marinara and fresh-cooked fish.
“Right, but admit it. It makes your task easier.” Lark scooped up some Cajun popcorn chicken and slopped it onto her plate.
Rachel jabbed at the honey-pecan chicken bites. “Okay, I admit it. So what?”
“It’s not like Saxby’s inaccessible,” Lark said. “There are a lot more subtle ways for you to approach him than flinging our spinster friend at the target.”
Rachel stopped mid-jab. “Tell me one thing I’ve done to encourage her.”
Lark moved onto the vegetarian offerings. “I’m just saying we need to discourage her, that’s all.”
“Then maybe you should be talking to Cecilia, not me.”
Lark didn’t say anything more, and they scooped their way through the rest of the chafing dishes in silence. Why had Lark taken such a dislike to Saxby? Rachel could understand her feeling protective of Dorothy, but Rachel couldn’t see the harm in Dorothy’s flirting with the man.
Trula’s warning about hudu flitted through her brain as she rounded her plate with spinach-and-goat-cheese baguettes, toast points topped with Parmesan-artichoke soufflé, vegetarian pinwheel sandwiches, and crackers with a southern pecan and cheddar cheese ring filled with strawberry preserves. By the time she reached the end of the buffet tables she knew one thing—southerners knew how to eat.
Plates heaping, the two of them wound their way through the tables toward the back. A couple from the Sapelo trip tried waving them over, but they forged ahead. By the time they arrived at where Dorothy and Cecilia were sitting, Saxby and the others had joined tables, and the sisters were ensconced in the group.
“Sit,” Saxby said, waving them into the empty chairs. “Do you know everyone here?”
Rachel shook her head, while Lark set down the plates.
He started the introductions to his left, with the brunette from the parking lot. “This is Katie Anderson, the daughter of Patricia and Nevin Anderson, owners of the Hyde Island Club Hotel. Katie is a senior in high school this year.”
And the spitting image of her mother, thought Rachel. She was maybe a few inches shorter, and her brown hair hung to her waist rather than at her ears, but the hazel eyes were the same and her attitude matched. With her blossoming figure overflowing her small camisole, and aware of her effect on the men at the table, she waved her hand like a princess. “Hello.”
“Katie.” Rachel waved with her fingers and wondered what Patricia Anderson was thinking under her mask. She nodded curtly, while her husband, Nevin, barely acknowledged them. Instead, he nudged his wife in the ribs and kept his rheumy eyes fastened on Katie.
“How could you let her go out wearing that outfit?” he muttered.
Saxby ignored the exhibit and moved on to the next man. “This is Victor Wolcott, president of the Hyde Island Authority.”
Wolcott, a portly man of average height with a shock of gray hair and a bulbous nose, flashed a smile of perfectly straight, white teeth.
“The Hyde Island Authority?” Rachel said, accepting his handshake. “What’s that?” It sounded like a transportation district.
“The Authority is the governing body of the island,” Wolcott explained. “The whole island is owned by the State of Georgia. Simply put, the Authority acts as its agent.”
That sounded official . “I think I remember reading something about that,” Rachel said. “About how some millionaire deeded the land to a trust.”
“In 1946,” Wolcott said with little prompting. “The island was owned by one man, Mr. Harry McKinlay. Finally tired of the upkeep and of running the Hyde Island Club, McKinlay retired and deeded the island to the State of Georgia. Whereby the state of Georgia quickly passed a law requiring that sixty-five percent of Hyde Island remain in a natural state. The state then formed the Hyde Island Authority to oversee the land eligible for development. Among its other duties, the Authority negotiates
“Right, but admit it. It makes your task easier.” Lark scooped up some Cajun popcorn chicken and slopped it onto her plate.
Rachel jabbed at the honey-pecan chicken bites. “Okay, I admit it. So what?”
“It’s not like Saxby’s inaccessible,” Lark said. “There are a lot more subtle ways for you to approach him than flinging our spinster friend at the target.”
Rachel stopped mid-jab. “Tell me one thing I’ve done to encourage her.”
Lark moved onto the vegetarian offerings. “I’m just saying we need to discourage her, that’s all.”
“Then maybe you should be talking to Cecilia, not me.”
Lark didn’t say anything more, and they scooped their way through the rest of the chafing dishes in silence. Why had Lark taken such a dislike to Saxby? Rachel could understand her feeling protective of Dorothy, but Rachel couldn’t see the harm in Dorothy’s flirting with the man.
Trula’s warning about hudu flitted through her brain as she rounded her plate with spinach-and-goat-cheese baguettes, toast points topped with Parmesan-artichoke soufflé, vegetarian pinwheel sandwiches, and crackers with a southern pecan and cheddar cheese ring filled with strawberry preserves. By the time she reached the end of the buffet tables she knew one thing—southerners knew how to eat.
Plates heaping, the two of them wound their way through the tables toward the back. A couple from the Sapelo trip tried waving them over, but they forged ahead. By the time they arrived at where Dorothy and Cecilia were sitting, Saxby and the others had joined tables, and the sisters were ensconced in the group.
“Sit,” Saxby said, waving them into the empty chairs. “Do you know everyone here?”
Rachel shook her head, while Lark set down the plates.
He started the introductions to his left, with the brunette from the parking lot. “This is Katie Anderson, the daughter of Patricia and Nevin Anderson, owners of the Hyde Island Club Hotel. Katie is a senior in high school this year.”
And the spitting image of her mother, thought Rachel. She was maybe a few inches shorter, and her brown hair hung to her waist rather than at her ears, but the hazel eyes were the same and her attitude matched. With her blossoming figure overflowing her small camisole, and aware of her effect on the men at the table, she waved her hand like a princess. “Hello.”
“Katie.” Rachel waved with her fingers and wondered what Patricia Anderson was thinking under her mask. She nodded curtly, while her husband, Nevin, barely acknowledged them. Instead, he nudged his wife in the ribs and kept his rheumy eyes fastened on Katie.
“How could you let her go out wearing that outfit?” he muttered.
Saxby ignored the exhibit and moved on to the next man. “This is Victor Wolcott, president of the Hyde Island Authority.”
Wolcott, a portly man of average height with a shock of gray hair and a bulbous nose, flashed a smile of perfectly straight, white teeth.
“The Hyde Island Authority?” Rachel said, accepting his handshake. “What’s that?” It sounded like a transportation district.
“The Authority is the governing body of the island,” Wolcott explained. “The whole island is owned by the State of Georgia. Simply put, the Authority acts as its agent.”
That sounded official . “I think I remember reading something about that,” Rachel said. “About how some millionaire deeded the land to a trust.”
“In 1946,” Wolcott said with little prompting. “The island was owned by one man, Mr. Harry McKinlay. Finally tired of the upkeep and of running the Hyde Island Club, McKinlay retired and deeded the island to the State of Georgia. Whereby the state of Georgia quickly passed a law requiring that sixty-five percent of Hyde Island remain in a natural state. The state then formed the Hyde Island Authority to oversee the land eligible for development. Among its other duties, the Authority negotiates
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