by Lyla Payne
I push the thought out of my head, chewing my lip as I try to contain my social anxiety regarding public appearances instead. Not only do we have Beau’s party tonight, where I’ll face pretty much the entire town, but Mel’s finished her master’s degree during the summer sessions, and Will’s mom is throwing her a celebration next week. More required nice-making.
Beau’s party is in full swing by the time we show up, which Millie and I agreed was the best way to play it. This way, he won’t feel as though he has to introduce me around and we can kind of blend in—and in my case, suck down a drink or two—without being noticed.
There will be people here I know, but not many I’ve spent time with since coming back. Will and Mel, my two closest friends in Heron Creek other than Millie, were invited but declined. They took a trip to Charleston as a family since Mel’s finally done with school. Things have been rough since Will was in the hospital and out of work for so long, I think.
My only other local friend, Leo, doesn’t think much of our little town’s mayor. I think the feeling is mutual.
Bright green grass—not a brown patch to be found—stretches from the curb all the way to the river, interrupted near the latter by giant live oaks and an impressive sweet bay magnolia. The gorgeous, flowering landscaping that hugs the house gives off a sticky, sweet scent in the early twilight. Tables covered in crisp white linens and topped with platters and bowls of catered lowcountry fare—fried chicken and waffles, hot cornbread, grits of different flavors and textures, fried green tomatoes, and pitchers of lemonade and sweet tea—spiked and not-spiked—that weigh down each end—stretch behind the gleaming wooden patio. Bubbles of laughter lift toward the little white twinkle lights strung along the deck, across the tables, and between the trees, and I swear, the backyard looks more like the setting of an ABC Family Cinderella remake—another one—than real life.
“Good heavens,” Millie breathes beside me. “I hope the baby can’t see this, because he’s never having a party this fancy.”
“Your belly button isn’t a periscope. I think you’re safe.”
She laughs, a fresh, happy sound that warms my heart.
“Graciela!” Beau’s voice booms, thwarting my plan to ingest at least one shot of alcohol before facing the dreaded meet-the-friends scenario.
He breaks away from a group of mostly men standing at the edge of the deck. I use the eight or ten steps it takes him to reach my side to drink him in—his tall, sturdy frame, the way his shoulders fill out the light green linen shirt, how his hazel eyes melt into a stew of happiness and desire at the sight of me—and feel short of breath by the time he snags me in a hug.
The syrupy, salty smell of him goes straight to my head, steeping my brain cells in Beau gumbo, sweeping a desire through my blood that’s definitely inappropriate for an audience. The way his lips linger against mine when he goes in for a kiss, declaring our relationship goes beyond friendship or even something casual, tells me he’s experiencing at least some level of the same thing.
The happiness in his eyes has heated to lust by the time we pull apart. I take a shuddering breath, lost in his gaze, when my cousin clears her throat.
“Ahem. I’m here to represent the rest of the world,” she says, a slight smile curling the corners of her lips. “Hello, Mr. Mayor.”
Beau grins back at Millie, putting a little distance between us as he reaches for her hands and leans down to peck her cheek. “Amelia. Thank you for coming. You look radiant.”
“It’s just the hormones, but thank you. Happy birthday.”
It’s weird because my whole life, guys have paid more attention to my cousin than to me. The only time, until now, that I’d felt secure in the affection of my boyfriend in her presence was when Will and I were together all those years ago. Beau’s polite to Millie—warm, even—but the way his hand continues to find the small of my back spills delight and confidence through me.
“Are y’all hungry?” he asks, still smiling. It deepens his dimples and, with the sun setting behind him, makes my heart do a leap-and-twirl.
I’m twenty-five years old. I lost my virginity almost ten years ago, I’ve been engaged, and yet this man makes my organs seize. It’s hard to believe.
“Not really,” I reply, since there’s no telling what eating would do to the mess he’s created inside my body.
“I’m starving,” Mille growls. “Ravenous. About to die.”
