He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “What happened to you, Tara? You used to be so audacious and original. You weren’t like the other girls. I don’t know why or when it happened, but you changed into this eager-to-please Southern girl with your buttermilk baths and starvation diets. Underneath it all—the perfectly styled hair and designer dresses—I sense a sad, tired woman who just wants to kick off her heels and go back to being real. The effort it is taking for you to pretend to be the woman you think you need to be is taking its toll, dahlin’.”
Grayson’s words pierce my heart like an arrow shot from a compound bow, lacerating deep. It takes me a few seconds to catch my breath.
I shake my head. “I am confused. You say you want to marry someone audacious and original, but you asked Maribelle Cravath to be your wife? She’s the most unoriginal girl in all of Charleston.”
“This isn’t about Maribelle.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Did you think I asked you here because I was going to ask to get back together?” He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “We’ve tried to make it work for years, Tara, but we always end up apart.”
“That’s just the way we are.”
“It’s the way we were, but it’s not the way I want to be. Every decision I make from here on out will move me closer to, or further from, my end goal. I need someone on my team who wants to help me move closer to that end goal.”
“What are you saying? I have always encouraged you to go after your dreams.”
He looks down at his feet.
“Haven’t I?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Jesus, Tara,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Can’t we just wish each other well and go our separate ways?”
I am burning up from the inside out. My core is radiating heat, my skin aches, and my hair is plastered to my neck. It’s as if I swallowed fire. Once, I snuck a sip from a bottle in my Aunt Patricia’s liquor cabinet and felt the way I do now, hot and sickly. It turned out to be a bottle of Irish Poitin, a potent, illegal, home-distilled alcohol made from potatoes, malted barley, sugar.
“Go our separate ways?” The words come out strangled. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for as long as I can remember and you just want to go our separate ways?”
“We’ll always be friends.”
“Friends? What does that even mean? We will exchange Christmas cards, click like on each other’s Instagram photos, say hey when we run into each other at Poogan’s Porch?”
“Sure, that’s what childhood friends do, isn’t it? We had a great childhood together, Tara, swimming at Folly Beach, fishing off this dock, catching fireflies in your daddy’s backyard, but it’s time to grow up and pack those childish times away. Grown-ups are honest about what they want, what they need, who they are, and who they want to spend their lives with.”
“And grown-up Grayson Calhoun doesn’t want to spend his life with Tara Maxwell. Is that it?”
He dips his chin low and looks at me through his thick brown eyelashes and I realize with nauseating certainty that Grayson Calhoun is about to become a ghost in my life, relegated to the darkest, dustiest shelf in the basement of my memories. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
“That’s about it.”
Chapter Three
What’s the worst part about being a television broadcaster in the nation’s ninety-fifth largest designated market area? You can’t have a sweatpants and T-shirt day. You can’t pile your hair into a baseball cap, slip your feet into a pair of ugly old Uggs, and call it a rotten, miserable, no-good, feeling-cranky, leave-me-the-hell-alone kinda day. Not even when your first love tells you that he’s outgrown you. Not even when your little sister announces she is moving to the Cotswolds to become a matchmaker.
Not even then.
You have to put on your suit, slip on your heels, spackle on your face paint, and smile big as you film a segment about the Great Charleston Crab Cook-Off. One hundred and thirty-two local chefs and crab connoisseurs competing for the title of Crab Whisperer with recipes like crab nachos, artichoke and crab dip, crab and mango chutney, and Asian fried crab balls. It doesn’t matter if it is an unseasonably hot eighty-two degrees, you’re being devoured by a swarm of sand flies, and you’ve got rancid crab balls in your mouth. You have to smile through the pain.
I sometimes wonder why I applied for a job as a television broadcaster. I am not as naturally composed and graceful as my sister Manderley, nor as sociable as Emma Lee. Truthfully? It takes a lot of effort for me to be as sweet as tea, especially today when I feel as salty as a boiled peanut.
