“Charlotte!” a voice called from the blue sedan. “Where do you want all these gift bags?”
“I’ll be right there!” Charlotte replied. She turned back to us, all business once again. “Some of the other bridesmaids are helping me get everything out of the car,” she said. “But you guys go ahead and check in with the front desk; I’ll see you inside. Your rooms should all be ready.” She started to step away, but then stopped and turned back to us. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She reached into the tote she was carrying and pulled out three gift bags. “These contain maps of the area, with restaurants and other attractions clearly marked, as well as some miscellaneous toiletries, in case you forgot anything at home. I included a few historical pamphlets for light reading as well.” She handed a bag to each of us, gave a sharp nod, and turned to help her friends unload the car.
“Wow,” I said, peeking into the meticulously packed bag as she left. “You were right, Bess. She is organized.”
“This is classic Charlotte,” Bess replied with a wave of her hand. “She’s always been a very serious person, even when she was a little girl. She’s pursuing a PhD in history, you know. That’s what brought her to Charleston in the first place—and how she ended up meeting her fiancé, Parker. To be honest, I was surprised to hear that she was getting married. She never seemed like the kind of girl who was interested in romance!”
“The right person can turn anyone into a romantic,” I said, thinking of Ned, my own boyfriend back home.
We hauled our suitcases up to the front patio of the inn, where several guests reclined in wicker rocking chairs, sipping tall glasses of iced tea. We crossed the threshold into the main foyer, and all stopped to gape. A grand, curving mahogany staircase dominated the room, the steps carpeted in scarlet. The walls were papered in a faded floral print, and the wooden floors shone in the sunlight that poured through the large windows at the rear of the building.
“Not too shabby,” George said appreciatively.
“Oh . . . there are Charlotte’s parents—Aunt Sharon and Uncle Russell!” Bess said.
A group of people were clustered around a small central table, which had been laid out with glass pitchers of iced tea and tiny sandwiches. The couple I guessed were Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin were both lean and well dressed, and Mrs. Goodwin sniffed at the sandwiches as if she wasn’t sure whether to trust them. Bess had told us that Charlotte’s family lived in Connecticut—her mother was a real estate agent, and her father worked on Wall Street.
Also standing at the table was a handsome young man with ash-blond hair, dressed in a cream-colored linen shirt and oxford shorts. An older couple stood on either side of him like bookends, a stark contrast to the Goodwins. Unlike Charlotte’s parents, these two were short and stocky people; the man had an ostentatious mustache, and the woman wore her bleached-blond hair in a bouffant that looked as if it were hair-sprayed within an inch of its life.
“Well, Parker,” the older man was saying, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your new in-laws?”
“Sure, Dad,” Parker replied, a little awkwardly. He gestured to Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, saying, “These are Charlotte’s parents, Russell and Sharon.”
Parker’s father stepped forward and pumped Mr. Goodwin’s hand with fervor. “Welcome to Charleston, y’all. The name’s Cassius Hill—but my friends all call me Cash.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Goodwin said, a little stiffly, and extended her hand to him.
But instead of shaking it, Mr. Hill brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine, madam,” he said playfully.
I watched as Mrs. Goodwin’s face paled.
“Allow me to introduce my lovely wife, Bonnie,” Mr. Hill said. Mrs. Hill moved to stand next to her husband, her light blue, flouncy dress fluttering around her as she went. “Forget the handshakes,” she said in a heavy Southern drawl. “I’m a hugger!” She threw her arms around the startled Goodwins, just as Charlotte came through the door and saw what was happening.
“Oh,” she said, clearly dismayed. “I see you all have already met.”
“Yes,” Mr. Goodwin said, extricating himself from Mrs. Hill’s embrace. “We have.”
“And they say Yankees and Southerners can’t get along!” Mr. Hill chortled, a little too cheerfully. The joke was greeted with a stony silence.
Mrs. Hill cleared her throat and looked around the room, seemingly searching for something to talk about. Her eyes landed on the girls and me. “Now, Charlotte, who are these lovely young ladies?” she asked, stepping toward us.