I STARED OUT the window at the bare skeletons of trees bending and swaying, pushed and pulled by the winter winds. They were like me and I was like them, a kinship of sorts, both submitting to external forces.
Do I have a choice?
Like the Tanya Tucker song said, be strong enough to bend.
Ignoring all else, I continued my voyeurism. The world beyond the windowpane sparked with electricity: a flash of lightning followed by a crash of thunder. The momentary strike brought light to the shadows, illuminating fallen leaves swirling in a primitive dance. Eventually the pounding rain brought their song to an end, capturing and damning them to the cold, wet ground. The Savannah temperature wasn’t low enough to snow, yet the scent of winter hung heavily in the air. I couldn’t fathom living farther north. Winters in Savannah were dreary and dismal enough. Snow would be more than I could handle—it would break me. Even standing in the sitting room with a raging fire in the fireplace, I was chilled to the bone. Unconsciously, I wrapped my long sweater around me, overlapping the lapels as torrents of rain beat against the window, blurring the gray world outside.
“Laide, don’t look so upset. Your father allowed you to narrow it down.”
I turned and stared incredulously at my mother. “This isn’t a job interview. I’m not H.R. This is my life, my future. I should have more than a say in narrowing the field.”
Olivia Montague pursed her lips. Her tone dripped with Southern charm, but her words were harsh and condescending. “Before you get yourself all worked up, remember that you did, dear. You chose Russell. Must we keep reminding you of that?”
Tucking my fingers under the warm cuffs, I paced the length of the sitting room, stopping briefly before the roaring flames. Extending my hands, I searched for the warmth, but felt none. Though the opening in the stone fireplace was easily five feet tall and more than six feet wide, it was as if I were standing in front of a picture or videotape. I’d seen one of those on television, the videotapes of fires. I supposed they were for people who didn’t have grand fireplaces in nearly every room. They essentially made a television into a fireplace, complete with the crackling and popping sounds.
As I stood numbly waiting for my father’s decision, I imagined that I wasn’t standing before a real fire, but one that only looked and sounded authentic. It was the only excuse I could fathom for the unmelting ice in my veins.
What is it like to live in a regular house with a fire only on a television?
My only experience to anything similar was in college, in my apartment. With one bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen, Russell and I were happy or at least content. Then we married. Our wedding was one of the grandest affairs Savannah society had seen in decades. Following it, we moved in here, to Montague Manor. Suddenly we had everything and nothing.
How would it be different with another man?
The answer twisted in my viscera. It wouldn’t.
“Here,” my mother said as she handed me a glass of cabernet. “This will take the chill off.”
The thick red liquid sloshed within the confines of the crystal goblet. I placed a second hand around the long slender stem, trying to still my trembling.
“Laide, sit down over here by the fire. You never did like storms.”
She was wrong. I did. I do. The raw energy and potential for destruction fascinated me. Nevertheless, as the obedient daughter I’d been raised to be, I mindlessly walked to the velvet sofa. Sitting by the fire with no warmth, I took a hearty drink of my wine and said, “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Mother sat facing me, crossing her ankles and tucking them under the sofa. “You’re not ill. You’re distraught, and it pains me to see you this way. Look at you. You’ve lost weight and are too pale. Maybe we should fly someplace warm and get some sun on your skin.”
I closed my eyes. I was about to learn whom I would marry and my mother wanted to go on holiday. I took another drink. “Did you want to marry Father?”
Olivia ran her finger over the rim of her wine goblet. “Of course I did.”
“Then why can’t you see that I don’t want to do this?”
“I think you’re looking at this the wrong way.”
I turned away from her gaze toward the flames. The lack of warmth fascinated me, much like the storm outside. If the blaze didn’t radiate heat, could I step into it? With each sip of my liquid courage, the urge grew stronger. I didn’t want to burn, but in that moment I knew I wouldn’t. How could a fire that didn’t give off heat hurt me? How could anything hurt me any longer?
I’d lived through a loveless marriage and been a widow for over a year. In the last three months I’d begun dating, which mostly consisted of social events and family dinners. Was it dating when essentially my father was my pimp?
I’d not only thought that word, I’d said it to Suzanna. At first we’d laughed about it, but somewhere during the last three months I’d lost my sense of humor. I’d lost more than that.
