The Sign in the Smoke (Nancy Drew Diaries #12)(47)

“The right person can turn anyone into a romantic,” I said, thinking of Ned, my own boyfriend back home.

We hauled our suitcases up to the front patio of the inn, where several guests reclined in wicker rocking chairs, sipping tall glasses of iced tea. We crossed the threshold into the main foyer, and all stopped to gape. A grand, curving mahogany staircase dominated the room, the steps carpeted in scarlet. The walls were papered in a faded floral print, and the wooden floors shone in the sunlight that poured through the large windows at the rear of the building.

“Not too shabby,” George said appreciatively.

“Oh . . . there are Charlotte’s parents—Aunt Sharon and Uncle Russell!” Bess said.

A group of people were clustered around a small central table, which had been laid out with glass pitchers of iced tea and tiny sandwiches. The couple I guessed were Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin were both lean and well dressed, and Mrs. Goodwin sniffed at the sandwiches as if she wasn’t sure whether to trust them. Bess had told us that Charlotte’s family lived in Connecticut—her mother was a real estate agent, and her father worked on Wall Street.

Also standing at the table was a handsome young man with ash-blond hair, dressed in a cream-colored linen shirt and oxford shorts. An older couple stood on either side of him like bookends, a stark contrast to the Goodwins. Unlike Charlotte’s parents, these two were short and stocky people; the man had an ostentatious mustache, and the woman wore her bleached-blond hair in a bouffant that looked as if it were hair-sprayed within an inch of its life.

“Well, Parker,” the older man was saying, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your new in-laws?”

“Sure, Dad,” Parker replied, a little awkwardly. He gestured to Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, saying, “These are Charlotte’s parents, Russell and Sharon.”

Parker’s father stepped forward and pumped Mr. Goodwin’s hand with fervor. “Welcome to Charleston, y’all. The name’s Cassius Hill—but my friends all call me Cash.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Goodwin said, a little stiffly, and extended her hand to him.

But instead of shaking it, Mr. Hill brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine, madam,” he said playfully.

I watched as Mrs. Goodwin’s face paled.

“Allow me to introduce my lovely wife, Bonnie,” Mr. Hill said. Mrs. Hill moved to stand next to her husband, her light blue, flouncy dress fluttering around her as she went. “Forget the handshakes,” she said in a heavy Southern drawl. “I’m a hugger!” She threw her arms around the startled Goodwins, just as Charlotte came through the door and saw what was happening.

“Oh,” she said, clearly dismayed. “I see you all have already met.”

“Yes,” Mr. Goodwin said, extricating himself from Mrs. Hill’s embrace. “We have.”

“And they say Yankees and Southerners can’t get along!” Mr. Hill chortled, a little too cheerfully. The joke was greeted with a stony silence.

Mrs. Hill cleared her throat and looked around the room, seemingly searching for something to talk about. Her eyes landed on the girls and me. “Now, Charlotte, who are these lovely young ladies?” she asked, stepping toward us.

Relieved to have the focus off her flustered parents, Charlotte pointed us out in turn. “This is Bess Marvin, my cousin—she’s going to be one of my bridesmaids. And these are her friends George Fayne and Nancy Drew.”

Mrs. Hill nodded politely at Bess and George, but her eyebrows went up a little when she took a closer look at me. “A redhead!” she said, almost to herself. And then a little louder, “How very nice to meet you all.” She moved back to the table with her husband and son. Parker began pouring iced tea for everyone, while Mr. Hill regaled the Goodwins with the history of the inn. As he was talking, Mrs. Hill surreptitiously rapped her knuckles three times on the surface of the table. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have missed it completely.

Parker saw it too and came over to me with a drink. “Don’t mind her,” he murmured with a smile. “My mother is extremely superstitious, and this whole wedding thing has her on high alert for bad luck.”

“But what does that have to do with Nancy?” George asked.

Parker looked apologetic. “Well, redheads are sort of like black cats. If one crosses your path . . .”

Bess laughed. “Well, Nancy is known to attract mischief wherever she goes!” She went on to tell Parker a little bit about my exploits as an amateur detective.