“That’s the same thing she says every time I ask,” I add. “Just FYI.”
“Hey. Pregnancy means getting fat. May as well embrace the inevitable. Catch y’all later.” Millie trots toward the buffet table and grabs a sturdy paper plate, then thinks better of it and puts another one underneath it for support before starting to load up.
Beau chuckles. “I like her. I’m glad things worked out this way and she could move here.”
“I can’t say I’m happy about what she had to go through first, but things have turned out well enough.” I smile. “It’s nice to have her back in my life.”
His fingers wrap around mine, tugging me toward the group he left at the edge of the deck. “Let me introduce you to some people.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for a drink first, but now that I’ve missed my window to do it before introductions, I decide I’d better not. I’m trying to make a good first impression after all. If these people live in Heron Creek—and they probably do—they’ll have already heard tales about crazy, drunk, depressed Graciela Harper. No need to reinforce opinions, not at Beau’s party. Not when he just kissed me in front of everyone.
“Okay.”
My palm starts to sweat against his. It would be easy to blame it on the hot August evening, and that’s certainly a contributing factor, but the sweet, tingling excitement at being near Beau has morphed back into violent, puke-inducing nerves now that we’re approaching other people.
I pull my hand free, shrugging when Beau looks down at me with raised eyebrows. “I told you having an outdoor party in August was a mistake.”
“We live in South Carolina, Graciela. We can’t stay inside eight months out of the year.” He lowers his voice, gaze holding mine. “And maybe I like imagining you all sweaty.”
Goose bumps erupt across my overheated skin. I close my eyes, imagining all the scenarios in which we might enjoy that very thing, but a low chuckle from Beau shoots them open. I glower at him but manage to restrain myself from giving him a good punch in the kidneys. “You think you’re so cute.”
“I’m adorable.”
“Hmm. Keep it up and you won’t get your birthday present.” I rearrange my face into a seductive smile, biting my lower lip. “And I promise, Mr. Mayor, it’s something you’ve been wanting.”
I move forward, closing the last couple of feet to the group he’d left to come greet me and Millie, and get there before he recovers and hurries to catch up. A shit-eating grin splits my lips and satisfaction over being able to play him tit for tat erases at least some of my anxiety.
I can do this. In graduate school, politics, glad-handing, and meet and greets aren’t uncommon. No one at the University of Iowa thought I was anything less than charming. Why should Beau’s friends be any different?
Back then you had your shit together, the devil on my left shoulder whispers.
And you didn’t see ghosts, adds the one on my right.
Just my luck. I get dueling devil voices. Maybe my angel picked up my drinking problem and is passed out on a cloud somewhere.
I shake both devils off, urging them toward the bar, and focus as Beau gets his wits together and starts introductions.
“This is Randy Wideman. He’s in charge of constituent services in my office. And Karen Goins, my executive assistant.” He motions as he introduces them, but as we turn toward the second two men in the group, my muscles go rigid. “Noah Miles is the principal at the high school—he says he knows you—and of course, you remember Dylan Travis from the other evening.”
My br
ain urges my lips into a smile, my head into a nod, but why on earth Beau thought inviting the suspicious detective is a good idea escapes me. I try to look as though I’m not having a coronary.
Rescue comes, oddly enough, from Noah Miles, who used to moonlight as a summer-camp counselor when I was younger. I’m pretty sure we reenacted the scene from The Parent Trap—the string, the honey, the mud, but sadly sans bear—in his tent.
The strangled smile on his face suggests his memory holds something similar. “Graciela Harper. You’ve grown up since I last saw you. I hope, anyway.” He chokes out a laugh.
“Marginally.” Beau chuckles, casting me a supportive glance. It might say, Stop acting weird, like it did the other night. It’s the second most common look he gives me, close behind the one that makes me shiver in the middle of summer.
“I like to think so, Mr. Miles. And Karen, it’s nice to see you again.” I smile toward Beau. “Karen babysat Millie and me when we were younger. She lived down the street. Mr. Wideman is new to me, though. How long have you lived in town?”
