Mary-Grace Parker Livingston Montgomery Keaton would be happy to know that husband number three didn’t squander away the society training she so desperately thought her daughter needed.
I let out a laugh and play the part all the men at this table expect from me. When people first hear me talk, they think it’s charming and polite. The way my southern accent slows things down puts people at ease and eliminates me as a threat. They think talking slow means I’m dumb, and I just let them keep thinking it.
Little do they know that I was raised by a cutthroat southerner who taught me everything I know. Mary-Grace was the kind of mama who knew exactly how to dress and act for every occasion. She went through men like Kleenex, but never once had her reputation questioned. When she wasn’t married, men would fall to their knees to propose to her, but she would only toy with them until the bigger fish she was after came along.
She had me when she was on her first marriage. The one she said was for love. When my daddy died, I think a piece of my mama’s heart turned to stone, and she never let anyone else in after that. I only have one memory of him. I was about three and he was holding me in his lap. There’s a picture of it in the bottom of my suitcase, and I take it with me wherever I go.
My daddy was the one who named me. He said he and my mama fell in love in Georgia, and there wasn’t a prettier place on earth. Mary-Grace, being the true southern belle that she was, agreed.
After he died, my mama waited for the next man like a snake in the grass. She wanted her next marriage to give her the things she thought she deserved, and she’d keep love out of the equation. Oh, don’t get it wrong, the men who chased her all fell head over heels, but Mary-Grace never felt the same.
Husband number two was a nice man from a wealthy family. Mary-Grace didn’t realize it to begin with, thinking that his money was his own. When she got tired of him tightening the purse strings, she made her plans to move on.
The next husband—the Senator—she worked over like a ball of dough. She caught his eye, and he nearly swallowed his tongue to get at her. He laid down a gold path of what he could give her, and she strung him along until the right moment. Mary-Grace doesn’t do anything fast or without due calculation, and she made sure I paid attention.
“It’s only when the wolf is hungry will he hunt,” she used to tell me. “Don’t feed a stray, Georgia. If he’s worthy, he’ll bring the kill to you.” She would brush my hair every night before bed and tell me all the ways to protect myself and my heart. “Don’t ever rely on a man to give you what you need. Find one and take it from him.”
I can still hear her words ringing in my ears every night when I brush my hair.
In true Mary-Grace fashion, she died at home in her bed, exactly how she wanted to. She was eaten up with ovarian cancer, and doctors gave her only weeks to live. The Senator was grief stricken, and the whole state sent an outpouring of love to the two of them.
I sat by her side nearly every hour until she passed, holding her hand and telling her I loved her. She would just smile at me and give me more of her words of wisdom.
“I’ve made sure you’re taken care of. There’s a trust set up, and Walker will make sure you have everything you need. I took care of everything for you, Georgia, just like your daddy would have wanted. I did all this for you.”
Squeezing her hand, I nodded in understanding. She’d lived her life so that I would never do without and never wonder who was going to take care of me. She may have gone about it the wrong way, but I knew she died having done all she could to help me.
Little did Mary-Grace know that six months after she died, good old Walker Keaton would have his team of lawyers revoke the trust and kick me out on the street with just the clothes on my back.
It’s a hard life lesson, but one we must learn. Never trust a southern senator.
I learned how to play poker when I was ten. Husband number two had a small gambling problem, so he thought keeping his card addiction at home helped him control it. After poker, he taught me how to play everything. Blackjack was his go-to, and we would play all the time. After a while I realized that I was better than him. He wasn’t letting me win, I was actually beating him.
One day he was sitting with his elbows on the table and watching me like a hawk. Suddenly, he flung his hand on the table and said, “I can’t beat a cheater.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I was just playing my hand like I normally did. I remember being so angry that he accused me of something like that. I felt like I was finally good at something, and there he was, trying to take it away from me.
“I’m not cheating!”
“You’re counting cards, Georgia.”