Morning Glory Circle by Pamela Grandstaff Page A

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    Caroline Eldridge dropped the books she’d taken from Maggie’s store down on the polished table in the formal entry of her sister Gwyneth’s house. The stately Edwardian home had served as the Eldridge College president’s residence after their father died up until the time Gwyneth claimed it, after their brother Theo’s death. The college president and his wife barely had time to put their belongings in storage and move into the Eldridge Inn before Gwyneth’s moving van arrived.
    “As you can see, there were some hideous attempts at amateur interior decoration which I have yet to address,” Gwyneth said, by way of greeting, as she descended the central stairway in a grand manner. “The college president’s wife had an unfortunate fondness for pastel floral wallpaper.”
    “Hello Gwyneth, how are you?” Caroline said, and the two sisters, who hadn’t seen each other in many years, shared an air kiss to each side of the face.
    “My interior designer, Blaine, is coming down this week to show me some new sketches. Unfortunately I am at the mercy of a vanishing contractor and the ignorant local tradesmen. There is no sense of urgency or pride of workmanship among them that I can detect. It’s all, ‘We’ll get to it,’ and ‘I’m waiting on the supplier,’ until I just want to scream. You can’t even throw money at problems down here, it doesn’t do any good.”
    “How are you, though? Are you well?”
    “As well as can be expected, I suppose, considering the conditions. I had to import staff from the city and they’re all suffering from culture shock.”
    “It’s not that bad, surely,” Caroline said.
    “I warned them,” Gwyneth said. “‘This is not a lark in the Hamptons,’ I said. ‘This is a safari into deepest, darkest Appalachia.’ They didn’t believe me, of course. Now they’re frantically calling their families to send them care packages, like Oxfam.”
    “They’ll get used to it,” Caroline said.
    “Their cell phones and wireless laptops don’t work here,” Gwyneth sighed, “and they act like someone’s pulled their IV’s out. I’ve had to double their salaries just to keep them here. They’ve taken to referring to it as hillbilly boot camp.”
    “It’s hard to get good staff, that’s what Daddy always said,” Caroline said. “At least they’re being paid fair wages.”
    “More than fair, I’d say. The locals are unemployable, of course, and so hostile. This town is trapped in the past, and not in the charming, marketable way that Martha’s Vineyard is. The mayor and his wife are the only semi-civilized people I’ve met, and the only ones interested in my suggestions for improvements to the town. I’m glad you’re here, darling, although I have to say, you look a mess. What are you wearing?”
    “This is an improvement on what I arrived wearing, believe you me. I wish you and I were the same size, Gwyneth. I need some natural fibers and I know you have them.”
    “As a matter of fact, I just bought the most divine cashmere wrap in the palest oyster color. Come up and see.”
    Gwyneth crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs with Caroline following.
    “The cashmere trade is terrible for the goats, you know, Gwyneth. They’re often ill-treated.”
    “Not these goats, I can assure you. My stylist Marissa says they gather just the tiniest bits of chin hair from each one. It probably feels like the barest tickle, and they are all so spoiled and fat. They give the most heavenly filaments. It’s the softest, lightest, warmest thing you’ve ever felt. You’ll want to wash your hands first, of course, before you touch it. Your cuticles are beyond help, I fear. They’ve run amok.”
    Caroline dutifully washed her hands before she made her way to Gwyneth’s dressing room for the show and tell portion of the visit.
    “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed hot water and hand cream,” Caroline said. “Although I wish you’d read the labels