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Because a bride shouldn’t have to chase the man with whom she was supposed to spend the rest of her life. What kind of a marriage would that be?
For the first six months or so, Elle had half expected Roger to come back all apologies and remorse, kicking himself for making the worst mistake of his life. She wouldn’t have taken him back, of course. But at first she’d imagined him walking through the door, contrite and blaming cold feet on a momentary loss of reason, begging her to give him another chance.
She’d abandoned that foolish daydream in a hurry. She’d traded it in for the belief that she needed no one. She could take care of herself. Never again would she be so foolish.
It hadn’t taken her long to get the job at Stapleton teaching first grade. Later, they’d created the art teacher position for her.
She’d moved to Atlanta and moved on with her life. Yeah, and losing that job had sent her back to where it all started. Running into Daniel in the place where everything fell apart wasn’t helping.
Well, she wasn’t staying long. She’d only come home to regroup, to see her mother, Gigi—and maybe even her youngest sister, Kate, if she could get away from the salon where she cut hair. They were such strong women, and through them she would remember she was strong, too.
She would make it through this temporary roadblock and she’d come out all the stronger for it.
As she watched the red and gold garlands on the garden topiaries sway in the gentle morning breeze, she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the past. This was a new chapter, a new page for her art journal.
She turned away from the window and surveyed the festively decorated room to see what she could do to help. The tables and the speaker’s podium were already set up. Someone had set out holiday themed tablecloths, silverware and china plates and arranged the eclectic mix of porcelain coffee cups, similar to the one she’d drunk from this morning, on silver trays next to the sterling coffee urn. The tables needed to be dressed and set and the food from the Chat Noir needed to be set out.
Where were her mother and Gigi?
Elizabeth lit the Sterno pots to warm the water in the chafing dishes. When she was a kid that had always been her favorite job. Gigi had supervised, but she’d let Elizabeth light the little pots. The thrill she’d felt watching the purple jelly pop into an orange-and-blue flame was a visceral memory and it warmed her from the inside out.
Making herself smile in the spirit of “fake it until you make it,” she picked up one of the tablecloths, gently unfolded it and spread it over the closest table. She smoothed the surface a little too hard, trying to get it to lie flat, and she realized Daniel Quindlin was still lurking in the recesses of her mind.
If he was living in her head, it was because she was allowing him to be there. She needed to block him out. She needed to think of something worth dwelling on.
She glanced around the dining room—she had to think of something worthy, like the women in her family who had come before her.
Those women had made the delicate linens—like the one she’d nearly rubbed a hole in as she tried to smooth it out—by hand. Each generation had taken loving care to preserve these heirlooms and pass them down. They were guardians of the legacy. To Elle, the linens and the stories attached to them were nearly as important as the inn itself. The women from whom she and her sisters were descended had taken such pride in sharing their finery—the linen, china, crystal, the silver coffee service and chafing dishes—with the guests who’d stayed at the Forsyth. It was the little touches that made people feel at home and brought them back.
Elizabeth heard the rattle of a food cart in the butler’s pantry.
“There you are,” her mother, Zelda, said, after she butted open the doors and pulled the food cart through, a smile overtaking her face. “I’m so happy you’re home, baby girl, I can hardly stand it.”
Her mother’s eyes searched Elizabeth’s face. Her unasked questions hung in the air.
Last night, Elizabeth had been too tired to get into many of the details. She’d simply said there wasn’t money to fund the art department. She didn’t want her mother to worry about her. Zelda had been through her own trials and tribulations over the years. As long as the Forsyth Galloway Inn was in the family, Elle would always have a roof over her head and food to eat, but she would never have a lot of extra money. The inn gobbled up most of the proceeds, leaving very little left over. In fact, the place was looking a little tired, like it could use some attention. They still needed to fix the water damage sustained during the last hurricane, and even her beloved dining room would only benefit from a fresh coat of paint. All it took was money.
