Engaged to Die

W
E ALWAYS GO
to Saint Thomas in January.” Irene lifted a thin dark eyebrow. “If it weren't for Virginia, we'd be there now.”

Carl stared into her amber eyes, looked quickly away. Those eyes—they reminded him uncomfortably of a cat watching a bird, remorseless, predatory, unfathomable. He focused on the coffeepot, a fine china one with pink roses twining around the spout. He watched the clear black stream of coffee, strong, hot, nerve-stretching, pour into his cup. Because of his diabetes he permitted himself only a half cup every morning, no cream, no sugar. He wished with a quick bitterness that he could as easily control his appetites in every sphere. Including Irene. But no matter how little she cared—and sometimes it seemed to him that she made her disdain for him more apparent every day—he knew he would never leave her, that he would do what she wished, when she wished. What was her fascination? It wasn't her beauty, though her dark hair had the sheen of midnight and her almond-shaped eyes and smooth creamy skin and sultry mouth inflamed him. Right this moment he wanted her with a hunger that was painful. But her attraction was more than beauty and passion. There was an aura of recklessness
about her that held infinite allure. Funny, he'd always been such a cautious man…. He took a sip of coffee. The hot liquid burned his tongue.

“Wouldn't we?” It was a taunt. She held out one perfectly manicured hand, glanced at the shining red nails, turning her hand this way and that.

“Irene”—his tone was harsh—“I can't swing it this year.”

Her gaze lifted from her hand. Cold eyes stared at him. “It's that bad?”

“You know what's been happening. The money's gone.” He looked through the shining glass of their private upstairs sitting room at the magnificent sweep of the courtyard. Water bubbled cheerfully in both fountains. Winter-bare rosebushes filled the formal beds in the terrace. When Dad was alive and footing the bill, there'd been a full-time gardener. If no one trimmed and spruced, they'd have a burgeoning wilderness by summer. God, everything cost so much. Now he worried whether he could afford the taxes. He'd been pleased several years ago when his father decided to deed the house to him, on the proviso, of course, that Susan and Rusty would always have their own wing. Now, the huge Italian-style villa was as burdensome as trying to heft an elephant. Maybe Virginia…He didn't want to ask Virginia. Not if he could help it. The house was his, the only property actually in his name. Everything else, including the gallery, belonged to her. But the taxes…Beyond the terrace was the point, much of it screened by pines and palmettos. He couldn't see the ruins of the old fort from the window, but he knew that once conquering Union troops had bustled about, stood by their guns, ready to engage the Confederate forces trying to regain the island. So long
ago. The island families that had created fortunes from sea cotton lost everything then. Their world changed. But the world was always changing. Battle, pestilence, and sudden death. Good Lord deliver us….

“You aren't listening to me!” The words were flung toward him, sharp as barbs catching a bull's flank.

Carl felt the beginnings of a headache. He'd had a lot of headaches lately. Who wanted to buy paintings now? If he didn't come up with at least twenty thousand in a couple of weeks, the gallery would have to go into bankruptcy. It would have broken Dad's heart. Would Virginia help? Surely she would. But to Virginia twenty thousand dollars sounded like a fortune. She still had a substantial amount of cash. Dad had believed in cash. If she were fearful—and so many were fearful now—would she see it as throwing good money after bad? If she didn't help…Who would ever have believed that the Neville Gallery could go down? It was a solid business, catering to rich vacationers and to the well-heeled retirees who'd settled on the South Carolina sea island of Broward's Rock to escape harsh northern winters. They still had money, but the days of free spending for luxuries were gone. If only he'd been more cautious when times were good. He'd put all he earned from the gallery into stocks. He'd bought more on margin. Dad always warned against buying on margin.

Only a year ago, he and Irene had been rich enough to do anything, go anywhere. That was over. He'd had to borrow to make good. Money was due now on the notes. If Irene knew just how little money they had…

“I want to go to Saint Thomas.” She tossed down her napkin, pushed back her chair. She rose gracefully, lithe and athletic, stopping at the breakfast room door
to flash the enigmatic smile that had held him in thrall since the day they met. “You'll find a way, Carl. I know you will.”

