King of the South

by Calia Read

  For several seconds, all I can do is blink at her. There are many traits that set Momma and me apart, but one thing we don’t do is share our true feelings. Swallowing, I tentatively lay a hand on her shoulder. I should say something kind and heartwarming. The words exist inside me, but they never seem to find the way out of my mouth.

  There’s a knock on the door, saving me from this strained moment. One of the servants opens the door and reveals Beau’s perfect face. I spot the Lacroix car running on the street. Beau sees me and gives me a shy smile. I smile back and look at Momma. “I’ll be home later tonight.”

  Placing a bright smile on her face, Momma faces my date as though she didn’t just gut me with her words.

  Being ever the gentleman, Beau holds out his hand for me to take. As I step out of the car and onto the street, I can’t help but notice his grip is firm, but not too tight.

  Everything about him is so … perfect.

  Serene stands beside Étienne with her arm looped through his. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and she has a smile from ear to ear as she looks at Beau and me. She’s a cat who ate the canary, and I have no doubt that when we retreat to the ladies’ room, she’ll besiege me with endless questions about my thoughts of Beau.

  The four of us proceed to walk toward the entrance of the theater. The Garden Theatre opened nearly a year ago. It made a name for itself in Charleston, so it’s no surprise a small crowd has already gathered outside the doors.

  While we wait in line, I watch as cars pull to a stop in front of the theater, the brakes lightly screeching. Drivers will step out and open the door for whoever is in the back, and then they’ll drive away. Another car will replace its spot, and the process repeats itself. Downtown Charleston can’t seem to handle the number of cars on the narrow roads. Every so often, I’ll hear a driver impatiently honk their horn. Tonight, the noises and the crowds do not bother me. Standing beside Beau, I feel hopeful. Serene’s bachelor plan could go better than I ever dreamed.

  After several minutes of waiting, we receive our tickets and make our way inside. The entry was designed to complement the theater’s name with a garden of flowers and trellises. If that wasn’t enough, there are caged canaries. Their singing voices combine with the sound of women’s heels echoing on the tile floor. Crystal chandeliers are hung, illuminating the shadows near the ornate archways.

  As I look around at the multitude of people, it occurs to me it’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a relaxing and enjoyable night. But the minute I see the familiar faces, and their eyes focused on me and my date, I immediately regret this night out. Expecting news of my bachelor ball not to spread across town would be delusional of me. The second I stepped foot out of my home with one of the bachelors, people started wondering, and since then, all eyes and ears have been on me and becoming more than bothersome.

  Serene, on the other hand, is uninterested at everyone watching us and holds her head high. She’s wearing a pale blue long-sleeved gown, with a high neckline, gold lace insertions, and a sash of the same color directly above her burgeoning stomach that she makes no attempt to cover. Confinement while pregnant is something Serene loathes. One of her hands freely rests on her stomach. Whether it’s subconscious or on purpose doesn’t matter to me. Serene is the same whether in public or in private.

  “My God, it’s hot in here,” she mutters under her breath and begins to cool herself with her fan. “I don’t know if I’ll make it through the entire show.”

  “If I have to sit through this, then so shall you,” Étienne says beside her.

  Serene gently nudges him and turns to me. “I heard this silent movie is based on a book. Have you ever read anything by Jean Webster?”

  “I haven’t,” I answer.

  I can’t remember the last time I sat down to read. Most likely before the war occurred. For my sixteenth birthday, Livingston gave me a book, The Shepherd of the Hills by Harold Bell Wright.

  His inscription inside was:

  I haven’t decided which will be more damaging in your hands, your bow and arrow or this book.

  I do know these words contained within haven’t left me with a scar...yet.

  Happy Birthday, le savauge.

  I read the novel numerous times and still have it on my shelf. As the memory plays in my mind, a faint smile appears on my lips. Immediately, I mentally chastise myself. This isn’t the time to become nostalgic or think of Livingston.