I didn’t try to meet new people. It wouldn’t matter if I did. Charles had a plan. My wishes were inconsequential.
Mother reached for my hand, pulling me back to her and our conversation. I shook my head as the sitting room came back into focus. I was standing, mere inches from the hearth. When had I stood? I didn’t remember standing. Yet here I was.
“Tell me about them,” she bid.
I licked my suddenly parched lips. “Tell you? Who?”
“Laide, sit back down. Tell me about Marcus and Alton.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “You’ve met them, both of them. They’ve both been here for multiple dinners.” I never knew for sure when Father would bring one of them around. Being constantly prepared was my duty.
“I supported you about Alexandria. I’m not sure if you knew that.”
I shook my head. I didn’t. I didn’t know my mother ever said anything to support me to my father.
“Of course, he didn’t say anything,” she went on, “but you notice that he didn’t push you.”
“I didn’t want her to become attached to either one, if it wouldn’t materialize.”
“What about you? Have you become attached?”
I shrugged. “I’ve known them both for years. I remember Mackenzie. We were friends. It’s strange. Marcus and Mackenzie and Russell and I used to do things together. And now, Marcus and I are both widowed.”
Mackenzie’s death was slower and more painful. Their marriage appeared real. Then again, so did Russell’s and mine. While an accident took my husband, cancer took his wife. I was younger than Marcus, by nearly ten years. Which was only two years less than the age difference between Alton Fitzgerald and me. Alton was never married. Neither man had children of his own. Though my father didn’t say it, I believed it was part of his screening process—no stepchildren to expect inheritance.
At least Alexandria’s interest appeared to be protected.
“So start with Marcus.”
Olivia looked at me as if she were waiting for me to tell her a great fairytale or love story. Truth be told, of the two I liked Marcus more. There was a gentle air about him and when we were alone, he asked more about Alexandria and me. It was probably because we knew one another better and longer. He’d worked with my father for as long as I could remember. It may have even helped that I knew Russell had liked him.
I was afraid to voice that, because I felt as though in my parents’ eyes, an endorsement from Russell would be the end of Marcus.
I tried reverse psychology. “I’d rather start with Alton.”
“You would?” she asked, sitting taller.
“He seems very devoted to Montague.”
“Dear, you’re the one who said this isn’t a job interview.”
I stood and refilled my glass. As I did, I realized my trembling had stopped. The flames spit and sputtered as their warmth reached out to me. “The wood must not be dry enough.” Sparks flew to the hearth leaving tiny embers that soon turned dark.
“Maybe some of the rain is getting through the flue?”
I turned my attention back toward the window. That made sense. It was raining cats and dogs. That combined with the wind made anything possible. Sitting back on the sofa, I slipped my feet from my shoes and curled my legs under me. “He’s intense.”
“What does that mean?”
I shrugged. “Like Father. I worry that it may be why Father won’t choose him.”
She perked up. “Laide, are you saying you want your father to choose Alton Fitzgerald? You’re not concerned about the age difference?”
“Like you said, I married for love once. This is for Montague, besides he’s only two years older than Marcus.”
“Both men come from good bloodlines. The Fitzgeralds and the Stocktons are both upstanding families.” She leaned forward. “Are you… Do… Have?”
“Are you asking me if I’ve slept with either one?”
“Yes,” she answered sheepishly. “I’ve only… with your father.”
I took a big drink of my newly filled wine glass. “Please, Mother. I can’t have this conversation with you.”
“Why not? I suppose you could with Suzy?”
“Yes, I could, but to answer your question, no, I haven’t.”
“Oh, Laide, that should have been part of your decision-making. After all, whether this is for you or Montague, you will be expected… you will be his wife.”
My heart thumped against the inside of my breastbone so painfully I wondered if it might explode. I used to like sex. It was all right, before Alexandria was born. Something happened. The psychologist I’d recently been seeing said it was me. He said I psychologically shut down after learning I couldn’t bear more children. I’d been told all my life that continuing the Montague name was my responsibility and since doing so was no longer an option, my body rejected sex.
