Chapter 10
The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living area, and a warm glow danced across the
polished hardwood floors. In the dining room, Moira stopped to admire the elegant dining table that had been passed down from
Jeffrey’s grandfather—a stunning mahogany trestle that gleamed faintly, the edges scratched from years of elbows and wineglasses.
It started raining, seemingly out of nowhere, the day the newlyweds moved into the row house on Chatham Square. She remembered
the slick brick steps, the way her boots squeaked, the smell of wet magnolia leaves.
“This table has been in my family for three generations,” Jeffrey had said, gripping one end like a soldier going into battle.
“We’re not leaving it in the back of the truck.”
They wrestled with it themselves, soaked to the skin, bumping walls and doorframes and each other. At one point, Moira had
dropped her end, swearing, laughing, wiping rain out of her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“It will never fit, Jeffrey!” she exclaimed.
But when it finally settled into place—wedged tightly into the narrow room like a ship in a bottle—he stepped back, hands on his hips, and said, “Look at that. Like a glove.”
“Like OJ’s glove,” she answered.
He smiled at her with that soft, crooked smile she could still see perfectly, even now.
They ate takeout that night: Indian food, samosas, and warm naan straight from the cartons, seated across from each other
like royalty at the mahogany trestle table. Just them and the echo of rain on the windows.
She snapped back to the present and eyed the center of the table; the vibrant floral arrangement she had made featured a colorful
array of limelight hydrangea blooms, pink azalea blossoms, and stems of resurrection ferns, all from her property. The fine
white china, arranged meticulously around the table, sparkled in the sunlight.
Moira loved to cook, but this weekend she decided to relax and let her favorite Italian chef, Antonio, and his assistant,
Renata, take charge of the meals. They were scheduled to arrive by four thirty to begin preparing dinner and fresh breakfast
pastries for the weekend. The menu for Friday evening featured spicy shrimp fra diavolo served over polenta, alongside an
arugula salad and garlic herb bread. Guests were expected to arrive at five, with drinks served first, followed by dinner
at six thirty.
While Moira continued to check her home, making sure nothing was out of place, she thought about her guest list. Only four women were expected.
Her youngest brother’s wife, Penny, was battling breast cancer and was too fatigued to fly in from Houston, even though she was doing well overall and was expected to make a full recovery.
Her friend Jess would be at a cousin’s wedding in Charlotte.
Both were understandable and valid reasons for not being able to attend.
And it was no surprise that MerryLee had texted Moira to decline—probably before she made it back to her house from her mailbox.
But at least she was honest and said she just didn’t want to come.
On the other hand, the excuses given by her sorority sisters Carla and Jenna, as well as her sister-in-law Tabitha, were laughable.
Who in their right mind would pass up a weekend of great food and good conversation to do yard work, detail the car, or hang
new drapes? They might as well have declined because they had to wash their hair.
Before even receiving their RSVPs, Moira knew she could count on her childhood friends, CK and Gemma, to make the drive halfway
across the state of Georgia to celebrate with her, even if it was hard for worrywart CK to leave Sean and her kids, and for
Gemma to suspend her busy schedule filled with real estate showings and senior-year preparations. They’d always been there
for Moira when she needed them.
Moira traced a manicured finger across the foyer table in the living room to check for dust and thought about how happy she
was that Erin was coming for the weekend. When they made casual chitchat while Erin swept the floors and wiped down the kitchen
countertops, Moira couldn’t help but notice that the late-thirty-something carried some sadness in her dark eyes. Moira hoped
this weekend off would be an opportunity for them to get to know each other better and even for Erin’s burden, whatever it
was, to be lightened.
Satisfied with the aesthetic and cleanliness of her gorgeous waterside home, Moira Allyson stood at the center of the two-story
foyer, hands on her slender hips, and looked out the front window and down the shady drive. One of her white cats, Dove, interrupted
her gaze by weaving between her ankles before she looked up at her with bright green eyes.
“I trust you and your sister will stay out of the kitchen. I would be humiliated if your hair ends up in the cuisine,” she said to the cat, who seemed unfazed by her request.
She picked up her friend from the floor, and the cat went limp in her arms like a rag doll. While she stroked the long fur
on the top of Dove’s head, she thought of Nell’s acceptance of the invite and felt a sense of disappointment. Since their
falling-out last Christmas, they occasionally exchanged “thinking of you” texts and suggested meeting up for coffee, but they
never did. They reminisced through text about the unforgettable Braves game they attended together, where Chip accidentally
dumped an extra-large order of nachos onto Jeffrey’s head after tripping in the aisle, leaving everyone in stitches, and getting
drenched in rain at the azalea festival. When Moira extended the birthday invitation to Nell, she was feeling nostalgic, but
she regretted her decision the moment she dropped the black envelope into the blue box outside the post office.
Moira pushed thoughts of Nell out of her mind, placed Dove back on the floor, and headed to the bar in the butler’s pantry
to prepare a drink. As she sipped her stout cocktail, she reflected on the upcoming weekend, which not only promised relaxation
and enjoyment but also offered a chance to show appreciation for the friends who had supported her during the toughest period
of her life. These were the friends who continued to text and call even when she didn’t respond. Although she had distanced
herself from them over the past two and a half years, she had begun to realize how much she missed the laughter and connections
they once shared.
Moira felt the heavy cloud of depression that had loomed over her for so long begin to lift as she imagined the indulgent meals prepared by Antonio and Renata and the relaxation by the pool.
The golden September sun would warm their skin, while the ocean breeze provided a refreshing coolness.
She was ready to shake off the heavy sadness of her widowhood and celebrate a new year—celebrate a comeback.