  We take our seats in the first mezzanine, and as I smooth the material of my dress around my legs, I look around the spacious theater. The chandeliers are dimly lit in the auditorium as people walk the narrow aisles and begin to take their seats.

  Directly in front of the stage is the small orchestra, preparing for the film by checking their instruments. The stage is empty, and the curtains are pulled back, revealing a bare wall for the silent film to show on. I feel a sense of anticipation knowing I’ll see the actors, read the titles, and hear the beautiful music. I don’t go to the theater enough.

  Beside me, Beau clears his throat. “Y-you lo-ok lovely.”

  Turning to him, I smile. “Thank you.”

  He smiles back, and his features transform from handsome to breathtaking. But he manages to keep a sincerity in his eyes that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen in a man before. “D-dare I say y-yo-ou a-are the p-prettiest woman here.”

  “Not everyone has taken their seats. Don’t speak too soon,” I tease.

  “I-I stand by my w-words.”

  My smile widens. How can I give a wisecrack to that? “What did you think of the first bachelor event at Belgrave?”

  “I’m g-grateful to be o-one of the fifteen men standin’.”

  “I’m grateful you are too.”

  “A-although I must confess I’m a-apprehensive to see what will be required of us next to win your hand.”

  I lean toward him and lower my voice to a conspiring whisper. “Not even I know that.”

  I notice when Beau becomes more comfortable in a conversation, his stutter significantly fades, but not entirely. Which I wouldn’t want. I rather like how he talks. And perhaps, as the night continues and we talk some more, I’ll discover there’s more I like.

  “Well, well, well …” Serene murmurs under her breath.

  I look toward the focus of her attention and see none other than Livingston Lacroix. My heart drops to my stomach. What is he doing here? I can’t count on one hand the number of times he’s been to the theater. If there’s no liquor in sight, there’s no Livingston.

  “Good evenin’, everybody,” Livingston greets.

  At once, his eyes meet mine. I try not to flinch at the direct contact, and the intensity I see swirling in his hazel irises. His focus switches to Beau who had begun speaking to Étienne before Livingston walked up.

  Livingston’s eyes narrow, and his lips draw into a thin line. My word, what could he have against Beau? No one has a bad word to say about him.

  Beau’s remarkably shy and merely dips his head. I sit there, arms crossed, trying to figure out what Livingston is doing here.

  “Hello, Livingston,” Serene says.

  Étienne leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and chimes in. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

  “Why? I happen to love the theater.”

  “You’ve never been here. Not once. Ever. In your entire life,” Étienne replies, his tone glib.

  “Yes, but I’ve been to a theater,” Livingston points out.

  The four of us stare at him expectantly. It takes him a moment before he looks to his left and realizes a woman is standing beside him and has been for the entire exchange. In all honesty, I didn’t know she was with him. I thought she was merely waiting to be seated. I watch her carefully and notice how Livingston places a hand on her back. Who is she to him?

  “Please forgive me. Everyone, this is Rosalie.”

  I’ve never seen Rosalie before, thus proving my theory Livingston’s had to branch out to other to
wns to find women. I look her up and down one more time. She’s nothing like the moaning cow he was with weeks ago. I suppose that’s a step in the right direction, but I still don’t care for her.

  “Hello,” she greets in a breathy voice that makes you question whether it’s real or a well-practiced action done in front of her mirror.

  “I hope the four of you don’t mind if we sit here?” Livingston asks. He looks at everyone but me.

  “N-not at all,” Beau says.

  Much to my chagrin, I watch Livingston and his date occupy the two empty seats to my left. I expect Rosalie to sit beside me, but instead, it’s Livingston. I try not to let my shock show.

  The intention of tonight was to get to know Beau. He seemed like an upstanding gentleman. Serene says he’s shy, but if a topic of conversation arises that he’s passionate about, he turns into a different person. Étienne told me he enjoys reading. It was something we had in common.

