by Calia Read
“Very funny,” Livingston says. “But please hurry. I’m not opposed to arrivin’ minutes after an event has started, but we’re already twenty minutes late.”
I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m coming.”
For the millionth time, I check my appearance in the mirror. To some degree, everyone is vain, but I took extra care in getting ready today. Do I want to show Étienne what he’s losing? Perhaps. Is that childish? Absolutely.
I’m wearing one of the dresses Nat loaned me. It’s an ivory, silk Callot Soeurs with sheer sleeves and a V-neck back and slight train. For Nat, who likes color in her wardrobe, this gown is her most “drab.” For me, however, it’s perfect.
I adjust the sheer material near my breasts, making sure they’re covered up and contained. One of Livingston’s maids, Mollie, readily agreed to help me get dressed. I think she was happy to get away from her everyday chores, and I don’t blame her. However, when I told her she couldn’t use the curling iron that Nat loaned me, her face fell. Advancements haven’t been made on curling irons, and it still looks terrifying. Still looks like a contraption that will burn your hair clean off.
At first, I decided to have my hair in a loose bun, but then it’s a big hell no when she busts out a Low Pompadour, a crescent-shaped padding that she wants me to wear at the top of my head.
For once, I keep my big mouth shut and tell Mollie I’ll try a bun on another day only because I changed my mind and want my hair half up...without the pompadour. She seems satisfied with my request and uses one of Nat’s barrettes.
She left over thirty minutes ago, yet I keep fidgeting with my clothes and hair.
“Serene?” Livingston prods, his voice louder this time.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and grab my black clutch from the dresser. My heels echo on the wood floors and cover up the sound of my rapid heartbeat.
When I open the door, Livingston is leaning against the opposite side of the wall, inspecting his fingers with dull interest. Once he sees me, he arches a brow and smirks.
“You look beautiful. Are you tryin’ to kill my brother?”
He holds out his arm, and I loop my arm through his. “Who, me? Never.”
“You two are playin’ a dangerous game.”
I look straight ahead as we walk down the stairs. “There’s no game. Étienne’s engaged to Sarah, and I couldn’t be happier for him.”
“Her name is Scarlett and you’re cuttin’ off the circulation in my arm.”
At the bottom of the staircase, I drop his arm like it’s poison and take a deep breath while Livingston gives me a knowing grin.
“You might be more convincin’ if you smile when you say her name. And if you say the correct name. And if you looked happy.”
“I am happy. See?” I smile for emphasis. “Happy, happy, happy.”
“No. It’s not convincin’. Not reachin’ the eyes. Make me believe it.”
“Work with me here, Livingston, all right? You’re lucky I’m going.”
“Fair enough.”
Livingston and I walk down the porch steps and out into the stifling Charleston humidity. Out of everything, this is one thing I didn’t miss.
Already I can feel beads of sweat starting to form between my breasts and hairline.
He escorts me to his Model T. It’s not different from the Model T Étienne had in 1912. Although, Étienne’s was a dark gray, and Livingston’s is black.
One thing I noticed yesterday was more cars are on the road than the last time I was back in Charleston. I remember reading somewhere that pre-World War I car prices dropped to the point it became a possibility for most families across America to own vehicles.
It shouldn’t shock me, but once again, I’m blown away by experiencing history firsthand. Just then, a Model T drives across the cobblestone road. Livingston gestures for me to get into the car first. Gathering the hem of my dress in my hand, I duck my head and slide in. Livingston gets in and sighs as the driver shuts the door behind him.
“I would ask if you’re ready, but your face gives me my answer,” he observes.
Smoothing out the skirt of my dress, I shoot him a look and relax against the stiff leather seat.
“All right then.”
The car takes off, and I suppress a groan. There’s no getting out of this party now. I could jump out of the car, but I don’t care much for causing bodily harm to myself or slipping into a coma. At least I wouldn’t have to see Étienne and Scarlett together.
