by Carolyn Hart
Sybil knew it, of course, knew and took some pleasure in it, although her brown eyes held a depth of unhappiness that no momentary pleasure could relieve.
Miss Dora, her ever-present cane tightly gripped in her left hand, thumped across the floor to Annie and Max. "You know Sybil."
Sybil moved closer to Max and gave him her hand. "Not nearly well enough. But perhaps we can remedy that." Sybil gave him a come-on-over-tonight-honey look, ignoring Annie altogether.
It only added to Annie's fury that Max, dammit, was enjoying every second of Sybil's high-voltage performance. It would serve him right if Annie abandoned him to Sybil for the rest of the evening. He might learn something about the old adage that those who play with matches can bloody well get singed.
But there were no flies on Miss Dora. Somehow—Annie wasn't certain how—Sybil was bypassed, and she and Max were on a circuit of the room with Miss Dora. "My young friends from Broward's Rock, Max and Annie Darling," Miss Dora announced to each family member in turn.
Milam Tarrant was minimally polite but obviously uninterested. His long—by Chastain standards extraordinarily long—blond hair curled on his collar like that of an Edwardian dandy. He wore a pink dinner jacket that didn't hide a heavy paunch.
Milam's wife, Julia, smiled pleasantly but her eyes had the lost and lonely look of a neglected child. Her evening dress was old and shabby, its once vibrant black dulled to the color of a winter night sky.
Weedy, aristocratic Whitney Tarrant, whose high-bridged nose and pointed chin were replicated in the family portraits, held Annie's hand a trifle too long in a moist grip. Annie fought away the desire to wipe her fingers when they were free.
Whitney's wife, Charlotte, gave Annie and Max a brief nod and a supercilious smile. Despite her dowdy white eveningdress, Charlotte exuded the self-assurance of a woman supremely certain of her social position.
Conversation was politely formal: the unseasonably sultry weather, concern over the safety of Savannah River water for drinking ("How can we ever feel safe with that damned nuclear weapons production plant upstream?" Whitney demanded), the plans for the summer regatta. Annie was glad when Miss Dora promptly led her guests in to dinner, though she heard Sybil's caustic, "No drinks first? God." The dining room was gorgeously appointed, the crimson damask curtains a dramatic counterpoint to the deep emerald green of the walls. They sat around a Hepplewhite drop-leaf table on Hepplewhite shieldback chairs. On a Sheraton sideboard, a large Georgian silver bowl and tea service glistened in the light from the enormous crystal teardrop chandelier.
Annie was delighted that Sybil was seated as far from Max as possible. Miss Dora, of course, was at the head of the table. At the other end was Milam. Sybil sat to his left, and Max was at Miss Dora's right.
That was on the plus side.
On the minus, Annie had Whitney to her right. Was he deliberately pressing his knee against hers? She pulled her leg away. But he moved his leg, too. Annie's eyes narrowed. She remembered a request she'd heard Gloria Steinern make once in a speech: "Do something outrageous. Tell him to pick it up himself." Annie gripped her shrimp cocktail fork, dropped her hand sharply to her right, and poked.
Whitney gave a small yelp, which he unsuccessfully tried to smother.
Max looked sharply down the table. Annie spread her right hand to indicate all was copacetic, but she hoped Whitney was aware of the dark look he was receiving from her husband. She turned to Whitney and smiled sweetly. "I'm so sorry. It just got away from me."
In a very different way, Annie was just as aware of Julia on her left. Julia's thin arms were pressed tightly to her sides until the wine was served. As soon as her glass was poured, she grabbed it and gulped the wine.
Miss Dora saw it, of course. But instead of the quick condemnation Annie expected to see in those raisin-dark eyes, there was only sadness.
Sybil ignored her wineglass and asked for bourbon.
On the plus side was the food (the shrimp fritters were beyond belief), quickly and competently served by a young maid, who watched Miss Dora with wide eyes to make certain the chatelaine was pleased.
From the first instant, Miss Dora directed the conversation, drawing out each in turn. Sybil almost looked happy as she described her visit last week to Boca Raton. "I played tennis all week, every day, all day long." That accounted for her air of vigor and health despite the haggardness in her eyes. But she drank bourbon steadily through dinner and only toyed with her food.