I dried up—literally. For a year or two, Russell tried everything and anything to make it enjoyable. I even tried pretending. Finally, we both stopped. We stopped pretending. We stopped trying. I didn’t miss the sex. I missed the intimacy.
Father was the one who insisted that I seek professional help. He said he wouldn’t condemn any man to a loveless, sexless marriage. Apparently, he could condemn me, but he drew the line at his future son-in-law.
With the help of the therapist, I’d learned to embrace my sexuality, to think of myself as worthy of enjoying intimacy as well as sexual intercourse. He even encouraged me to masturbate. I was nearly certain that my mother would say my fingers would fall off or some other terrible consequence of such offensive behavior if she knew. I wasn’t sure what my father would say, but it wasn’t a conversation I intended to have.
Nevertheless, I was getting better at it. I’d even brought myself to orgasm, a feat Russell hadn’t been able to accomplish since before Alexandria.
“I’m aware of a wife’s duties, Mother. I think Dr. Sams has helped me.”
Her lips pressed into a straight line. “Everyone thinks you’re seeking help to deal with Russell’s death.” She fanned herself. “Oh, can you imagine the scandal if they only knew.”
“No one will know. I’ve managed to avoid all scandals.”
She nodded. “Yes, poor Suzy. If only she could’ve been as fortunate.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My mother was wishing that my best friend had been widowed too, instead of dealing with a divorce.
“Is she seeing anyone?” Mother asked.
“Suzy? No one serious, but she does date.”
“Seeing the gentleman in public more frequently will be the next step for you, once your father makes his choice.”
My tongue darted out to moisten my dry lips. “That’s what I was told.”
“And for him to get acquainted with Alexandria,” she added.
“What if the man he chooses doesn’t connect with…?”
“Stop fretting. You worry too much. Your father will take care of everything.” Standing, my mother walked closer and cupped one of my cheeks in her warm hand. “Look at you. I’m not sure if it’s the fire, the wine, or thinking about Mr. Fitzgerald or even Mr. Stockton. Whatever it is, your cheeks are pink and your blue eyes have a glow. It’s time, Laide. You need to start living again. You’re too young to shrivel away. If Suzy were my daughter, I’d insist she do the same, but there’s no talking to either of the Carmichaels.”
“They’re not opposed. They just aren’t pushing her.”
Olivia took a step back. “Dear, we’re not pushing you. It’s that you’re not getting any younger. You’re thirty, and well, neither are we—getting younger. Your father is over seventy. He… we would be happier knowing that you have someone to take care of you and that Montague Corporation is in competent hands.”
I’d lost my fight.
That was what else I’d lost. My fight was gone. No matter the decision Charles Montague II reached, my future was set. I would be Mrs. Fitzgerald or Mrs. Stockton.
Closing my eyes, I said a prayer that it was Mrs. Marcus Stockton. As soon as the words were recited mentally, I recognized their futility. God hadn’t listened before. What made me think he’d listen now?
“Mrs. Montague, Mrs. Collins,” the young maid said. “Mr. Montague has asked for you both to join him in his office.”
The crackling of the fire and the howl of the wind dimmed as the sound of blood coursing through my veins thumped in my ears. The increased speed of my circulation left me dizzy as I slipped my feet back into my shoes and stood.
One glance at the fireplace reminded me that I could leave. I could gather Alexandria and find a house somewhere with a television for a fireplace.
“Laide, it’s time.”
My thought was but a distraction. I was Adelaide Montague. It was a life sentence. Freedom wasn’t an option. Charles Montague II would find me.
I gulped the remainder of my wine and handed the glass to the girl in the maid’s uniform. I should know her name, but she was new. Mother ran the household staff, yet Father always had a way of finding the young and pretty candidates. Turning to her I said, “Bring me another glass in my father’s office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Olivia reached for my arm, steadying my direction and propelling my steps. As we neared Father’s office, we both stilled. He wasn’t alone. Two deep, manly voices spoke, their words ending in a hearty laugh. They were congenially discussing a subject we couldn’t decipher. One voice was my father’s. The other was…
His blond hair did a good job of hiding the peppering of white. His gray eyes met mine as he stood and looked at me anew. From my toes to my head, he scanned, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Alton Fitzgerald had just won the lottery, and I was his winning ticket.