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"That was his one flaw, if he had any," the elder one—with her grey hair pulled tightly into a bun and a black blouse buttoned up to her chin—tutted. "Not remarrying. He couldn’t have raised them the way a woman would’ve. It’s no wonder they’ve not accomplished anything.”
“Bless their hearts.” The younger one shook her head in false sympathy, causing her bleached blonde hair to sway over her shoulders. She was wearing a black dress, cut low to reveal large, perky breasts and stiff nipples—she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra, and hoping to get noticed. “It’s true. They could’ve used a mother in their lives. Did you see how they behaved at the grave?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Didn't they ever learn how to act for the occasion?"
“There's nothing more pathetic than a daughter who can't even mourn her father properly. Silently. With dignity and respect,” the elderly woman sighed sadly. “In my day, we knew how to behave at a funeral.”
There was a pause, then, the younger woman, “It’s a wonder how no one knew about his sickness.”
The older woman gave her friend a knowing look. “I thought he looked too pale, last time I saw him. Certainly not healthy enough for a man his age.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Well,” the grey-haired lady sniffed, turning away with an air of superiority. “I wasn’t about to spread rumors.”
They fell silent again, their beady eyes scanning the room. I saw and felt the blonde’s eyes latch on me, brightening. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Bleached white teeth blinked with her false smile, her gaze lowering…taking me in. “Little Rook Craven. Looks like you’re all grown up.”
Tightening my grip on the crystal glass in my fingers, I took a deliberate, generous sip of red wine and assessed her coolly. “Do I know you?”
The smile faltered, then quickly recovered, frozen in place. “Maybe you don’t remember me. I’m Miss Dutton. Of course, I used to be Mrs. Wilkes but that was ages ago.”
She blinked thick, false lashes, waiting for me to recognize her. When I didn’t, she gestured to the woman at her side, “And this is Mrs. Stetson, a long standing member of the community here in Lowcountry. Her family’s been here since before Sherman’s march. I come from Charleston, so my family’s practically neighbors.” When I continued to only stare at her, her too thin smile stretched even larger. “Coincidentally, the last time I saw you was in this exact room. At another funeral. You were only a kid then, of course.”
Melanie’s.
Douglass’ wife.
She continued as if I’d given her any indication I was interested in continuing this conversation. “Why don’t you call me Caroline now, you’re not a child any longer." Reaching out to squeeze my hand, she inched closer and peered up at me demurely, “Looks like you’ve come up in the world. I heard you joined the Magnolia Society a few years ago. They don’t just take anyone. Tell me Rook, did you ever marry?”
“I was twenty-five.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“At that funeral. The last time you saw me, I was twenty-five.” That was seven years ago. Not a fucking kid.
“And I was thirty-eight then but they say I still look like I’m in my twenties.” Still smiling, she brushed her hair from her shoulder, giving me an expectant look. Probably waiting for a compliment or to agree with her.
Instead, I responded, “Beneath every polished smile lies the ugliness of our true nature. And you, ladies, are showing.” I tipped my glass, finishing it off before giving them a curt nod. “If you’ll excuse me.” I turned my back on them, walking away.
“What does that even mean?” Mrs. Stetson huffed.
“I don’t know. But he sure is stuck up for someone who comes from his background.” Caroline said to my back, loud enough that I could hear her. “Jesus knows he has the personality of a mosquito.”
“You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, dear,” the elder lady replied, “He may have the money but he’ll never be good southern stock. You deserve better.”
Caroline’s voice lowered, though I could still hear her as I traded out my current empty wine glass with a new one, drinking it quickly. “Sure wouldn’t mind polishing his jewels though, if you get my meaning.”
“Caroline!”
“Just a little!” she giggled.
God, these insufferable vultures; it was suffocating inside this room. No wonder Summer had disappeared over an hour ago.
Working my way through the throng of mourners, I finally made my way into Douglass’ private study. Inhaling the smell of well-used, hardback books, antique leather furniture, and stale air, I opened the cabinet to his private stash of alcohol. Red wine wasn’t going to cut it this evening.
I filled my now empty glass with whiskey, and sat on the leather sofa, staring at the fireplace, the hearth dusted with cold ash.
I remembered the first time I’d arrived at Darkmoor Manor. I was fourteen years old—orphaned and alone. I had no one left in the world who cared about me.
Douglass and Melanie were newly married, without kids. They had their whole lives ahead of them, and yet, they took me in.
