by Emily Childs
Rafe side-eyes me, and I catch the way his jaw tenses. Rafe doesn’t care for the soft, yet gut-slashing derision from my mother. But he’s known me long enough, known her long enough, to understand now is not the time to demand she speak kindly.
“No, ma’am,” I say. “Of course not. I apologize for the trouble, Mama, it’s just…” I glance at Thomas who subtly shakes his head as a warning. I stiffen. The no-good infidel should have thought of the backlash before he got extra cozy with Miss Eloise. “You see, Mama, Thomas has been unfaithful.”
If an audience were present, I’m positive there’d be an audible gasp. Mama lifts a brow, the daggers behind her eyes land on Tom. “You know for certain?”
“Yes. I saw him with my own eyes. I can’t marry him.”
Bernadette steps closer to Thomas, her drink ever swirling, her saltwater pearl necklace bold and powerful in the afternoon sun. Thomas swallows hard enough his Adam’s apple bobs twice.
“Is this true, Mr. Abernathy?” she asks coolly.
I’ve got to hand it to my mother—she is amazingly, gracefully, frightening.
“It isn’t what it seems, ma’am. Cold feet, that’s all. Eloise is an old friend, we were just . . .”
Great Gatsby!
My eyes widen, and I draw in a sort of gurgled gasp. Even Rafe startles a bit when my mother up and slaps Thomas silly.
The sorry excuse for a man clasps his cheek, soon meeting Mama’s eyes with apprehension, or awe. I can’t tell.
“Don’t patronize me, young man,” Bernadette declares. “You must think me a fool.”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
“I think you best be getting your sorry hide off my property.”
I almost cry tears of joy. Never, and I mean never, has this woman defended me in such a brazen way. Sure when Mrs. Lubbock said her daughter’s sweet-sixteen gala was better attended, Bernadette compared guest lists and made certain the error was redacted. And when Sykes Riley tired to get fresh at The Battery in Charleston, Mama saw to it his daddy made sure the boy couldn’t sit for three days. But this, this is the first display of real, we-don’t-care-what-folks-think kind of protection I’ve yearned for. If Mama were a hugger, I’d squeeze the daylights out of her slender neck. But she’s not so I won’t.
I only hope there aren’t ulterior motives.
Sometimes, there are reasons for her graciousness.
Thomas glances incredulously between us; I’m not sure who’s more stunned, me, Tom, or Rafe. I think Rafe might win since Mama’s attention homes in on him. Like he’s a prize to be won.
Strange.
After a few awkward moments, Thomas gives up any attempts to argue, and turns on his heel, stalking across the lawn.
“Oh, Mama—”
I halt when she holds up her hand. “Olive go on up to the house and clean up. No more tears for that vagrant, understand?”
I nod, though, tears are right around the corner. With a soft glance toward Rafe, I dart across the lawn too.
My heart is broken, but not because Thomas can’t control himself. The cracks fissure through my chest in painful waves for the two years I wasted my time on such a man. Tolerated his jabs, his arrogance, his ego. For what? To be humiliated in front of a hundred wealthy business acquaintances and their families? I wish it didn’t matter, and I wish I could say I’d be wrapped in loving, sympathetic arms of neighbors and friends, but I won’t be.
This’ll be the best thing those old, gossiping fillies at the club will hear all year. No one can fall as high as Olive Cutler, they’ll say. Poor, stupid girl. How did she not notice the signs?
I wipe my eyes and slip into the Big House through the back, hoping to never see another face all day.
They’ll eat this up because now their precious girls will never sink lower than me.
The house is enormous, and there are a few smaller guest homes and apartments on the property, so Big House suits for the main place. Old, plantation staircases wind me up to the upper level where I can hide away in my bedroom. Old bedroom. I have moved on to live as an independent woman, after all.
But being independent in my own apartment in Charleston doesn’t stop me from squeezing one of my old ragdolls handmade by Millie when I turned six, and burying my face into my pillows.
What is it about me that makes me this undesirable thing?
Thomas, well, I’ll survive this. My heart is not as broken as it is embarrassed. But he isn’t the first guy to deny my love.
Rafe stepped in like I knew he would. The man would take up arms for me, walk in front of a moving bus, he’d probably run across the country and back if I asked. The true pity lies in the way he refuses to admit we’re perfect for each other.
Today, before I even knew my ex-fiancé had special company planned, the only heart flutters I experienced were just now. When Rafe took my arm and told me to get behind him. When he brushed away the worthless tears.
But because he’s holding those blasted pruning shears and I’m wearing pearls, that kind, broody, sexy, stubborn fool of a man will always keep his distance.
And that, my friends, is the real shame here.
Fall in love with Rafe and Olive
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Thank you!
Thank you for everyone who has supported me in this journey. A big thanks to Fionn at Milktee Cover Designs and Sheila at Blue Water Book Covers for your work on this series. Thank you to Sara and Jennifer for helping smooth out my overused words and grammar sins in the various books of this series. Thank you to my family for reading and pimping my books.
Thank you, as always, to my kids and hubby. You let me waste away in front of the computer, bring me popcorn, and encourage me to keep going. You’re the why.
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