  Last night as I fell asleep, I envisioned us speaking of our favorite stories and the numerous lives we lived through our most cherished characters. Maybe, just maybe, we would share a mutual love for the same story. I wouldn’t have to meet any of the other bachelors because Beau would be it.

  It was a fanciful fantasy that would never come into existence. Especially with Livingston next to me.

  As if he can sense me thinking of him, he glances at me as he makes himself comfortable. I can feel those hazels on me a mile away. “How are you, le savauge?”

  I bite down on my tongue to keep from saying something harsh in front of Beau. He’s so quiet and calm, and I want him to have a good first impression of me and not see me explode on Livingston. Not yet at least. That’s always bound to happen.

  I turn and give Livingston a dazzling smile. “Quite well. And you?”

  His eyes narrow a fraction as he looks between Beau and me. I don’t know why. Beau’s engaged in a conversation with Étienne. The minute Beau’s done, I will ask if he wouldn’t mind switching places with me.

  I know the question and the white-hot awareness of him won’t abate until there’s space between us.

  I’ve run out of time, though, when the wall sconces become dimmed. Around us, voices fade, and in unison, heads turn to the stage, waiting for the film to begin. Somewhere in the theater somebody coughs. Another clears their throat.

  The blank wall swallowing the stage suddenly fills with light. With every film I’ve seen, there’s never been a steadiness, but that simply adds to the experience. The picture always appears to be moving even though it’s not. I try to notice every single detail before the scene changes, even down to the opening credits.

  A backdrop that appears is the shadow of a boat with numerous people sitting inside and the outline of mountains in the back. I begin to read the first subtitles. Baby Souls, Kings of the Future, bearer—

  “An interestin’ rumor has found its way to me.”

  Gritting my teeth, I keep my focus forward. Livingston is simply attempting to get a rise out of me.

  “Do you care to know?”

  Briefly, my eyes close. He’s not going to quit until I reply. “Not particularly.”

  There’s a pause, then Livingston whispers, “Very well. I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve heard the bettin’ books around town have made a game of your bachelors. A lot of people have become highly invested in your future husband.”

  Eyes wide, I turn toward Livingston. “You cannot be serious.”

  “When have I lied about a bet?”

  “When you’re losin’,” I whisper.

  Livingston shakes his head as the corner of his mouth lifts. “Believe me on this.”

  I don’t reply and return my gaze to the film, but I’m thinking about his words. There are bets being placed on my future husband. I shouldn’t be shocked. Yet I am.

  “Do you want to know who is in the runnin’ to win?” Livingston persists.

  More than anything. “No, I do not.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I attempt to read the subtitles and try to immerse myself in the film. How much have I missed? We’re well past the boat scene; now the scene’s one of a brick wall with trash cans that are filled to the brim. The ground is covered in debris. It’s a stark comparison to the first scene.

  “You’re all dolled up tonight,” Livingston says into my ear.

  There’s no possible way I can follow the film sitting next to Livingston. Not with him interrupting me every few minutes. The worst part is he’s doing it to drive me mad. And it’s working. I’m not going to let that show. Absolutely not. Beau is here, and I’m going to be the very picture of a Southern belle.

  He shifts closer. “Is this attire all for Beau?”

  Abruptly, I turn to him, my eyes ablaze. “It’s impolite to speak durin’ a movie,” I hiss.

  Keeping his eyes on mine, he holds his palm between our bodies. “Then let us write.”

  My eyes flick between his splayed fingers that leads to his palm and then back to his face. “You’ve gone mad,” I whisper.

  The rules of the write hand game are very simple and clear. One person will ask a question, and the other will answer by writing on the person’s hand who asked the question. They will have three tries to guess what the answer is before the turn moves to the next. It’s been years since I’ve played this. The last time was at Belgrave when I was nine. Livingston’s parents hosted a party, and it was the first event Momma stepped out from mourning for. Miles and I still hadn’t properly come to terms with the loss of Daddy, and unfortunately, we fought constantly. Momma made sure we were separated during that dinner by placing Livingston between us. I wanted to let my brother know how I felt. Keeping us apart wouldn’t stop me, so I enlisted the help of Livingston. Maybe he took pity on me for the loss of Daddy because he agreed, and beneath the table, held his palm out to me and said, “Of course I will help you.”

