Badly Done, Emma Lee

“Someone you haven’t met is wondering what it would be like to know someone like you.” I saw that on a T-shirt the other day. It’s exciting to think the next person you meet might be that special someone, the one who has been looking for you all along, isn’t it?

Two months ago, Manderley was working a thankless job in Cannes with no prospects of romance on her horizon. Then she met Xavier de Maloret, a handsome French aristocrat who looks like David Gandy, that gorgeous model in the Dolce & Gabbana ads. Now, my sensible, bookish big sister is a glamourous jet-setter with a crazy hot husband. Isn’t that romantic?

I hope Tara meets her someone special soon. My heart aches imagining her here all on her own—without Daddy around, warning her to watch her rebel ways, without me raiding her closet. I thought Grayson Calhoun, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, was going to ask her to marry him, but instead, he popped the question to Maribelle Cravath.

I glance over at my sister, sitting in the driver’s seat, her long, toned legs looking fab in white skinny jeans, and my vision blurs with unshed tears. Maybe I am making a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t leave Charleston. I shift my gaze to the new Burberry trench folded in my lap—a generous bon voyage gift from Manderley after I told her Mrs. Nickerson said a proper, classically stylish raincoat is a staple of every British woman’s wardrobe—and the clouds of doubt melt away.

I thought my sensible big sister was going to laugh when I told her I was thinking about moving to the Cotswolds so I could live in the cottage our aunt left me in her will. I thought she was going to tell me to stop talking nonsense and waddle about being a matchmaker.

But she didn’t.

Go after your dreams, darlin’ Emma Lee, she said. Move to England and become a matchmaker, if that’s what you truly want. Tara will be just fine. Daddy would want you to follow your dreams.

So, I am. Even if that means saying good-bye to the familiar—like the sweet old woman who sells “bald” peanuts out of a cart. Daddy bought me a bag every time I went with him to his favorite barbershop over on Broad Street. After he died, she took to giving me the bag for free. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the warm, salty husks.

“Did you remember your passport?”

“Yes, Tara.”

“What about your iPhone charger? I want you to call me as soon as you land and when you have arrived at Wood House.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you remembered to make your train reservations from London to the Cotswolds?”

“Mrs. Nickerson said she would send Knightley to pick me up.”

“Knightley?”

“Her son.”

“That’s awfully generous of them.”

“Isabella said it was the least she could do for the niece of one of her oldest and dearest friends. Besides, Knightley is some bigwig publisher. Apparently, he splits his time between London and the Cotswolds. So, it’s not like it’s a big deal for him to let me hitch a ride.”

“Even so, be sure to thank him and Mrs. Nickerson.”

“Please, Tara,” I say, feeling as chastened as I did when Miss Belle told me I put too much sugar in my tea (as if you can put too much sugar in tea). “I’m Southern born and raised. I know how to do gratitude. I went to the Candy Kitchen and bought a big old box of pecan pralines for Isabella and a bag of bourbon balls for Knightley.”

Tara slows to a stop at the intersection before the entrance to the Charleston International Airport and turns to look at me. I wonder who she sees when she looks at me. The knock-kneed little girl who used to follow her around, always two steps behind? The flighty teenager who forgot to return the clothes/shoes/makeup she borrowed?

I lift my chin and smile. I am not that little girl anymore. I don’t need my big sisters chasing me around with a safety net just in case I take a leap too far.

“Are you sure about all this, Emma Lee? When was the last time Aunt Pattycake lived in Wood House? What if it hasn’t been cleaned? What if it is infested with vermin? What if—?”

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled up, momma hen,” I say, laughing. “Mrs. Nickerson said Aunt Patricia gave her a key to Wood House years ago, so she could look after it while she was away. Mrs. Nickerson sent her maid to clean the cottage and stock the larder, which I assume is a pantry.”

When I was a little girl, I struggled in the pronouncing of my aunt’s name. I took to calling her Aunt Pattycake instead of Aunt Patricia. My sisters still use the name when they talk to me, as if they are reluctant or incapable of letting me grow up.

Tara turns into the airport and drives slower than molasses. She pulls up to the curb outside the ticketing and check-in terminal and turns on her hazard lights.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you, just in case you have any problems at the ticket counter or with security?” She snatches her press pass and station badge out of the cup holder and fiddles with the lanyard, anxiously weaving it around her fingers. “I don’t mind.”

“I’ll be okay, Tara,” I say, holding her hand. “I promise.”

She looks at me with teary eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“I am mighty sure.” I give her hand a little squeeze. “Are you going to be okay? You seem sad.”

Part of me wishes she would break down in tears and beg me not to go, even as another part is itching to get out of the car and head in the direction of my future.

“Don’t worry about me. I am just fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Now who’s being momma hen?”

We laugh. I open the door and climb out. I walk to the back of the car, lift my suitcase out of the trunk, and am waiting on the sidewalk when Tara joins me, holding a big shiny black box.

“Here,” she says, handing me the box.

“What’s this?”

“A proper going-away present.”

I squeal because I know what is inside the big shiny black box with the red bow. The pair of glossy Hunter Wellington rain boots I might have mentioned wanting.