“A few years now.” His voice is whiny, too thin. Reedy.
I linger for a moment in the past, using the memories of Karen, of torturing Mr. Miles, to get my breath before I step into the present and face Detective Travis.
“It’s nice to see you again, Detective. And under much happier circumstances.”
He tries a smile, but it looks all wrong on his classically handsome face. As though it’s painful. His features look exactly symmetrical, not a smidge off. “Please, call me Dylan.”
“So, you two met the other night at poor Glinda’s?” Karen lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Terrible.”
“I know.” I do not want to talk about this, but in a small town, there’s no way to avoid the topic of the first murder in six decades.
“How did you know to call the police, Graciela?” Mr. Miles chuckles. “Not that you’ve ever been far from trouble, even recently.”
The detective’s eyes narrow, and my face flushes. “I found Toad wandering around, and I don’t know … I just had a feeling, I guess. You know.”
The conversation continues, Karen and Noah speculating about what kind of horrible person could kill poor, sweet Glinda. Randy stays silent, his eyes cast toward the trees and the river while Dylan Travis grows so uncomfortable that his agitation shows in the tips of his reddened ears. I stay silent, pressing against Beau as he contributes when necessary, but can’t help thinking that not one person in Heron Creek would have described Glinda as sweet before this happened.
Gossip never appealed much to me, even as a young girl. I like knowing everything about my friends and neighbors, but asking questions of the people who have the answers always seems like the most effective course of action.
The intense, curious gaze I catch from Detective Travis suggests he might feel the same way, and being on the other end of my philosophy isn’t going to be much fun.
There’s a quick lull, and Beau, Lord bless him, jumps in to fill it. “You hungry, Graciela?”
“Thirsty, for sure.” I grasp the chance to get away from this conversation. It’s going to happen everywhere—here, at work, at Mel’s celebration, around town—but participating in it in front of the detective on the case is a gauntlet my clumsy butt shouldn’t walk.
Breathing comes easier now that it’s just the two of us, but the green space between clusters of people ends far too soon. At least beautiful containers of spiked tea and lemonade greet me at the far end of the table.
I take some of both, mixing them into a deliciously boozy Arnold Palmer.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Beau says.
The frank expression on his face makes me believe he means it, and even though it’s good he doesn’t think his friends hate me, my shoulders slump. “I guess we should get used to it. The talk about Glinda, I mean.” We wander a little ways away from the table, to a spot where we can be sort-of alone, even though it’s an illusion. “Why did you invite Detective Frowny Face?”
That makes him snort. “Dylan Travis is the newest member of the Heron Creek police force, which means he’s under my jurisdiction. I couldn’t not invite him, and getting to know him better isn’t going to hurt either one of us.”
“I guess.”
He leans in and kisses the spot where my hair meets my forehead. “I bet you were adorable as a sullen teenager.”
“I’d rethink that if I were you. No one is an adorable sullen teenager.”
“I was.”
I shake my head, unable to stop my smile from responding to his. “I can’t imagine you sullen,” I murmur.
Beau looks as though his mind is somewhere unsatisfactory while in a crowd of people when someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns, rearranging his features into something other than annoyance at the interruption, and greets Mel’s Aunt Eula. Her sharp eyes latch onto me before her arms drag me into a hug that’s all elbows and corners and generally as uncomfortable as the woman herself.
It’s never made sense to me that someone as warm and welcoming and genuine as Mel could have emerged from the antique store-slash-museums her uptight mother, grandmother, and aunt all call homes. It makes some kind of argument for nature versus nurture, but I’m not sure what.
“I want to steal the mayor for a moment, Graciela. I just know he’d want to meet some of our friends from Beaufort, in case he’s ever got his sights set on politics outside this podunk river town.”