  If I remember correctly, I never said thank you to him for being on my side that night and delivering all my messages.

  Livingston shrugs. “Take your pick,” he whispers back.

  Sighing, I look to my right. Beau is transfixed by the movie. My eyes veer to Livingston’s date, Rosalie. She, too, is absorbed in the movie. I had the same intentions, but I’d given up hope of keeping up with the subtitles and understanding the plot. Maybe another time.

  “All right,” I reluctantly agree, knowing that sometime at a later date, I will make Livingston pay.

  Even in the darkness of the theater, I can see Livingston’s wicked grin. It causes my stomach to flip. He rests his arm on the armrest and holds his hand out, palm up. I stare at his hand as though it’s a trap. Ready to latch onto my hand and not let go.

  “Your dress, it’s new … correct?” he whispers.

  I presumed we would discuss tonight’s events. Not what I’m wearing. I take another deep breath. Reaching my index finger out, I lightly drag my nail against his skin, YES.

  A small shiver rocks through me as I write the three-letter word. It feels indecent to be doing this in public. But this is a mere dare. A simple game. And we’ve been doing these for years. What’s one more time?

  “Did Beau notice?”

  “It’s my turn to ask a question,” I whisper.

  “I made amendments to the rules because you don’t want to talk,” Livingston whispers back. “Now, did Beau notice?”

  At the mention of my escort, I sneak another glance at Beau. He seems unbothered by Livingston’s unprompted dare. My arm aligns with Livingston’s as I write NO.

  The wicked grin that was fixed on Livingston’s face when we began this game begins to fade. The light from the screen plays across the angles of his face, showcasing his sharp cheekbones, and the perfect angle of his nose. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, no man should be this handsome. Black brows slanted low over his light eyes, and his focus is devoted on his hand where my fingers still linger. Immediately, I snatch my hand back and place it o
n my lap.

  “Do you think Beau is your bachelor?”

  With that question, I pause. For one, it’s impossible to write I AM UNCERTAIN, and two, I’m beginning to believe it’s impractical to think one date can decide your fate with a person.

  There has to be more time, more conversation.

  “You’re not answerin’,” Livingston whispers into my ear.

  “This is absurd. Let’s watch the movie!” I hiss even though I make no attempt to move away from him.

  Don’t look at him. Do not look at him!

  Mentally, I give myself a pat on the back for keeping my eyes trained forward. Out of the corner of my right eye, I spot Serene leaning forward, pointedly looking back and forth between Livingston and me.

  I shove at Livingston’s arm. “We’re bein’ watched.”

  Without delay, Livingston sits up straight. The two of us move our arms from the armrests. My hands fall into my lap, and my fingers become laced. Together, we stare serenely at the screen, as though we were two enraptured moviegoers and nothing else. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell you what was occurring in the film for all the money in the world.

  Serene settles back in her seat, and I tell myself my heart is beating erratically because we were caught not watching the film, and not because of how close Livingston is. The orchestra is playing music at certain times. When did they begin that? After a moment of silence, Livingston slouches in his seat. His elbow settles back onto the armrests as he leans toward me. “Shall I continue?”

  My eyes veer in his direction before they meaningfully roll toward Serene. He knows as well as I do that she saw us. I don’t want to attract the attention of anyone else, especially Beau.

  Livingston makes a fist and props his chin on top of it. “If you’re apprehensive of bein’ seen, does that mean you forfeit?”

  Outrage courses through me. I forfeit nothing, and Livingston knows that.

  Wordlessly, I tap his arm. It falls forward on the armrest, his palm facing up. With my eyes looking at the screen, I reach out and write on his palm, NO.

  Then a thought occurs to me. “But what if I cannot answer your questions because my answers are far too long?” I ask in a hushed tone.