I never wanted to be a corporate drone, crammed into a cubicle, subsisting on cold vending machine sandwiches and Folgers, withering under the harsh flicker of fluorescent lights, but today that sort of cloistered, anonymous existence appeals to me. I would rather be staring at my When Pigs Fly screensaver than swallowing tepid crab soup or falsely complimenting the ingenuity of a Summerville housewife for combining chocolate, apples, and crabs into a sweet and savory cake. (No, I don’t think Entenmann’s would consider mass producing your Crabby Apple Cake, but I am pretty sure it could replace ipecac syrup to induce violent vomiting.)
By the time my cameraman has shot the B-roll to pad my piece and I’ve recorded the voice over, I want to crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and nurse a bottle of ipecac until Grayson, Crawdad Cravath, and the Great Nauseating Crab Cook-Off are distant memories. But I promised Emma Lee I would meet her for dinner at, ironically, The Folly Beach Crab Shack.
Located just two blocks from the beach and with a chill, laid-back, walk-in-barefoot kinda vibe, The Shack is the off-season gathering spot for locals. Grayson and I used to meet at The Shack when we were home for Christmas break. We would eat oysters on the half shell and sip cold beers and then walk hand in hand to the beach to watch the sunset behind the pier.
Emma Lee is waiting for me when I arrive. She is perched on an orange painted stool and surrounded by a throng of admirers. That’s Emma Lee. Life-of-the-Party Barbie. Fashionably dressed in ankle-breaking high heels, white skinny jeans, and a floaty, frilly off-the-shoulder top, with her long blonde hair styled straight, she completes her glam look with silver bangles and the perfect bag! Life-of-the-Party Barbie makes everyone’s guest list! Cannot stand alone. Accessories sold separately.
She squeals when she notices me and I feel as rotten as a mouthful of fried Asian crab balls for comparing my sweet, if aimless, baby sister to a plastic doll. Maybe Grayson was right. Maybe I have become petty and bitter. Petty-and-Bitter Barbie comes in a jaded gown sprinkled with bitchy dust. A tiny pitcher of Hat-erade completes her pretty petty look!
“Yay!” Emma Lee claps her hands when she notices me approaching. Her bangles clatter together. “You’re here!”
She hops off her perch and runs over to me, throwing her perpetually toned and tanned arms around my neck. A cloud of vanilla scented perfume floats around us and I feel my miserable, rotten, no-good, leave-me-the-hell-alone mood lift. Emma Lee has that effect on people. Spontaneous and joyful, affectionate and optimistic, spending time with her is like getting a potent shot of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and endorphins. She triggers people’s happy neurotransmitters. It came as no surprise when Clemson offered her a cheerleading scholarship.
By the time she stops hugging me, her admirers have dispersed and we are alone at the small cobalt painted table. She hops back up on her stool, tilts her head, and looks at me through the platinum fringe of her long bangs.
“Love the suit. Love the shoes. Love the bold blush. So on trend. Is it Nars Orgasm?” She squints. “Did you have a good day? How was the Cook-Off? You look saaaad. Did something happen to make you sad?”
One of Emma Lee’s less than endearing habits is her anxiety-driven, rapid-fire prattle. She shoots comments, critiques, and questions like a tommy gun. Rata-tat-tat-tat. Without blinking, taking
a breath, or waiting for a response.
“I am not sad,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket.
“Liar.” She raises her hand and waves it in a circle around my face. “You’re wearing a lot of sad with that fab sheath dress. It’s like ’80s frosty blue eye shadow. Bam! Can’t miss it.”
“This coming from the girl who has spent the last few weeks eating fast-food fried chicken and watching crap reality television shows on my couch.”
“I am done. Done. I can’t even do that Annie routine anymore.”
“Annie?”
“Little Orphan Annie, that sad, down-on-her-luck girl with the ginger ’fro who gets adopted by the crazy rich Daddy Starbucks.”
“Warbucks.”
Emma Lee frowns.
“The man who adopted Annie was Daddy Warbucks, not Starbucks.”
