“This is no comment on Lucille’s cooking, Mamaw. I know you have an emotional attachment to them, but look at them. They’ve worn down to nearly nothing. I’ve gone online and learned that not only are these old aluminum pots and pans leaching dangerous metal, but research has linked aluminum cookware to Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh,” Mamaw said, her complaints suddenly silenced.
“I’m going out today to buy some stainless steel pots and pans.”
“You mustn’t spend your money—”
Harper put up her hand to stop Mamaw’s objections. “I’ll need them anyway if I’m going to set up my own place.”
Mamaw’s attention sharpened. “You’re making plans, are you? Going back to New York soon?”
Harper shrugged. “I suppose so.” She looked at her grandmother. “I better start firming up those plans, I know. But till then,” she said in a more upbeat tone, “Dora, Carson, and I huddled together this morning like a bunch of old crones. We had a good heart-to-heart.”
Mamaw brightened. “Really? I’m so glad.”
“There was a method to the madness. We know you’ve let go the cleaning service and we haven’t done our part. So we put on our big-girl panties and divvied up chores. We’ve organized the cooking, too.”
“Mercy!”
“Brace yourself, Mamaw. It’s time to get a food processor.”
“Whatever for? I won’t cook in the old-folks home I’m heading to.”
Harper scoffed at the term old-folks home. The place Mamaw was intending to go to was lovely and up-to-date. “Like I said, I have to buy this stuff anyway for wherever I’ll set up a kitchen.”
Mamaw’s attention riveted on that comment. “You’re not going back to your mother’s apartment?”
Harper shook her head firmly. “No way. I won’t go back there. Looking forward, Mamaw.” She gave Mamaw a kiss.
Mamaw put her hands to her cheek where Harper’s lips had been. “Well, if you think so . . .”
Harper seized the moment. “While the cabinets are empty, wouldn’t it be a good time to give everything a fresh coat of paint? What do you say?”
“Paint?” Mamaw said feebly against the onslaught of energy and ideas.
“Absolutely. A clean white. Let’s do the walls, too, while we’re at it. They’re dreary.”
Mamaw looked around at the dingy walls. “I’ve always wanted to freshen things up a bit, but Lucille chased me out every time I suggested it. It was her kitchen, you know.”
“Let’s do it now. There’s no hope for the appliances, but it’s probably not worth replacing those if you’re moving.” Then Harper’s voice changed, softening. “Other than that fabulous old Viking oven. It’s built like a tank. Anyone who buys the house will probably gut the room and build a kitchen around the oven.” She sighed and let her gaze lovingly linger on the mammoth appliance. “I know I would.”
Mamaw felt suddenly as ancient as the oven. “But the cost . . . I’m afraid I have to be, shall we say, conservative now.”
“It’s my idea, thus my expense.” Seeing Mamaw open her mouth to object, Harper pushed on, “No arguments. Consider it rent. And tuition for the cooking classes that I’ll be getting from you and Dora.”
Harper noticed the confused look on Mamaw’s face and changed the subject. “Enough about the kitchen. Let’s do something fun today. What would you like to do?”
“Oh, I feel a bit tired. I might lie down after lunch.”
Harper came closer and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Perhaps after dinner we could play cards.”
“We?”
“All of us. You, me, Dora, and Carson. Like we used to.”
Mamaw rallied. “Oh, that would be nice. All right, dear. But”—she looked around the disarray in the kitchen—“what should I do about fixing our lunch?”
“You don’t have to do a thing.” Harper hugged her. “I’ll order something. You just relax and I’ll get this mess all tidied up in no time.”
Mamaw cast a final glance at the trash bag filled with the old and worn aluminum pots. Useless. Outdated, and ready to be tossed out.
Like her. She turned and walked slowly from the room.
Chapter Three
By midafternoon, Harper had finally finished scrubbing the kitchen. All she had to do now was put all the dishes in boxes and store them until after the paint job. She pushed back a wayward lock of red hair from her brow as she surveyed the room. Her back ached from bending, her manicure was ruined, and she was covered from head to toe with dirt and spills. Hard work, yes, but she was enjoying herself. In an odd way, by cleaning Sea Breeze she was developing an even deeper bond with the old house. As though each scrub were a caress. Each stroke of the broom on the floor made the house somehow hers. It didn’t make sense, but it was how she felt.
She leaned against the counter and thought back to when she was twenty-two and spending the summer in England with her grandparents before entering Cambridge’s postgraduate program. Greenfields Park was an imposing house in the countryside with a manicured lawn in front, expansive flower gardens in the back, and a kitchen garden close to the house. Farther out on the property was the orchard. She remembered the cherry and apple trees heavy with fruit and how raspberries ripened in profusion. The gardens were a delight.
Inside, however, the house was somber. Large rooms with fine plaster and wood rococo decoration were filled with well-formed antique furniture that had been passed down in the James family for generations. There wasn’t a comfortable chair to be found where one could curl up and read a book. Harper wanted to feel an attachment to the house, knowing full well that it was her grandmother’s dream that she marry an Englishman and settle down at Greenfields Park.
That same summer Granny James had initiated her campaign to introduce Harper to eligible young men from good families. Knowing that Granny James liked to prettify her house with bunches of fresh flowers in every room, Harper had gone out to the garden to pick some and make a surprise bouquet for her. Harper had been enjoying herself when she was chased away by the head gardener, politely of course. Later, in her bedroom, she’d moved the furniture to her liking, only to return from an outing to find the furniture put back in its original locations. Much like the household staff, her grandmother had also disapproved whenever Harper tried to cook or do some simple housework. “Best to leave that be,” Granny James had advised. “Betty gets quite upset if we mess her kitchen.” Harper found the house more a museum than a home, and though she appreciated its beauty, she never felt comfortable there. It was the same in her mother’s house in the Hamptons, and even their apartment in New York. Though Harper lived in the gorgeous postwar apartment overlooking Central Park, she never thought of it as hers. It was always—clearly—Georgiana’s property.