As Aidan drove into the garage, Griggs asked who’d hired him. Aidan said, “Holly, the events manager,” but he left out that I was his mom, worried that it might appear I was doling out special favors. Griggs replied that I was “hot,” and all the valets must want to “fuck” me. Aidan said nothing in reply. Then, as Griggs was leaving the car, he casually added that he planned to “find a way into” my “hot little pants.” Aidan still said nothing. Instead, my eighteen-year-old son, in his infinite wisdom, made the decision that only an “adult” man with a not-fully-formed frontal lobe can make: He used the valet key to scrawl “prick” onto the driver’s-side door of Griggs’s brand-new hundred-thousand-dollar cabriolet. And—of course—he did this directly in a security camera’s line of sight.
In a gesture of mercy—and after patiently listening as I berated Aidan for a full five minutes about his back-ass, misguided chivalry—Reginald offered to get rid of the security footage andsay a grifter must have wandered in from Piedmont Park. We’d need to come up with the money to cover repairs, but he’d tell Griggs the club’s insurance would pay.
At first I was appalled by Reginald’s offer. “My son should take responsibility for his actions!” I proclaimed. Reginald then gently interjected that keying a car of that value was unequivocally a felony, which shut both Aidan and me up fast.
Felons don’t receive full-ride scholarships from the state of Georgia, as Griggs so helpfully just reminded me.
I made a split-second decision. Aidan would work all summer in the most grueling job I could find. He’d earn enough to cover the cost of repairs, and we’d accept Reginald’s offer with gratitude. Then, in August, Aidan would head to the University of Georgia on full scholarship, as planned. We’d try to forget the whole thing happened.
That’s what we did, for better or worse. Griggs never found out who defaced his car, and Aidan spent a long, hot summer replacing roofs under the relentless sun. He paid for every penny of those repairs.
Now, I watch Byron work behind the bar, wondering if I made the right choice. I guess this is what it means to be a mother: I struggle to protect my son at all costs and then worry that I may have protected him too much. I make the impossible decisions and then accept the inevitable consequences.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned about Griggs in my many years of observing his behavior with women: For him, sex isn’t sex. It’s power. He quietly has affairs with the wives of prominent men at the club as a way to prove his own dominance—not to other men, but to himself. And women who refuse to sleep with him—especially women of a lower social status—threaten to diminish his feeling of power, which is really all he cares about. As far as I’ve been able to observe, Griggs will do just about anything to prove to those who dare to refuse him that he’s still the one on top.
Which means, in short, that I’m totally screwed (metaphorically speaking).
Byron arranges stirrers, chops limes, and fills the fridge withbottles of white wine, while I sit in silence nursing both my extreme self-pity and my second double.
How can I go after Griggs—reveal him for the grimy sexual predator that he is—if it means destroying my precious son’s future?
“How about some water, Holly?” Byron asks after a while, gently pressing a glass into my hand. “Maybe some peanuts, too?”
I look down, my vision blurring. I thought I’d be fine having two doubles, but Byron’s “country club” pours are heavy, and I’m not much of a drinker these days.
I clutch my gut, feeling my forehead sink to meet the cool steel bar top. Then I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Let me get Justine to bring you over a burger from the grill,” Byron says, clearly worried that he’s overserved me. “Rare, with bacon and extra pickles, just the way you like it?”
“I think I might be sick.” I lift my spinning head to exclaim to Byron. Then I jump to my feet and rush out past the Azalea Ballroom, making a beeline for the bathroom, just in time to hear the announcer exclaim through a crisp, perfectly calibrated sound system, “Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, this year’s Young Philanthropist.”
CHAPTER 7Luisa
I’m chewing on my fourth melt-in-your-mouth cracker when Griggs Johnson is called to the podium to accept his award.
What do they put in these crackers, anyway? Some kind of secret butter from the gods? They’re even served warm, as if they were baked exclusively for each guest. Of course rich people have access to more delicious saltines than the rest of us.
A server deposits a tall glass of tea with a fresh mint sprig on the high-top I’m occupying, then sets a small dish of lemon wedges wrapped in yellow mesh beside it. “Can I get more of these, please?” I gesture to the silver cracker dish, now empty. He nods and leaves. I squeeze a meshed lemon over my tea and swirl the straw, trailing Griggs with my eyes as he shakes hands with a few men on his way to the podium, while also scanning the room for the too-young, pearl-clutching Country Club Betty in the blue dress, now conspicuously absent. Where did she go?
Much to my family’s dismay, I sped through the remainder of my birthday dinner, blew out my candles, opened my gifts, then hauled ass to Midtown in rush hour. I used my now-defunctGeorgia Timespress badge to check in at the media table when I first arrived. That’s when I first saw Griggs Johnson in the flesh, wearing the same predatory smile I’d seen him parade online. He was muttering to the Betty in the pencil skirt, standing inappropriately close. Could she be his mistress? Maybe. She certainly isn’t his wife. The wife was across the room glad-handing local politicians and berating a server because her sweet tea was “too sweet.”
Griggs practically had theMaybe Mistressand her pearls pinnedto the wall like some taxidermy butterfly. And either everyone’s attention was too absorbed by the freely flowing alcohol and delicious canapés to notice, or these people just don’t give a damn.
But I saw. I’d never laid eyes on him before today, but I already knew his type. Griggs is the kind of man who excels at hiding his despicable behavior in plain sight.
He is charming, I’ll give him that. Charismatic in a way that seems almost genuine. He’s also absurdly photogenic, as evidenced by a booklet about his family’s charitable foundation, brimming with photo after photo of his well-boned face.
A fresh tray of buttery crackers arrives just as Griggs steps up to the podium. The wall of windows that forms one half of the circular ballroom only serves to highlight his tall frame and athletic build. He vigorously shakes the mayor’s hand, then accepts a blown glass award sculpture.
“Thanks, Gail,” he says into the microphone. “This will look just perfect next to my Peachtree Invitational trophy.” Everyone around me laughs at his asinine inside joke. A clandestine search on my phone—I was sternly told it’s a club rule to keep it turned off—reveals that the Peachtree Invitational is an amateur golf tournament at this very country club. The way he says it is almost dismissive, as if the award doesn’t matter much. I’m annoyed that he’s even comparing the two. Apparently, it’s all one big fucking joke to him.
“No, really, folks. I’m getting a little choked up thinking about how proud my father would be if he were still with us today.” He looks down, lips pursed, and pauses for a beat. I read somewhere that his dad was a big-time architect, built all of Atlanta’s iconic skyscrapers. Tough to live in the shadow of that, I guess.
“This foundation and the good work it does—they meant the world to him,” he continues. “And this recognition means the world to me.” His slight Southern accent is warm and pleasant. His manner, easy and open. His smile, beguiling. I’m reminded that the devil was once an angel.
If only these people knew that—much like the country club itself—Griggs Caldecott Johnson III starts falling apart on closerinspection. Earlier, as I walked in, I couldn’t help but scoff at the musty smell of the carpets, the dings and scratches on the furniture, the faded fabric of the sitting room sofa. There’s even a landscape painting hanging on a wall with a hole in it the size of my thumb. A fucking hole. In a painting.
I’ve read that to join this place, people have to cough up a hundred-thousand-dollar-plus entry fee, as well as absurd monthly dues. I don’t get it. Atlanta’s most exclusive country club is an old, stuffy building that serves saltines (though admittedly delicious) as its specialty.
