The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(39)
He sighed. “An invitation to what?”
I stared longingly at the side of the road, my hand hovering over the door latch. “A party. At Cannon Green.”
“A party? Well, that’s something. What kind of party? Baby’s first birthday? Retirement? Engagement? Celebrating Sophie’s new enterprise of handmade grass skirts from Africa?”
“A book-launch party,” I said quickly, coughing into my hands in the dim hope that he wouldn’t hear and would let it drop.
“A book-launch party?” he repeated, each consonant perfect. “For whom?”
When I didn’t answer immediately he glanced at me, a look of incredulity mixed with uncertainty clouding his features. “It couldn’t be . . .”
“It’s for Marc. For Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City. I think it’s a big deal—the invitation was sent by his publisher. Maybe that’s why we’re on the guest list—it’s a mistake because they don’t know your history with Marc.”
“Oh, they know it. And I’m pretty sure Marc made sure we were on that list.”
“So we’re not going, right?” I asked hopefully. Spending money on an evening gown for a party for Marc Longo was right up there on my priority list alongside doing psychic readings at the Ashley Hall alumnae weekend (as suggested by Nola).
Jack didn’t even hesitate. “Of course we’re going.”
“But why put ourselves through the misery of seeing Marc gloat, and watching people who should know better fawn over him? He stole that book from you. And then he tried to steal our house from both of us. Why on earth should we go to a party to celebrate him? Don’t forget that Rebecca will be there, too. She’ll be wearing some atrocious pink gown, and just the sight of her in it and her smug, self-satisfied expression will probably make me throw up.”
Jack grinned, his dimple deepening. “And that alone will be worth it. Just make sure you aim it at her.”
I elbowed him. “But seriously, why would you want to put us both through that?”
“Because if we don’t show up, it will send the message that we’re deeply hurt. By being there, we show them that we don’t care. That we can rise above their pettiness and appear at a celebratory party for Marc and his book because we’re happy for him and his success. Because we’re better than that. We’re mature adults who can put bitterness behind us and move on without hard feelings.”
“Is that how you really feel?”
“Heck no. I’m mad as hell and I think Marc is a completely dishonest jerk and if this were another century, I would have called him out at dawn for a duel. Sadly, I can’t do that. So instead we’ll go to his party with smiles on our faces and eat as much caviar as we can. Put some in napkins to bring home if we have to. And make them think that we’re up to something.”
He studied the road in front of him, and I had the feeling that he was avoiding looking at me for a reason—and not just to avoid the tourist standing in the middle of Broad Street taking a photo of St. Michael’s.
“Is this about using our house for the movie? Because we are not going to agree to that, right?”
As if even parking spaces in Charleston weren’t immune to Jack’s charms, one opened up on Meeting Street just as we approached the Fireproof Building. He easily slid the minivan into the spot before turning to me with a smile. “We’re here.”
“Jack . . .”
But he’d already leaped out of his seat and was opening the passenger door for me. He glanced at his watch. “We’re a little late—hurry up. I hate to keep Yvonne waiting.”
Grabbing my hand, he led me up the familiar staircase and into the building, then up to the familiar reading room, where Jack and I had spent many hours researching various Charleston historic factoids.
Yvonne was sitting at one of the long wooden tables with several books set out in front of her, little scraps of paper marking spots inside each one. She looked up and smiled before standing, the rhinestones in her cat’s-eye glasses sparkling.
She stood on tiptoes to kiss Jack on each cheek, then turned to me. “You look lovely as always, Melanie. Are you keeping Jack in line?”
“Of course,” I said at the same time Jack answered, “Not even close.”
She winked and then kissed my cheek. “Same ol’ Jack,” she said with a wistful note in her voice, and I thought, not for the first time, that if she were thirty years younger and he were still single, she would have set her cap for him.
“I like your new glasses,” Jack said, eyeing Yvonne. “They frame your face beautifully.”
Her cheeks flushed a flattering pink. “Careful, Jack. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“And don’t I know it?” he said, squeezing her shoulders and making her flush even more.
Clearing her throat, she turned our attention to the books on the table. “They’ve moved so many of the archives to the new College of Charleston Library, but happily most of what you were looking for I found here. You might still want to go look there and at the archives at the Charleston Museum for more on the Pinckney family. It’s a very old Charleston family—two signers of the Constitution and a governor. My mother was a Pinckney, you know. Different branch from Button and her brother, Sumter, but our family trees touch somewhere. Their mother, Rosalind, was a cousin—many times removed, of course—but we would spend summers together at our family plantation on Edisto. We were of an age, you see.”