Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

“Well, I must be going now,” said Geoffrey, getting up. “How are the dresses coming along, by the way?”

“I must say I don’t like to be so rushed. I should have been allowed a week per dress. Really, these modern girls! Marry in haste, you know. But since the patterns are simple, I believe I will finish them on Friday evening. Indeed, I must, mustn’t I?”

“The sooner the better,” said Geoffrey in a tone of some urgency.

In his law office Tommy Simmons was working late. It was after six-thirty, and he still had paperwork that had to be finished. When the phone rang, he hoped that it would be an invitation to dinner, because surely no clients would call at this hour. “Hello,” he said in his off-duty voice, “Tommy Simmons here.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you in,” said the voice. “This is Geoffrey Chandler.”

Tommy held the phone away from his ear as if he were planning to peer into it. “Where are you calling from?”

“A bar, actually. Look, can you answer me two quick questions?”

Members of your family are always asking me two quick questions , thought Tommy, remembering his grocery-store encounter with Charles. “Yes, Geoffrey, I’ll try,” he said aloud.

“Good. First of all, have you put things in motion for my cousin Elizabeth to receive the inheritance from Aunt Augusta?”

“Yes,” said Tommy cautiously. “The papers are drawn up, but of course, it’s not official-”

“And is it a substantial amount?”

“It has increased considerably in recent years. I don’t know if you know anything about real estate-”

“Mercifully little,” said Geoffrey. “But is it, say, a million?”

“Thereabouts.”

“I see. And now to change the subject entirely. Settle a bet for me, would you? Is there a waiting period in Georgia before one can get married?”

“Geoffrey, you wouldn’t…?”

“Not for worlds, Tommy. But please answer the question.”

“Three days before the license is granted. Your cousin and her fiancé will just make it. I’ve already spoken to your mother about this.”

“Good. Good. What about South Carolina and Florida?”

“Florida is three days. South Carolina-one day before license is granted. I think. I could look it up.”

“No, that’s okay. It probably doesn’t matter. I must go in a moment. To change the subject, Tommy, how is Miss Geneva Grey getting along?”

Tommy couldn’t figure out where this conversation was going. “I don’t see what-”

“My cousin is thinking of making her a monetary gift,” Geoffrey lied.

“Well, I won’t say she couldn’t use it, Geoffrey. Her parents left a good sum of money, but nobody in that family made a dime after the doctor died, which was some thirty years ago, and they dipped into the capital against all advice to the contrary. I’d say that all that’s keeping Miss Geneva going is the life-insurance money from the death of her sister. Would your cousin like me to draw up a deed of gift-”

“That can wait, thanks. Let’s get her married first. Got to run, Tom!”

The lawyer was left holding a buzzing phone and wondering what the previous two minutes had been about.

Geoffrey checked his watch. Nearly seven o’clock. He had to be back at the house in an hour, and the bar was getting crowded. He took another sip of Campari, all the while studying the sea of people. Suddenly he noticed the sign that he was looking for: a girl in a white jacket with a rose in her lapel. She was very pretty indeed.

Geoffrey eased his way past several knots of chatting yuppies and appeared at the blonde girl’s side. “Good evening,” he said softly. “Have I the honor of addressing Snow White?”

The girl’s face lit up with recognition. “Aren’t you Geoffrey Chandler?” she cried. “I met you at a theatre fund-raiser! I’m-”

“Jenny Ramsay,” said Geoffrey nodding. “I never miss a broadcast of the weather. Would you care to sit down?”

As he steered her to a recently vacated booth, Jenny said, “But I thought it was someone named Charles who wrote that letter!” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is this a joke?”

“It was intended to be a very nasty joke,” said Geoffrey. “And the butt of it was to have been my cousin Elizabeth. Let me explain.” In a few sentences he outlined Charles’s plan to grab the inheritance, judiciously omitting the part in which he searched his brother’s room under the pretense of collecting laundry, and discovered the letter from Snow White.

Jenny was stunned. “You mean he wanted me to marry him tomorrow?”

“In order to secure the inheritance. I believe so.”

“But I’m Elizabeth’s maid of honor! I wouldn’t do that to her!”

“Charles did not, alas, know the identity of Snow White.”

Jenny sighed. “Wasn’t that silly? I was just trying to find a way to meet somebody who wouldn’t start out being dazzled by my being a celebrity.”

“Try dating someone whose opinion of himself is equally high,” Geoffrey suggested.

“True,” said Jenny thoughtfully. “There is always Badger.” She looked around the bar. “Oh, what if Charles shows up here and finds us?”

“I think not,” said Geoffrey. “I have stolen his distributor cap. A little trick I picked up from Queen Elizabeth.”

Jenny Ramsay smiled a real smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”

ELIZABETH HAD BEEN pacing by the front windows since before the Dawsons’ British Airways flight had touched down in Atlanta. “Where are they?” she fumed. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“Not for at least another hour, dear,” said Aunt Amanda, who was trying to read. “Do stop pacing. Write some thank-you notes.”

Elizabeth looked guiltily at the pile of wedding presents on and about the trestle table. “Do you think I ought to write the letters to Cameron’s friends as well?”

“Certainly,” said Amanda, turning a page. “He deserves at least the public illusion that he has acquired a dutiful wife.”

“Well, all right. I think I ought to wait until he gets here to open them, though.”

“That still gives you a good many others to write thank-yous for,” her aunt pointed out.

Charles Chandler appeared just then, looking well dressed but angry. “Mother, could I borrow your car keys?”

“What is the matter with your car, dear?”

“I don’t know! It won’t start, and I’m late for an engagement.”

Aunt Amanda looked up at her son. “Surely anyone who is a theoretical physicist ought to be able to figure out a simple combustion engine.”

Charles reddened. “It isn’t the same thing at all, Mother! And I just had it serviced. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with it.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes carefully turned to the window. “Have you checked the distributor cap, Charles?”

It was nearly an hour later that Dr. Chandler’s Lincoln pulled into the driveway, signaling his arrival with discreet beeps of the horn.

“They’re here!” cried Elizabeth, abandoning her thank-you note in midword. With a last-minute pat at her newly styled hair, she hurried out the front door to meet the Dawsons.

“How was your flight?” asked Aunt Amanda, when the initial frenzy had died down.

“Quite tedious,” said Margaret Dawson. “I expect it will take me ages to get used to the time. My body says it’s past midnight.”

“Just on eight,” Amanda assured her. “We have dinner prepared. I think we shan’t bother to wait for Charles and Geoffrey under the circumstances. And after that, we will take you across the street to my sister’s.”