 

“Maybe we should tell Virginia to stick it. Just not show up. The damn gall of her having the damn party at the gallery at the same time as the Mackey opening.” Rusty shoved a hand through his hair, now a faded red, nothing like the flaming thatch he'd had when Susan first met him. His charm had attracted her, and the Hollywood boy-next-door appeal of his broad open freckled face. And just like Hollywood, it was all show and no substance. Oh, he was charming still, but now there was often an undercurrent of petulance when they were alone. In public, he was always a pukka sahib, perfectly attired in a navy polo shirt, chinos, cordovan loafers, welcome at a country club, on a cruise ship, hail fellow well met.

Susan slid the letter opener into the envelope. She scanned its contents. “The usual appeal. For the Palmetto Fund. This time it's all about the importance of preserving sea turtles. You know, I like sea turtles as well as anyone but—”

“Susan, for God's sake, stop chattering about sea turtles.” He paced across the study, his face stained by an ugly flush.

She put down the letter. “Rusty, the party's not just for Virginia. Anyway, how can we object? If she wants to announce her engagement then, that's her prerogative. We have to get along with her. And we have to keep Boston happy.” Boston Mackey was the most successful Low Country painter allied with the Neville Gallery. They didn't dare lose access to his paintings. It didn't bear thinking about. Susan was still unsure
whether planning the party in conjunction with Mackey's opening was inspired malice on Virginia's part or simply another example of the woman's inability to do what was right and proper.

Rusty jammed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe if I talked to Boston—”

“No.” The word was harsh, explosive. “Don't do it.”

“Your dad should have left the gallery to you and Carl.” His tone was querulous, like a ten-year-old called out even though he beat the throw to first. “Thank God Carl already had the house. The bitch would probably have booted us out by now”—he spread a tensed hand in a wide sweep—“if she'd inherited the house, too. She wouldn't give a damn that we've lived here for years. Your dad always wanted the whole family together. Now we're trapped with Virginia. If Carl had any guts, he'd toss her out. By God, I would.”

Susan gave him a level, considering stare. “Would you? What do you suppose Virginia would do with her will? Right now everything comes back to Carl and me. Oh, Rusty, don't be a fool. We have to be nice to Virginia.”

“The will.” He gave an ugly, mirthless chuckle.

“Yeah, let's talk about the will. And what do you suppose she'll do with it after she marries sonny boy?”

Just for an instant panic rose inside Susan. Virginia had them in her power. Susan looked around the lovely room, at all the beautiful pieces that she'd collected over the years, the nineteenth-century Chinese drum stool, the Gobelin landscape tapestry, the paintings by Albert Gleizes and Georges Valmier, the Louis XIV cabinet with boulle marquetry. She and Rusty couldn't afford the kind of house her possessions deserved.

“Have you thought about that?” His tone was malicious, derisive.

She gazed at him briefly. Why did she still care so much? He was shallow and selfish and spoiled. But she had loved him for so long. He was part of her life, just as this lovely room was part of her life. Nothing seemed permanent now. Not Rusty. Not her home. Not the gallery, though she and Carl worked as hard as they could. Lately her world seemed dark at the edges, like a nightmare with terror lurking behind everyday, commonplace images, a friend's face metamorphosing into a gargoyle, a placid moon transformed to a bubbling mass of poisonous sulfur. A sense of impending doom pressed against her, making her morose and snappish. Only yesterday she'd gotten into a shouting match with the caterer, and she'd known Tony Hasty all her life. They'd been such good customers she'd hoped Tony would consider lowering the cost of the party. Worst of all had been the moment when Tony loomed over her, his face an angry red, muscles bulging in his taut arms. For an instant she'd been frightened. Of Tony! Somehow she'd calmed them both, but she doubted they would ever treat each other quite the same. She had to get a grip on herself.

