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At one end of the room is a huge bay window, but it’s too dark to see the view outside, so I find my eyes drifting to the painting that hangs on the opposite wall. It’s a hunting scene, featuring gently rolling fields and men in jaunty red jackets. It would be positively serene if it weren’t for the deer in the foreground, getting its throat ripped out by hounds.
I hated that painting as a kid, always wondered why anyone would hang it in a room where people eat, but it feels appropriate tonight.
I’m that deer, and as the other McTavishes settle around the table, I have no doubt they’re the hounds.
Jules reaches over and takes my hand where it rests on the table, giving it a little shake. I make myself give her a quick smile, squeezing her fingers in return but, in truth, I can hardly look at her.
Libby had done as Nelle asked, and sent up a dress in a heavy black garment bag. I’d assumed it would be typical Libby—bright, probably sexy, maybe a littletoosexy for a family dinner—and had braced myself for the weirdness of seeing my wife dressed like my cousin.
And then Jules had come out of the en suite.
“What do you think?” she’d asked, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, her arms held out to her sides. “Fancy enough for family dinner?”
She looked beautiful––shewasbeautiful––but the words had frozen in my mouth, and Jules had laughed.
“Wait, so good you’re literally stunned speechless?”
“Clearly,” I’d said, shaking my head ruefully and taking her hands, kissing her forehead, and thinking,Libby, you sick bitch.
Jules would’ve fit into one of Libby’s dresses easily, but that’s not what Libby brought her. No, Libby gave her oneof Ruby’s old dresses. Not just any dress, either, but one of her favorites, the one she most often wore when we did these dinners when I was growing up. She’d had it made in the late sixties and was always so proud that it still fit so well.
Same figure at twenty-eight and sixty-eight,she’d preen, throwing a look to Nelle, who always glowered back, her own body thinner, more wizened as she aged.
It’s a gorgeous dress. Even now, from the corner of my eye, I can see the way the chandelier sparkles off the crystal beading along the neckline, how the color of the fabric—not white, not beige, something Ruby called “candlelight”—makes Jules’s skin glow.
But it just adds another layer of unreality to the scene. I’m back in Ashby House, back at this table, back with these people, and my wife is wearing my dead mother’s dress.
Christ, I hate this family.
They’re all seated now, Nelle at the head of the table where Ruby used to sit, Ben at her right hand, where Howell always sat, Libby on the left.
Ben is cheerful, his tie loose and shoulders relaxed. Nelle is almost smiling, which, in her case, means she’s not actively scowling. Only Libby seems a little unsettled, her eyes darting again and again to the sideboard, her nails drumming the edge of the table.
I wonder if she feels guilty for the stunt with the dress, but guilt is not something I’ve ever known Libby to be familiar with. She’s probably just bored.
Still, that sense of unease lingers, potent as the smell of the gardenia-scented candles lit in the sconces on the walls.
“Ben, why don’t you pour the wine?” Nelle suggests, and he gets up to do just that. As he fills each of our glasses with a rich cabernet, I watch Nelle, sitting proudly in Ruby’s place.
How she must love this, queen of the castle at last.
“That contractor come by today?” Ben asks, and it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“He did.” I take a sip of wine. “He said the ceiling on the second floor isn’t as bad as we thought. Didn’t think it was rain damage, though. Did a third-floor bathroom flood or something?”
Ben waves a hand, topping off his own glass even though it’s already pretty full. “Who knows? This house is as twisted as the people who live in it.”
He gives a hearty laugh, one that no one echoes, and I think we’re all relieved when Cecilia starts bringing in steaming dishes of food. I hate that she’s had to stay late for this, and I find myself thinking about hiring more staff for the house. Ruby had a paranoia about people working here, never wanting the maids or handymen that were so common on other estates like this. When I was a kid, I’d wondered if it was because of what happened to her. The kidnapping. That guy, Jimmy Darnell, had been an itinerant worker, so Ruby had good reason not to trust strangers in her space. She had a cleaning crew come out once a month, but Cecilia had done everything else, and as I watch her wince slightly while putting down a heavy tureen of soup, I realize she’s got to be in her mid-sixties by now. Ruby hired her not long after adopting me.
Maybe she’d like some help or––
No. Thoughts like that are for someone who plans to stay here, to take actual ownership of the house, and that’s sure as shit not going to be me.
No one really talks as we fill our plates and pass around platters of food. I’m sure whatever Cecilia prepared is delicious, but I can’t taste any of it, and when the dishes are cleared away, I couldn’t tell you what we’d just eaten.
I’ve just sat there, going through the motions, waiting.
Part of me wants to get up now, tell them to drop the bullshit, and let’s just get this over with. The production, the drama… Ruby could pull it off, but they can’t. They’re all sitting there, practically wiggling in their seats with anticipation, and when Ben leaves the table for a minute and returns with a bottle of champagne, I hate myself even more for not telling Jules we walked into a trap.
