by Calia Read
“Shall what go on?”
Étienne kicks the toe of his boot toward the direction of my bed where the empty liquor bottle rolled underneath. “That.”
“That has been goin’ on for quite some time,” I say with a grin.
Étienne curses under his breath. “You are thirty-nine.”
“I am aware. We share the same birthday.”
“Doesn’t this routine become tiresome?”
When you’ve seen what I’ve seen? Never.
We all have specific positions in life, and when we detour from those positions, the people closest to us notice. Hence, why my brother is here. Étienne recognizes I’m no longer the jovial Livingston at all times. He wants things to go back to normal, but it’s less for me and more for himself. And if it was that easy, I would be the Livingston I once was. God, would I ever.
“I am perfectly fine. You can go, Étienne.”
My brother takes his time to scrutinize me. To get him to leave, I stare back even though my body is begging to lie down on the nearest flat surface. “Very well. I’ll go. We’ll speak soon.” Étienne walks toward the door, and I give his retreating form a weak wave.
At the last second, he turns and looks at me. “You need to find somethin’ that gets you out of this house. You’re goin’ to drive yourself mad livin’ in the past.”
“I will get on that first thing tomorrow mornin’. Right after I bathe and eat.” Although, just the thought of eating makes my stomach churn.
Étienne’s eyes harden. Just when I think he can’t respect me less, I set the bar even lower for myself. “Denial builds a prison stronger than iron bars,” he replies.
I open my mouth, but the sound of the slamming bedroom door stops the retort from sliding from my tongue. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples. Moments later, the house rattles from the force of the front door slamming. Étienne may be displeased with me now, but he’ll compose himself soon enough.
I cannot say the same for myself. I realize my brother is right. I need to find something in this world that sparks my interest or keeps me busy. But I don’t have the energy or the will. There seems to be no fight left in me. And that’s why I drink. So all my todays can fade into tomorrows … and the days after that.
I haven’t lived long enough to drink the way I do, but I can say I have seen enough to make a man go mad. My headache shows no signs of abating, and for me, the best cure for pain is to drink more alcohol.
My stomach chooses that moment to churn. I can’t decide if I’m going to be sick or just belch. Quickly, I roll to my side, closing my eyes tightly, waiting for my body to decide what it needs to do. Loudly, I belch. My chest sags, and for several seconds, I remain unmovable. I’ve had many low moments in my life, but this might be the lowest.
Dragging all ten fingers through my hair, I sigh. I need a miracle. I don’t care what form it comes in or in what way God saves me.
I just need something to hold onto.
CHAPTER TWO
Rainey
A funeral is only for the living, never the dead. It forces loved ones to say good-bye even when they don’t feel prepared.
Since I was child, I’ve never been adequately equipped to face death or entirely comfortable with funerals. I’ve seen far too many for one person.
However, my brother’s memorial was beautiful, with every close friend he’s had through the years in attendance. All except for one person. I could have sworn I saw Livingston at the beginning, but when I blinked, the image of him was gone. Maybe it was the trick of my imagination. Perhaps I wanted to believe Livingston would try his hardest to be there. Maybe I got him confused with his brother, Étienne. There are times the two of them make very similar expressions.
Of course, Étienne attended with his wife. Momma didn’t care much for Serene. Said she was uncouth. Many people in the circle Momma surrounded herself with thought as much. I enjoyed Serene’s presence and considered her a close confidant. Her straightforward opinion was refreshing to me. Serene Lacroix was no wilting wallflower, and she made no apologies for it. It seemed to me as though the mommas trying to marry off their daughters and any single woman above the age of eighteen resented Serene because she did something no woman had ever done before: she tamed a Lacroix man.
There was also the matter of her background. No one had ever laid eyes on her family. In passing, I’d heard Serene mention her brother Ian. And Nathalie confirmed Serene had two brothers. Serene said her family lived in the Midwest, but there was no deeper explanation. I didn’t care to pry because we all had a past.
I was simply overjoyed we got along so well. And as of now, I needed all the support I could get. Because now there was the matter of the will.
I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about today. Even though I was a child when Daddy passed, I still remember his funeral and flashes of the days following. It was incredibly difficult to accept he was gone. Perhaps that’s why I dug my heels in this morning at the prospect of going to Miles’s memorial. I didn’t want to begin the process of my mourning.
The methodical ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall is the only sound that can be heard.
Across from me sits Momma with an embroidered handkerchief clutched between her hands. Momma has been beside herself all day. Miles’s body was found in May, but they believed he died in March. Once they found him, it took months for his next of kin, Momma, to be notified. The entire time he remained missing, Momma never gave up hope that he would come home. It was nothing short of inspiring. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t coming back to us. It felt as though a candle had been snuffed out, and I was blindly trying to find my way around. Momma’s faith, no matter how fruitless, was far easier than facing the truth. Once we received the news, she started crying and hasn’t stopped. Lips that once readily moved upward to smile now curve downward and resemble two upside-down commas. She’s in a perpetual state of sadness and cannot be bothered. The light has been extinguished out of her eyes.
