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 formaclass="underline" 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.