The ride to Belgrave is tense. Livingston, who’s never reticent, lets me revel in the silence.
I don’t want to see Scarlett again. It’s akin to having a wound opened over and over again. I don’t want to see her standing next to Étienne. Place her hand on Étienne as though he belongs to her.
My hands curl into fists.
“Everythin’ okay over there?” Livingston asks.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Well, I’ve never been better. In fact, when I get to Belgrave, I’m going to jump out of the car and do cartwheels all the way to the front door.”
Livingston snorts and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the way.
My snark creeps out when I’m scared or feeling vulnerable. Like most people, I lash out at the people I’m most comfortable with. I open my mouth to say sorry, but Livingston shakes his head and covers my hand. He gives it a small squeeze before he pulls away.
With a weary smirk, I let my forehead rest against the window as I watch the countryside pass by. I glance at the Tupelo gum trees in the swamp far in the distance. Sunlight bounces off the algae floating on the water. The road to Belgrave has hardly changed, still jarring and bumpy enough to make you feel as though you’re on a roller coaster.
My hands curl around the lip of the seat to better balance myself. In the pit of my stomach, I feel sick. I should have eaten something before I left, yet I know if I had, the chances of me puking it up would be incredibly high.
Clusters of trees still hug the narrow road. In my mind, I remember driving down the present day widened road. Some of those trees have been cut down, and the endless land I’m looking at now has businesses and subdivisions built on it.
I shake my head slightly to rid myself of the image. I like this scene better.
“How many guests are expected at this dinner party?” I ask.
Livingston looks up at the car ceiling as he mulls over my question. “It’s a small affair. So my guess is twenty.”
“Any faces that might be familiar to me?” I press.
“Asa was invited, but he won’t be there.” Livingston glances at the driver and lowers his voice. “Is there anyone else you knew from Charleston?”
The image of the crying woman with the British accent pops into my mind. Occasionally, I think about her. Did she leave the man who was abusing her? Is she still in Charleston? I should’ve asked for her name that night, but the conversation ended as quickly as it began because I was so focused on rifling through Asa’s office to find evidence that would indicate he was the person going after Étienne and she was determined to hold her secrets for as long as she could. It’s silly, putting so much stock into a conversation that barely lasted more than five minutes. Still, I can’t help but wonder what happened to her.
I shake the memory away. “No,” I reply.
“Then no.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“I’m not gonna throw you to the wolves. I’ll be by your side the whole time and so will Nat.”
“It’s her engagement party. I don’t expect her to be up my butt and around the corner.”
“Charmin’ visual, Serene,” Livingston murmurs. “But I think you’re forgettin’ who my sister is. Nat Lacroix loves with her whole heart. She shoulders her loved one’s pain as though it’s her own.”
If there was ever a perfect description of Nat, that would be it.
“I kno
w, but—”
“No, I’m stoppin’ you right there. You have nothin’ to be apprehensive about.”
I give him a smile because I admire his insistence. It’s incredibly easy to tell someone not to worry or that everything will be okay when the pain is not your own. But when it happens to you, it’s an entirely different story. It’s not a support system I’m worried about. It’s seeing Étienne.
I could have an entire army behind me, and it wouldn’t support the weight of my heart plummeting to my stomach when I see him with his fiancée.
The driver begins to slow down, yet my heart speeds up. He makes a right turn and passes through the open gates of Belgrave. The familiar trees lining the driveway give us a brief reprieve from the sun.
The slow speed should give me time to prepare for the sight of Belgrave, but as we break from the cloak of trees, the sun beams down on us, highlighting the home that haunted me in the present day. My mouth parts, forming a silent O. The driver stops in front of the steps leading to the porch.
Here we go. Time to face the reality that has become Étienne and Nat’s life.
A life not including me.
Perhaps the greatest agony you can feel is to watch the love of your life walk this Earth with someone else.
