over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.
“Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.
“You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.
“No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”
“Of course.”
“You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.
“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.
“Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”
“Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”
“I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”
“What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.
“Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”
“Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”
“I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”
She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.
“Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.
“Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just looking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”
This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort. “I’m very glad to see you staunch, my dear. I was saying to the Colonel only the other day that many a young woman on this island could take a leaf out of your book.” She drew back, sniffed and pursed her lips. “When I think of some of the goings-on…” She ended with a meaningful glance.
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, searching desperately for an excuse to get away.
“Your loyalty to your infirm spouse can only be applauded,” Marjory Pearson continued relentlessly. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, her beady eyes glinting with unabashed curiosity.
“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.
“I’m sorry.” Marjory’s disappointment at the lack of gossip showed. Then she brightened once more. “I hear the new Lord MacLeod will be with us shortly. Will he be making a prolonged stay? I needn’t tell you how much speculation is going on,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I have no idea what Brad’s plans are.”
“Quite a job he has ahead of him,” Mrs. P. remarked, shaking her head wisely, avid to be the first to acquire any possible tidbits to pass on down the bush telegraph. “I hear he has a fiancée? One wonders what sort of female she is. Americans can be so very different, if you know what I mean.”
“Sylvia’s delightful.” Charlotte waxed enthusiastically. “Terribly efficient, and just the right person to be the new Lady MacLeod.”
“I see.” Mrs. P.’s shoulders drooped. “We must hope so, indeed. We wouldn’t want any changes in the village, now, would we?”
Charlotte murmured a vague assent, smiled brightly and frowned at her watch. “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Pearson, but I’m expecting rather an important client in ten minutes. I simply have to run. Send the Colonel my best.”
“Goodness, of course. So selfish of me to be holding you back. Did that large Frenchwoman with the bun buy the necklace in the window? I saw her pass several times while I was at the butcher’s the other day. She seemed quite enamored. I told the Colonel I thought it was a go. Quite amazing that you’re able to command such elevated prices, Charlotte. Are you sure you shouldn’t consider—”
“Must run, Mrs. Pearson,” Charlotte interrupted blithely. “All’s well on the home front.”
“Ah. Good. Then I shall report back to the Colonel. He’ll be pleased.” Mrs. P. braced herself, balanced the creaking bike and readied for action, while Charlotte made good her escape.
She dashed inside the gallery, located in one of the crooked whitewashed houses bordering the main street, nestled between the bakery and the Celtic Café, run by her friend Rory MacLean. Leaning against the door, Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “That woman,” she remarked to Moira Stuart, her lifelong friend who was now a goldsmith and manager of the gallery, “is simply awful.” Shaking her head, she stepped into the light, monochromatic space, dotted with glass showcases, halogen lights and burlap settings showing off her exclusive jewelry designs, then stopped short, surprised to see Armand de la Vallière, attired in tweed knickerbockers and a cap, examining her latest creation under a magnifying glass. She coughed, smothering the giggles that the sight of his costume always caused her. He looked like a fashion ad for a shooting weekend.
