No sooner was the last pot washed and put away than Harper tossed the apron on the counter, turned to Carson, and said with heart to her sister, “I need a drink. Let’s go out.”

Carson could have kissed her. They hurried to Carson’s bathroom to refresh their makeup and brush their hair. Carson was enjoying the novelty of a sisterly bond as they chatted about shoes and designers they both loved, blissfully avoiding any heavier topics. It was as though Dora’s rant had bonded them, unfortunately against her.

“What’s her problem, anyway?” Harper’s eyes flashed in warning. “God, it burns me to admit it—and don’t you dare tell her I said this—but it hurt when Dora said those things about ‘Northerners’ and New Yorkers at dinner. She’s about as subtle as a dump truck.”

“And filled with as much garbage,” Carson added. “I hope you don’t take her opinions to heart. I never do. Sometimes she’s so stuck-up she’d drown in a rainstorm.”

Harper chuckled at that. “She was always so much older than me. I think I was afraid of her at some level when I was a little girl.” She paused. “But I’m not anymore,” she said more boldly.

“She’s in a bad place right now. Cal’s left her. They’re getting a divorce.”

Harper paused for a moment. “I didn’t know.”

“I just heard myself.”

“That explains a lot. Still,” Harper said, “she shouldn’t take it out on me.”

Carson waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s not think about her right now. I’m getting seriously bummed. And this is your first night here.” She reached for the perfume bottle and sprayed some on her neck.

“That’s Mamaw’s scent!” Harper exclaimed, sniffing the air. Her big blue eyes were even wider with wonder. “How . . . what is it? Where did you find it?”

“Mamaw gave me a bottle. I’m supposed to test it, see how it smells on me.” Carson sprayed a bit on her wrist. “What do you think?” She held out her arm so Harper could lean in for a sniff.

Harper sniffed, then, looking up, smiled a knowing smile. “It smells really good on you. Like it belongs on you,” she said ruefully. “Very sexy.” She snorted as she drew back up. “Figures.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re the one who is most like Mamaw.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t look like anyone. Y’all are blond and pale. I’m dark and tall and I have big feet.”

Harper laughed and reached for the bottle of perfume. “Maybe not in looks.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s hard to name. You’re her favorite, that’s for sure.”

“Not that again,” Carson said with a moan.

“Let me try some,” Harper said, spraying perfume on her wrist. “What do you think?”

Carson obliged and bent to sniff her wrist, then immediately recoiled. “Oh, no,” she said, waving the air. The musk smelled more like body odor on her. “Really, Harper, that’s just bad on you.” She chuckled. “You’re going to have to scrub it off if you want a guy to come within twenty paces of you.”

Harper sniffed, then wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, you’re right,” she said, going straight for the sink and soaping up. “I’ll stick to my Old Dependable—Chanel Number Five, thank you very much. Funny how that works, isn’t it? A perfume can smell so dreadful on me but so fabulous on you. Like it has its own personality. Its own particular preference for people.”

“Or genetics,” Carson said softly, looking at the label of the bottle in her hand. She brought it to her nose, sniffed again, and grew pensive. “It was my mother’s scent.”

“Really?” Harper said, turning her head to look at Carson. “I didn’t know that. I always thought of it as Mamaw’s scent.”

“I just found out myself. It’s not like I remember her,” she said in an offhand manner. Even as she said the words she knew that was a lie. There was indeed memory associated with the scent, unexplainable, that spoke of being cradled, sung to, loved. The scent she’d always associated with Mamaw triggered feelings of safety and comfort. These were emotions she connected with Mamaw, true. Only now she knew the memories went deeper—to her mother. And knowing this, she felt strangely uneasy, even sad, as she inhaled the scent.

“I . . . I don’t think it’s right for me.” Carson moved to the sink and, like Harper, began washing the perfume from her wrists and neck.

“Really? I thought it smelled really great. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I’d have liked to share something with Mamaw.”

Carson blotted the moisture from her neck with a towel and wondered at that comment. “I’d always figured that you didn’t enjoy any connections to your Southern heritage.”

Harper finished drying her hands and leaned against the bathroom counter. “That sentiment is my mother’s. She never wanted any contact with my father—our father. Or his family. I grew up thinking that to be like him, or to be attached in any way to him or his family, was somehow . . . bad.”

Carson felt stung. “What a bitch,” she blurted. Then quickly added, “Sorry.”

Harper shook her head. “She can be a bitch. But she’s my mother, so . . .” She shrugged and turned again to the mirror to smooth her hair. “You know, when I’m in New York, I don’t think about the Muir side of the family. It’s out of sight, out of mind.” She looked down at her hands, the ring finger bearing a gold signet ring with the James family crest. “I’m proud of my family. Love them, of course. But there’s a lot of baggage being a James. When I come here, I feel . . . I don’t know, freer. More at ease. Always have.”

“It’s the humidity. Once it starts heating up you have to move slow,” Carson teased. “Your brain softens.”

Harper laughed. “Well, it is good for my skin. But no, it’s this place. Talk about smells . . . The air here is rife with scents, and each one of them is connected to some memory. They started gushing back the minute I smelled the pluff mud. Memories of Mamaw braiding our hair, diving with us into the surf, lazily reading on hot summer days, those big container ships cruising by.” Her voice shifted and she added softly, “Most of all, of you and me, Carson.”