I can’t do this. It’s bad enough that I had to see this Scarlett chick with him once. I don’t want to see it a second time, but my stubborn mind demands that I get out of this car.
I will not shrink away. I can’t avoid them forever. There’s a reason I time traveled back here again and hiding in Livingston’s house, licking my wounds isn’t going to solve anything. I exhale loudly and wait for my door to open.
“You can do this, Serene,” I whisper.
The driver opens my door and holds a hand out for me. Grabbing the hem of my dress, I accept his hand and step out of the car. Livingston walks around the car and holds his arm out for me. My heart is hammering as we head toward Belgrave, and it’s almost as if I’m seeing it for the first time.
Unconsciously, my fingers tighten around his bicep. Belgrave hasn’t lost its splendor. If anything, I think it’s become more resplendent than the last time I saw it. The smell of honeysuckle and jasmine waft through the breeze, enveloping my senses like a familiar embrace.
As expected, the hedges are trimmed around the water fountain in the middle of the circular drive and lining the front of the house. The gravel has been freshly combed, but dust lingers in the air from all the cars traveling up the long driveway.
I remember visiting Belgrave in my time and seeing it in a complete state of disrepair. Its grandeur stolen by time, structure beaten down by Mother Nature, and rooms decaying from neglect. I knew before I came here a second time that Belgrave is now a private residence in the present day. However, seeing it before my very eyes soothes my soul and eases the pain of today.
Livingston stands next to me and cranes his neck, getting a good look at Belgrave. He inhales, his shoulders lifting from the action, and then exhales loudly. “Ah...home sweet home.”
“Maybe for you. But I can’t say the same,” I murmur.
“Nonsense. Belgrave will always be your home.”
“That’s really sweet of you, but we both know—”
He stops midway on the steps and looks at me. “No, we don’t know. You have my word that you will forever be a part of this family, and Belgrave will be yours. No matter the circumstances.”
“Even when your brother is engaged to someone else?”
Livingston winces, and we continue up the porch steps toward the front door. “Even that.”
I give Belgrave a wistful glance. “She will be mistress of this home soon. Not me.”
“The weddin’ is not soon.”
“It is to me,” I mutter.
“Don’t dwell on it. Existing in pain simply makes it impossible for the wound to close.”
“That’s quite profound,” I tease as we begin to walk up the steps. “When did you become a poet?”
“My thoughts are constantly philosophical. You, unfortunately, have not been around durin’ those moments.”
“Pity.”
“Oh, yes,” he says without missing a beat. “Beginnin’ now, I’ll start writin’ down all my deep and meaningful thoughts.”
At that, I laugh. “I would love that.”
Once we reach the top of the stairs, Livingston stops us. “Before we go inside, we should have a word.”
My hand drops from his arm. I tilt my head back and stare up at the signature haint blue porch ceiling “Oh, God. What now? Let me guess, she’s pregnant, and it’s triplets?”
I’m being sarcastic, but my stomach flips at the thought.
Livingston makes a face. “No, no. Nothin’ about my brother or her.”
“Then what?”
“It’s about you.” He taps his index finger against the tip of my nose and gives me his signature shit-eating grin. I’m sure it drives other women wild, but I cross my arms and stare at him dully.
“Continue,” I say.
“Your tongue works faster than your brain. Please don’t say somethin’ you’re gonna regret.”
“Then why have me come because we both know that’s gonna happen.”
Livingston pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and takes a deep breath. “I am simply lookin’ out for you.”
I remind myself to count to ten and breathe. “I know that. But I’m gonna be all right.”
“Really? Because if you had a croquet mallet in your hands, I’m convinced you would beat Scarlett and Étienne to a bloody pulp.”
“You know, that doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea,” I say teasingly.
Livingston’s brows rise in alarm. I place a hand on his arm. “I’m joking. I won’t beat the shit out of them...yet.”
