Dead to Her(15)

“You never told me any of this.”

“It’s delicate. Yes, William verbally agreed he’d retire and I’d buy him out, but I know him, he’s doubting his decision. If he sees I’ve started making changes—well, you know how he can be about change. He likes that we’ve always been a boutique partnership as if it’s a hundred years ago and nothing exists outside of the South.” He chewed his bottom lip, thinking. “I’m going to work on him from the inside. Maybe take him to Charleston or Atlanta for a late bachelor party. I’ll get Elizabeth to find somewhere he’ll love. Vegas even. Show him how he could be spending his time. You work on her. Be her friend.”

It was Marcie’s turn to be thoughtful. “She’s using him, you know that, don’t you?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t care? You’re one of his closest friends and she’s a gold digger. All that stuff about a car at lunchtime. And the money he’s spending on her. She’s probably in his will by now. Shouldn’t you warn him?”

“She is in his will. He drew up the changes this morning with Brody. When they got back, she signed a postnup, in case they divorce, but he’s leaving her pretty much everything if he dies. If I try to warn him about her, he’s going to turn on me and all my work plans will be screwed. No one likes to be told they’re being stupid. Let his gorgeous wife be a distraction for now.”

“Is that why you’ve been flirting with her a bit?” Marcie asked.

“I haven’t been flirting with her.” He bristled and she felt her regained shield of confidence crack again. He must have seen something in her expression because he relented. “Well, maybe a little, just to keep her on our side.”

Too late, babe, Marcie thought. The denial came first. There’s always guilt in denial.

“Just do it,” he said, pushing back the sheet and striding naked to the bathroom. “For me.”





10.

Marcie didn’t have to reach out to make the first move. Elizabeth had called to say she was going to show Keisha a few of the sights and asked if Marcie wanted to come along. Want was a strong word, and it was turning out to be a long, hot morning.

They’d done the Davenport House, where Elizabeth pointed out various supposedly interesting details of history and Keisha and Marcie had trailed behind, listless, both obviously bored by the commentary. It might have made Marcie warm to the young woman if everything she said didn’t seem to be related to Jason. So, how long have you been married? Did you know his first wife? He must work long hours, how do you keep busy? Don’t you want children? Does he stay away much? I have to come and see your new house. Jason said at lunch that it’s amazing. You must be so happy.

“Yes I am,” she’d answered. “Blissfully so. We both are.” Keisha had faltered at that and changed the subject. God, she was so obvious. And only just married. What was that old saying? Someone who marries for money earns it. Did Keisha really think she could get away with a flirtation on the side?

She was messing with the wrong woman if she thought she could pull the wool over Marcie’s eyes with this sugary sweet routine. It might work with the others, but Marcie wasn’t filled with that ingrained, unspoken racism born in the blood of their wealthy, classist generation that made them fall over themselves to be nice by way of embarrassed apology. Marcie wasn’t like them. She saw Keisha for what she was—a serpent in their midst. But she’d play along for now.

As they strolled through the quiet squares, scented with citrusy, honey-sweet magnolia perfume, pausing en route to gaze up at wrought-iron balconies on beautiful painted houses and the pretty old-fashioned streetlamps under the boughs of Georgia oaks, Elizabeth seemed so enthralled by the quaint charm she may as well have been a tourist rather than a late-middle-aged woman who’d lived here all her life. Savannah sure was a beautiful city, Marcie knew that, but she couldn’t help but wonder how it compared with the hustle and bustle of a cold place like London. An alien land no doubt. Keisha didn’t strike her as someone who’d traveled beyond Europe a lot. There was too much city grit in her eyes. Marcie’s used to have it too.

“What’s that stuff?” Keisha was looking up.

“Spanish moss,” Marcie said. “It’s everywhere in Georgia.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Elizabeth joined in. “So Gothic against the architecture.”

“I guess.” Keisha didn’t sound convinced. “It gives me the creeps. They’re like the kind of cobwebs that would come at the end of the world. Shrouding everything.”

“Maybe that’s appropriate. After all, this is a city of live oaks and dead people, that’s what they say. Which brings us to our next location on the tour,” Elizabeth continued breezily, as Marcie groaned internally.

“Colonial Park Cemetery,” Elizabeth said as she led them through an arched gateway. “Opened around 1750, so pretty old for the States. There are hundreds of gravestones here but about ten thousand buried bodies, so do the math on that one. Those with the stones are the lucky ones. There’s a mass grave for seven hundred yellow fever victims, and we’re probably standing on some other residents; in fact, they spread right out under the streets.”

Keisha didn’t look too impressed as she took in the vast space of tended lawns, paths running through them, and scattered gravestones. The heavy heat had driven sensible people inside, and Marcie could see only a solitary visitor, a large black woman with umber hair sitting on a bench in the distance, her walking stick beside her, under a wall of old grave markers. Keisha’s mouth pursed. “Is this where Eleanor is buried?”