on the other hand, thrived on spotting new trends and employed sharklike techniques with customers. When a woman walked into Cotton Duck for a new blouse, Delaine had a knack for sending her home with a skirt, shoes, handbag, and jewelry, too. And if Delaine had really worked up a full head of steam that day, the woman’s purchase would probably include a couple of silk scarves.
“Hello, Drayton,” purred Delaine as Drayton Conneley, Theodosia’s right-hand man, approached, bearing a silver tray. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”
Drayton Conneley arranged his face in a polite smile for Delaine, exchanging air kisses with her even as he raised an eyebrow at Theodosia.
“I was telling Delaine about your upcoming mystery tea,” explained Theodosia.
“Of course.” Drayton set his tray down and grasped Delaine’s hands in a friendly gesture. “You must come,” he urged her.
Theodosia smiled to herself. Drayton could schmooze with the best of them. But then again, he’d had years of experience. Drayton had worked as a tea trader in Amsterdam, where the world’s major tea auctions were held. He had been hospitality director at a very prestigious Charleston inn until she’d talked him into coming to work for her. And Drayton Conneley was currently on the board of directors for the Charleston Heritage Society.
Of course, what Drayton did best was conduct tea tastings, educating their guests on the many varieties of tea and their steeping times, helping them understand little tea nuances such as bake, oxidation, and fermentation.
As much as Theodosia knew the tea shop was her creation, she often felt that Drayton was the engine that drove it. And, at sixty-one years of age, he reveled in his role as elder statesman.
Delaine reached out and brushed her French-manicured fingertips across the lapels of Drayton’s sport coat. “Egyptian linen. Nice.” She threw an approving glance toward Theodosia. “You can always tell a gentleman by the way he’s turned out,” she drawled.
“Drayton’s straight from the pages of
“Theo, are there any more cucumber and lobster salad sandwiches?” asked Drayton as he rummaged through the wicker picnic hampers and coolers that had been stuck under the tables. “Oh, never mind, here they are.” Drayton pulled out a fresh tray of the tiny, artfully prepared sandwiches. “We’ve been getting requests. And”—he paused, the first real look of genuine pleasure on his face—“would you believe it, Lolly Lauder just located an artisan from Savannah who assures her he can restore the molded wooden cornices on her portico and still preserve their integrity!”
Drayton adjusted his bow tie, smiled perfunctorily at the two women, then sped off, eager to exchange architectural gossip. He looked, Theodosia thought to herself, all the world like the perpetually hurried and harried White Rabbit from
Besides tea and gardening, Drayton’s mission in life was historical preservation, and he enjoyed nothing better than to share tales of tuck pointing and tabby walls with his friends and neighbors who lived in the elegant old mansions that lined Charleston’s Battery. Drayton himself lived in a tiny but historically accurate Civil War–era home just blocks from White Point Gardens.
“Do you see who’s sitting over there?” asked Delaine in a low voice. Her violet eyes were fairly glimmering, her perfectly waxed brows arched expectantly.
Theodosia had been busy refilling tea pitchers and arranging more strawberries on the platter. “Delaine,” she said, struggling to keep her sense of humor, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been working, not socializing.”
“No need to get snippy, dear. Just look over my shoulder and to your left. No, a little more left. There. Do you see them? That’s Doe Belvedere and Oliver Dixon.”
“That’s Doe Belvedere?” exclaimed Theodosia. “My goodness, the girl can’t be more than twenty-five.”
The Belvedere-Dixon wedding had been the talk of Charleston a couple months ago. Doe Belvedere and Oliver Dixon had staged a lavish wedding in the courtyard garden of the splendidly Victorian Kentshire Mansion. They had utterly dazzled guests with their horse-drawn carriages, champagne and caviar, and strolling musicians costumed like eighteenth-century French courtiers. Afterward, the newlyweds had dashed off to Morocco for a three-week honeymoon, leaving all of Charleston to relive the details of their sumptuous wedding in the society pages of the
“She’s twenty-five,” purred Delaine. “And Oliver Dixon is sixty-six.”
“Really,” said Theodosia.
“But honey,” continued Delaine, “Oliver Dixon supposedly has piles of money. Did you read where he’s about to launch a new high-tech company? Something to do with those handheld wireless gizmos that let you make phone calls or get on the Internet. That’s probably what kept him in the running for Doe, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure she loves him very much,” said Theodosia generously.
Delaine gazed speculatively at the couple. “Yes, but money does give a man a certain, shall we say,
“Who are you two whispering about?” asked Haley as she came up behind Theodosia and Delaine. Haley Parker was Theodosia’s shop clerk and baker extraordinaire. At twenty-four, Haley was a self-proclaimed perpetual night school student and caustic wit. She was also the youthful sprite who ran the small kitchen at the rear of the Indigo Tea Shop with the precision and unquestioned authority of a Prussian general, turning out mouthwatering baked goods that drew customers in by the carload. Haley carefully supervised the choice of flour, sugar, cream, and eggs, and often went down to Charleston’s open-air market herself to select only the finest apples, currants, sourwood honey, and fig syrup from local growers. And her unflagging high standards always paid off. Haley’s peach tarts and apple butter scones were in constant demand. The poppy seed stuffing she infused in her lighter-than-air profiteroles was to die for.
“We were discussing Doe Belvedere,” said Delaine conspiratorially. “You know, she just married Oliver Dixon.”
Haley squinted in the direction of the pretty young woman with the flowing blond hair who sat chatting animatedly with well-wishers, even as she grasped the hand of her new husband.
“So
“That’s nothing,” said Delaine. “Doe was Miss South Carolina three years ago.”
“Sure beats Miss Grits or Miss She-Crab,” said Haley with a wicked laugh.
“You got that right,” said Delaine with a straight face.
“As I recall,” said Haley, “Doe Belvedere was offered a contract to model in New York.”
“With the Eileen Ford Agency,” said Delaine with delight. “But she passed on it. For
“I guess Oliver Dixon is one lucky guy, huh?” said Haley in a dubious tone.
“Oliver is supposed to be filthy rich,” drawled Delaine. “How else could he afford that enormous house on Arch-dale Street?” Delaine nodded in the direction of Oliver Dixon’s yellow-brick mansion. “I bet Timothy Neville positively had a
Haley squinted at Doe and Oliver. “Think they’re planning a family?” she asked.
“Haley!” said Theodosia.
“Hey, I was just wondering,” shrugged Haley with a mischievous look.
“Genteel women do not wonder about such things in public,” teased Theodosia as Haley’s blush spread across her freckled cheeks.
“Who told you I was a genteel woman?” quipped Haley, with typical youthful bravado.
“Your mother,” said Theodosia.
“Oh.” Tears sprang quickly to Haley’s eyes, for her mother had passed away just two years ago. “You’re right. Sometimes I’m a little too . . .” Haley fumbled for the correct word. “. . . forthright... for my own good.”
“We love you just the way you are, dear.” Theodosia put an arm around Haley’s slim shoulders. Although Theodosia was only thirty-five herself, she often felt very protective of her young employee. Haley was prone to