Milam ate greedily and there was a smear of butter on one finger. He shrugged away Miss Dora's question. "Last week—oh, nothing special." He reached for another roll. "I finished a painting." He gave her a sardonic smile. "You wouldn't like it. It's a plantation all bright and shiny and freshly painted, but when you look close you can see the maggots and snakes, and if you look very hard at the live oak trees and the strands of Spanish moss, you can see faces, some black, some white. The face of a slave girl who has no choice when the master—"
His sister-in-law gave him a look of utter loathing. "Mi-lam, it's downright tacky how you act. The Family—"
"Fuck the Family, Charlotte."
There was an instant of appalled silence.
Charlotte's pale-green eyes bulged with outrage.
Whitney's face twisted in a petulant frown. "I'll thank you not to be vulgar and insulting to my wife, Milam." There could be no doubt about Whitney's lineage—the long nose, sharp chin, dark eyes—but his was a second-rate imitation of the Judge's vigorous and commanding face. Whitney's chin was weak, and his eyes slid away from Milam's challenging glance.
Sybil threw back that mane of glorious hair and hooted with laughter. "Way to go, Milam honey."
All of these exchanges were in the cultivated, lovely accent that Annie had enjoyed hearing ever since she came to South Carolina. The smooth-as-honey voices made the rudeness even more shocking.
Miss Dora ignored the exchange. The only indication she'd heard was the slight increase in volume when she spoke. She spooned a mound of peas. "And what can you tell us about your week, Whitney?"
Uneasiness flickered in his pale-brown eyes.
Annie sipped her chardonnay and waited. Whitney must have been easy meat for teachers when he was growing up. She'd never seen anyone so transparent. It made her—and, she was certain, everyone else at the table—wonder what the hell he'd been up to. Though Whitney was such a drip, it probably didn't amount to much.
"Whitney?" The old lady put down her spoon and fixed him with a penetrating gaze.
"Uh, the usual, Aunt Dora. The office, some golf. Charlotte and I went into Savannah for the symphony." But something lurked in his eyes, eyes that wouldn't meet Miss Dora's.
The old lady looked at him speculatively.
Charlotte preened. "I'm on the Women's Committee, of course. Why, we've worked so hard to gain support for the symphony. Such long hours. Of course, I never mind the effort. I'm happy to be able to—"
"Spare us, sweet Charlotte." Sybil yawned. "Good works are excessively boring when recounted. Especially by the self-satisfied doer."
Charlotte turned an ugly saffron. "If it weren't for those of us who dedicate ourselves to preserving and maintaining our glorious heritage, it would be destroyed by those to whom the past—"
"—is past." Sybil raised an elegant black eyebrow. "Grow up, Charlotte. This is the last decade of the century—the twentieth century, not, for Christ's sake, the nineteenth." She crumpled her napkin and dropped it beside her plate. "Jesus, tell me about the museum, how important it is." A wicked light danced in her eyes. "I know, let's have a special display
of chamber pots, really bring back the essence of the old South."
Miss Dora watched them, like an owl surveying rabbits.
"Our civilization will be destroyed if we don't hold onto the values of those who came before." Charlotte quivered with outrage. She lifted trembling fingers to the heavy roped gold necklace at her pudgy throat.
Milam'
s full mouth spread in a grin, not a pleasant one. "Civilization," he mused. "Tell me about it, Charlotte. Tell me about the slaves. Not dependents, honey. Call a spade a spade. Let's look at how it really was. Tell me about the slaves, and the poor whites, and the plantations and later the mills where little kids worked twelve-hour days. Tell me about civilization, dear sister-in-law."
Whitney's chair scraped back, and he started to rise. "That's enough, Milam. Shut your mouth."
"Milam. Whitney."
Miss Dora didn't need to say more. Milam looked down at the table, his face suddenly sullen. Whitney sank back into his chair.
The old lady nodded and the maid began to clear the table. "Sullee made Key-lime pie for us tonight. Now, Charlotte, tell us about your week."
The pattern was clear enough by now. But what did Miss Dora have in mind? Obviously, Annie was not the only guest who wondered. And all of the family members, except poor quiescent Julia, shot an occasional wondering glance at Annie and Max. Who were they? Why were they here? It was obvious that this was no ordinary dinner party. It was almost as if they were in a class, and Miss Dora was calling upon each member to recite.
