Mamaw felt a brush creeping up her neck. “You silly coot. Come, let me introduce you to my family. Before you turn my head.”

When she stepped into the living room with Girard by her side, all talking ceased as heads turned their way. The girls stared back with obvious curiosity and surprise. Mamaw noticed Imogene’s brow rise with interest as she sipped her drink.

“You remember Girard Bellows?” she asked the girls. “Our neighbor.”

“Oh, you mean . . .” Dora, on the direct line of a freezing glare by Mamaw, cut her comment short. She’d been about to call him by Nate’s nickname from earlier that summer, Old Man Bellows. Dora held out her hand and smoothly shifted to “You’re the kind man who helped Nate with his fishing.”

“How is that young man?” Girard asked.

“Very well, thank you. You’ll see him at dinner.”

“Good.”

Carson and Devlin stepped up for an introduction, both on their best behavior. After a few polite queries, they stepped aside for Taylor and Harper.

“The guests of honor,” Mamaw announced, ushering them closer. “Girard, my granddaughter, Harper, and her fiancé, Taylor.” The word fiancé slipped easily from her lips, feeling right. She noticed, however, that Imogene stiffened slightly with disapproval at hearing the introduction.

Finally, Mamaw drew Girard toward Imogene, standing alone a few feet away, clutching her drink with both hands. Imogene was wrapped in a cocoon of midnight-blue silk that accentuated her well-kept figure. The diamonds in her ears and on her wrist shone like stars. Or small planets, Mamaw thought with distaste. Imogene looked up as they approached, her gaze settling on Girard.

“Imogene, I’d like you to meet my friend Girard Bellows.”

Imogene smiled then, quite coquettishly. “The neighbor,” she said. “But I do not detect a southern accent.”

“Guilty as charged,” Girard replied. “I’m from the North. Connecticut.”

“Really?” Imogene said, her gaze appraising. “Charming.”

A waitress in black pants and white shirt stepped closer to Mamaw. “There’s a question for you in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She turned to Girard. “Excuse me a moment. Will you freshen Imogene’s drink?”

While the final preparations for dinner were being readied, Granny James guided Taylor to the back porch, away from curious ears, for a private discussion. On this lovely night the humidity was low, the moon was high, and Imogene thought, glancing around the porch, that Marietta had been wise enough to set out those Tahitian-looking candles that kept the mosquitoes at bay.

Imogene sipped her vodka martini and studied the man standing across from her. He was handsome, to be sure. A tall, strapping young man who would turn any girl’s head. He was neatly dressed in tan pants, an ironed shirt, and a navy-blue jacket. Though not well tailored, she noticed. Unquestionably off-the-rack. Unlike Dora’s young man, who looked quite smart in his nicely tailored jacket and silk polo shirt. Still, that was hardly a condemnation of Taylor. And unlike the haircut on Dora’s man, Taylor’s head was shorn as a sheep.

She’d picked up a few details more important than his style of dress. He certainly wasn’t skilled at making idle conversation, but then neither was Harper. But like Harper, he seemed to be bright enough—sharp minded and quick-witted. Imogene prided herself on being skilled at wheedling out important information from unsuspecting guests—their family ties, connections, and address (always a clue to status). Taylor was unabashedly open about all these things. There were no surprises.

Sadly, she thought as she took a bracing sip of her martini, he was just as Georgiana described. The son of a fisherman, a soldier . . . or rather, a Marine. He’d corrected her on that distinction. He had little money, lived with his parents, and was all around not a suitable candidate for her granddaughter. Though overall he seemed to be a nice young man.

A waitress with lavender hair came out on the porch to announce that dinner would be served in ten minutes’ time.

Best to get started, then, Imogene thought with a sigh. She took a final swallow of her drink and handed the young woman her empty glass. The woman’s arm was covered with tattoos. When she left, Imogene sniffed derisively, “I don’t know how they can hire a woman with purple hair and tattoos to serve dinner. It’s absolutely off-putting.”

Taylor half smiled. “I don’t think that will have any effect on her performance.”

“Rather a bold comment, coming from an officer.”

“How so?”

“I understand that tattoos are not permitted among officers in the military.”

“In some branches of the service, that’s true. But the lady in question is not in the military.”

“Do you have a tattoo?”

“I do not.”

Granny James nodded yes, as though proving her point. “Neither are you in service any longer.”

“No, ma’am.”

“We British always admire a man’s sense of duty. The Prince of Wales served in the military service. As well as Prince Harry. If I’d had a son, I’d like to think he, too, would have done his duty.” She paused. “I don’t mean to be a nosey parker, but now, what is it you do?”

Though her tone was mildly insulting, intended to be, he answered with a composure that impressed her despite her best intentions. “I’m a project manager.”

“Yes, but what does that mean, exactly?”

“I manage men.”

Granny James narrowed her eyes. “Ah, like you did in the military, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And do you enjoy this line of work?”

“I do.”

“I imagine you’re good at it.” She thought he would be. His natural reticence and his strong-minded answers would serve well as a leader of men. He didn’t prattle, a trait she found annoying in men. Every word he said was meant to be heard. “Do you also manage women well?”

“There are women who will work under me, yes.”

“I meant in your private life.”

He laughed at that and shifted his weight. “I don’t think of it that way.”

“What way would you think of it?”

His smile fell. “I don’t think of it at all. I don’t try to manage women.”