She picks up her phone, punching in a number she reads off the back of the photo. “The venery, of course.”
Her speaker is on, and I hear the other line ring through the room. There is a click, and a hushed “Myrtle?”
Aunt Myrtle sags into her chair, her age suddenly showing in a way I hadn’t noticed before, in deep grooves around her eyes, the slack of her arms. “Lattie. Get your mother,” she says. “I’m calling a conclave.”
“Now?” the other woman chirps.
“You have a better time in mind?”
The woman clucks her tongue. “Fine, fine. What am I to saythis is about? You know Donna, she’s loathe to leave California without a damn good reason.”
Myrtle smiles. “Oh, I’ve got a good reason all right. Tell her it’s about Piers.”
“Lily’s girl?” the woman drawls.
“She’s with me,” Myrtle says, meeting my eyes. “And she’s taken her first mark.”
14Matriarch
The woman looks lost. From the cat-eye slant of her sunglasses to the ruby satin of her chunky-heeled sandals, to the little ruffle around her ankle socks and puff sleeves on her canary yellow baby doll dress and even the sun-tipped strands of her long, tousled waves—she looks more like she stepped off a hipster runway than into a café in the Adirondack Mountains. Her look is street with an unmistakable devil-may-care aesthetic, but I know money when I see it. Every piece she’s wearing is expensive. And she’s too young for all that swagger.
She lowers the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes in the room.
I stand there with a pot of hot coffee in one hand like I’ve just seen an orangutan play the piano. Beside me, Terry from the Drunken Moose is at a table, scarfing down his bowl of Wheaties. When he sees her, he drops his spoon, splattering milk all over himself.
A smile plays across her hot-pink lips.
Even Bart is slobbering up the glass outside, wishing he could follow her in. Stupid dog.
Ed walks up next to me. He must be on his fortieth coffee break of the day and it’s only two o’clock. I have come to realize that Myrtle used the wordupkeepvery loosely when telling me about her and Ed’s arrangement. He’s more like a glorified pet. Ed has Bart, and we have Ed. “You lost?” he asks as he squints one eye in her direction.
“Do I look lost?” she replies.
He doesn’t know how to answer that. His mouth pulls to one side like his brain is diverting energy from the rest of his face to formulate a response. Finally, he says, “You don’t look found.”
If I could crawl under Terry’s table and disappear, I would. It’s been a while since I moved in my usual Charleston circles, sipping champagne in a silk cocktail dress at an art opening as I worked a room, looking for new clients. I wasn’t fearless, but I had finesse and I knew how to use it. But I never possessed the kind of confidence I see before me now. She has to be several years my junior, probably in her late twenties, and yet I find myself instantly regretting the cable-knit sweater and stained jeans I dragged on this morning. Also, how is she not cold? It can’t be more than fifty degrees outside.
“Can I help you?” I ask, certain she’s taken a wrong turn somewhere, like back in Manhattan, and just kept going.
She pulls the sunglasses off and stares at me. “Are you her?”
“Uhhh…” My mouth falls open.
She walks in a slow circle around me until she’s back where she started. “I like it,” she says, stepping toward me.
“Like what?” I ask, completely dumbfounded.
“No, like, it works for you,” she says with emphasis. “This whole mountain-girl-barista thing you’ve got going. Rugged but sensual, you know?” She leans in toward my right ear so only I can hear the next part. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”
As she leans away, her eyebrows arch, but I can’t read the meaning behind her expression. I only know her words have chilled me to the bone. Myrtle didn’t tell me much about what to expect from the venery, only that this gathering is vital to my survival. With pinched lips and worried eyes, she pressed into me the understanding that this is no mere family meeting but an inquisition. My fate will be decided by these women, my own family. Women with the power of death in their lips. Before I can respond, Myrtle cuts in.
“Azalea?” Her voice rings through the café as she descends the back staircase. “Is that you? Already?”
The girl breaks out in a wide smile and breezes past me. “Aunt Myrtle! I left as soon as I heard. Caught the next flight out of Portland.”
I turn and watch Myrtle wrap her in a warm hug. “You must have flown out at midnight.”
“I don’t really sleep,” she says. “At least not at night. I’m more of a catnapper really.”