And now it was Charlotte's turn. She flounced a little in her chair, torn between exercising her anger at Milam and responding to Miss Dora. But it was no contest. "It was such an important week, Miss Dora." She smoothed her faded blond hair, and the carnelian ring on one finger glowed a rich rose. "We've raised enough money to start reconstruction of Fort Chastain. Why, you know how important it was in the
Battle of Chastain. That's where William first joined his company. And at one time Henry was in command there. When it's rebuilt, we can climb to the ramparts and look out over the river—just like Henry and William."
As the maid brought dessert, Julia held up her wineglass to be refilled. When the glass was full, she downed the contents in one swift, practiced motion.
"Hot damn, Charlotte," Sybil drawled. "Won't that be the day! Climb that rampart, honey, wave that—"
Annie glanced down the table at Max. He was looking bland, but laughter danced in his eyes.
"Sybil." There was impatience more than anger in Miss Dora's voice.
Sybil shrugged.
Annie also noted that Max didn't miss the languid movement of that shapely figure.
Thinking of shapely figures, Annie was tempted to refuse the dessert. But as a guest . . . The Key-lime pie was so good Annie enjoyed every bite despite the charged atmosphere of the dinner party.
"All right, Aunt Dora. I'll be good." Sybil's carmine-red lips curved in an unrepentant grin. "But, just between us, don't you think it's stupid when someone whose people don't amount to a hill of beans gets so almighty excited when they connect up with an old family?" The question was addressed to Miss Dora, but its impact was calculated. Sybil's derisive glance raked Charlotte.
This time Charlotte ignored Sybil, but the flush didn't fade from her heavy face.
Miss Dora was already turning to Julia. "And your week, my dear?" For the first time, her voice was gentle.
Julia licked her lips and squeezed her eyes in concentration. "Week?" She blinked owlishly.
Abruptly, Annie realized that Julia was drunk as a lord, which made Annie wonder how much Julia'd had to drink before she and her husband ever arrived at Tarrant House.
"Oh, Julia had her usual week," Milam intervened. "She Iikes to—"
"Let Julia tell me, Milam." Miss Dora reached out a claw-like hand to pat Julia's arm.
Annie wondered if the thin woman beside her even noticed, or if she was so anesthetized the touch went unremarked.
Julia gave Milam a suddenly sweet smile. "S'funny. Came in for bulbs." She stared intently at Charlotte. "You always said okay. You weren't home. I went down to the beds near the 'b'lisk."
Charlotte understood. "Certainly, Julia. The iris beds near the obelisk." Annie didn't perceive kindness in Charlotte's response, merely the clearing up of a tidy mind.
"Last night." Suddenly Julia's eyes filled with tears. "I saw Amanda."
Someone drew a breath in sharply.
Annie looked quickly around the table.
Miss Dora's wizened face was alert.
Milam reached up and tugged at the gold stud in his left ear.
Whitney's black brows drew down in a tight frown. Charlotte's hand clung to her necklace as if it were a lifeline.
Sybil's amusement slipped away, and her face held no hint of her usual spark of deviltry. "Don't cry, Julia. It's all right." She spoke gently, as if to a child.
The tears slipped down Julia's thin face, unheeded. "I tried to run after her. I called for her—but she wouldn't stay." Julia stared hopelessly at the old lady. "Why did Amanda have to die? Amanda and—"
"Come on, Julia." Milam pushed back his chair and was at his wife's side. "Let's go upstairs for a few minutes. Come on, now."
As they walked away from the table, Milam holding her elbow, Miss Dora called out, "When you come downstairs, join us in the drawing room, Milam." And to the other guests she nodded. "We shall have coffee there." She inclined her head and rose.
Miss Dora led the way, her cane a swift staccato accompaniment to her steps. They all followed, of course, Sybil carrying along her half-full tumbler of bourbon.
The three-tiered crystal chandelier illuminated every corner of the spacious drawing room. Annie admired the lovely Meissen china and the elegant silver coffee service. At Miss Dora's nod, Charlotte took her place behind the coffee table to serve. For the first time that evening, Charlotte looked happy, her green eyes glowing. She served very prettily, her plump, be-ringed hands adept. Her pleasure in her role was evident.