“Pretend you’re a Southern woman who is always polite, never turns down an invite, and smiles at all the right times.”
“That sounds terrible.”
Shaking his head, he holds his arm back out for me and ushers me into Belgrave. Stepping into the foyer, my heart practically bursts from happiness. God, I’ve missed this place more than I imagined. Natural light pours in through the windows, making luminous, clear teardrop-shaped shadows appear on the wall from the Baccarat chandelier hanging in the middle of the room. Guests are spilling out of the sitting room and into the foyer. The Charleston elite speak amongst each other, their voices traveling up the stairs and clinging to the halls. In the present day, I can picture hearing the faint echo of their laughter and words if you press your ear up against the wall and listen very carefully.
Glancing to my right, I see Ben. I tug on Livingston’s arm. “Ben, how are you?”
Remaining as stoic as ever, Ben turns and gives me a blank look. His eyes flick to Livingston’s for a brief second before he dips his head. “Hello, ma’am.” His words are stiff and formal as if he’s speaking to a guest or a stranger.
Frowning, I turn to Livingston. He subtly shakes his head, indicating Ben is a subject for another time. I want to discuss it now, but we step into the sitting room, and all my thoughts effectively flee.
The windows are open to allow in fresh air, but the room is filled with so many guests the air remains stuffy. I look around the room, looking for Nat. I tell myself it doesn’t matter if Étienne is going to be here, yet I still search every corner of this space for him. He’s nowhere in sight.
Finally, I spot Nat on the left. She waves and twists around, speaking to a man behind her.
“That’s Oliver, her fiancé,” Livingston murmurs into my ear.
I nod and watch as the two of them travel through the crowd, smiling at people here and there. When Nat appears before me, I give her a quick glance. She’s wearing a pink dress with pale pink silk net over the sleeves and front of the dress. Sequins and glass beads trim the neckline and travel vertically from the waistline all the way to the hemline that sweeps the floor. The details are flawless and f
eminine and perfectly complement Nat’s pale skin and dark hair.
Nat envelops me in a tight hug. “Serene, I’m so happy you could make it.”
Pulling back, I meet her eyes, and I know she means every word. The last thing I want to do is see Étienne, but I love Nat and want to see her happy.
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I reply, putting on my bravest face. I gesture to the man behind her. “Are you going to introduce us?” I ask with a smile.
Nat’s eyes light up as she stands beside her fiancé. “Oliver, this is my good friend Serene. Serene, this is my fiancé, Oliver Claiborne.”
Oliver’s handshake is firm as his hazel eyes meet mine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.”
Oliver stands around six feet with black hair, clean shaven, and kind eyes. He looks like a genuinely kind person who will try to spend the rest of his life giving Nat precisely what she’s dreamed of: a family. But in the end, he’ll simply be her Will. They’ll coast through marriage, and she’ll never know the fire and attraction that comes with your true love.
Because Oliver looks like a good person doesn’t mean he is. I feel a sliver of jealousy that Nat’s brothers had the opportunity to get to know her fiancé. It’s time for some lightning round questions.
“So what do you do?” I ask him.
“My father is president of Citizens and Southern Bank of Georgia. Currently, I’m vice president and director; however, my father plans on retiring within the year, and I’ll be made president.”
I whistle. “Not bad. So I’m assuming the two of you will make your home in Georgia after your marriage?”
Nat’s smile dims partially over my question. It’s there and gone. By the time Oliver glances at her, she’s back to being her happy self. “Yes. I’m sure it will be a transition for Nathalie, but I’ve assured her she will love Savannah, and the Brignac House is just as spacious as Belgrave.”
“Brignac House?”
Nat quickly chimes in. “The Brignac House is Oliver’s childhood home. He has shown me a photo, and it’s truly a spectacular plantation. The story behind Brignac House is rich with history.” She looks at me, her eyes twinkling. “Much like Belgrave. It’s somethin’ we have in common,” she boasts.