The longest year of my life.
Andrew died on another wintery night, late December of 1980, snow falling outside, as soft as his final breath.
No rattle this time. Just a gentle sigh, then nothing more.
How unfair I’d been to all those novelists and their quiet deaths.
There was no autopsy because I said I didn’t want one, and by that point, what I wanted, I got, at least where Tavistock County was concerned.
Harlan Jackson Sr. took my check and patted my hand, telling me he’d handle everything.
Judge Claybourne was so appreciative of my donation to his reelection campaign.
The town was grateful for its new arts center the following year, Andrew’s name emblazoned above the doors in metal letters.
My home and my name closed around me, protecting me, shielding me, their queen in her castle who was secretly the dragon.
Well. Not a secret any longer, is it, my darling?
Not to you.
-R
CHAPTER TWELVE
Camden
There are plenty of rooms in Ashby House that are comfortable. Cozy, even. The den is fairly modern with its earth-toned furniture and cream-colored rugs. There’s a sitting room in the east wing that actually has a flat-screen TV and a couple of gaming systems from when Ben and I were kids. And the kitchen was totally renovated to Cecilia’s specifications right before Ruby died.
But Ashby’s formal dining room hasn’t changed since 1904, and as I take my seat next to Jules at the teakwood table Ruby’s grandfather had shipped over from what was then Siam, I find my eyes landing on all the other bits of McTavish family history in this room.
There’s a black lacquered sideboard holding crystal bottles of expensive liquor that even Howell had never dared to touch without Nelle’s or Ruby’s blessing. The walls are covered in silk, deep green with a swirling gold pattern, and the chandelier overhead glimmers, despite the cobweb I can see clinging between several of the crystals.
At one end of the room is a huge bay window, but it’s too dark to see the view outside, so I find my eyes drifting to the painting that hangs on the opposite wall. It’s a hunting scene, featuring gently rolling fields and men in jaunty red jackets. It would be positively serene if it weren’t for the deer in the foreground, getting its throat ripped out by hounds.
I hated that painting as a kid, always wondered why anyone would hang it in a room where people eat, but it feels appropriate tonight.
I’m that deer, and as the other McTavishes settle around the table, I have no doubt they’re the hounds.
Jules reaches over and takes my hand where it rests on the table, giving it a little shake. I make myself give her a quick smile, squeezing her fingers in return but, in truth, I can hardly look at her.
Libby had done as Nelle asked, and sent up a dress in a heavy black garment bag. I’d assumed it would be typical Libby—bright, probably sexy, maybe a little too sexy for a family dinner—and had braced myself for the weirdness of seeing my wife dressed like my cousin.
And then Jules had come out of the en suite.
“What do you think?” she’d asked, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, her arms held out to her sides. “Fancy enough for family dinner?”
She looked beautiful––she was beautiful––but the words had frozen in my mouth, and Jules had laughed.
“Wait, so good you’re literally stunned speechless?”
“Clearly,” I’d said, shaking my head ruefully and taking her hands, kissing her forehead, and thinking, Libby, you sick bitch.
Jules would’ve fit into one of Libby’s dresses easily, but that’s not what Libby brought her. No, Libby gave her one of Ruby’s old dresses. Not just any dress, either, but one of her favorites, the one she most often wore when we did these dinners when I was growing up. She’d had it made in the late sixties and was always so proud that it still fit so well.
Same figure at twenty-eight and sixty-eight, she’d preen, throwing a look to Nelle, who always glowered back, her own body thinner, more wizened as she aged.
It’s a gorgeous dress. Even now, from the corner of my eye, I can see the way the chandelier sparkles off the crystal beading along the neckline, how the color of the fabric—not white, not beige, something Ruby called “candlelight”—makes Jules’s skin glow.
But it just adds another layer of unreality to the scene. I’m back in Ashby House, back at this table, back with these people, and my wife is wearing my dead mother’s dress.
Christ, I hate this family.
They’re all seated now, Nelle at the head of the table where Ruby used to sit, Ben at her right hand, where Howell always sat, Libby on the left.
Ben is cheerful, his tie loose and shoulders relaxed. Nelle is almost smiling, which, in her case, means she’s not actively scowling. Only Libby seems a little unsettled, her eyes darting again and again to the sideboard, her nails drumming the edge of the table.
I wonder if she feels guilty for the stunt with the dress, but guilt is not something I’ve ever known Libby to be familiar with. She’s probably just bored.
Still, that sense of unease lingers, potent as the smell of the gardenia-scented candles lit in the sconces on the walls.
“Ben, why don’t you pour the wine?” Nelle suggests, and he gets up to do just that. As he fills each of our glasses with a rich cabernet, I watch Nelle, sitting proudly in Ruby’s place.
How she must love this, queen of the castle at last.
“That contractor come by today?” Ben asks, and it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“He did.” I take a sip of wine. “He said the ceiling on the second floor isn’t as bad as we thought. Didn’t think it was rain damage, though. Did a third-floor bathroom flood or something?”
Ben waves a hand, topping off his own glass even though it’s already pretty full. “Who knows? This house is as twisted as the people who live in it.”
He gives a hearty laugh, one that no one echoes, and I think we’re all relieved when Cecilia starts bringing in steaming dishes of food. I hate that she’s had to stay late for this, and I find myself thinking about hiring more staff for the house. Ruby had a paranoia about people working here, never wanting the maids or handymen that were so common on other estates like this. When I was a kid, I’d wondered if it was because of what happened to her. The kidnapping. That guy, Jimmy Darnell, had been an itinerant worker, so Ruby had good reason not to trust strangers in her space. She had a cleaning crew come out once a month, but Cecilia had done everything else, and as I watch her wince slightly while putting down a heavy tureen of soup, I realize she’s got to be in her mid-sixties by now. Ruby hired her not long after adopting me.
Maybe she’d like some help or––
No. Thoughts like that are for someone who plans to stay here, to take actual ownership of the house, and that’s sure as shit not going to be me.
No one really talks as we fill our plates and pass around platters of food. I’m sure whatever Cecilia prepared is delicious, but I can’t taste any of it, and when the dishes are cleared away, I couldn’t tell you what we’d just eaten.
I’ve just sat there, going through the motions, waiting.
Part of me wants to get up now, tell them to drop the bullshit, and let’s just get this over with. The production, the drama … Ruby could pull it off, but they can’t. They’re all sitting there, practically wiggling in their seats with anticipation, and when Ben leaves the table for a minute and returns with a bottle of champagne, I hate myself even more for not telling Jules we walked into a trap.
“Okay, Benji,” Libby says admiringly. “The good shit.”
“Language!” Nelle snaps, but Ben only laughs, the cork popping out of the bottle with a practiced twist.