Annie, unaccustomedly, took both sugar and cream.
Max shot her a quizzical glance.
Annie ignored him. She suddenly felt she needed every bit of extra energy possible.
Miss Dora waited until Milam and Julia slowly came down the mahogany stairs and joined them. Milam shepherded Julia to a secluded seat in a corner beside a jardiniere with a leafy fern and brought her a cup of coffee. He put it on the Queen Anne table next to her chair.
The old lady took her place in front of the fireplace, hands clasped on the silver knob of her cane, and faced her seated guests scattered about the drawing room. Annie was glad Max sat next to her on the Georgian settee.
Despite the muted richness of her rose gown, Miss Dora had a funereal air. Her ancient, sharp-featured face settled in implacable lines, eyes hooded, lips pursed, arrogant chin thrust forward.
Slowly, one by one, voices fell silent.
Miss Dora looked at each of her invited guests in turn. In a doomsday voice, she pronounced their names, clearly a roll call. "Milam. Julia. Whitney. Charlotte. Sybil."
Sybil's intelligent eyes appraised her. "You're on the warpath, aren't you? Who's in trouble? Is it Milam for attacking icons? Or maybe it's poor dear Julia who starts the day with a glass of vodka neat. Or is it Whitney for grabbing a little ass when poor Charlotte's not looking? Or Charlotte for that god-awful pretentious piece of crap she wrote about the Tarrants? She oh-so-conveniently left out all the drunks and the black sheep and especially the Tarrant who was playing both sides against the middle during the Revolution, а la the revered and very clever Ben Franklin. Or am I the one on the spot?" She flashed a wicked grin. "But you know what I like, Miss Dora. I could have brought him tonight, but this crowd's a little old for Bobby. He's a sweet young man."
"How can you be so disgusting," Charlotte hissed. "To consort with mere boys." Her pale-green eyes glistened with dislike.
"The usual term is 'have sex,' Charlotte. Although I don't suppose it's an activity you enjoy. Not high-class enough. And Bobby's nineteen." Sybil's smile would have embarrassed a satyr. "That's old enough. Believe me."
Miss Dora's eyes, dark as pitch, turned to Sybil. They were for an instant filled with pity.
Sybil saw that, too. She sat very still in the gilt Louis Quinze armchair, every trace
of mocking amusement erased. Slowly she lifted the glass to her lips and drank, focusing on that physical act.
Miss Dora's eyes lingered on Sybil yet an instant longer; then the old woman spoke in measured tones. "I have called all of you here because I intend to institute a court of inquiry, prosecuted by me, into the events of May ninth, 1970."
It should have been ludicrous, the old, hunched figure, the thin, age-roughened voice, the grandiloquent pronouncement. It was, to the contrary, majestic. Tiny and indomitable, the moment belonged to Miss Dora.
The silence was absolute.
Anger.
Shock.
And fear.
Annie could feel raw emotion in that elegant room. But from whom?
Milam's heavy face twisted into a scowl, every trace of sardonic lightness gone.
The fragile coffee cup in Julia's hand began to shake. Clumsily, she put it down on the Queen Anne table.
Whitney's thin face had the look of a fox hearing the hounds.
Charlotte's social smile congealed into a blank, empty mask.
Sybil's face crumpled. She turned away and came up blindly against the mantelpiece. Both hands gripped it. She stood with her back to them, her smooth, ivory shoulders hunched, then whirled to face Miss Dora.
"Ross," she cried brokenly. "You know how it happened, you old bitch. It shouldn't have happened, but it did. An accident. Ross and I . . ." She looked about with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. "That's when everything went wrong, and it never came right again. Never. I still don't know why he went out to the lodge. He was supposed to meet me at the bottom of the drive. I was there," she said forlornly, years of grief weighting the words. "I waited and waited—and then Daddy found me and . . ." She broke off. Sybil's bejeweled hands clenched. There was more than grief, there was anger that could never be answered, the fury at fate that had robbed her of the man she loved. Annie thought she'd never seen Sybil look more lovely . . . or more dangerous.
"I saw you and Ross in the garden that afternoon," Miss Dora said gently.