Page 80 of Savannah Royals
Jack puffs again. “Now isn’t that the truth? S’good to be back for another season.” He gazes fondly around the Victorian clubhouse.
It’s an hour to midnight on December 31, 1919, and the Jekyll Island Club is abuzz with festivity. Despite its looming mid-January deadline, not a trace of the Volstead Act and Prohibition threatens these hallowed walls. Tonight, waiters in full livery circulate with gleaming silver trays, endlessly replenishing champagne and cigars. Two romantically dimmed crystal chandeliers glisten overhead, casting long, twinkling shadows from wall-to-wall. Eight towering Christmas trees with Swarovski ornaments and platinum garland flank the room. And the guests…well, the guests shine brightest of all. Dressed to the nines—white tails, evening gowns, pocket watches, and diamonds.
Every inch of this exclusive soirée drips with old money. I can taste it in the back of my throat, fizzing swallows of crisp vintage champagne. Burning like tendrils of smoke from Morgan’s Cuban cigar. Money lit on fire.
The night began with endless rounds of introductions and small talk, with subtly raised brows and scrutinizing eyes. A room full of lions thinking perhaps I, the newcomer in their ranks, am a sheep.
But blood, not money, drips in the back of my throat. I am a predator disguised as prey.
And in that role, I dazzle.
Perhaps it was my entrance on Matthew DaMolin’s arm, his gifted diamonds sparkling in my ears. Perhaps it was when Constance Pulitzer declared herself so enamored with my gown—Coco Chanel, white, couture—that she simplyhadto introduce me to her friends. Perhaps it was the moment I sliced the neck off the Pol Roger Vintage champagne with the Marquess of Queensberry’s saber, causing an uproariously glorious cascade of nectar to slosh over thrust-forward flutes.
A newcomer to the scene,they whisper behind my back,butperhaps one to watch.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Perhaps I am a wolf.
Perhaps I play this game towin.
And with an hour to midnight, winning I am. Matthew’s bright, happy eyes, oozing with near reverent worship, tell me nothing less. Tonight—together—we are invincible.
“I’m usually a wallflower at these parties,” he murmurs in my ear, his nose brushing my temple. “You’ve never been a wallflower a day in your life, have you?”
I chuckle and turn to him, boldly lacing my fingers behind his neck. Invincible indeed.
“I refuse to believe you’ve ever been a wallflower, Matt.”
At a quarter to midnight, the guests trickle outside for the culminating pièce de resistance—a spectacular fireworks extravaganza. There’s a bottleneck at the double doors to the veranda, where ladies’ arms are looped through gentlemen’s, all stuttering footsteps and hesitating limbs as an elaborate dance of inebriated, door-holding chivalry plays out.
Matthew and I hover behind to allow Ethan, who’s fallen in step, laughing with Harry Astor, to pass ahead of us in the crowd. I wrinkle my nose, certain the shared joke is something biting and faintly off-color. The only setback in our evening thus far was a short but rather unpleasant discourse with Harry at the start of the night.
He took one look at the diamonds in my ears and the comfortable drape of Matthew’s arm around my waist before delivering his most unwelcome two cents. “How long has this been going on, Matt?” he asked, pointing to me.
“Um…” Matthew glanced at me with a small smile. “I don’t know. A few months?”
“I thought you were just messing her around at Academy events. I never imagined it was serious,” Harry continued, his tone disparaging.
Matthew was unperturbed. “I don’t think it’s your business either way, Harry.”
“I only wonder where you see this headed. With her history, she’s hardly a suitable match for a DaMolin.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed at that comment, but I squeezed his arm, silencing him. We took our leave posthaste, and Constance Pulitzer, social butterfly she is, appeared and swept us away to greener pastures.
Blankets are distributed amongst the crowd outdoors as we await the impending display. Matthew and I stake out a secluded spot on the fringesof the manicured front lawn. We angle ourselves toward the river, where the fireworks will be launched. I can just make out the shadowy skeleton of a barge in the distance.
“Is your champagne empty?” Matthew asks. He’s already wiggling his shoulders out from under our shared blanket to get a refill.
“It’s fine. I don’t want you to miss midnight.”
“I’m out too.” He raises his glass. “I want us to toast the New Year together. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
Reluctantly, I hold still while he drapes a pleasantly scratchy, cashmere-disguised-as-tweed shrug around my shoulders. Then he lopes toward the veranda in search of another round.
“Are you having a nice evening, Katarina?” Lady Genevieve materializes beside me. Her silver skirts rustle quietly, almost ghostlike, as she draws to a stop on the lawn.
“Oh, yes.” I smile hesitantly, oddly nervous. “Thank you for inviting me as a guest of your family. It’s been an evening I’ll never forget, one of the best of my life.”
