, that must mean you’re keeping secrets.” Elle laughed. “Is there a man who’s keeping you up late? Because something’s keeping you up.”
She wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but she was half-serious.
Zelda snorted good-naturedly and smiled. “Heavens no! Are you kidding? I have no time to meet men. At the end of the day, I go up to my room and fall asleep in front of the television every night because I’m too tired to move.”
Zelda had suffered an acrimonious divorce several years ago and hadn’t found anyone else. Elle understood why her mom would be gun-shy. The split had been painful. Elle hadn’t exactly been gung ho to fall in love again after Roger. So, she understood her mom’s hesitation.
“Darn, I was hoping there was a man,” Elle joked.
Zelda ignored her. “Doesn’t the food smell good? Looks like Moriah outdid herself this morning.” Zelda lowered a pan of mini quiche into one of the chafing dishes. Elle did the same with the biscuits and a pan of bacon. Since the inn didn’t have a restaurant and only offered a continental breakfast to guests, Moriah West of the Chat Noir Café, a fixture in downtown Savannah, catered most of the events at the Forsyth that required substantial food.
Zelda picked up the tongs and helped herself to a quiche before Elle could cover the dish with a silver lid.
“Taste test,” Zelda said before taking a bite. “We need to make sure the food is as good as it looks. In fact, why don’t you fix yourself a plate and go in the kitchen and have breakfast? I can handle things in here.”
“You are changing the subject, mother.” Elle put her hands on her hips and raised her right eyebrow in a challenge. “I hear they have speed dating every Tuesday night at Jack’s downtown. Why not give it a try?”
Zelda shook her head and cocked a brow, mirroring her daughter’s expression. “I’ve got too much on my plate with everything that’s going on with the inn. But bless your heart, you seem to be interested. Why don’t you go ahead and do it? You can tell me all about it afterward.”
“Since I’m only visiting, it wouldn’t do me any good, but I’ll go if you’ll go. I’ll be your wing-woman. We could ask Gigi to hold down the fort.”
Being from out of town was a valid excuse. There was no sense in meeting men who lived in Savannah when she was in Atlanta. Then she wondered how long it would be before she was ready to put herself out there again. There’d been one guy, Heath Jordan, a high school chemistry teacher—sort of the mad scientist type. They’d dated for about six weeks, but then Elle had started feeling claustrophobic and called things off. There was no sense in hanging on if she saw no future. It was ironic that she couldn’t find chemistry with a chemistry teacher. But she hadn’t. In fact, the thought of sleeping with him—and running out of excuses why she wouldn’t—was what had finally driven her away.
Chemistry was important.
And darn if her traitorous thoughts didn’t rip right back to Daniel Quindlin and his broad shoulders. Her cheeks burned at the memory of seeing him in the park.
Okay, so the wedding—or the almost wedding—had been years ago. She wanted to believe she’d moved on, and until she’d seen Daniel, she’d believed she had. She wasn’t pining over Roger. They hadn’t talked in years. But if she was completely honest with herself, she still struggled with one burning question. Why had Daniel been so hell-bent on talking Roger out of marrying her? Even to the point that he’d nudged him to run out on her at the altar?
What had possessed Daniel to be so mean? But when she’d pressed Roger for an explanation the one time they’d talked after the wedding, he’d told her he simply didn’t love her enough to spend the rest of his life with her. That single stinging sentence was all she needed to know. She convinced herself that she didn’t need Daniel’s motive for pushing him. The bottom line was that Roger was the one who had made the choice to walk. As bitter as it was to swallow, it was probably the biggest favor anyone had ever done her.
That didn’t mean she had to like Daniel Quindlin or let him taint her return to Savannah. Roger was long gone, a mere footnote in the annals of her life. The last she’d heard, he was in California. His parents had sold their home in Savannah and moved. There was no chance that she’d run into anyone from the Hathaway clan. While she was home, she’d steer clear of the places she might run into Daniel. As if they’d frequent the same places.
Inwardly, she rolled her eyes.
“Did you roll your eyes at me?” Zelda asked.
“What? No!” Ugh, had she actually made that face? “I have a lot on my mind. If I did, it wasn’t directed at you. I’m sorry if you thought it was.”
“Oh, honey, I know you’ve got a lot to sort out with your job. It sounds like everything will be okay. I’m sure it will sort itself out in the long run. We sure could use your help and we might even be able to pay you a little bit. I’m sure we could scare up the funds.”
“No, Mom, I’m fine financially. I have savings. I’m sure it will be fine. But you know what? While I’m waiting for my reassignment, I could stay and help you and Gigi out. It seems like you could use an extra set of hands.”
Zelda squealed and hugged Elle. “My middle baby girl is going to be home for the holidays. You know there is nothing in the world that makes me happier than having my girls home and I’m not sure Jane can get away from the restaurant long enough to come home this year. That’s peak season for her. Oh, Elle, you couldn’t give me a better Christmas present than being here. Just wait until I tell your Gigi. However, I’ll pass on that speed dating. You and your sister Kate should go. The best thing you could do for yourself, missy, would be to start having fun again. The sooner the better.”