Ms. Massie might want everyone to think she despises our dirty little backwater—which is more of a well-kept secret in my opinion—but I decided long ago that she likes being the big fish in the small pond. The Massies have history in Heron Creek, and plenty of cash. But not compared to some of the older families down the road.
“Of course. I’ll go check on Amelia. She probably needs someone to fetch her more food.” I squeeze Beau’s hand. “Catch up with you later.”
Ms. Massie drags Beau away by the elbow. He shoots me a look over his shoulder that begs me for help, but all I can do is giggle and shrug. I’ve spent half of my life honing skills designed to slip loose of the grasps of the women in that family. He’s on his own.
Instead of sacrificing myself for Beau—best he learn now that I’m not the martyr type—I wander around looking for Amelia. The past couple of months have made me an expert at smiling through people, which lets me get away with appearing polite but not having to chat, and it works well tonight too.
I’m a far cry from the friendly, boisterous child most of these people knew ten years ago. In the past couple of weeks—since Amelia moved back to town and Anne Bonny and her troubles disappeared—it’s starting to feel as though I might starting to find that girl again. I’m not ready to bring her out to play, though. The people of Heron Creek can wonder what’s wrong with me and whether I’ll ever get my shit together a little bit longer.
Amelia is nowhere to be seen near the food or the deck. I wander toward the river, and the clusters of people thin out until I’m alone. Beau’s property is one of my favorites in town—the water and draping of oaks and moss are nice, but it’s the healthy space between him and his nearest neighbor that I envy most. I wouldn’t say no to a little more room between Mrs. Walters and me. Or a lot.
The sound of voices from my left—their figures mostly hidden by the deepening evening—pulls me to a stop. It’s not that I mean to eavesdrop, necessarily; it’s more that I’m taking a moment to determine which way offers the best chance at solitude.
Randy Wideman’s whiny voice identifies him in a second, and I grimace. “Now’s our chance to push through that bill and get the ball rolling on the park demolition. We’ve got to get started before winter or we’ll lose an entire year.”
“There’s another vote this week, Wideman. I don’t understand why you’ve been so gung ho about this, and besides, even though Glinda’s gone, it doesn’t mean things change right away.”
Politics. My interest wanes despit
e the mention of Glinda. She’s pissed more than a few people off on more than a few occasions with her stubborn opinions. Namely that she knows what’s best for the town and everyone in it, end of story. I haven’t heard of a park renovation, though. That’s interesting.
I’m exhausted by smiling and pretending to love people in general, so the sight of a wooden bench looking out over the water promises at least a moment of respite. I sink onto the hard slats, slumping back and pulling my phone out of my purse to check my e-mail. Antisocial, perhaps, but since Mr. Freedman gave me the go-ahead to beef up the local archives at the library, I’ve been scouring the lowcountry for primary source materials that might be a good fit. It means breaking out my rusty glad-handing and schmoozing skills, even if it’s only through the Internet. I should be using tonight to practice, but I just can’t unearth the energy.
Being able to work in my field again has sparked a surprising amount of happiness in me. I chose archival studies because I love it, not because my stupid ex-professor-turned-ex-fiancé had gotten me interested in the first place. Once I got over the knee-jerk reaction to throw the baby out with the bathwater, I decided David had already taken enough from me. He can’t have my career.
The sudden scent of rosewater and chemical hair dye knocks my phone out of my hand and to the ground. A glance to the right, where Glinda reclines next to me in her bloody nightgown, startles me right off the bench and onto my butt.
There has to be a point in all of this ghost-seeing business when they stop scaring the pee out of me when they pop up, but apparently today is not that day.
I haul myself to my feet, brushing the grass and dirt off my dress and glaring. “Glinda, come on. You can’t be roaming around the mayor’s property in a bloody slip.”
True to ghostly form, the Creek’s longtime hairdresser doesn’t answer my whispered observation. She watches me with an expression in her eyes that’s hard to pinpoint, but where Anne Bonny’s countenance made me inexplicably sad, Glinda’s aura infects me with horrible nerves.