Chapter 10
Seated on her tufted vanity stool, Mavis Greenlee frowned at her foot, specifically her right foot and the polished nail of her big toe. It was painted a shimmering shade of coral, the precise color of her lipstick, and, of course, her fingertips.
But there was a flaw in the polish, a tiny chip, just noticeable enough that she couldn’t possibly wear open-toed shoes to the Honey wells’ patio party.
If she couldn’t wear her gold sandals, then her entire ensemble would have to be rethought.
The peach-colored, frothy blouse and beige skirt and jacket needed the glitter and dash of je ne sais quoi that the sandals and her coral-tinged toes provided.
“Damn it all to hell,” she muttered, as Princess, her cat, wandered into the bathroom and hopped lithely onto the vanity. Absently, Mavis stroked the Persian with the beautiful lilac points on her long, creamy fur. A lovely creature who usually distracted Mavis from her problems.
But not today.
Not with this horrendous toe, for God’s sake!
It was the fault of the girl who had applied the color. The girl at the salon. The one who could barely speak English. The girl whom Mavis had deigned to let apply the polish because Marta, that little sneak, hadn’t been in this afternoon. Even though Mavis had a standing appointment with her.
Marta was good with toes and gave the most delicious calf massages.
Marta understood exactly what Mavis wanted.
Marta would never have let Mavis leave the shop unless the polish was set and hard.
But then Marta hadn’t been in the salon this afternoon, and the watery excuse that she’d felt ill didn’t sit well with Mavis. Not at all.
Well, nothing did.
Because not a thing, not one blessed thing, was going right!
Just take the other day, about a week or so ago. It had been a nightmare. First thing in the morning, the blender had died, so no perfectly balanced smoothie.
To make matters worse, her Mercedes coupe had decided to die, right there in the garage, making her late and forcing her to drive Arch’s pickup, as he, of course, was already driving his Aston Martin.
Unbelievable!
Then there had been the horror of the lunch at the country club.
Not only had the kitchen run out of shrimp bisque, but also that revolting Charlene Gillette had shown up with her artsy-fartsy daughter and granddaughters, only one of whom was legitimate, mind you.
The little one, with the curly reddish hair and big eyes.
She at least had a known father. But she was a brat if there ever was one.
Just like that mother of hers. Nicole. The reporter.
Mavis couldn’t help but sneer when she thought of “Nikki.” A pushy little tart, that one.
But it was Charlene’s older daughter who had shown up at the club with her kid.
A “tween” or whatever you called them these days.
The rail-thin granddaughter seemed churlish and uncouth, just like her mother, Lily—that head-in-the-clouds heathen who had dared have a child out of wedlock and raise her as a single mother.
As if she had that right!
Faux avant-garde, that was who Lily Gillette was. A horrid piece of work, just like her mother, Mrs. Hoity-Toity, the widow Gillette, still mourning for “The Judge,” as she’d referred to Big Ron. Mavis scoffed. Ronald Gillette was a womanizer if there ever was one.
Mavis should know.
And she did.
Oh, she surely did.
Her lips curved a bit at the memory of slyly sneaking away with Ron at one particular Christmas party, right under Charlene’s perfect little, surgically sculpted nose.
Mavis and Big Ron had nuzzled behind the oversize fir tree with its sparkling lights and glittering garlands.
If she tried, Mavis could still smell the scents of evergreen boughs and juniper berries and feel the heat of Big Ron’s lips upon her décolletage.
She’d wondered then, as she did now, if the “Big” in his name referred to something other than his stature.
She smiled because she knew it was true.
That night, right before the dinner bell had been rung, she’d let him hold her close.
His moustache had tickled her skin, and she’d grown warm deep inside …
Dear God!
She snapped back to the present.
Dismayed, she caught her image in the vanity mirror.
In the glow of the Hollywood lights surrounding the reflective glass, she noticed her face had flushed at the memory and she was breathing a little too hard.
With a cotton pad, she dabbed at the little beads of sweat that had sprouted on her forehead, then, slowly, let out her breath.
“Give me strength,” she said in a whispered prayer and touched the necklace with its tiny cross that she always wore around her neck and, she knew, close to her heart.
