Mamaw made a soft harrumph. “I thought as much. And I assume Georgiana told her, with relish, that you’d wanted to buy Sea Breeze?”
“Yes. Afraid so.”
“Horrible woman. So now your grandmother is here to rescue you, I suppose?” It was more of a statement of fact than a question.
Harper kept her eyes on the melon she was slicing into small pieces.
“I wonder if she’ll be up for a tour of Charleston today?”
“No,” Harper answered quickly. “I mean, let’s give her a day or so to relax. Remember, you always say it takes three days to acclimate to island time.”
Mamaw stilled her hands and asked, concerned, “How long does she intend to stay?”
Harper shrugged. “I don’t know. A few days, at least.”
“I’ve heard of European visitors staying for months. Fish and visitors . . .”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think it will be long.” Harper stirred the pot faster, thinking of Granny’s enormous suitcase filled with clothes. “After all, we won’t be here ourselves in a month.”
Mamaw looked at her tray. “I suppose not,” she said flatly.
Harper didn’t want to dwell on the unpleasant inevitable. “I’d better make up a tray for Granny. Go check on her.”
A knock on the front door was followed by a woman’s voice calling out, “Halloo!”
“In here, Granny James!”
Harper hurried into the front hall to greet her grandmother. She was dressed more casually than she’d been yesterday, in a pleated gray linen skirt that fell to her calves, a crisp white linen shirt that, being linen, was forgivably wrinkled, and espadrilles. Her hair was brushed back from her face and she looked rested, younger today, though still pale and eyes rimmed red.
“How are you feeling? Truthfully?”
“Perfectly well. A bit stiff, but a good walk on the beach should cure that. I am parched, however. I drank all the bottled water but was a bit afraid to drink from the tap. In this jungle. “You won’t get sick. And there’s a filter on the kitchen tap. In the meantime, come into the kitchen. I’ve made you breakfast.”
Stepping into the kitchen, Harper saw that Mamaw had already fled the room. Sighing, she knew she’d have to deal somehow with the friction between the two women. She poured her grandmother a large glass of water and a cup of tea with milk and handed them to her.
Granny James looked at the tea. “Did you make it?”
“Yes.”
“The water came to a roiling boil?”
“Yes. And I warmed the pot.”
Granny James tasted the tea. “Much better. These Yanks still haven’t mastered how to make a decent cup of tea.”
“That should handle the liquids. I’ve cut up some fruit. And I’ve made you something special.”
“You’re cooking now?”
Harper laughed. Her grandmother had often remarked affectionately on Harper’s general ineptitude in the kitchen. “Hardly cooking. Though I am trying.”
“What is that you’ve made? Porridge?” Granny James asked in horror.
Harper laughed. “No, it’s grits. Stone-ground and cooked with milk and butter and cheese. It’s a southern classic.”
Granny James made a face. “Grits? Isn’t that what they fed the slaves?”
“I have no idea. I thought you’d like to try something different. If not”—Harper indicated the tin of bakery goods—“there are biscuits and scones.”
Granny James looked idly around the kitchen, then made a beeline for the wide swath of windows. She stared out at the Cove, her face still and watchful.
Harper came to join her at the windows. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”
Granny James stepped back and took a sip from her teacup. “It’s a prettyish bit of river, I suppose.”
“It’s not a river. There are lots of winding creeks in these wetlands. But that out there is part of the Cove. A heavenly body of water that connects to the great Intracoastal Waterway. You could go from Florida to New England and never go out into the ocean.”
“Really?” Granny James appeared interested.
“Do you want to go out and take a look?”
Granny James gave a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I might as well.” She walked out on the porch carrying her teacup, her gaze glued to the winding creek that snaked through the waving green grass, sparkling in the morning sun.
“Good morning, Imogene,” Mamaw called out. She was sitting at the black wicker table eating breakfast from her tray. A newspaper was spread out.
Granny James turned and, surprised to see Mamaw on the porch, walked to the table, a stiff smile on her face.
“How did you sleep?” Mamaw asked politely.
“Oh, the usual way. Eyes closed. Rhythmic breathing.”
“Please. Come join me.” Mamaw offered a chair. “I always eat breakfast out here early in the morning before the heat descends. Harper, be a dear and fetch your grandmother’s tray, will you?”
Harper knew a bolt of fear at the prospect of leaving the two women alone, even for a moment. She didn’t expect a catfight . . . not exactly.
She hurried to the kitchen for the tray. Carson was inside, picking at a scone with two fingers.
“Please come join us on the porch,” Harper begged. “I could use the help. I feel like I’m commandeering the Titanic through the icebergs.”
“Not me.” Carson backed away. “No offense, but your grandmother is one frosty woman.” She made as if to shudder with cold.
“She’s not that bad. Normally. Last night she was tired.”
Carson made a face of doubt. “What’s her excuse for this morning?”
“Okay, so it takes a while for her to thaw. Please?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a meeting with Blake at NOAA. Must rush.”
Harper reached for the tray but hesitated. “Blake?”
“Don’t get your antennas up.” Then Carson’s eyes sparked. “We’re planning Delphine’s release.”
Harper released the tray and hurried to hug Carson. She knew how much Delphine’s release meant to her sister and to Blake. To all of them. “I’m so happy for you. Oh, this is such good news. When?”
“Soon.” Carson’s eyes were bright. “Blake and I both want this release to go smoothly, and we’re getting together to work out the details. It forces us to work together, and I’d like us to remain friends. And speaking of together”—Carson tilted her head toward the back porch and drew back—“if I were you, I’d get back out there ASAP.”