One warm day last spring, Erin was sent to Moira’s home by Coastal Cleaning Co. and was struck by Mo’s classic beauty and
elegant clothing as soon as the front door of the waterfront mansion opened. For the next several weeks, Erin arrived right
on time and thoroughly cleaned Moira’s home and helped with tasks like picking up packages at the post office and running
other errands. On Erin’s fourth visit to Allyson Island, Moira persuaded her to leave Coastal Cleaning Co. and work exclusively
for her. Erin quickly agreed because the pay was competitive, the hours were flexible enough to allow her to take a second
job at the convenience store, and the work itself was easy because although the house was large, it was without children to
create clutter or a husband to leave dirty laundry on the floor and glass rings on the coffee table. She only had to tidy
up after Moira Allyson, the sophisticated widow in need of a friend.
As Erin put away dishes and dusted the frames that held photos of Moira’s happier days, Moira engaged her in conversation.
However, their discussions rarely ventured into deep or emotional territory.
Moira never broke down in tears over her husband, nor did Erin express her own grief.
Though they never openly addressed it, Erin could see the sadness in the former beauty queen’s eyes when she finished off a bottle of wine.
Erin never dared to question Moira’s choices, pry into her life, or ask why she seemed to spend more time in her living room with her two cats than participating in Savannah’s social circle.
Erin simply did what was asked of her and deposited her paycheck.
Perhaps that was why she was invited to the birthday weekend—she was a listening ear instead of a talking mouth.
Erin was the first guest to arrive at Moira Allyson’s coastal mansion on Friday afternoon. She parked her eighteen-year-old
silver hatchback at the rear of the property, where she usually did, beneath the mossy oak next to the side portico and a
white catering van with a chef’s hat painted on the side. As soon as she slid her brown sandal onto the cobblestone driveway,
the savory smell of tomato and spices wafting from the kitchen caught her attention.
She stood up and straightened the blouse she had owned since her marriage to Phillip. Once a deep navy color, it had faded
over the years, but she hoped it looked okay with the jeans she had purchased from the clearance rack. Her jewelry—off a card
of costume earrings for $4.88—came from the same store where she bought her groceries. Her entire outfit likely cost less
than Moira’s left shoe.
Erin grabbed the sage-green duffel bag filled with clothing from the car’s back seat. She’d had a difficult time deciding
what clothes to pack for dinner, a boat ride, a massage, brunch, and so on. However, she felt she had done her best with what
she had to choose from.
As Erin approached the back door, she noticed that Spanish moss had fallen from one of the aged live oaks and gathered in a pile.
She made a mental note to retrieve the broom when she got inside and sweep it away.
Standing at the door and rocking from one foot to the other, she felt uncertain about what to do.
If it were work, she would let herself in, but this time she was a guest, not the hired help.
Should she knock? Should she have gone to the front door instead?
“May I help you?” a dark-featured man with beautiful deep-set eyes called through the open kitchen window next to the back
door.
“She’s a guest, Antonio!” Erin heard Moira declare just before the back door swung open and she appeared, wearing a form-fitting
black scoop-neck shirt and tan wide-legged pants cinched with a sash belt. “What in the world are you doing back here at the
service entrance? You’re a guest, Erin. Get out of the worker frame of mind!”
Erin guessed she wouldn’t be sweeping up the pile of moss after all.
Moira then pulled Erin close to her, over the threshold and into the kitchen, and Erin inhaled the flowery scent of her perfume,
or maybe that was grenadine. When they pulled away, Erin felt vulnerable, as if her cheap jeans and old shirt were blatantly
out of place. She blushed for a moment, tucking her black bob behind her ear, until Moira added, “You look lovely!”
Moira surely recognized that Erin’s clothes were inexpensive, but her compliment sounded sincere.
“Well, come on in!” Moira said as she closed the door.
She then motioned for Erin to follow her through the kitchen, where Antonio and a woman were bustling about, speaking in Italian.
Erin trailed behind her, passing through the dining room and arriving at the front of the home.
“I assume you don’t need me to show you to your room, do you?
” Moira chuckled, gesturing toward the staircase in the foyer. “It’s the blue one.”
“Oh, it’s my favorite!” Erin exclaimed.
When she walked through the bedroom door, Erin smiled at the French-country blue and white toile print that wrapped the walls.
The centerpiece of the room was the stunning antique four-poster bed covered in a plush white eyelet comforter and ocean-blue
accent pillows. Soft natural light spilled through the plantation shutters and created shadows on the wide-planked wooden
floor. The view out the window was of the wide tributary that surrounded the home on three sides and lush greenery. Mature
palm and palmetto trees dotted the lawn here and there, while the oak tree branches were wrapped with delicate moss and resurrection
ferns crept up the trunks.
Erin stepped away from the window and peeked into the adjoining bathroom that she’d cleaned many times. It was small but elegant—like
a spa retreat—with gleaming white marble countertops and tiles and blue accents that complemented the bedroom decor.
Erin often let her imagination wander while she dusted and vacuumed this beautiful house. She dreamed about what it would
be like to call it her own—to close her eyes at the end of the day and truly rest, free from danger and financial worries
and bad memories and concern for the future, in this very room. While she unzipped the duffel bag that she had tossed onto
the plush comforter, she exhaled with gratitude.
While Erin was hanging her inexpensive, simple sundresses in the closet, an alarm chimed throughout the home, signaling that a vehicle had entered the driveway gate.
She glanced at the pendulum clock on the distressed white nightstand and noticed it was just three minutes until five o’clock.
A wave of anxiety washed over her at the thought of making her descent down the grand staircase, facing the scrutinizing gaze of high society while wearing her cheap clothing, faux diamond studs, and dollar store makeup.
Taking a deep breath, Erin looked around the beautiful room one last time and wished she could hide beneath the down comforter until Sunday afternoon.