She lost a husband many years ago, but there was faith and promise. And that lay within Miles and me. I would be the sweet, Southern lady, and Miles would be a smart, handsome fella every woman set her eyes on.
Then Miles passed, and her promises were gone. But there’s still hope for me. One out of two isn’t bad, if you ask me.
Sitting at the head of the table is our family’s attorney, Mr. Parson. He’s indifferent to the strained silence and continues to methodically flip each page upside down, creating a neat stack beside him.
Beneath the table, my leg nervously bounces up and down. I’m desperate to leave the room. I need air. The sweltering July heat is making this black dress unbearable, and the walls feel as though they’re closing in on me. I focus on my laced fingers on my lap and breathe through my nose. When my vision started to blur, I would focus on Mr. Parson’s jowls. It gives him a grandfatherly appearance, but he can’t be but a few years older than my daddy. If he had lived long enough, would he have jowls, too? My nails dig into my skin as I fight to maintain my composure. The very last thing I need to think of right now is Daddy.
After several agonizing minutes, Mr. Parson clears his throat. I lift my head as he straightens the stack of papers against the table. I’m not as rigid with Southern traditions as other residents in Charleston are, but it does feel awfully tasteless to read the will less than twenty-four hours after my brother’s memorial. I express my thoughts to Momma before Mr. Parson’s arrival, and while she dried her tears, she said, “I don’t care when it’s done, just as long as it’s done.”
And that was the end of that.
“Before we start, I must give my condolences. Mr. Pleasonton was truly a wonderful man, and he will be deeply missed.”
In unison, Momma and I dip our heads, and murmur our thanks. We have become adept at accepting condolences with a numb sense of detachment. The quicker you accept them; the faster people shift the topic of conversation. It was one of the few things Momma and I saw eye to eye on.
“I’m sure the two of you are ready to begin,” he says with a weak smile.
When neither one of us says a word, he shifts in his seat uncomfortably and takes a deep breath.
“I, Miles Thomas Pleasonton, in the city of Charleston in Charleston County and State of South Carolina, of the age of thirty-five years, and being of sound mind and memory, do make this writing, as and for my last will and testament.
“First, after my death, I bequeath to my mother, Leonore Mae Pleasonton, all real estate in my name. She may accept monies owed to me at the time of my death. Equal parts of my personal belongings shall go between my sister and mother.
“Secondly, I request for all my debts and—”
For the second time today, I stare down at my hands and swallow the bile in my throat. When someone creates their will, do they feel death upon them or do they entrust their belongings, money, and estate in good faith? This seems incredibly macabre to me.
I know it’d be rude and disrespectful, but I’m tempted to feign exhaustion or the flu. Mr. Parson has Momma here, so why do I need to be in the room? Sounds as though everything will go to her anyway. I’m preparing to clear my throat—in the most ladylike fashion, of course—when Mr. Parson directs his attention to me.
“I have established a dowry for my sister, Ms. Raina Leonore Pleasonton, with a future sum of 60,000 dollars. The stipulation being she finds a suitable husband within sixty days of said will being read.”
Immediately, I sit upright in my chair. My heart is pounding so rapidly, I can barely hear the words pouring from Mr. Parson’s mouth. All my mind can focus on is one thing: sixty thousand dollars.
Sixty. Thousand. Dollars.
“Your dowry has been placed in a trust, and a Mr. Livingston Adrien Lacroix has been appointed as the executor.”
My mouth drops upon his words, and I can’t help but interject. “I apologize, but I don’t believe I heard you correctly. Who did you say?”
Mr. Parson glances at his papers. “Mr. Livingston Lacroix.” He continues speaking. “It’s also stipulated you have sixty days to find a suitable husband or your dowry will be dissolved and the money will be donated to a charity of Mrs. Leonore Pleasonton’s choosin’.”
This will be the second time I hear the words dowry and Livingston Lacroix in the same sentence. The words still don’t entirely make sense. What is happening?
Momma wears the same expression of horror on her face, but it’s for an entirely different reason. “Charity?” The single word flows from her mouth like poison. “The money will go to charity?”
We glance at one another, our confusion written across our faces.
Mr. Parson pushes his glasses up his nose only to have them glide down. He clears his throat. “That is Mr. Pleasonton’s request.”
“What is the matter with him?” Momma huffs.
At the same time, I say, “I don’t need a dowry!”
Mr. Parson stares back and forth between the two of us, uncertain of who to respond to first.
I glimpse at Momma to make sure we don’t talk at the same time again. She’s back to staring at her handkerchief. “When was this will drawn?” I ask.
Once again, Mr. Parson thumbs through the papers. Momma had a small outburst, but now she’s become reticent. I have no qualms in voicing my thoughts. This simply doesn’t make sense, and I need answers.
“Mr. Pleasonton visited my office on October thirteenth, 1917.”
His reply brings a heavy silence into the dining room. Miles had this will drawn more than a year and a half before his death. I stare at my interlocked fingers and swallow the lump gathering at the back of my throat.
In October, was I romantically involved with any gentleman? Probably not. The fact Miles placed this dowry in the will while I was unattached to anyone is more than humiliating. My brother knew me so well that he predicted my own companionless life.
