Page 27 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

An oncoming truck blasted its horn, the driver holding a hand outward with fingers extended as if to remind her that she was an idiot as all eighteen wheels sped by carrying a load of gasoline. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she muttered under her breath, trying to regain control not only of the Lexus but of her composure as well. Checking the rearview mirror, she saw the semi disappear around a corner.

You’re cracking up Catie-Did. You are absolutely cracking up. She could almost hear Kelly’s voice, heavy with recriminations.

“Pull yourself together.” She slowed for the bridge, then caught a glimpse of the plantation just on the other side of the river.

Oak Hill.

Symbol of all the Montgomery wealth.

A reminder of days and grandeur long past.

A hint of Old Georgia and genteel Southern ways.

And a facade. A damned sham. Behind the solid oak doors, beveled glass windows and thick white siding lurked secrets and lies and tragedy. So much pain.

Don’t dwell on that now. You can’t. Just do what you have to do.

Determined not to fall apart, she gritted her teeth and wheeled into the long straight lane guarded by ancient oak trees. There were thirty-nine trees, one having blown over in a storm and never replaced. She and Griffin had counted them time and time again. “I’ll meet you at number seventeen,” he’d whispered to her often enough. Seventeen had been his favorite.

She slowed as she approached the main house. Three full stories above the ground, the first two complete with verandahs and railings, the third peeking out of dormers in the sloped roof. Once grand, it now stood in a state of disrepair. White paint had grayed and was beginning to chip and blister.

Tall black shutters, once gleaming, now baked to a dull sheen beneath the unforgiving Georgia sun, surrounded paned windows of old, watery glass. And the shrubbery was no longer manicured, but overgrown and rambling despite the work of a year-round gardener. Where once there had been parties and laughter and gaiety, there now was silence and shadow, ghosts and wraiths, tragedy and lies.

Only Berneda, Caitlyn’s mother, and her sister Hannah continued to live here. There were a handful of servants, of course, and fortunately Lucille Vasquez had remained. Caitlyn understood why her mother stayed on—this was the only home she’d known in over

forty years—but she couldn’t fathom why her youngest sister elected to stay in this tomb of a plantation. At twenty-six, Hannah should have been out with people her age, living on her own, not holed up in this huge, decaying reminder of the Old South. But then, Hannah had always been a little off, out of step, and even out of touch.

Like you?

Caitlyn ignored the nagging voice in her mind and followed the driveway to the side of the house. Her heart sank. Troy’s black Range Rover was already parked in the lengthening shadows behind her mother’s Cadillac. So he’d beaten her to the punch. Great. Troy had probably hightailed it here the minute his important appointment had ended. So much for breaking the news herself.

She climbed out of her Lexus.

Hushed conversation and a hint of cigarette smoke drifted on the breeze.

“ . . always trouble . . . since the accident . . . hasn’t been herself . . .”Her mother’s soft, dulcet tones floated over a honeysuckle-scented breeze and Caitlyn tensed. So she was the topic of conversation. Again. Today, she supposed, it made sense. Other times she wasn’t so sure.

“She needs help,” Troy said over the sound of clinking ice cubes. “Serious help.”

“I thought she was seeing someone . . . after Jamie passed on . . . Oh, Lord, trouble just never stops, does it . . . the twins were always . . .”

Caitlyn’s spine stiffened, and her mother’s voice was more muted, as if she’d turned her head away.

“. . . I just never knew what to do . . . so fragile, not strong like the rest of you . . . sometimes it’s difficult to be a mother.”

Give me that strength. Caitlyn was tired of everyone handling her with kid gloves. Yes, she’d been frail and had fallen apart after the accident and then again when her baby had died, but who wouldn’thave? She ducked through a clematis-draped arbor and hurried up two brick steps to the back porch.

Conversation dwindled. Her mother turned to look over her shoulder as she sat, back to the stairs at a glass-topped table. Sipping iced tea, she fanned herself with the fingers of her free hand. She was dressed as if for a social tea—a long gauzy skirt and print top, polished pumps on her feet, a string of pearls around her throat.

Troy was standing, smoking a cigarette, one hip propped against the railing, his expression as grim as that of an undertaker as he watched a hummingbird flit through the fragrant honeysuckle blossoms. Through the partially opened window, Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Lucille, her mother’s private maid. With the pretense of folding napkins, Lucille hovered close enough to eavesdrop.

It was little wonder Lucille knew everything about the family. She had raised her daughter, Marta, here. Sometimes Marta, Kelly and Caitlyn had played together long ago.

“Caitlyn!” Troy greeted her in an obvious effort to quickly change the subject and warn his mother that her difficult child had arrived.

“I thought you had an important meeting,” Caitlyn told Troy.

“I did. Important but short.”

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