“Brooke will be busy celebrating with her friends,” Lula had said. “She won’t even know we’re there. Let’s wait and go later, after she’s settled in her new job.”
But that later had never come.
The last family vacation they’d taken had been an educational trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, for spring break her first year in high school. Growing up, they’d gone to Disney World, the Florida Keys, and to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty. And that summed up the extent of their family travels. Lizbet never complained, though. She was grateful for their summers spent on Sullivan’s Island, which was itself a three-month vacation.
Lizbet walked farther down the promenade. She cupped her hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun on the water as she watched a daysailer dance across the harbor.
She remembered, as if it were yesterday, coming home from high school one late September afternoon three weeks after Brooke had left for Stanford. The sight of her mother in bed with a damp washcloth on her forehead and the drapes drawn tight surprised her. She’d never known her mother to have a headache, let alone the flu or anything else. Lula had more energy than a six-year-old child, bouncing from one project to the next from sunrise to sunset.
Lizbet had tiptoed into the room. “Mama, are you okay? Are you sick?”
“I’m fine, honey. I just needed a rest.” Lula lifted back the covers. “I have to start dinner soon, but crawl in with me for a minute and tell me about your day.”
Finding the warmth of her mother’s body comforting, Lizbet had settled in and told Lula all about the experiment she and her lab partner had bombed, quite literally, in chemistry. “I’m not kidding, Mom. Smoke was everywhere. The fire alarm went off and everything.”
Lula’s lips formed an O. “Did the fire department come?”
She giggled. “I don’t think so.”
Lizbet still remembered the satisfying feeling of having her mother all to herself for the very first time. She’d rushed home from school the next day and every day for the rest of that week to find her mother in her darkened bedroom with a washcloth over her forehead. She snuggled up to Lula and told her all the funny and the not-so-funny things that had happened that day. She thought her mother had come down with the flu, but Lula admitted on Friday that she was suffering from empty-nest syndrome. “I miss Brooke more than I ever thought I would.”
Lizbet’s heart had sunk to the bottom of the Charleston Harbor.
Lula continued to lavish her attention on Lizbet, and two months later, when she’d begged Lizbet not to ever leave her, Lizbet vowed to always stay close to home. She’d finally gotten her mother’s attention. And she had no intention of giving that up.
As a child, Lizbet had worshipped her mother and her older sister. They were the center of her universe—the sun and the moon. Her father was a star, serving little purpose except to brighten her nights when he came home from work. Lula, Brooke, and Lizbet went everywhere together. They learned to swim, play tennis, and sail. Weather permitting, they packed picnic lunches and explored surrounding beaches and the grounds of local plantations. Lula often said, “We belong to our very own sorority, the Tri Hornes.”
Lula and Brooke were the sorority sisters, but Lizbet was their pledge. She trotted along after them, forcing them to wait for her to catch up. She always got the smallest slice of pizza, the third choice in whatever they were choosing, and the last say in whatever they were deciding—which movie to see or which restaurant to go to for lunch. Her sister took full advantage of having the upper hand. When Brooke left the water running and the bathtub overflowed, she blamed it on Lizbet. She blamed it on Lizbet when she broke their grandmother’s oriental vase and when she hid their mother’s car keys so they’d be late to the dentist. The final straw, the one that made Lizbet drop out of the sorority, happened on Saturday, the twenty-second of October, during the early hours of the morning following her thirteenth birthday.
Lizbet had been sound asleep for hours when she heard someone tapping on her bedroom window. She rolled out of bed and crept across the room. Peeking through the blinds, she saw Brooke clinging to the tree outside her window. She threw open the window. “Are you crazy? Get in here before you fall.” She gripped her sister by the arm and yanked her inside.
Brooke stumbled and knocked a lamp off Lizbet’s chest of drawers. “Shhh!” She pressed her finger to her lips—more to the side of her mouth than to her lips. “You’ll wake up Mom and Dad.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Lizbet noticed her sister’s bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara. “Are you drunk?”
“I might have a teensy-weensy buzz,” she said, and let out a hiccup.
The door swung open, and light from the hallway filled the room. “What’s going on in here?” Lula demanded as she entered the room.
Brooke straightened, suddenly sober. “I was helping Lizbet. She got locked out of the house.”
“Really.” Lula narrowed her eyes at Lizbet. “How did you get locked out of the house? I checked on you just before eleven, and you were sound asleep.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Mom,” Brooke said, rubbing their mother’s back as if consoling her. “It’s Lizzy’s thirteenth birthday. She wanted to celebrate with friends. Good thing I heard her knocking at the window. She might have fallen from the tree.”
Her face flushed with anger, Lula moved closer to Lizbet. “Have you been drinking?” she asked, sniffing Lizbet’s breath.
Lizbet shook her head, too dumbfounded to speak. She couldn’t believe her mother was buying her sister’s lies. Why wasn’t Lula sniffing Brooke’s breath? She was the older sister by four years. It stood to reason that Brooke would be the one sneaking out of the house. Never mind that Brooke was fully clothed, while Lizbet was wearing her pajamas. She experienced an anger like she’d never felt before, but she kept her lips zipped. She didn’t stand a chance arguing against the two of them.