She felt an immediate sense of calm. That’s better, she thought, admiring her reflection.
As Princess leaped onto the floor to disappear into the bedroom, Mavis tucked an errant curl away from her face and back into the chignon at her nape.
Her thoughts roved to what had been a miserable week.
Her schedule had changed at the whim of everyone else.
The mahjong game had been canceled on Tuesday because Florence’s flighty daughter had decided to breeze into town unannounced.
Then the wine tour had been rescheduled due to some plumbing problem at one of the vineyards.
On Sunday, she’d been assigned to find drivers to deliver meals to the housebound members of the church.
She intended to talk to Reverend Stark about that! And now … now her damned toenail!
She should go back to the salon.
Demand a refund or a touch-up from that smarmy little girl who hadn’t let the polish set properly. She had been too hurried, too rushed, handling Marta’s clients as well as her own.
And, damn it, she had left the wretch a hefty tip.
Mavis stood, intent on marching back to the salon when her grandmother’s voice wafted through her mind.
“Say a prayer, Mavis dear, talk to the Lord. Learn patience. It’s just a little flaw. All God’s children have flaws. No one will notice.”
“Of course they will!” she said aloud, as if her dearly departed grandmother from Appalachia could hear her. Grammy never had to deal with Savannah society! Ora-Jean would never have understood how important it was that she look perfect.
If not for herself, then for her friends.
And if not for her friends, then for Archer.
At the thought of her third, philandering husband, Mavis felt her teeth clench nearly as tightly as her fists.
That son of a bitch. She should have known.
Once a cheater, always a cheater. Right?
But, still, just because he and Mavis had gotten together when they were both still married, that didn’t give him the right to play around on her!
Who did he think he was, flaunting that woman around his club?
And she’d heard they’d gone horseback riding.
Really?
Horseback riding!
Archer hated horses. And riding. And anything outdoorsy aside from hunting, and that was when he was younger.
But what could he do if not indulge that little slut?
A woman who was only nineteen! A scheming little bitch who was barely more than a girl.
Over forty years his junior, for God’s sake!
Younger than his damned daughter, and, oh, God, almost as young as his granddaughter. What kind of a monster did that?
It was … disgusting. And maddening. And so, so humiliating! She slipped back onto the tufted stool and felt like … what? Crying? Weeping like a spoiled child? Well … yes. But she wouldn’t.
But now, now, her goddamned nail was chipped!
Holy Mother of God, it was amazing she hadn’t ended up in a mental institution with what she had to put up with.
But it was too late to go back to the salon, as it was now closed.
Angrily, Mavis scooted back the small stool, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and quickly, forcefully, changed her expression.
The scowl produced lines around her lips and between her eyebrows, and that would never do.
She wasn’t due for another Botox treatment for two more weeks … and oh, those dark circles.
No, no, no! Would nothing ever go right?
Well, surely not today.
“Take a deep breath, dear.”
“Oh, shut up!” She hated hearing Grammy’s voice these days.
“And pray.” Well, she’d done that. She was a God-loving Christian, for goodness’ sake.
Just ask Reverend Stark. How many times had she chaired the Birds of Paradise, which was the ladies’ aid society for the church?
She’d tried to change the name but had been steadfastly voted down by those old bitches—biddies who’d been around since the seventies when girls were called “chicks” or “birds” in England—and Paradise was in reference to heaven, of course.
Duh!
Maybe it had been cute years ago, but now it was just a stupid, silly name. Despite all the good the society did.
Disgusted all over again, she strode out of the master bath she’d so meticulously designed and rushed down the curved staircase to the living area, where the drinks cart was waiting.
With trembling hands, she poured herself a stiff shot and took a long, satisfying swallow.
Then another, polishing off the vodka in her glass before taking the time to fill her short glass with ice cubes from the kitchen refrigerator.
Then she poured herself another—just a quick one to steady her nerves—as her cell phone rang, the sound coming from a distance.
What the hell now?
She scrambled to find the damned thing—where had she left it? Oh, hell, it was upstairs? Cautiously, so as not to spill her drink, she mounted the inlaid steps bathed with elegant light from the crystal chandelier suspended high above the staircase.