No. Not the sooner the better. Zelda must’ve read it in her eyes, because she had a look on her face.
“What?” Elle asked. “Now you’re the one making faces.”
Zelda sighed and shook her head.
She thought about telling Zelda that she’d seen Daniel Quindlin in the park and asking her how long he’d been back in Savannah, but she didn’t want to talk about him.
“Who’s meeting here today?” Elle asked.
“The Savannah Women’s Society. It’s their monthly meeting. Only this one is special.”
Ah, the esteemed Society Ladies, as everyone called them. She should’ve known.
For as far back as Elizabeth could remember, the Society Ladies had had a standing date at the Forsyth. They even had a dainty hand-painted announcement posted at the foot of the veranda steps, in fancy script: The Savannah Women’s Society meets here the first Saturday of every month except January and July. All are welcome.
“Really? How so?”
Zelda’s eyes lit up. “Well, the hot topic on the agenda is the group’s annual benefit. You know how they award a grant every year to fund a rehabilitation project in Savannah’s historical district? Guess who is this year’s worthy recipient?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“This year it’s none other than the Forsyth Galloway Inn.” Zelda clapped her hands.
“Seriously? I didn’t know they funded businesses or private residences. I thought they’d stick to not-for-profits.”
“There are only so many statues and monuments that need fixing. So they expanded to include all properties on the historical registry. The work we want to do here is not just cosmetic. We’re still doing repairs after that tree uprooted and landed on the roof during the last hurricane.”
“Mom, the hurricane was several years ago. I thought insurance covered the damage. Why haven’t you fixed it?”
“Well, insurance did give us some money for repairs, but not nearly enough. Plus, you know how it is when you fix up one thing—it makes everything else look tired and shabby. It’s like a domino chain. We fixed the leak, but there wasn’t enough money to replace the wallpaper and refinish the floors where water warped the boards and discolored the finish. Oh, well, there’s a whole long list of things that we need to do around here, and you know how expensive repairs and renovations are. That’s why we’ve been tightening our belts and doing a lot of the day-to-day upkeep ourselves. We applied for the Women’s Society grant and we got it. The only problem is your Gigi and I have completely different visions of how the remodel should go. I’ll have to tell you all about it later, after the meeting. We could use your voice of reason. But right now we need to finish getting things ready because this is the meeting when they’re awarding the check. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“I’m so glad I could be here,” Elle said, setting a bowl of fruit salad next to a tiered tray of scones and Danish pastries. “I hope they enjoy the breakfast.”
“And to that end, I need to go check on the coffee. I just brewed some fresh. Want a cup?”
“No, thanks, I had a cup before I came down,” Elizabeth said as she stepped back to admire their buffet handiwork. Everything was in its place. All they needed to do was fill the urn with coffee, and they’d be ready to welcome their guests.
After her mother left, Elizabeth glanced around the room, and saw for the first time its tired floral wallpaper and yellowing white wainscoting. In her mind’s eye, the place had always been lovely. Now that Zelda had mentioned it, Elle could see what her mother meant about the decor being a little tired and in need of some love. In its day, the Forsyth had been the crowning glory of the neighborhood. Now the old girl resembled a grand dame who was showing her age. Yet, despite her wrinkles and sags, she still stood regal and proud, beloved by those like Elle, who cherished her timeless grace.
Maybe the Forsyth needed a little reno-Botox. Nothing invasive or reconstructive. Because the place was beautiful as she stood, wrinkles and all.
Elle’s gaze snared the photos in silver frames on the wall and fireplace mantel. There were pictures of every ancestor who had lived here and managed the inn before her Gigi and mother. Someday she and her sisters would have their photos up there, too.
She took a deep breath and let the warmth of the memory of all those generations of independent, successful businesswomen—her people—wash over her. Coming home had been the right thing to do. It was a privilege to have such a birthright, a place like this to come home to when she needed to figure things out. She was happy to have the chance to help her mother and Gigi. After all, the best way to forget her problems was to be of service to someone else.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she left the dining room on a mission to fold the linens and deliver fresh towels to the Gibbons. She didn’t get very far, because the first person she saw when she stepped out of the dining room was Daniel Quindlin.
Her heart did a sudden flip in her chest and the sensation had her hand fluttering to her throat.
He was standing in the lobby at the front desk, looking freshly showered and dressed after his run through the park. A crop of stubble had accumulated on his face, but not enough to be a beard.
Seeing him again up close made her remember that he was tall. How was it that today he seemed bigger and more menacing than she’d remembered? Maybe the sight of him there, invading her sanctuary, was making her feel fragile and vulnerable.
Well, she needed to get over it fast because she’d never considered herself breakable a single day in her life. She hadn’t broken when Roger had left her at the altar, and she didn’t intend to start now.
But Daniel loomed, dark and dangerous, like he’d come for her.
Self-preservation told her to turn around and hightail it back into the dining room, because she didn’t want to talk to him. But it was too late; he’d already seen her.
Crap. She may or may not have uttered the oath out loud. She didn’t care if she had. The only thing worse than seeing Daniel in the park this morning was getting a visit from the devil himself. He may have tried to steal her dignity, but he wasn’t going to rob her of the comfort of coming home.
