Dead to Her(2)

Marcie watched her friends chirruping their joy—the queen is dead, long live the queen—vying to be the happiest at the new union. Iris, birdlike and papery old, but elegantly preserved, and her husband, Noah, the judge, portly, red-faced, and yet somewhat regal, the two of them cornerstones of Savannah society. Virginia, constantly smiling, her body starved to slim but her full face, under her Stepford wife blowout, forever betraying the larger size her God had meant her to be. She was a stalwart of the church, where she was adored almost as much as Jesus himself for the size of her charitable donations. Beside her was her foppish husband, Emmett, slight and short and impeccably dressed. Also somewhere in his mid-fifties, he brokered various stocks and shares to pretend to himself that he didn’t simply while away his life on inherited wealth, using the club as an easy pool for investors.

Sometimes, in the increasingly frequent bad moods that struck when this life threatened to suffocate her, Marcie wondered if she’d reach menopause early just by being around so much middle age. But now, in the wake of poor Eleanor’s demise, here was youth among them, a shard of obsidian glistening in the staid, patted-down chalk. Freshness. Excitement.

And twenty-two. Four years younger than Marcie had been when she’d met Jason. An affair, a year or so of melodrama, an unpleasant divorce—goodbye, Jacquie—and by twenty-nine, she had been the young second wife taking careful steps to find her place in this world.

Now she was nearly thirty-five, with Jason coming up on fifty-three, and she was cemented—stuck—into the set. But Jason wasn’t like the others in many ways. Not quite of the same stock, even though his family had been around for generations. And then there was the business with his father. He’d had to rise above that; no mean feat in this world. He’d crawled back onto the social ladder while married to Jacquie. It was something they had in common, this tenacity to achieve more, and Marcie was determined they’d keep climbing. She looked at the chattering, gushing wealth embodied in her friends. How wonderful it must be to be born an Iris or a William, when people hung on your every word, wanted to please you. Royalty. Shame they didn’t have anything of note to say, but then they didn’t have to.

She glanced toward Jason, wanting to share a quick secret smile at the ridiculousness of all this, but her husband’s eyes were on Keisha. Marcie watched as his hand half-stroked the young woman’s bare arm when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, as if he couldn’t resist touching her.

Unlike the women’s, this was no air kiss. Did his lips linger against Keisha’s flawless skin a fraction too long? He wasn’t smiling, not amusedly dazzled like the others, and she noted his Adam’s apple dipping as he swallowed. She knew that look too well. Lust. It was the way he’d looked at her in the first heat after they’d met. He hadn’t looked at her like that for a while. She felt her stomach constrict, her champagne suddenly sour.

Once a cheat, always a cheat.

“Jason, introduce your wife, where are your manners? Oh, these boys . . .”

“Yes, Marcie, what are you doing back there? Come on in!”

“Marcie?”

For a moment she didn’t even recognize her own name, still feeling the sting of that heated expression in Jason’s eyes, and then the huddle parted as William’s thick fingers touched her arm and she automatically smiled, all worry hidden away.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “I’m so happy for you.” She turned to Keisha, tall and glorious in front of her, suddenly feeling old. “And, of course, lovely to meet you.”

Their eyes stayed locked for a second or two too long, rich, deep brown on her watery blue, and Marcie knew she was being appraised—judged—in a way the other wives hadn’t been. They were in a different age bracket. They weren’t competition. But maybe Marcie wasn’t so old, after all.

“I feel like I already know you all.” Keisha’s English accent was hard and clipped; strangely captivating. You all. Two words. Even Marcie now automatically drawled them together in that Southern liquid way. “Billy’s talked about you so much.”

Billy? Eleanor would turn in her grave. William Radford IV was no one’s Billy. Or at least he hadn’t been. Times were changing. Keisha turned her attention back to Jason. “Especially you. The great Jason Maddox, the brains of the firm and all-round great guy. I hope you don’t disappoint.” She winked, flirtatious and friendly, at ease with being the center of attention, and then laughed, a surprisingly brash sound, or perhaps just uninhibited, and they all dutifully joined in, a tinkling of politeness. When Jason winked back at the new star in their firmament, Marcie wasn’t sure if she wanted to rip this breathtaking woman’s eyes out or go and scream in a corner.

“I know this has all been sudden and you may think we’re crazy.” William took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to his new bride, and then letting his fingers slide down to the curve of her back. “But when you know, you know. Keisha brought life back into my heart. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“You didn’t want to take the other six months as a honeymoon?” Jason asked, at last looking at William. “You were so adamant you were going for a year.”

“Plans change, Jason. Plans change. And how could I stay away from my wonderful friends for so long?”

“Well, I know you’re retiring but . . .”