Page 25 of Savannah Royals
Mellie leans over, peering into my closet.
“It might be fun to do something a little different tonight,” she finally squeaks.
I zero in on her pink cheeks. “Why tonight?”
“No reason.” Her response comes quickly. Too quickly.
I stare her down, knowing she’ll crack.
“It’s only…”
“Only what?”
“Only…Bobby said he might stop by?” She phrases it like a question.
“Bobby Marino? The baker’s son?” I stifle a laugh.
“We’ve been spending time together at work. Since this event is in the evening, he said he might be able to drop by. Maybe.”
I nod and magnanimously gesture toward my closet. “You can take whatever you want. I have another pair of pantaloons, if you’d like. They’re on the right.”
“I’m not wearing those,” she screeches, her pitch increasing tenfold. “Heavens to Betsy, Kat—perchance I walk before I run?”
“Okay. Well, the dresses are on this side.” I point to the left, stifling another laugh. She walks over and homes in on the heavily skirted, robe de style gowns, staying well within her comfort zone.
“You know,” I begin, “you don’t always have to wear a ballgown to these events. This is a mixer in the billiard rooms, Mellie. It’s supposed to befun.”
“Ballgowns are fun.”
I ignore this unhinged remark. “What about this one?” I pull out a narrow, translucently layered, pastel evening dress with just a hint of silver shimmer. It’s a Jacques Doucet original, highly reminiscent of one of Monet’s watercolors. For my tastes, it’s a bit conservative and overly feminine with its beaded cap sleeves and empire waist. But for Mellie…
“Oh."She’s drawn to the glittering romanticism like a magpie.
“Consider it yours.”
We arrive in the Academy billiard room promptly. I make my rounds, saying hello to a few fellas who are regulars and sharing performative air kisses with my classmates, the usual dog and pony show. I settle in beside the shuffleboard table, observing the few girls bold enough to play.
“You always look so desperately in need of a beverage at these events.”
I turn toward the familiar voice and focus on Matthew DaMolin’s sparkling blue eyes. He hands me a glass of white wine.
“Matthew. I didn’t realize you were here,” I lie smoothly.
Please. I knew the precise minute he walked in behind Daniel Dufour and Harry Astor. Harry is tonight’s target, after all.
“Indeed.” He takes a sip from his own drink. “Present and accounted for.”
“What is this, two events in one week?” I tease. “Is that a record for you?”
“Not in one week.” He looks a bit uncomfortable.
“You were at the open house seven days ago. Last I checked, there are seven days in one week.”
His eyes twinkle. “So you’ve been counting the days since you last saw me?”
I suppose he’s got me there. I want to scowl, but I instead flash a dazzling fake smile. “Thanks for the drink,” I say, casting around my brain for an excuse to take my leave.
“Do you play?” He gestures to the shuffleboard table.
