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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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Chandler Grove so that we can talk about the flowers-Elizabeth will be able to contribute to that discussion. And I have spoken to Mr. Compton at the community college about handling the photography. Now the caterers pose a bit of a problem. Lucy Bedford is on vacation this month and I had counted on using her. However, Charles recommended a new group in town. He has spoken to them and they are coming out tomorrow, so perhaps it will be all right.” Pushing her reading glasses back on the top of her head, she took an appraising look at her husband. “I’ll need to take a look at you in your blacksuit, dear. I did think that morning coats might be nice, but we can’t be sure of what the groom is planning to wear. Possibly a kilt.”
“He’s on his own, then.”
“He will have to be telephoned. I will delegate that to Elizabeth. Now, is there anything else I’ve forgotten?”
“Are you
sure
this is all right with Doug and Margaret? She’s their only daughter, you know.”
Amanda looked thoughtful. “I imagine it’s a great relief, really. You know that Margaret’s idea of formal entertaining is two tables of bridge. Besides, I think they may see it as a kindness.”
“How’s that?”
“Because we lost our little girl just before her wedding.” To her husband’s surprise, the brisk efficiency dissolved into the faltering voice of one trying very hard to overcome great obstacles.
Dr. Chandler kissed his wife’s cheek. “If there’s anything I can do, Amanda, just let me know.”
She patted his hand. “Thank you, Robert. I am managing well enough right now. You go back to your cowboy book.” With that she picked up the tray and was gone.
CHAPTER 6
E LIZABETH LOOKED AT the collection of mismatched and battered luggage heaped on the pavement beside her car. Each suitcase and totebag bore an identifying label
(Cosmetics; Shoes; Stationery)
so that she could find the items she had flung inside in the little time she’d had to pack.
“If I were organized, I would be taking only half this much,” she mused. As it was, she had thrown
everything
into the baggage, just to make sure that she wasn’t missing anything that would later turn out to be vital. She would have a difficult time fitting the untidy mound into her little car.
Elizabeth’s one point of satisfaction in seeing the mismatched heap was its striking resemblance to a pile of luggage pictured in one of her ubiquitous books on the royal family (they were now stashed in a black canvas suitcase labeled
Books on Royal Family)
. Someone had photographed the Queen’s baggage at dockside, waiting to be loaded onto the royal yacht
Britannia;
there was a jumble of leather suitcases, cardboard boxes, green canvas bags, British Airways totebags, and black trunks, all bearing the yellow tag indicating that the items belong to Her Majesty.
When she discovered the picture, Elizabeth had been surprised at how plebeian the royal luggage looked. Surely the Queen—by all accounts therichest woman in the world—ought to be able to afford better travel receptacles than that! She should have a set of handmade leather luggage. Twenty matching pieces—forty! It made you wonder about expressions like
fit for a queen!
At least Her Majesty never had to carry any of the bags herself. That is where she and I differ, thought Elizabeth, hoisting a quilted garment bag into the back seat.
It was going to be a long drive. In order to reach Chandler Grove, located in the northernmost tip of Georgia, a traveler from southwest Virginia could either take Interstate 77 through the North Carolina piedmont to Charlotte—three hours of mindless driving—or one could follow the Blue Ridge Parkway, a rambling scenic route through the heart of the mountains, which took longer than the Lewis and Clark expedition. Elizabeth decided to take the dull but direct route. There would be enough scenic country roads after Charlotte, where anyone bound for Chandler Grove had to veer
“He’s on his own, then.”
“He will have to be telephoned. I will delegate that to Elizabeth. Now, is there anything else I’ve forgotten?”
“Are you
sure
this is all right with Doug and Margaret? She’s their only daughter, you know.”
Amanda looked thoughtful. “I imagine it’s a great relief, really. You know that Margaret’s idea of formal entertaining is two tables of bridge. Besides, I think they may see it as a kindness.”
“How’s that?”
“Because we lost our little girl just before her wedding.” To her husband’s surprise, the brisk efficiency dissolved into the faltering voice of one trying very hard to overcome great obstacles.
Dr. Chandler kissed his wife’s cheek. “If there’s anything I can do, Amanda, just let me know.”
She patted his hand. “Thank you, Robert. I am managing well enough right now. You go back to your cowboy book.” With that she picked up the tray and was gone.
CHAPTER 6
E LIZABETH LOOKED AT the collection of mismatched and battered luggage heaped on the pavement beside her car. Each suitcase and totebag bore an identifying label
(Cosmetics; Shoes; Stationery)
so that she could find the items she had flung inside in the little time she’d had to pack.
“If I were organized, I would be taking only half this much,” she mused. As it was, she had thrown
everything
into the baggage, just to make sure that she wasn’t missing anything that would later turn out to be vital. She would have a difficult time fitting the untidy mound into her little car.
Elizabeth’s one point of satisfaction in seeing the mismatched heap was its striking resemblance to a pile of luggage pictured in one of her ubiquitous books on the royal family (they were now stashed in a black canvas suitcase labeled
Books on Royal Family)
. Someone had photographed the Queen’s baggage at dockside, waiting to be loaded onto the royal yacht
Britannia;
there was a jumble of leather suitcases, cardboard boxes, green canvas bags, British Airways totebags, and black trunks, all bearing the yellow tag indicating that the items belong to Her Majesty.
When she discovered the picture, Elizabeth had been surprised at how plebeian the royal luggage looked. Surely the Queen—by all accounts therichest woman in the world—ought to be able to afford better travel receptacles than that! She should have a set of handmade leather luggage. Twenty matching pieces—forty! It made you wonder about expressions like
fit for a queen!
At least Her Majesty never had to carry any of the bags herself. That is where she and I differ, thought Elizabeth, hoisting a quilted garment bag into the back seat.
It was going to be a long drive. In order to reach Chandler Grove, located in the northernmost tip of Georgia, a traveler from southwest Virginia could either take Interstate 77 through the North Carolina piedmont to Charlotte—three hours of mindless driving—or one could follow the Blue Ridge Parkway, a rambling scenic route through the heart of the mountains, which took longer than the Lewis and Clark expedition. Elizabeth decided to take the dull but direct route. There would be enough scenic country roads after Charlotte, where anyone bound for Chandler Grove had to veer
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