“Get in that bed and go to sleep.” Lula went to the window, checking to make certain it was locked. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
But when morning came, her mother was even angrier at Lizbet, more convinced than ever that she was the one who’d snuck out of the house. She grounded Lizbet for two weeks. “No TV or sleepovers. Come straight home from school and do your homework.”
Lizbet accepted her punishment and served her time stoically. Brooke never uttered a word of apology. The shy glances she cast toward Lizbet during dinner were as close to an admission of guilt as she would get.
One good thing had come from her punishment. On Monday of the second week, Lula sent Lizbet next door to borrow a cup of sugar. Georgia invited her in and offered her a glass of lemonade. Lizbet readily accepted, eager to escape her mother’s watchful eye. Georgia, recognizing her gloom, asked, “Is everything okay, sweetheart? You seem kinda down.”
Lizbet burst into tears and told Georgia the whole story. “I don’t understand. Brooke was clearly drunk. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, she even had on her coat, and I was standing there in my pajamas with dried drool all over my face. The truth was staring Mom in the face. She just didn’t want to see it.”
Georgia held her tight while she cried. “Even though I don’t think it’s fair, your willingness to take the punishment for your sister says a lot about your character.”
They’d always shared a special bond, but Georgia and Lizbet grew even closer that day. Georgia was the one she bragged to when she received a good grade and the one who took her shopping when she got invited to the prom. Unlike her mother, Georgia never criticized, and she never judged. Georgia was as different from her mother as two women could be. Lula was a headstrong woman with traditional values, while Georgia was stylish and elegant, a trendsetter. Georgia could be demanding at times, too, but her need to control was about getting things done. Lula’s need to control was about getting her way. In her mind, her way was the only way.
In recent years, Lizbet had se
nsed a sad loneliness in Georgia. Her sons lived in Boston, and Dr. Dog—a nickname bestowed upon him by Brooke when she struggled to say Murdaugh as a child—worked long hours at the hospital. Lizbet’s heart went out to the woman she considered her mentor. She, too, understood how that kind of loneliness felt.
Not one to hold grudges, Lizbet had eventually forgiven her sister, but nothing was ever the same between them. Lizbet wasn’t jealous of Brooke. She loved her, even though she didn’t understand her. But how can you have a relationship with someone who lives on the other side of the country and you see only once every three years? Maybe now that they were both out of college and on their own, they could find some common ground and start anew.
CHAPTER SIX
Georgia
Standing at her kitchen window, Georgia watched Lula and her precious daughter poke around in the garden. Her own sons rarely came home for a visit. She had to travel to Boston in order to see them. During her last trip over Thanksgiving, they had bounced her back and forth like a basketball. Both had followed in their father’s footsteps. Richard was a cardiologist and Martin a resident at Mass General. Neither had time for her and made it apparent that her presence was a hindrance.
Georgia glanced at the clock on the stove. Four o’clock seemed awfully early for a drink, but she desperately needed something to calm her nerves. She filled a stemless goblet with pinot noir and took the glass and the bottle into her library. She closed the plantation shutters and turned on the gas logs in the fireplace. She kept the thermostat set on sixty-eight degrees. Damn hot flashes. She should’ve been done with them years ago. Her obstetrician warned her that some women never got over them. The heat and humidity of the summer months only made matters worse. For an hour, maybe two, she would pretend like it was a brisk fall afternoon. She curled up on the leather sofa and spread a cashmere throw across her bare legs. She loved this room with its wood-paneled walls and oriental rug. She loved her whole house, truth be told.
Tradd Street was never meant to be their permanent home, but a stepping-stone to a larger house on a more prestigious street. For years Georgia had dreamed of buying a fixer-upper. She’d dragged Langdon through countless properties, but none of them had been the right fit. At least not in his mind. She’d gotten her hopes up several times, only to be disappointed by his disinterest. He didn’t care where they lived. He was never home anyway.
He stayed late at the hospital most nights and was up at dawn every morning—running three miles, showering, dressing, and dashing out the door before Georgia ever opened her eyes. He was as fit as the day they married. Every bit as handsome as well. Langdon didn’t care much about food, except for the nutritional value it offered his body. He ate his meals without tasting them. His time was too valuable to squander on luxuries like going out to dinner. At least not with her. But he never said no to a colleague. Or to one of his guy pals. He said no to Georgia every time she suggested they try one of the area’s trendy restaurants or attend an art exhibit. When he wasn’t busy removing cancer from people’s brains, he spent his free time playing one of the many games he played with his friends.
She no longer dreamed about owning a larger home on the Battery. A bigger house meant more rooms for her to get lost in. One day she would consider downsizing. For now she was content living on Tradd Street with Lula and Midge as neighbors.
Georgia finished her wine and poured another glass. Why was she so anxious about starting this new job? She had a knack for entertaining. The idea of mingling with customers, of helping them pick out just the right food items and tableware for their dinner parties, excited her. Heidi had provided few details of her job description during her interview. She would be responsible for making sales transactions. Would she also be in charge of the bank deposits and inventory? She wanted so much to succeed. But what if she failed?
