Page 31 of The Guests on South Battery
“Mellie?”
I realized I’d been staring at his jawline while allowing my thoughts to ramble down a road I didn’t want to travel. “Um, I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Was there anything in the mail?”
Crap. “A couple of things, I think. There’s another bill from Rich Kobylt. I didn’t look at the amount because I didn’t want to start thinking ugly thoughts about hiding a body in cement. I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t been done before.”
“They’d know where to look,” Jack said seriously.
“True. And who knows what else they’d dig up while they’re looking, and then we’re falling down another rabbit hole. So I’ll let you deal with the bill.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else.
“What?” I asked. “You think I should handle the bill?”
“No. You said there were a couple of things in the mail. What was the second thing?”
I considered throwing myself out of the car while it was still moving. He wasn’t going that fast, and I was close enough that I could walk home even if it made me permanently lame.
“Oh,” I said, flicking my wrist to show him how unimportant it was. “It was an invitation.”
Jack was a true-crime writer, used to digging for details and asking questions. I had no idea why I’d thought he wouldn’t notice my evasiveness.
“An invitation?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “An invitation to what?”
I stared longingly at the side of the road, my hand hovering over the door latch. “A party. At Cannon Green.”
“A party? Well, that’s something. What kind of party? Baby’s first birthday? Retirement? Engagement? Celebrating Sophie’s new enterprise of handmade grass skirts from Africa?”
“A book-launch party,” I said quickly, coughing into my hands in the dim hope that he wouldn’t hear and would let it drop.
“A book-launch party?” he repeated, each consonant perfect. “For whom?”
When I didn’t answer immediately he glanced at me, a look of incredulity mixed with uncertainty clouding his features. “It couldn’t be...”
“It’s for Marc. ForLust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City. I think it’s a big deal—the invitation was sent by his publisher. Maybe that’s why we’re on the guest list—it’s a mistake because they don’t know your history with Marc.”
“Oh, they know it. And I’m pretty sure Marc made sure we were on that list.”
“So we’re not going, right?” I asked hopefully. Spending money on an evening gown for a party for Marc Longo was right up there on my priority list alongside doing psychic readings at the Ashley Hall alumnae weekend (as suggested by Nola).
Jack didn’t even hesitate. “Of course we’re going.”
“But why put ourselves through the misery of seeing Marc gloat, and watching people who should know better fawn over him? Hestolethat book from you. And then he tried to steal our house from both of us. Why on earth should we go to a party to celebrate him? Don’t forget that Rebecca will be there, too. She’ll be wearing some atrocious pink gown, and just the sight of her in it and her smug, self-satisfied expression will probably make me throw up.”
Jack grinned, his dimple deepening. “And that alone will be worth it. Just make sure you aim it at her.”
I elbowed him. “But seriously, why would you want to put us both through that?”
“Because if we don’t show up, it will send the message that we’re deeply hurt. By being there, we show them that we don’t care. That we can rise above their pettiness and appear at a celebratory party for Marc and his book because we’re happy for him and his success. Because we’re better than that. We’re mature adults who can put bitterness behind us and move on without hard feelings.”
“Is that how you really feel?”
“Heck no. I’m mad as hell and I think Marc is a completely dishonest jerk and if this were another century, I would have called him out at dawn for a duel. Sadly, I can’t do that. So instead we’ll go to his party with smiles on our faces and eat as much caviar as we can. Put some in napkins to bring home if we have to. And make them think that we’re up to something.”