“Ooooo!” I lift one of the boots out of the box. “Military red wellies! How did you know this is the color I wanted?”

“Hmmm, let’s see,” she says, laughing. “Maybe I saw something on your Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook feeds. Or was it your Pinterest board? Wait! I think I might have figured it out when you changed the screen saver on my computer to a collage of red rain boots.”

“You’re the best, Tara. The best!”

I kick off my heels, shove them into my carry-on, and slide my feet into the boots. The bright red rubber looks lit as hell with my dark skinny jeans.

“Your Mrs. Nickerson said you needed proper raingear. Well, I couldn’t have you showing up at Northam-on-the-Water in your six-inch red suede Louboutins, now could I?”

I laugh and throw my arms around her, squeezing her real hard, as hard as when she let me borrow her J.Crew twinset on my first day of high school.

“I love you more than my Kappa Kappa Gamma ring, Tara.”

“Really?” She pulls away, a surprised look on her face. “You love me more than your sorority president’s ring? And all it took was a pair of overpriced rain boots? Sweet!”

I smile.

“It’s not just the boots,” I say, even though there’s a big old lump of emotion clogging my throat. “I love you because you are supporting me in my dream to become a matchmaker, even though, deep down, you think it is the silliest idea ever.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s the silliest idea you’ve ever had,” she says, grinning. “Perming your hair the day before your senior prom was a much sillier decision. Shoot! Letting that no-good, faithless, dirty-dog Jake Churchill take your virginity was a sillier decision.”

“Tara Faith Maxwell!” I look around to see if anyone heard, my cheeks flushing with heat. “Hush your mouth. A lady never discusses her intimate relations in public. Didn’t you learn a thing from Miss Belle?”

Tara rolls her eyes. You know how well-bred Southern girls are raised to be quiet and pleasing? Well, Tara decided early on she would be the opposite of the well-bred Southern lady. In high school, she had a reputation for scandalous behavior. She danced with boys outside her social circle, went to subversive political meetings, and thought for herself. She did just about everything Miss Belle told her students not to do.

“Fiddle-faddle!” Tara says. “Miss Belle was a priggish old dinosaur in polka-dot dresses and pearls.”

“God rest her soul,” I whisper.

“God rest her raised-pinkie, cucumber-sandwich-eating soul!” Tara laughs. “I hope she’s sipping unsweetened tea with Jesus at the big cotillion in the sky.”

I imagine Miss Belle correcting St. Margaret’s poor posture and chastising St. Paul for wearing a hair shirt, and I can’t help but laugh out loud.

Another car pulls up to the curb. The moment when I will have to say good-bye to my sister and walk into the terminal, away from the familiars of my old life, is approaching, and I still have something else to say to her.

“Tara?”

“Yes, Ems?”

“I know you’re worried I haven’t thought this plan through, that I am oblivious to the practicalities involved in moving to a different country and starting a new business.” She opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “How many lonely singles does Emma Lee think there are in the Cotswolds? What makes her think they will want to hire an amateur matchmaker from America? Did she apply for a work visa? What if the business is a bust? How will she pay the inheritance tax on Aunt Patricia’s cottage?”

“Well,” Tara says, smiling, “I might have thought a few of those things.”

“Aunt Patricia left just enough money to cover the inheritance tax, so that’s settled. I don’t know how many singles there are in the Cotswolds and I don’t know if they are going to want some strange American meddling in their love matters. Maybe I am crazier than Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, but I would rather spend my life saying oops than what if.” I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “A little voice is whispering at me to take this risk, Tara. Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s Aunt Patricia’s spirit.”

“Sweet Jesus! You’re hearing voices?”

I am about to stomp my foot and pitch a big old hissy fit when Tara starts laughing. I stick out my tongue. She laughs harder.

“Stop fretting about my future, you old mother hen, and start fretting about your own!” I grab my carry-on in one hand and my suitcase in the other. “I’m gonna be just fine. You’ll see.”

“You’re sure?”

“I got this one, girl! I got this like Jay-Z’s got ninety-nine problems, like Lily Pulitzer’s got shift dresses, like—”

“Okay, okay.” She laughs. “You’ve got it, but if you don’t get going, you’re going to miss it.”

“’Bye,” I say, raising my hand and blowing her a kiss.

I walk through the sliding doors, rolling my suitcases behind me, my shoulders back and head held high, feeling more confident with each step.

A woman toting a covet-worthy patent leather Lady Dior breezes by me and I suddenly realize I forgot my purse in Tara’s car. I turn around and hightail it out of the terminal and, sure enough, Tara is still sitting in her car, staring out the windshield like she knew I would be coming back.

I wrench open the passenger door and duck my head inside the compartment.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus!” I reach down and lift my purse out of the passenger footwell. “Can you believe I almost forgot my purse?”

Purse. Passport. Tickets. Money. Pretty much every damned thing required for a transatlantic flight. No wonder Tara has been clucking like a mother hen!

“Can I believe you almost forgot your purse?” she says, looking at me over the tops of her sunglasses. “Is that a rhetorical question?”