Linnea was in her element, as bubbly as the water as she came up with ideas, her pen scribbling across the paper. “I’m going to fix the cornbread. It’s an old family recipe. My grandmama Lovie used to make it and it’s as light as a feather.”
“My mama makes a mean sauce,” Anna said.
“Mustard or sweet?”
“Sweet.”
“Good. You’re on.”
Pandora felt out of her league. “I don’t really cook much. And I don’t have family recipes to share. But I can order anything you like. I’m a master at making reservations. Got my PhD in ordering online.”
Anna laughed, and Linnea realized the two women were bonding for the first time over humor. At her expense.
“Pan, why don’t you supply the wine and beer?” suggested Linnea.
“Brilliant,” Pandora said, grinning. “That’s something I know a lot about. Why don’t you let Gordon and me do the drinks? We’ll stock the bar in the fort too. Do it up right.”
Anna shot Linnea a look that said careful. Linnea brushed it aside and said, “Perfect. There’s an ABC store next to the bridge.”
“Oh, darling, I know.”
* * *
JULY FOURTH ARRIVED, and the island was on full alert. Independence Day was considered the biggest holiday of the Charleston beaches. American flags fluttered from lampposts. Despite the growing pandemic, the island was expecting the holiday to be among the biggest—if not the biggest—on record. So many people had been cooped up for so long, many were without jobs, and many more thought it was safe to go to the beach with the family because they were outdoors in the fresh air and sun. Others just didn’t care about the pandemic and were headed out to the beach no matter what anyone said.
“Did you see the Connector?” Cooper asked, walking into the cottage from an ice run. “The cars are backed up for miles. It’s like a parking lot out there. And there’s no place to park when they get here! It’s crazy.”
“So much for social distancing,” commented Anna, opening up the cooler for the ice.
“Everyone’s got a right to have a good time at the beach,” Cooper said. “I mean, if you didn’t live here, you’d probably be out there right now.”
Anna straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just sometimes you come down hard on people. You can’t get angry at people just because they do something you don’t like. Lighten up.”
Linnea pinched her lips and stirred a bit more Duke’s mayonnaise into her potato salad. “No one go out on that beach today, hear? It’s wall-to-wall people, and I don’t see many masks. As far as I’m concerned, that breaks the rules of the pod. Let everyone know.”
“I feel for the police, is all,” Anna said, still chafing from Cooper’s remark. “They have their work cut out for them, bless their hearts.”
“The beach crowd seemed like a well-mannered, friendly group from what I saw,” Cooper said.
“If we keep to ourselves, we’ll not have to worry about the virus. Cooper, did you wash your hands?”
Cooper set down the bags of ice and went immediately to the sink.
* * *
BY MIDAFTERNOON THE men were banished from the barn. They’d been sitting at the table, drinking beer and playing poker while the fans whirred in an attempt to beat the heat of the hottest month of the year. In short order the women turned on music and began dancing and laughing as they set about the task of decorating the barn for the party.
Pandora hung the many renditions of American and British flags they’d all painted the day before using the art supplies. Everyone had enjoyed the project, no one more than Hope, who had felt so proud that she was painting with the grown-ups. They covered the tables with white paper tablecloths and set out the cobalt-trimmed white china. With a nod to ease, red-white-and-blue paper napkins and small American flags gave the table a patriotic flair. Isle of Palms had been the first city in the state to forbid plastic utensils, but they’d relinquished the restrictions during the pandemic. Nonetheless, Linnea and Gordon had both insisted they should use and wash tableware.
Anna and Linnea twisted red, white, and blue crepe paper. A short while later, the men returned, curious and offering to help. Emmi happily handed the men strings of twinkling lights and set Gordon and John to work hanging them from the rafters. They worked in tandem, and Linnea noted the odd peace that seemed to have fallen between the men since the fishing trip. She supposed male bonding was a real thing after all.
By six, the sun was still high but the table was set and the guests gathered. Cara and David arrived carrying a bounty of freshly baked fruit pies from the farmers’ market. Pandora ran up to help carry the pies in, sniffing as she walked, declaring that she’d been dying for American pie ever since she’d arrived stateside.
“I love, love, love pie,” Pandora exclaimed in her dramatic fashion, carrying two of the fruit pies to the long side table that was already groaning under the weight of the food. “Who cares about all that meat?” she asked, lovingly laying the pies beside the cookies. “Just leave me with these two beauties.”
Julia and Palmer arrived soon after. Palmer’s arms looked strained under a large wooden dough bowl wrapped in tinfoil. “Let me through!” he called out, struggling under the weight of the large bowl. He pushed past offers to help and made it to the serving table and set his burden down with a gasp.
“Wait till you see,” Julia exclaimed, coming up behind him. With a grand flourish, she took off the foil to reveal the wooden bowl brimming full of shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage.
“Frogmore stew!” Cooper shouted with a fist pump.
Hope looked up at Julia in horror. “You cooked Jeremiah?”
It took a moment for the adults to register what the little girl meant. Already her lower lip was beginning to tremble.
Cooper, the first to realize, shook his head. “No, no, little one. Not Jeremiah. Not any frog. There are absolutely no frogs in that stew. Zero.” He made a zero with his fingers. “None.”
Julia finally caught on. “Oh, child, no,” she answered. “Frogmore stew is named after a small fishing village on St. Helena Island. It’s called Frogmore. Some people call this a lowcountry boil, or Beaufort stew. But I swear, not a single frog lost its life in this dish.” She looked at her son. “I made it special for you. Even if there’s no frog in it,” she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek.
The sprinklers were swirling in the garden and the fans were whirring in the barn. The scent of baby back ribs and hamburgers wafted in the air as David and John carried the barbecue to the serving table. Anna ladled her family’s recipe of red barbecue sauce into bowls with utmost care, proud of her contribution. Gordon served as bartender, making margaritas in the blender. Wine, beer, and Gordon’s favorite IPA were nestled in ice in the cooler.
At last the feast was ready. The table was overflowing with the Frogmore stew, crisp ribs and juicy burgers, steaming corn on the cob, all manner of greens and cold salads, hot biscuits sitting under cloth napkins, and, of course, the four pies.
Emmi and Cara hovered over the tables like mother hens, clucking directions, attending to every detail, refilling bowls as needed, feeling like the matriarchs they were. They were cracking jokes and bumping hips behind the table, serving up dishes, high on a friendship that had lasted decades and ripened with age.