“I am pretty sure his name was Starbucks”—she waves her hand and her bangles clatter together—“but Annie’s bald benefactor isn’t really the point. The point is that It’s a Hard Knock Life is a tired tune. Played out. I can’t be an Annie, moping around feeling sorry for myself because I am an orphan.”
I rub the vein throbbing at my temple and resist the urge to ask my little sister which version of Annie features a self-pitying orphan adopted by a coffee mogul, because every version I have ever seen featured a plucky and optimistic girl.
“Does this mean you took Manderley’s advice and set an appointment with one of Clemson’s career counselors?”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“You need to get a job, Emma Lee. The counselor will help you choose a career path based on your interests, abilities, personality, and educational achievement.”
“I’ve already chosen a career path.”
“You have?”
Please God, don’t let her tell me she wants to be something ridiculous like a Cirque Du Soleil performer or the girl who walks around Disneyworld in the Sleeping Beauty costume. Please let her finally be serious.
Before Emma Lee can regale me with her plans, a waitress arrives. I order the grilled shrimp and avocado salad and a basket of hush puppies with honey butter. Emma Lee orders the most expensive thing on the menu: shrimp and oysters. Of course. Emma Lee has caviar taste on a Cane’s Chicken budget.
If people could read my harsh thoughts, they might think I don’t like Emma Lee. They would be wrong. Terribly wrong. I love my sister something fierce. I just get mighty vexed by her I-am-the-baby-of-the-family-so-you-have-to-take-care-of-me mentality. Then again, she was a baby when our momma died. Poor Emma Lee doesn’t possess a single memory of our momma. She also doesn’t have a cushy trust fund to fall back on. Momma left generous trust funds for Manderley and for me, but she died before she could set one up for Emma Lee. As far as I know, my practical big sister has been sitting on her trust fund like a hen waiting for her chick to hatch, patiently and prudently watching her nest egg grow. I am not as prudent as Manderley so my egg isn’t as healthy as hers. Still, at least I have an egg! Poor Emma Lee is a hen without an egg.
Daddy always took care of Emma Lee, buying her everything her spoiled heart could desire, but Emma Lee’s silver spoon was pulled painfully out of her mouth when the IRS seized Daddy’s assets, including the car he leased for her. She’s had a hard time adjusting to life without her silver spoon.
The waitress takes our menus and hurries off to place our orders. I rest my forearms on the edge of the table and patiently wait for Emma Lee to tell me she is going to be an Instagram model/YouTube sensation/Wine taste tester. Her phone vibrates against the blue-painted table. Emma Lee reaches for her phone.
“Don’t you dare,” I say, snatching the phone and sliding it into my jacket pocket. “You’re not answering a text, email, or FB notification until you tell me about this exciting new career path you intend to blaze.”
She flips her hair over her tanned shoulder and grins. “It’s more than a career path. I have developed a new life plan.”
“Ooo-kay,” I say, narrowing my gaze. “Does this new life plan involve performing acrobatics in a feather covered spandex body suit?”
“What?” She laughs. “No! Whatever gave you that ridiculous idea?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, smiling. “Tell me all about your new life plan.”
“I am moving to the Cotswolds!”
“The Cotswolds?”
“A rural area in south central England.”
“I know where the Cotswolds are located, Emma Lee. I just don’t know why you are telling me you plan to move there or what you would do once you get there.”
“I am going to be a matchmaker!”
“Drink some iced tea, Emma dahlin’.” I push her sweating glass closer to her. “The heat is getting to you.”
“I am perfectly fine!” She slides the tea away from her and leans her forearms on the table. “Mrs. Nickerson said she thinks I would make a bloody brilliant marriage broker. She’s even agreed to pay me money—serious money—if I make successful matches for her sons.”
“Wait! Are you telling me you already have a client?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, stop. Before you get carried away with your magical, fairy dust, wishful thinking—”
“Magical fairy dust? You make me sound like a flake.” I stare at her. Hard. She rolls her eyes. “Tell me one flaky thing I have wanted to do.”
Only one? She’s making this way too easy.
“You tried to talk Daddy into buying you a Christmas tree farm so you could have Christmas all year round.”
