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“Okay, Benji,” Libby says admiringly. “The good shit.”
“Language!” Nelle snaps, but Ben only laughs, the cork popping out of the bottle with a practiced twist.
“Oh, it’s fine, Nana Nelle,” he says. “She’s not wrong. This is indeed ‘the good shit.’ The 1959 Dom Pérignon Rosé, a favorite in this house.”
Ruby’s favorite, actually. I had my first sip of it on New Year’s Eve when I was nine, and thought it tasted sour, the bubbles making me want to sneeze. She always had it around for special occasions, and it was only after I left this house that I learned those bottles run you around thirty grand.
If I had any doubt that I was completely fucked, Ben opening the 1959 Dom put that to rest.
Once we all have our flutes, Ben takes up a position next to Nelle, raising his glass, his eyes trained on me. He’s gleeful, like a little kid on Christmas morning, and I think again about that vision I had, his head cracked on the parquet by the front door.
“A toast,” he goes on, and everyone raises their glasses but me. At my side, Jules falters a little bit, her glass lowering slightly, hesitant.
“Cam?” she murmurs, placing her other hand on my arm.
But I’m still watching Ben, waiting.
“To family,” Ben says, gesturing around the table with his glass. “To the McTavishes. The real ones.”
I smirk at that, and his smile turns poisonous. “And to at long last evicting the interloper.”
There’s a loud slap as Libby tosses a folder on the table.
Had she been holding that in her lap the whole dinner? Just waiting for this moment?
If so, she fucked it up because she throws it just a little too hard, and it slides across the slick surface until it reaches the edge, papers spilling out onto the floor to my left.
“Fuck’s sake, Lib,” Ben mutters, but Libby just throws her hands up and says, “Look, just tell him already.”
“Tell him what?” Jules asks, and I take a deep breath, keeping my hand steady as I lift my glass of champagne and finally take a sip.
“They’re going to tell me,” I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound, “that the woman I knew—that we all knew—as Ruby McTavish wasn’t Ruby at all.”
Another swallow of champagne, but it might as well be acid sliding down my throat. “They’re going to tell me that she was really Dora Darnell.”
From the Desk of Ruby A. McTavish
March 29, 2013
Roddy Kenmore was a drug-addled fool who I never should have married in the first place, and the only regret I felt when I watched him slip under that dark salt water was that I hadn’t shoved him sooner.
There. That’s the last husband sorted, and, frankly, that one sentence is more effort that I want to expend on him.
Oh, fine. I suppose I can give you alittlemore information.
After Andrew, I was as lost as I’d ever been. I left Ashby House for over a year, unable to bear the giant rooms, the rural seclusion, without Andrew by my side. Nelle was thrilled, of course, finally Queen of the Castle. I thought about letting her keep the damn thing, just signing it over to her and never darkening its door again, instead making my own way in the world without the McTavish name. I had no idea what that would look like, though. I’d gotten so used to life there at Ashby, in Tavistock. Out in the rest of the world, my money still opened doors and smoothed paths, but it wasn’t the same. I liked the power of the name, the safety it implied. Being the latest in a long line, a person with roots that ran deep.
It’s no surprise to me that Roddy Kenmore found me when I was floundering like this. The Roddys of this world have a sixth sense for homing in on the vulnerable, the lost, the rudderless.
I actually met him at one of those clubs I’d bought back in the sixties, the one in Miami. When I first invested in it, it was called “The Palma Palace,” and then in the seventies, it was just “Palma” for several years. By 1985, it had become “Paloma,” and it was making a rather staggering amount of money. (Lucky for you, I sold it in 1989 for a mint. Two years later, I believe there was some mess with drugs and maybe a murder? I don’t remember. Perhaps you now understand why I wouldn’t be all that interested in murders I did not commit.)
So, there I was at the Paloma, dancing in a Halston dress, the music so loud it drowned out any rational thinking, which must be why I found myself dancing with a man who was little more than a boy, really. Twenty-six, but he seemed even younger with his long red hair and his bright smile.
Roddy was always the husband that didn’t make sense. Duke was an obvious choice at the time, Hugh was a logical second husband, and anyone could see Andrew and I were mad for each other. So why did I marry a spoiled brat who said “irregardless” and thought Tiffany lamps had all belonged to someonenamedTiffany?
For one, he was a good time. At least at first. Roddy had one goal in life, and it was to have as much fun as possible. There was no past with Roddy, no future, only the present, onlynow, now, now,and, with a past like mine, can you blame me for wanting a taste of that?
For another, Roddy was filthy fucking rich, darling. Yes, yes, I am, too, but remember, at this point in my life, I was giving serious thought to leaving all things McTavish behind me. Roddy’s money—or really, his father’s money—would allow me to do that.
