Laura Childs: Gunpowder Green

“As I recall,” said Haley, “Doe Belvedere was offered a contract to model in New York.”

“With the Eileen Ford Agency,” said Delaine with delight. “But she passed on it. For him. ”

“I guess Oliver Dixon is one lucky guy, huh?” said Haley in a dubious tone.

“Oliver is supposed to be filthy rich,” drawled Delaine. “How else could he afford that enormous house on Arch-dale Street?” Delaine nodded in the direction of Oliver Dixon’s yellow-brick mansion. “I bet Timothy Neville positively had a cat when Oliver Dixon bought a mansion bigger than his, then built on another huge wing!”

Haley squinted at Doe and Oliver. “Think they’re planning a family?” she asked.

“Haley!” said Theodosia.

“Hey, I was just wondering,” shrugged Haley with a mischievous look.

“Genteel women do not wonder about such things in public,” teased Theodosia as Haley’s blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

“Who told you I was a genteel woman?” quipped Haley, with typical youthful bravado.

“Your mother,” said Theodosia.

“Oh.” Tears sprang quickly to Haley’s eyes, for her mother had passed away just two years ago. “You’re right. Sometimes I’m a little too . . .” Haley fumbled for the correct word. “. . . forthright... for my own good.”

“We love you just the way you are, dear.” Theodosia put an arm around Haley’s slim shoulders. Although Theodosia was only thirty-five herself, she often felt very protective of her young employee. Haley was prone to plunging ahead, often before formulating a clear plan. A case in point, she’d already shifted her college major four times.

“Come along,” urged Delaine, “I’ll introduce you. Maybe that roving photographer from the Post and Courier will even snap your picture.” She reached out and grabbed Haley’s hand.

“Okay,” Haley agreed and scampered off with Delaine.

Well, I’m not going to stand here like a bump on a log, decided Theodosia. She picked up a plate of tiny, crustless sandwiches and was about to set off into the crowd, when a man’s voice called to her.

“Say there, ma’am?”

Theodosia whirled about, finally glancing down toward the shore. One of the workers, a young man with dark, curly hair, the same one who’d helped set chairs up earlier, was struggling with a metal folding table. One end of the table seemed fine, but the legs on the other end were locked in place. “Do you have . . .” the man gave the table a disgusted kick. “. . . another of those cloths?”

Theodosia set her tray down, wandered a few steps closer to him. “You mean a tablecloth?”

“Yeah,” he said, swiping an arm across his brow. “I’m supposed to set up the trophies and stuff here.”

Theodosia walked back to her picnic hampers and snatched up the extra tablecloth she’d tucked in with her catering gear, just in case.

Wandering back down the bank, she saw that the worker had finally stabilized the table amid the sand and rocks. “This should do nicely,” she said, unfurling the white linen tablecloth, letting the wind do most of the work. It settled gently atop the metal table.

“It’s a warm day,” said Theodosia. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea, Mr....?”

“Billy,” said the man. “Billy Manolo. I work over at the yacht club.” He gestured toward a faraway cluster of bobbing masts barely visible down the shoreline. “I better not; lots to do yet.” And off he strode.

Grabbing her tray of sandwiches again, Theodosia wandered among the picnickers, offering seconds. The day was a stunner, and White Point Gardens never looked as beautiful as it did this time of year. Magnolia, crape myrtle, and begonias bloomed riotously, and palmettos swayed gracefully, caressed by the Atlantic’s warm breezes. In the early days, when Charleston had been known as Charles Town, pirates had been strung up here on roughly built gallows, and wars had been played out on these grounds. Now hundreds of couples came here to get married, and thousands more came to stroll the peaceful grounds that seemed to provide nourishment for the soul.

“This kingdom by the sea,” Theodosia murmured to herself, recalling the famous line from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee,” which had so aptly and romantically described the city of Charleston.

For Charleston truly was a kingdom. No fewer than 180 church spires, steeples, and turrets pierced her sky. Across from White Point Gardens, crowding up against The Battery, shoulder to elegant shoulder, was a veritable parade of enormous, grande dame homes. Like wedding cakes, they were draped and ornamented with cornices, balustrades, frets, and finials. Most were painted in pastel colors of salmon pink, alabaster white, and pale blue; a romantic, French palette. Behind these homes lay another twenty-three-block tapestry of historic homes and shops, Charleston’s architectural preserve, complete with cobbled streets, wrought-iron gates, and sequestered gardens.

“You’re the tea shop lady, aren’t you?” A rich, baritone voice interrupted Theodosia’s reverie.

Theodosia turned with a smile and found herself staring into alert, dark brown eyes set in smooth, olive skin. A neatly clipped mustache draped over full, sensuous lips.

“You have the advantage, sir,” she said, then realized immediately that she sounded far more formal than she’d intended.

But the man wasn’t a bit put off and swept his Panama straw hat off his head in a gallant gesture that was pure Rhett Butler. “Giovanni Loard, at your service, ma’am.”

The name sounded faintly familiar to Theodosia as she stood gazing at this interesting man who smiled broadly back at her, even as he dug hastily in the pocket of his navy blazer for a business card.

Theodosia accepted his card, squinted at tiny, old English type. “Loard Antiquarian Shop. Oh, of course,” she said as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Down on King Street.”

“In the antiques district,” Giovanni Loard added helpfully.

“Drayton Conneley raved about your shop,” she told him enthusiastically. “He said you had the finest collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings in all of Charleston. Wonderful estate jewelry, too. I keep meaning to get down there but never seem to find the time,” Theodosia lamented. “I’ve got this one wall—”

“That’s begging for a truly great painting!” finished Giovanni Loard.

“Exactly,” agreed Theodosia.

“Then, dear lady, you simply must make time,” Giovanni admonished. “Or better yet, come open a second tea shop in our neighborhood. It would be a most welcome addition.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the first one under control yet,” Theodosia admitted, “but it’s a fun idea to entertain.” Theodosia smiled up at Giovanni Loard, amused by this colorful, slightly quirky fellow and suddenly found him gazing in the direction of Doe and Oliver Dixon.

“My cousin,” Giovanni Loard offered by way of explanation. “The groom.”

“Oliver Dixon is your cousin?” asked Theodosia.

“Actually, second cousin,” said Giovanni. “Oliver is my mother’s first cousin.”

Theodosia maintained her smile even as her eyes began to glaze over. In Charleston, especially in the historic district, it often seemed that everyone was related to everyone else. People literally went on for hours explaining the tangled web of second cousins, great-great-grandparents, and grandaunts.

Thankfully, Giovanni Loard didn’t launch into a dissertation on his lineage. Instead, he gently plucked the tray of sandwiches from Theodosia’s hands.

“Allow me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m sure you have other items to attend to.” And Giovanni wandered off into the crowd, an impromptu waiter.