through the maze that was her garden while she pointed, named and explained. “That’s pittosporum…that’s my rose garden…twenty-seven different kinds…this is my citrus. Eighteen different trees from Dancy tangerines to Satsumas to Duncan grapefruit.” We turned another corner. “That’s a loquat tree.”
“A what-quat?”
Her laugh melted me. “Loquat.”
It was an odd-looking little fruit—round and maybe half the size of an egg. I picked one off a limb and smelled it. “It reminds me of those little things we used to throw at cars when I was a kid.”
“You sure those weren’t cumquats?”
“Well…it was some sort of quat.”
She rolled it in her palm. “They’re also called Japanese plums. You can’t buy them in a store ’cause they have no shelf life, but they’re sweet. You had one when you came in.”
“When?”
“Loquat liqueur. It’s in the wassail.”
“Where do you get it?”
“You don’t. You make it.”
My suspicion was growing. “You’re one of those people, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she said smiling. “What kind of person is that?”
“Martha Stewart meets Julia Child. You probably sleep two hours a night and make your own wrapping paper at Christmas.”
She turned away, smirking. “What’s wrong with making your own paper?”
I looked back toward the house and the growing crowd of people. “You’re good at this.”
She snapped a dark red rose off a bush and slid the end of it into my coat pocket. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She waved to an elegant older woman across the yard. “Born into it. Then adopted by it.” She smoothed my jacket collar and stepped closer, into my personal space. “By the way…it’s Abbie. But”—she waved her hand across the crowd—“most of these folks call me Abbie Eliot.”
I sipped and swallowed, letting the lemonade warm my throat. “I spent some time at the library this week. You…” She’d been written about in every magazine and paper you could mention.
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Which parts do I believe?”
She smiled, pulled on my hand and led me back across the grass. “You’ll have to ask me that.”
I followed. Her in one hand, the lemonade in the other. “Okay.”
I spent the evening walking in her wake, growing addicted to the smell of her perfume and the gentle pull of her touch. Whether by the smell of her or the taste of that lemonade, I grew more intoxicated by the minute.
After she’d introduced me to twenty-five people who’s names I couldn’t and wouldn’t remember, she led me across to the other, grassier side of the yard where tents were set up and people were nibbling on appetizers. She eyed the buffet. “You feel like grazing?”
I lifted a near-empty glass. “Yeah, my lips are feeling fat. I need something to soak up the lemonade.”
We filled a single plate and then sat alone on a bench in a darkened corner of the yard, overlooking the party. With no utensils in sight, I asked, “What do we eat with?”
She fingered a chicken leg and bit into it, talking with her mouth half full. “Fingers.”
I lifted a chicken leg and the barbecue sauce dripped down my fingers. “Doesn’t make sense to cover the women in diamonds and the tables in white linen but leave Charleston’s finest sucking on their fingers.”
“Welcome to Charleston.”
“By the way”—I chewed, mouth full, the corners covered in sauce—“I owe you a commission.”
Another bite. “Huh?”
“A lady came in this week and actually bought Miss Rachel. Asked me if I’d take seventeen hundred.”
“What’d you say?”
“I asked her if she wanted me to gift wrap it.”
She laughed. “So you paid rent this month?” I nodded, brown smear spreading across my face. “Good, it’s nice to know I’ll be able to find you and won’t have to play stupid, snooping around the art school again.”
“That how you found me the first time?”
She waved at someone
“A what-quat?”
Her laugh melted me. “Loquat.”
It was an odd-looking little fruit—round and maybe half the size of an egg. I picked one off a limb and smelled it. “It reminds me of those little things we used to throw at cars when I was a kid.”
“You sure those weren’t cumquats?”
“Well…it was some sort of quat.”
She rolled it in her palm. “They’re also called Japanese plums. You can’t buy them in a store ’cause they have no shelf life, but they’re sweet. You had one when you came in.”
“When?”
“Loquat liqueur. It’s in the wassail.”
“Where do you get it?”
“You don’t. You make it.”
My suspicion was growing. “You’re one of those people, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she said smiling. “What kind of person is that?”
“Martha Stewart meets Julia Child. You probably sleep two hours a night and make your own wrapping paper at Christmas.”
She turned away, smirking. “What’s wrong with making your own paper?”
I looked back toward the house and the growing crowd of people. “You’re good at this.”
She snapped a dark red rose off a bush and slid the end of it into my coat pocket. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She waved to an elegant older woman across the yard. “Born into it. Then adopted by it.” She smoothed my jacket collar and stepped closer, into my personal space. “By the way…it’s Abbie. But”—she waved her hand across the crowd—“most of these folks call me Abbie Eliot.”
I sipped and swallowed, letting the lemonade warm my throat. “I spent some time at the library this week. You…” She’d been written about in every magazine and paper you could mention.
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Which parts do I believe?”
She smiled, pulled on my hand and led me back across the grass. “You’ll have to ask me that.”
I followed. Her in one hand, the lemonade in the other. “Okay.”
I spent the evening walking in her wake, growing addicted to the smell of her perfume and the gentle pull of her touch. Whether by the smell of her or the taste of that lemonade, I grew more intoxicated by the minute.
After she’d introduced me to twenty-five people who’s names I couldn’t and wouldn’t remember, she led me across to the other, grassier side of the yard where tents were set up and people were nibbling on appetizers. She eyed the buffet. “You feel like grazing?”
I lifted a near-empty glass. “Yeah, my lips are feeling fat. I need something to soak up the lemonade.”
We filled a single plate and then sat alone on a bench in a darkened corner of the yard, overlooking the party. With no utensils in sight, I asked, “What do we eat with?”
She fingered a chicken leg and bit into it, talking with her mouth half full. “Fingers.”
I lifted a chicken leg and the barbecue sauce dripped down my fingers. “Doesn’t make sense to cover the women in diamonds and the tables in white linen but leave Charleston’s finest sucking on their fingers.”
“Welcome to Charleston.”
“By the way”—I chewed, mouth full, the corners covered in sauce—“I owe you a commission.”
Another bite. “Huh?”
“A lady came in this week and actually bought Miss Rachel. Asked me if I’d take seventeen hundred.”
“What’d you say?”
“I asked her if she wanted me to gift wrap it.”
She laughed. “So you paid rent this month?” I nodded, brown smear spreading across my face. “Good, it’s nice to know I’ll be able to find you and won’t have to play stupid, snooping around the art school again.”
“That how you found me the first time?”
She waved at someone
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