If my brother were here, I’d shake him by the shoulders and demand an answer. Why? Why would he do this? I thought we had a close relationship, and if he was concerned about my lack of suitors, he should’ve come to me and voiced his concerns. This didn’t seem like something he would do.
After a moment of strained silence, Momma stops rubbing her fingertips over her handkerchief and patiently regards the older man. “Is that all, Mr. Parson?”
Mr. Parson readily nods and begins to gather most of his paperwork. He leaves the will with us. This is by far the most lively I’ve seen the man since he stepped through the door. Who can blame him for wanting to leave our home? The sadness is palpable, causing the air to be so thick that everyone who steps through the front door has the potential of being choked by the grief.
Momma stands to walk Mr. Parson to the front door. My body is numb although my mind runs in circles as I follow them toward the foyer.
Mr. Parson gives his condolences one last time before he leaves. The second the door closes behind him, I begin to pace in the foyer, unbothered that our butler, Stanley, is standing beside the door. “This will not do. This will not do,” I announce.
“Rainey—”
Abruptly, I turn, allowing my panic to reveal itself in my eyes. “Momma, Livingston can’t be allotted this...this power! It will go straight to his head, and he’ll probably lose the money.”
“The money is in a trust,” Momma points out.
“It’s Livingston. Don’t discredit him,” I remark dryly before I resume my pacing. Why was this happening?
Momma attempts to intercede me, but the walls are closing in on me again. I need to keep walking.
“Calm yourself, sweetheart. Livingston is a responsible, stand-up man, and when we explain the situation, I’m positive he’ll be supportive.”
One thing Livingston’s never been toward me is supportive. And vice versa.
“Momma, the only thing he’ll support is marryin’ me off to one of his bachelor friends who has a worse reputation than him!” I suck in a deep breath before I continue. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why Miles gave me a dowry.” I shake my head. “A dowry!”
Momma gives up the fight of trying to calm me and walks toward the stairs. “Unfortunately, we will never know.”
For Momma, this conversation is effectively over. As for me, it’s just begun. It’s time for her afternoon “respite.” That’s what she called it after Daddy died. Now that Miles is gone, I know she goes to her room to have a cup of tea with a hearty splash of old grand-dad whiskey. I can only surmise what occurs behind the closed doors by her red eyes when she appears hours later for dinner. But she never makes a scene, and she never, ever discusses her pain. That would be ungenteel for a Southern lady.
I take a deep breath. “Did you tell Miles to do this?”
Momma stops walking. Looking over her shoulder at me, she raises both brows.
It should come as no surprise that I asked this question. Momma never misses an opportunity to remind me how I’ve spent my youth gallivanting around Charleston like a hellion instead of a proper Southern lady trying to find a husband.
“Pardon me?”
“Did you tell Miles to give me a dowry with outlandish stipulations? He would never think of somethin’ like this on his own.”
“I did no such thing, and you’ll do well to remember that. What your brother decided to place in his will was done of his own volition. I couldn’t control his actions any more than I can control that mouth of yours,” she replies and continues to the second floor.
Ignoring Momma’s retort, I follow her up the stairs. “If you’re in charge of Miles’s estate, then surely you can have this rescinded.”
“No,” she replies at the top of the landing.
I rear back. “No?”
“No,” she repeats. “I will respect your brother’s wishes and support this decision no matter how unexpected it may be. Perhaps you should try to do the same.”
“You want me to marry for money?”
“I married your father for mon
ey, and he was the great love of my life.”
At the mention of Daddy, a small bit of anger goes out of me. “Be that as it may, not everyone is that lucky.”
“You could be lucky if you gave someone a chance.”
“Perhaps. But we’ll never know because I refuse this dowry.”
Momma closes her eyes and rubs her temples before she replies. “Raina, I have more concernin’ matters at hand. I will not fight this decision, or with you. This entire day has been very tryin’ on my spirit. Please send for someone to bring a restorative beverage to my private quarters immediately.”
Momma doesn’t wait for my reply. She allows her cryptic words to hang above me. Today was tiresome for us all. I should step back from this twisted situation and take a deep breath because, at the end of the day, all Momma and I have now are each other. I hear her door shut and close my eyes.
I don’t need the dowry. The money is of no importance to me, and I don’t need a husband. What I need is a miracle. Or for my brother to come back and explain this all to me, and since that isn’t going to happen, I need to think of a practical alternative. There’s someone out there who is very much alive.
Someone who I didn’t see today but who owes me answers.
That person is none other than Livingston Lacroix.
Immediately, I act and turn toward the front door. Stanley opens the door for me, but then I remember I don’t have the will, so I quickly turn on my heels and rush back to the dining room. I snatch it from the table, and when I do, my eyes snag on the words Livingston and dowry and husband.
I snort and say very quietly, “The day you become my executor is the day I become your wife.”
CHAPTER THREE
Livingston
In the midst of the raucous laughter and crude wisecracks, a persistent pounding on the front door gives me a sense of déjà vu from yesterday. Are Étienne and Serene back? No, they can’t be. Since they’ve had Alex, the two of them have retreated to Belgrave. Once the sun falls, they’re in for the night.
