Page 42 of Skin and Bones

“Because my reputation would be shot,” I said. “There is no mercy on this island. Denise Gruber got caught going to third base with her boyfriend when I was a senior in high school and she’s been labeled damaged goods ever since. Couldn’t get a date to save her life after that. She had to move to Colorado and start over. Finally found a husband last year, but I hear she’s had to pay a fortune in therapy to get her self-esteem back.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“This is the South,” I said. “There are expectations.”

“Who sets the expectations?”

“I have no idea,” I said, having wondered the same thing my entire life. “It’s the way it’s always been.”

“That makes no sense,” he said. “I’ve been here less than a month and I already know more scandals about the people on this island than I’ve ever known anywhere else I’ve lived.”

“So you’ve moved around a lot?” I asked, curiously.

He arched a brow and said, “Nice try.”

“I thought so.” And then I sighed. “Every family on this island has scandals. But everyone pretends they don’t know about them. So they’re secret scandals.”

“Except everyone does know about them,” Dash said.

“Yes, but there are rules. You talk about that kind of stuff behind people’s backs. You don’t bring it up in the middle of a dinner party. Unless someone has had too much to drink. That’s happened from time to time. But then the next day everyone pretends the drunk person wasn’t drunk and that whatever they brought to light never happened. It’s how we function here.”

“That’s absolute insanity,” Dash said, looking at me like I was from outer space. “So won’t everyone pretend they don’t know you’re at my house for dinner and then talk about it behind your back? Why aren’t you allowed a scandal?”

“Oh, I’ve had my fair share,” I said, my lips pinching involuntarily. “Just ask anyone what they thought about Patrick marrying the McCoy girl.”

“I thought McCoy was your married name,” he said.

“No, Patrick’s family name is DuBose,” I said. “I’d planned to change my name, but we travelled for a lot of the first year we were married, and then when we came back to the island and bought the house I got busy with making it a home. I figured I’d get around to changing my name eventually, but then Patrick died. We were only married two years.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice almost brought tears to my eyes.

“Thank you,” I said. “It was a difficult time. And my family doesn’t have the island pedigree. The only reason I’m accepted now is because I’m Patrick’s widow. In a lot of ways, it’s a lot easier to be his widow than it was to be his wife. But there are behaviors that are expected along with that position. I can’t just waltz into strange men’s homes at night without facing the consequences.”

“You think I’m strange?” he asked, smiling.

I felt heat rush to my face. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t need to be tomorrow’s headline at Grits and Giggles.”

“You’re a grown woman who’d be coming for dinner,” he said. “I’m not asking you to show up naked and make us fried chicken.”

“Well, that would be a terrible idea,” I said. “I’d never make fried chicken naked. At least not without an apron.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling, and in that moment, I couldn’t have told him my name if he’d asked.

“Now that’s an image I won’t get out of my head anytime soon,” he said. “Come on. We’ll go out to dinner instead. How come you’re not worried about my reputation?”

“Oh, you’re an outsider,” I said. “You’re expected to have a sordid reputation. It’s practically a requirement.”

“I had no idea there were so many expectations on this island,” he said, studying me with those dark eyes.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I said. “There’s a steakhouse on the edge of the island—The Salt House. I’ve heard it’s good.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too,” he said. “We can stop by your house first to drop off Chowder.”

I hesitated, suddenly imagining Mrs. Pembroke’s opera glasses trained on us from across the street, her fingers already dialing the island gossip hotline.

“That would be nice,” I said, the words emerging surprisingly steady.

Chowder’s head popped up so fast I worried he’d given himself whiplash. His bulging eyes darted between us with an expression of pure canine calculation.

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