Gunpowder Green

plunging ahead, often before formulating a clear plan. A case in point, she’d already shifted her college major four times.

“Come along,” urged Delaine, “I’ll introduce you. Maybe that roving photographer from the Post and Courier will even snap your picture.” She reached out and grabbed Haley’s hand.

“Okay,” Haley agreed and scampered off with Delaine.

Well, I’m not going to stand here like a bump on a log, decided Theodosia. She picked up a plate of tiny, crustless sandwiches and was about to set off into the crowd, when a man’s voice called to her.

“Say there, ma’am?”

Theodosia whirled about, finally glancing down toward the shore. One of the workers, a young man with dark, curly hair, the same one who’d helped set chairs up earlier, was struggling with a metal folding table. One end of the table seemed fine, but the legs on the other end were locked in place. “Do you have . . .” the man gave the table a disgusted kick. “. . . another of those cloths?”

Theodosia set her tray down, wandered a few steps closer to him. “You mean a tablecloth?”

“Yeah,” he said, swiping an arm across his brow. “I’m supposed to set up the trophies and stuff here.”

Theodosia walked back to her picnic hampers and snatched up the extra tablecloth she’d tucked in with her catering gear, just in case.

Wandering back down the bank, she saw that the worker had finally stabilized the table amid the sand and rocks. “This should do nicely,” she said, unfurling the white linen tablecloth, letting the wind do most of the work. It settled gently atop the metal table.

“It’s a warm day,” said Theodosia. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea, Mr....?”

“Billy,” said the man. “Billy Manolo. I work over at the yacht club.” He gestured toward a faraway cluster of bobbing masts barely visible down the shoreline. “I better not; lots to do yet.” And off he strode.

Grabbing her tray of sandwiches again, Theodosia wandered among the picnickers, offering seconds. The day was a stunner, and White Point Gardens never looked as beautiful as it did this time of year. Magnolia, crape myrtle, and begonias bloomed riotously, and palmettos swayed gracefully, caressed by the Atlantic’s warm breezes. In the early days, when Charleston had been known as Charles Town, pirates had been strung up here on roughly built gallows, and wars had been played out on these grounds. Now hundreds of couples came here to get married, and thousands more came to stroll the peaceful grounds that seemed to provide nourishment for the soul.

“This kingdom by the sea,” Theodosia murmured to herself, recalling the famous line from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee,” which had so aptly and romantically described the city of Charleston.

For Charleston truly was a kingdom. No fewer than 180 church spires, steeples, and turrets pierced her sky. Across from White Point Gardens, crowding up against The Battery, shoulder to elegant shoulder, was a veritable parade of enormous, grande dame homes. Like wedding cakes, they were draped and ornamented with cornices, balustrades, frets, and finials. Most were painted in pastel colors of salmon pink, alabaster white, and pale blue; a romantic, French palette. Behind these homes lay another twenty-three-block tapestry of historic homes and shops, Charleston’s architectural preserve, complete with cobbled streets, wrought-iron gates, and sequestered gardens.

“You’re the tea shop lady, aren’t you?” A rich, baritone voice interrupted Theodosia’s reverie.

Theodosia turned with a smile and found herself staring into alert, dark brown eyes set in smooth, olive skin. A neatly clipped mustache draped over full, sensuous lips.

“You have the advantage, sir,” she said, then realized immediately that she sounded far more formal than she’d intended.

But the man wasn’t a bit put off and swept his Panama straw hat off his head in a gallant gesture that was pure Rhett Butler. “Giovanni Loard, at your service, ma’am.”

The name sounded faintly familiar to Theodosia as she stood gazing at this interesting man who smiled broadly back at her, even as he dug hastily in the pocket of his navy blazer for a business card.

Theodosia accepted his card, squinted at tiny, old English type. “Loard Antiquarian Shop. Oh, of course,” she said as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Down on King Street.”

“In the antiques district,” Giovanni Loard added helpfully.

“Drayton Conneley raved about your shop,” she told him enthusiastically. “He said you had the finest collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings in all of Charleston. Wonderful estate jewelry, too. I keep meaning to get down there but never seem to find the time,” Theodosia lamented. “I’ve got this one wall—”

“That’s begging for a truly great painting!” finished Giovanni Loard.

“Exactly,” agreed Theodosia.

“Then, dear lady, you simply must make time,” Giovanni admonished. “Or better yet, come open a second tea shop in our neighborhood. It would be a most welcome addition.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the first one under control yet,” Theodosia admitted, “but it’s a fun idea to entertain.” Theodosia smiled up at Giovanni Loard, amused by this colorful, slightly quirky fellow and suddenly found him gazing in the direction of Doe and Oliver Dixon.

“My cousin,” Giovanni Loard offered by way of explanation. “The groom.”

“Oliver Dixon is your cousin?” asked Theodosia.

“Actually, second cousin,” said Giovanni. “Oliver is my mother’s first cousin.”

Theodosia maintained her smile even as her eyes began to glaze over. In Charleston, especially in the historic district, it often seemed that everyone was related to everyone else. People literally went on for hours explaining the tangled web of second cousins, great-great-grandparents, and grandaunts.

Thankfully, Giovanni Loard didn’t launch into a dissertation on his lineage. Instead, he gently plucked the tray of sandwiches from Theodosia’s hands.

“Allow me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m sure you have other items to attend to.” And Giovanni wandered off into the crowd, an impromptu waiter.

So surprised was Theodosia that she stood rooted to the spot, blinking after him.

“At sixes and sevens?” said Drayton’s voice in her ear. She whirled to find him clutching two empty pitchers in one hand, a tray bearing a single, lonely sandwich balanced in the other. He gazed at her quizzically.

“That antique dealer you told me about, Giovanni Loard?” Theodosia gestured after Giovanni. “He offered to help. Nobody ever offers to help.”

Drayton peered through the crowd. “Remarkable. Do you know that the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta has rated South Carolinians as having the most sedentary lifestyle in the country?”

“Hey,” said Haley as she joined them, “I’m about ready for a sedentary lifestyle. My feet are tired, and I think I just got my first sunburn of the year. But first things first. Who was that cute guy, anyway?”

“Giovanni Loard,” said Theodosia. “He runs an antique shop down on King Street.”

They watched Giovanni pick his way through the crowd, dispensing sandwiches, talking animatedly with guests. “Personable chap, isn’t he?” remarked Drayton.

Giovanni wound his way to Doe and Oliver Dixon’s table, where Delaine was still seated, and offered sandwiches all around.

Suddenly, a man with flaming red hair swaggered up behind him. Although Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley were far enough away that they couldn’t hear the exact words spoken, they could obviously see that the red-haired man was angry. Very angry. Oliver Dixon whirled about to confront him, and now both men were talking excitedly. A low murmur ran through the crowd.

“The guy with the red hair,” said Haley. “What’s his problem?”

“Don’t know,” said Theodosia.

“Do you know who he is?” asked Drayton as he pursed his lips and peered speculatively at the two men whose argument appeared to escalate by the second. “That’s Ford Cantrell,” said Theodosia. She knew him, knew of him, anyway. Ford Cantrell was from the low country, that vast area of woods, old rice plantations, and swampland just south of Charleston. He was a farmer by trade, although his ancestors would have been called plantation owners.

“He’s been drinking,” hissed Drayton. “Have you ever seen anyone drunk at an afternoon tea?”