I take a deep breath, straightening my peach eyelet sundress and gold chain necklace. My bare legs feel strange and airy after wearing black tights and leggings all summer. My necklaces andthe bird urn are safely tucked away in my jewelry box at home, and I’m (gradually) feeling fine about not having them with me all the time.
The Azalea Dream is never as beautiful as it is at this time of late summer, when the surrounding property is warm and dreamlike; a pink sunset edges the tops of the pines. Mirabel stands at the corner of the lawn, champagne flute in hand. Summerville’s finest-dressed Methodist women surround her. Mirabel wears red. And when Mirabel Wells wears red, she looks like a Fury. She’s like Jessica Lange ready for a scene.It’s a clingy dress, and she’s draped a pearl-colored shawl around her arms. Her red lipstick matches the dress.
She sees me approaching, and her back stiffens, eyes narrow.
A server places a champagne flute in my hand. Although I probably need a drink to calm my nerves, my stomach roils, and I just set it on a nearby table without having so much as a sip.
“What thehellareyoudoing here?” Mirabel hisses.
“Mirabel,” I say gently. “This isn’t an attack. But I’m not letting this go.”
“There’snothingto let go.”
“You know that’s not true.”
Mirabel’s nostrils flare.
“No one’s judging you. Nobody ever would—even andespeciallyPhilip. It wasyearsago. But you have to tell me what happened, and I need to know about that night when Philip came here.”
Tears shine in her wide blue eyes.
“Please,” I beg in a whisper. “It will help all of us if you do.”
“You lookgorgeous, Mirabel,” Deanna Willa, wife of Orangeburg Methodist’s rector, says as she passes us. “Why, you’d think you were a girl of thirty from your figure.”
“Thank you.” Mirabel beams, dabbing the corner of her eye as she smiles. “It’s Jesus, high protein, and exercise.”
“I’d love to know more about it... I just bought these protein shakes from Julia Barnwell, and they’re not working...”
“Unfortunately, Miss Deanna, I have a can’t-wait business meeting with my daughter-in-law. I’ll be back out soon, and we’ll talk about some quality shakes and diet prayers. As you know, Jesus takes care of everything. Now, please enjoy the grits bar.”
Mirabel leads me up the front steps, past Ted and his friends. They all lounge in the nice white porch chairs with tumblers of Ted’s favorite bourbon. Ted’s telling everyone about what he ordered, course by course, from a new Savannah restaurant the week before. Deanna Willa’s husband has already fallen asleep, tumbler tipping precariously in his right hand. Ted pauses when he sees us, blinks, and then continues describing the restaurant’s lemon meringue pie.
I follow Mirabel through the front hall, along the waxed wood floors, past the oriental vases, the portraits lining the wall beside me.
She takes me into the parlor, methodically shutting the glass French doors.
The parlor is Mirabel’s favorite room for retreat. A large dark-hued oil painting depicting a crystal bowl of floating rose petals hangs over the mantelpiece while two antique painted china spaniels flank the little fireplace hearth; heavy, bird-patterned drapes frame the windows from floor to ceiling. A mahogany glass door bookcase displays rare editions of novels collected by the Wells family over the years, and a mid-century rolling bar cart sits invitingly in the corner. Everything in the Azalea Dream showcases Ted’s old money and Mirabel’s enjoyment of it, and this beautiful room sits tucked away at the back of the grand house like a secret. I wonder how many times Mirabel sat in here contemplating her own.
I sink into the sofa while Mirabel perches herself on theottoman, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest. Her bracelets jangle as she tugs the shawl up around her shoulders.
“Alright. Here we are, Lizzie. Now, what do you want?”
“The truth. That’s all, Mirabel.”
She says nothing. She just kicks her crossed right leg vigorously, taupe heel moving up and down, up and down.
“Philip wanted the truth too.”
Mirabel’s lips tighten, then grimace. Her face crumbles, and I ache for the pain she keeps bottled up inside.
“I never planned on telling him. Why in the world would he need to know?”
She stares out the window at her groundhog-free rows of azalea bushes. I don’t say anything, but just let her question hang in the air. For all her flaws, Mirabel is whip-smart. She recognizes underneath her embarrassment that Philip wanted and needed to know the truth for his own well-being. She owed him that.
She makes an angry sound in her throat like she’s going to protest one more time.
Then she sighs, sadly, wearily.
