Page 13 of Lady and the Butcher
Someone who called me Lady.
I shut off the engine, grabbed my clutch, and told myself I’d stay an hour. Two, tops.
Unless my phone buzzed.
Then all bets were off.
The Cistern looked like something out of a wedding magazine. String lights draped from oak to oak, casting soft halos over clusters of people sipping champagne from coupes. The air was heavy with the scent of gardenias, and somewhere beneath it all, a whisper of saltwater drifted in from the harbor.
I stepped out of my car, heels clicking against the cobblestones as I crossed the courtyard. My brother’s parties had always been a blend of charming chaos and questionable decisions, but this … this was next level. Intentional. Almost alarmingly classy for a man who once wore a Speedo to a family barbecue “as a social experiment.”
Stephen spotted me from across the lawn and broke into a grin that could’ve been seen from space. “There she is! The favorite sibling!”
“Really?” I said when he reached me, looping his arm around my shoulders. “I won’t tell the others you said that. Are they here yet?”
He grinned, tipping his head toward the far side of the lawn. “Darla’s already staking out the charcuterie table. Max and Milo said they’d be fashionably late—which in twin time means just before the bar runs out of top-shelf. And Mom’s around here somewhere. Probably charming strangers and making them feel like they’ve known her forever.”
The mention of Francine Rogers made me smile in spite of myself. Our mother was a force—a little meddling, a little dramatic, and somehow always the center of gravity in any room she entered. I could picture her now, glass of wine in hand, in a flowy wrap dress that didn’t quite match the occasion but somehow still worked.
Stephen smelled faintly of whiskey and expensive cologne—both probably poured on in the past five minutes. His dark hair was styled with the kind of casual precision that screamed he’d spent forty-five minutes on it.
“You look great,” he said, giving me an approving once-over. “Where’s your date?”
I snorted. “You mean the imaginary man who tolerates moon ceremonies and debates the socio-political implications of cloth diapers? He’s home. Invisible.”
Stephen laughed, and I felt the familiar swell of sibling warmth. For all our differences, he’d always been my champion—and my biggest headache.
We made our way toward the bar, weaving through clusters of people I didn’t recognize. Most were dressed in that Charleston cocktail uniform—linen dresses, sport coats with pocket squares, a faint sheen of humidity on their skin. Every so often I caught snippets of conversation: hedge funds, real estate, golf trips to Kiawah.
“Who are these people?” I murmured.
“Friends, colleagues, people I owe money to,” Stephen said with a shrug.
“Charming.”
We reached the bar, where a harried bartender was muddling mint like her life depended on it. Stephen ordered us each a drink—bourbon for him, sparkling rosé for me—and then launched into introductions with a couple of guys from his gym.
As they shook my hand and started talking about their latest workout challenge, I felt that familiar slip of being slightly out of sync with the room. Stephen fit here without trying—polished, athletic, carrying himself with the kind of easy confidence that came from living comfortably inside the mainstream. He was the brother who knew all the right restaurants, all the right people, and had an instinct for blending in just enough to be liked everywhere he went.
Me? I was the sister who wore gauzy linen robes to bonfires and once taught a moon circle how to do pelvic floor breathing while burning sage. I knew how to talk kombucha brewing ratios and the politics of midwifery, but here, surrounded by men who had biceps for days and likely thought doulas were a type of pasta, I felt my edges sticking out in all the wrong ways.
Sometimes, I wished I could be more like Stephen—sleek, adaptable, charming in a conventional sense. Less … weird.
But then again, weird was what kept me interesting. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I smiled and nodded at the right moments, but my attention kept drifting. Part of me was scanning for Alicia, curious to put a face to the name I’d heard from Mom. Another part was still … elsewhere. Half at the Cistern, half in my house, half-wondering if my phone would light up. (Yes, that’s three halves. My brain doesn’t do math when distracted.)
And then Stephen’s girlfriend appeared.
Alicia Dempsey.
She was tall, with sleek blonde hair that caught the light and an outfit that somehow blended country club polish with Instagram influencer energy. White jumpsuit, gold sandals, a delicate chain that glimmered against sun-kissed skin. She carried herself like she’d been born at a wine tasting.
“Simone!” Stephen said, practically vibrating as he pulled her over. “This is Alicia. My girlfriend.”
Her handshake was warm, her smile easy—too easy. I don’t know what I’d expected, but something about her perfection set off my inner cynic.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