Stone-faced, she dropped the charity appeal, picked up the next letter, turned it in her hands. Her thoughts rocketed down another slope, not much more pleasant. An invitation to the Murrays' annual Valentine tea. Last year, Dad had come with them. They'd been pleased that he had a good time and his companion maneuvered his wheelchair so carefully. That's not all Virginia had been maneuvering as they'd discovered to their sorrow. Susan's memory of the picnic was clear enough about her father—ebullient, commanding, his
intense love for life making him seem vigorous despite his frailty. Susan couldn't picture Virginia on that lovely spring day. Virginia had been an appendage, not quite a servant but definitely not included in the party, quiet, efficient, almost invisible. It was only since her father's death and Virginia's emergence as the heiress that Susan had ever really noticed Virginia. To Susan's surprise, Virginia was attractive, slender with a gentle prettiness. It was the nurse's uniform that had reduced her to a kind of invisibility. She was certainly not invisible now. Truth to tell, she had charm. Truth to tell…Susan wished angrily that she was not so quick to look with clear eyes at those around her. She could not honestly accuse Virginia of subterfuge or pettiness or greed. Just as she could not honestly ignore the truth about Rusty's character. Or lack of it. Susan placed the invitation in the pile to be dealt with.

Rusty paced back to Susan's desk, picked up the antique gun she used as a paperweight. He lifted the old piece, cocked the hammer. “I wish it were real. I'd like to blow her fool head off. Dammit, I won't go.”

Susan opened her bank statement. Her lips parted, then closed. She didn't want to ask Rusty about the two thousand he'd drawn out. She didn't want to know how he'd spent the money. Money…“We have to go.” Her tone was brittle.

His hand tightened on the gun's curved butt. “Sue, we aren't slaves.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Slaves? We might as well be. And we're going to the party.” She lifted her slender shoulders in an irritable shrug. “Unless you want us to start looking for jobs.” She looked at him sardonically. “You know, work. You've heard of it, I'm sure. I think you actually had a job once. Before you
married me. Let's see, I could sell antiques. Maybe you could—”

He slammed the gun onto the desk, turned, bulled toward the French doors.

She looked down at the gash in the cherry wood.

The French door opened, slammed shut.

Susan slid the bank statement into the envelope, her face ridged and hard.

 

Louise Neville always wore black. No one knew why. No one asked. She was rail thin with a pinched, dried up face and a sharp gaze. She paused in the central hall and stared into the sun-splashed drawing room at her sister-in-law. Louise's dark eyes glinted. Virginia was a fool. But the world was populated by fools, fools and knaves. She'd warned Natty when she realized he was infatuated with Virginia. He ignored her. He always thought he knew best. Arrogant. Determined. Willful. But death awaits all men. Even Natty. She'd warned him.

And she'd warned Virginia. The poor woman might as well try to pick up a rattlesnake with a rake as attempt to placate the family. They all hated her. Hatred was wrong. The Bible said so. Woe to those who flout the laws of God.

Louise turned and moved away, unheard, unseen, unnoted.

 

Beth Kelly put down the phone. She walked blindly to the balcony door, stepped out into the chill gray mist. She placed her hands on the railing, stared out at the fog curling above the dark waters of the marsh, felt the burn of tears. Rusty wasn't coming. Another night by herself. She'd hurried home from work, bought a bot
tle of cabernet and fillets to grill, taken a shower, brushed her golden hair until it shone, put on a lime green dress that he loved, and now he wasn't coming.

She wrapped her arms across her front, cold as the winter-chilled water. Maybe it was time to demand that he leave Susan.

What if he said no?

 

Jake O'Neill walked out to the end of the pier, looking in every direction. But it was the middle of the day. The girl wouldn't be here. He placed his hands on the wooden railing, stared out at the wave-riffled water. Tall and slender, with thick dark curly hair and bright blue eyes, he attracted women. He knew that, enjoyed his power. He'd had a good thing going at the gallery in Atlanta, clerking and painting portraits. A lot of rich women liked for him to paint them. And sometimes to make love to them. He made them feel they were part of a bohemian world that existed only in their imaginations. Rich women were fascinated by a man who was the opposite of their cookie-cutter husbands in their dressy casual polo shirts and slacks. So he made sure he was different. Women remembered him. In summer he always wore a white suit. If Tom Wolfe could do it, so could he. For winter, he chose a wool cap and argyle sweater over a white Oxford shirt and gray slacks. The summer hat and winter cap might be an affectation, but those old boys had it right. A hat kept you cooler in summer, warmer in winter.