She picked up the most recent issue of Garden and Gun from the coffee table and settled back on the sofa. As she thumbed through the pages, her eyelids grew heavy, and she dozed off to sleep. Langdon shook her awake sometime later.
“Georgia, why on earth are you drinking so early in the day?” He gestured at the empty glass and half-full bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Is this what you do all day when I’m at work? Please tell me you haven’t become one of those pathetic women who starts drinking at breakfast and continues until bedtime. And what’s with the fire? It’s close to a hundred degrees outside.”
Georgia sat up straight. “I was feeling anxious about starting my new job tomorrow and needed something to take the edge off.” She ignored his comment about the fire.
“What job? Please tell me you didn’t get suckered into running another charity benefit.”
“This is a paying job, thank you very much, at Tasty Provisions, the new gourmet shop on East Bay. They hired me to work in their storefront. I told you about it. But you weren’t listening, as usual.”
She stood to face him. He had a nice tan for someone who spent so many hours in the operating room. His department had recently hired a young doctor who’d just completed his residency at the Mayo Clinic. Langdon was fifty-eight, only two years away from mandatory retirement. Perhaps this new addition to the team was edging him out. Or maybe the head of his department wanted to get rid of him early. Wouldn’t that be a blow to his ego?
She ran her finger down his stubbly cheek. “You’re sporting quite the healthy glow these days. I’m glad to know one of us is enjoying the boat,” she said in reference to their daysailer, which they kept at Charleston City Marina. When the boys were little, they spent most Saturdays during the summer sailing out to the area beaches. It had been years since he’d invited Georgia to go sailing with him.
“Don’t try to change the subject.” He stared at her, his hazel eyes bewildered behind his wire-rimmed specs. “Why do you need to earn money? I thought I made enough for both of us.”
She lifted her hair off her neck, feeling a hot flash coming on despite the cold air blowing through the vents. “It’s not about the money, Langdon. I need to feel useful. The boys are gone, and you’re hardly ever here.”
“I can’t tell you not to take the job, but I will advise you against neglecting your duties at home.”
Her jaw went slack. “What duties? We have a service to take care of the yard. Clara comes in once a week to clean up what little mess we make. I rarely have any laundry to do, since you send everything to the cleaners except your boxers and undershirts. You seldom eat dinner here, so I’ve stopped buying groceries. Paying the bills takes very little time. So you tell me. What’s left to do?” She crossed her arms, waiting for him to respond.
“The exterminator. You need to be here when the exterminator comes.” He turned his back on her and crossed the room toward the door. “Speaking of eating, will you make me a sandwich? I need to get back to the hospital.”
“I’m sure you do, after sailing away the afternoon.” She hated the nagging tone in her voice, but she was powerless to control it. She followed him out of the room. “I don’t buy bread anymore. And since I didn’t expect you to be here for dinner, a chicken Caesar salad is the only thing I have to offer.”
“Whatever is fine,” he said as he started up the stairs. “I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be down in a minute.”
She removed the plastic salad container she’d purchased for her own dinner from the refrigerator and transferred the contents to a plate. She added parmesan cheese, tossed in a few croutons, and drizzled dressing over the top. She was pouring two glasses of sweet tea when he returned, attired in linen slacks, golf shirt, and driving loafers.
“You’re going to the hospital dressed like that?” she asked.
He avoided her gaze by turning his attention to the salad. “I’m meeting the guys for poker after I check on my patients.”
She leaned back against the counter, sipping her tea. “You’re spending an awful lot of time with the guys these days.” She tried to sound casual and flirty. “Why don’
t you make it up to me by taking me out on the water on Sunday? We can pack a picnic and sail over to Folly Beach.”
He looked up from his salad. “I thought you were starting a new job tomorrow.”
“We’re closed on Sundays.”
He jabbed his fork in a chunk of chicken. “Gosh, Georgie. I wish you’d asked me sooner. I’ve already made plans to play golf on Sunday.”
“With the same guys you’re playing poker with tonight?” What had gotten into her? She seldom questioned him about his extracurricular activities. He worked hard. He deserved some time off. But she was his wife. She deserved to have him spend some time with her as well.
“Your tone implies I’ve been neglecting you.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m simply suggesting we go sailing on Sunday. Do you remember the last time we spent any quality time together? Because I don’t.”
He stood up and walked his plate to the sink, scraping his half-eaten salad into the disposal. “I need to get to the hospital. I have a patient in critical condition. I’ll see you tonight when I get home.”
“I’m sure I’ll be asleep,” she said, ducking her head when he tried to kiss her forehead. She’d stopped waiting up for him when the boys were babies.
She waited for him to leave before slipping on her running shoes to go out. Despite the sultry air and the heat radiating off the pavement, she walked up and down, in and around the neighboring street. She inhaled the aromas from the grills and waved to those gathered on their porches with cocktails in hand. She envied them their time together with family and friends when all she had to look forward to during the evening hours was loneliness.
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