Dead to Her(55)

Mrs. Radford’s room. She was Mrs. Radford, wasn’t she? It was as if Keisha were the ghost and the dead wife still lived.





34.

Jason had left early for work, and Marcie had gone to the gym to work up a sweat and clear her head of Keisha, the unwelcome reminder of her past that had reared its head yesterday. By the time she got home, having picked up a delicious superfoods green salad from Fernando’s on the way, she was in a better mood. She knew she still had good muscle tone, but it didn’t hurt to make sure everything stayed perky and where it should be. A touch of Botox could take care of the occasional wrinkle, but her body was all down to the effort she put in. And more than that, she liked to feel strong. Keisha was strong rather than skinny, and her body was beautiful.

Keisha. Just thinking about her body—about the things they’d done together—made Marcie’s tired body tingle. It was fine her brain telling her she had to stop, but her body had other ideas. Marcie picked up the mail and took it into the kitchen, throwing it onto the counter and hungrily opening her salad box. She wasn’t even going to sort through it—the only mail that ever came for her was marketing junk from various stores she’d been stupid enough to give her details to—but then as she went to fetch a fork from the cutlery drawer she noticed the start of her name on an expensive white envelope. She pulled it free and stared for a moment.

The paper felt almost like fabric under her touch and her name had been written in lilac ink in beautiful cursive. It was a Savannah postmark. A wedding invitation perhaps, she thought, but couldn’t think of any of their friends who had children who’d recently gotten engaged. She slid a knife into the corner and carefully opened it, oddly both curious and excited. Letters were a thing of the past, gone even as she grew up. Communication was all online or by cell phone. The only mail her mom had ever gotten had been demands for money.

It was an invitation, she realized, as she pulled the thick card free and gasped. Not to a wedding, but to something so much better. She stared at the words on the first line, all thought of how hungry she was forgotten.

Dear Marcie, we would like to invite you to the next luncheon meeting of the Magnolias.

The Magnolias. Of all the ladies’ lunch clubs and organizations in Savannah, the Magnolias were the most prestigious. Iris was in the Magnolias. Eleanor had been. Marcie wasn’t even sure that Virginia was. The Magnolias was for the wives of the movers and shakers of Savannah. The powerful men who, each in his own professional way, were the blood of the city. Word that Jason was buying William out must have been spreading, and now Marcie was becoming someone the ladies of the city wanted to keep close. To be friends with. To allow into the inner circle.

Her heart was racing. No one would look down on her again if she was a Magnolia. As much as she bitched and moaned about the Savannah sets, the Magnolias were more of an organization. There were maybe fifty Magnolias. Too many to be a clique but still aloof, private, and powerful. Respected.

She sat down at the breakfast island, placing the card carefully in front of her where nothing would get spilled on it. At last, after a lifetime of being looked down on or laughed at or judged, this girl from Tommy’s Riverbank mobile home park whose mama drank too much and slept around and could barely pay the bills or rent on their crappy trailer was now going to be one of the most respected women in Savannah.

She had to make this marriage work. She had to. It was time to grow up. And more than anything, she had to stop this crazy situation with Keisha.





35.

Elizabeth had gotten her a glass of water and put a cool compress on her forehead, the two women sitting side by side on the dead wife’s bed. “Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked. “You look pale. I hear you nearly fainted at church too?”

Keisha still couldn’t speak but sat trembling as the damp cloth and the icy air-conditioning fought the heat that raged in her.

“Are you maybe . . . ?” Elizabeth smiled and then looked down at Keisha’s stomach. “You know.”

Keisha tried to laugh but it was close to a sob. “No, I don’t think so.” She smells like she’s been drinking. “I wouldn’t drink if I was pregnant.” Would she? Maybe she would. Maybe she didn’t deserve a child of her own. Would the child be cursed too? She broke things, that’s what she did. She was selfish. She was KeKe and always would be, not Mrs. William Radford IV.

The conjure ball.

She shivered again. She’d wished harm on William—more than wished it—and now the bad juju had come for her, the cursed girl. She’d die here, she knew she would.

William appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed and cheeks redder than normal. His expression screamed, I don’t need this shit, not in front of all these people. “It was nothing. Just some ball of mud. They’ve thrown it out.”

Mud. Dirt. Graves. Keisha was sure she could taste rot in her mouth.

“A ball of mud?” Elizabeth frowned. “Who would have brought that into the house?” She wasn’t as dismissive as William. It gave Keisha a thread of sanity to cling to. Something to stop her from drifting into the terrifying darkness. The ball wasn’t normal. It wasn’t an accident. Someone had brought it in here on purpose.

“Zelda says two of the maids had their children with them today. They were playing outside earlier. I guess they made it.” He paused. “They won’t be working here again.” He looked at Keisha but didn’t come any closer. “You feeling better?”