“Who wouldn’t want Christmas all year round? Fresh air, the scent of pine trees, happy people.”
I look at Emma Lee’s beautiful beaming face, see the starry, naiveté reflected in her wide blue eyes, and all I can think is, Bless her heart. She lives in a dream world, floating from one fabulous diversion to the next, unencumbered by pesky practicalities like developing a life plan, sticking to a budget, following rules, adhering to a schedule. She is, quite literally, the dreamer. She took the Meyers-Briggs test in her college psychology class and was classified an ENFP. ENFPs are called The Dreamers.
By contrast, my sister, Manderley is a responsible, hardworking, practical, punctual ESTJ. ESTJs are called The Executives. They’re the ones who plot the paths on how to reach the far-off dreamlands.
And I am the diplomat between the two, forever bridging the gap, acting as interpreter, and brokering deals for peace. I am Jimmy Carter. Jimmy friggin’ Carter, stuck between Egypt and Israel. I am that U.S. senator who facilitated the peace treaty between Northern Ireland and England.
“Gee, Emma Lee,” I say, employing my age-old sandwich technique by sticking constructive criticism between two compliments. “You are charismatic, intuitive, and social, the sort who sees the best in people and helps them to see the best in themselves. I think you would make a fantastic matchmaker—”
“You do?” she squeals, clapping her hands.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Especially if you spend some time pondering the steps you need to take to be a successful matchmaker.”
Emma Lee frowns.
“You don’t want to be a Vermeer.”
“A Vermeer?”
“Johannes Vermeer was a Dutch painter who only produced two to three paintings a year, not enough to support his wife and eleven children. He died in debt at a young age.”
“That’s saaad.”
“Yes, it is—”
“Wait a minute!” Emma Lee says, brightening. “Didn’t he paint Girl with a Pearl Earring? And didn’t that painting inspire a movie starring Scarlett Johansson?”
“Yes, but—”
“Vermeer might have died in debt, but he died doing what he loved and they made a movie about him, starring ScarJo! That’s pretty amazing, don’t you think?”
“My point, however, is that dreams alone won’t pay the bills. Where do you plan on living while you are making matches for the English gentry?”
“Wood House.”
“You aren’t serious?”
“I am! Aunt Pattycake left me her home in the English countryside, so why shouldn’t I live in it?”
“I just assumed you would sell it.”
“Is that what you plan on doing with Tásúildun? Selling it?”
Aunt Patricia left me her home in Ireland, a small medieval castle on the coast. Until my senior year in high school, I spent my summers there.
“I won’t inherit Tásúildun until I spend three months living in it with two relative strangers. Did you forget?”
Aunt Patricia added an unusual proviso to her will: in order to claim my inheritance, I must first spend three months living in the castle with Rhys Sinjin Burroughes, her nephew by marriage, and Aidan Gallagher, the son of one of her tenants. At the end of the three months, I have to choose a co-inheritor from either Rhys or Aidan.
I met Rhys once, when he came for a visit during one of my summer stays. He was a quiet boy with a thatch of thick black hair that fell over his forehead and tortoiseshell glasses meant to correct a slightly lazy eye. He spent most of his time in the library. As a child, I played with Aidan Gallagher practically every day of every summer. Grayson never knew it, but Aidan was my first kiss. I was twelve. Aidan was thirteen. We were on the beach below the castle. He leaned in to kiss me, I leaned away, and he ended up kissing my chin. Ever the persistent one, he tried again. So, I guess you could say he was my first and second kiss.
“I didn’t forget the proviso,” Emma Lee says. “When are you leaving for Ireland?”
“Winter said I am supposed to complete my stay within a year of the reading of the will. Otherwise, I lose my claim.”
Winter V. Hastings was the lawyer who handled the execution of both my father and aunt’s wills.
“Well you better get crackalackin, sister! It’s been two months since the reading of the will. That means you only have ten months to get your booty to Ireland and pick a man.”
“I can’t go to Ireland.”
“Why not?”
You'll Always Have Tara Page 3
