Page 7 of One Last Breath

Still determined to enjoy myself, I decided to make some purchases. I buy a few jars of honey from different flowers and home-canned tomatoes. I stop at a flower stall and ask if there are any live plants I can purchase.

The florist gives me a defensive frown and replies, “All of my flowers were picked this morning.”

“And they’re lovely,” I reply. “I was just hoping to have a plant for my room that would last through the summer.”

The florist’s frown deepens. “Summer will be over in a couple of months. And anyway, if you want a plant, you should get one from the garden. The Greenwoods have plenty to spare, I’m sure. We sell cut flowers here. Not so fancy as potted plants, but they liven some people’s day.”

I have no interest in arguing with someone over the quality of their flowers, so I only smile and bid them good day. I am a little disturbed that they recognize me as an employee of the Greenwoods. I have been recognized as an employee of wealthy families before, but Savannah is a large city. There are nearly one hundred fifty thousand people here. How could the Greenwoods be known well enough that I would be recognized as their new housekeeper?

I suppose that I haven’t gone far enough. The Greenwood Estate is close to the historic district, close enough that I walk from the house to the park. Perhaps that florist is a neighbor.

Somewhat relieved by that, I decide I’ve explored enough for the day and begin the journey home. Almost immediately, I am accosted by a woman in her mid-sixties who waves energetically to me as though I were some long-lost relative.

“Hello!” she cries, crossing one of the cobblestone walkways to approach me. “You must be Mary Wilcox.”

I nod warily. “And you are?”

She extends a hand. “Clara Beaumont. You and I are neighbors now.”

I take the hand because manners dictate that I do, but I remain wary. “Are we?”

“Of course we are!” she says, as though it’s ridiculous that I don’t already know that. “The Beaumont Estate is just west of the Greenwood Estate.”

“I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Beaumont.”

“Oh please, call me Clara.”

She takes my hand and leads me with her. Politeness doesn’t necessarily dictate that I allow her to do this, but if the woman is a neighbor, then I’d rather not have her complaining about my rudeness to the Greenwoods, even if she is the one being rude here.

I suppose I’m being unkind. Aggressive neighborliness may be annoying, but it’s not rudeness.

“I must confess,” I say, “I’m surprised to be so well-known after only a week spent in their service. Or at all, really. Is it common for people to interest themselves in the household staff here?”

“All people are interesting,” Clara replies, “whether they believe to be so or not. And the Greenwoods, of course, are the most interesting of all.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. Especially since that poor girl died.”

I feel the pull again, so strong that I physically stiffen. My mind pleads with me to ignore the feeling, but I can’t. “What girl?”

Clara grins triumphantly at me. I get the sense the woman lives for gossip, and I understand now why she’s latched onto me. I am a new arrival, and better yet, I am an employee of her neighbors. I am a fresh ear for the tales she has to tell, and possibly a source of new tantalizing information to quench her thirst.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Deirdre McCoy. A lovely girl, but quite silly. She was one of those Southern belles who are praised for their beauty by people who don’t value anything but. Unfortunately, she was too foolish to realize the jealousy that would provoke in certain people.”

My heartbeat quickens. It occurs to me rather unpleasantly that I am no better than Clara. Perhaps my “thirst for justice” is nothing more than an old woman’s love of other people’s business.

Still, I can’t resist asking, “Annabelle Greenwood?”

She laughs, a tittering sound that is neither harsh nor grating but is still somehow unpleasant. “No, of course not! This was long before she was born.”

“Elizabeth then?”

"No." She grins conspiratorially at me as though she is about to reveal the secrets of the ancients. "Violet."

“Violet?”

“Yes. This would have been… let’s see. I was in the tenth grade, so that would be… fifty-two years ago.”

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