The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

knew this was easier to do if I just didn’t blur the line between servant and the served.

“There you are,” Mike said, coming in from the library. He kissed my forehead, all PG and appropriate. “I hope you don’t mind, when Mom saw your dress, she asked Binky to iron it.”

“Your mother went through my things?” I asked. So Diana, not Mike, had laid out my dress. I didn’t think I had anything suspicious in my bag, but giving Diana free rein over my things was definitely not a precedent I wanted to set.

“We were just trying to help you do a quick costume change,” Mike said, always the mitigator. “Speaking of costumes, are you going to give me a late-night preview of your costume for tomorrow?”

The Mardi Gras party. I’d finally settled on a costume, and after a tiny battle with Mike — why did guys always want to wear makeup and stockings? — I’d convinced him that this year, we were going to shock everyone by taking the classy route. It was a given that every one of my friends would still be rocking that tired brothel-employee look, and I loved the idea of being the only lady in the house. Mike’s debonair get up this year was of equal importance. He was really going to stand out — especially next to Justin Balmer in a minidress.

“Our costumes for tomorrow are still a surprise, right?” I said to Mike. “You haven’t told J.B. or anyone? This is our moment to outshine them — show we’re really royalty material.”

“Trust me,” Mike said, taking my hand to go greet his royal family outside. “We’ll blow the whole party away.”

“Hello, Natalie.” Mr. King stood up to give me a very charged squeeze on the shoulder. “Aren’t you tan?” he asked, taking me in head to toe.

“Goodness,” Diana said, peering at me over her paper. “She certainly is brown, isn’t she?”

“Golf lessons,” I piped up, lest either of them assume I’d been working in the field. “At the club.”

Diana looked down at her own arms. “I’m so pale, like Scarlett O’Hara. You know that used to be the fashion.” She looked around and gave us all a tight-lipped smile. “Who wants to take dinner on the terrace tonight?”

With a shrug, Mike deferred to me.

“Of course,” I said, taking a seat on the patio between his parents. Like Mom always said: It doesn’t matter where you are; if you act at home, you will be. Then again, I wasn’t sure Mom’s limited Emily Post library book repertoire would have gotten her far with this crowd.

Especially with someone like Diana, who picked up a silver bell from the glass tabletop and jangled her thin, Scarlett O’Hara-pale wrist. The high, tinny sound rang out across the yard, and I thought about what this unspoken summons might sound like to anyone out on the bay. Then again, the houses in the Cove (a.k.a. the Coveted) were so spread out, the Kings and I might be the only ones around for miles.

Seconds later, Binky arrived to answer her summons. She wore a starched black uniform that smelled of lavender, and the laces on her sensible black shoes were double-knotted. Her short dark hair had the telltale bluish tint of drugstore dye. Her smile looked slack when she stood expectantly before the Kings.

“Our guest would like to dine outside,” Diana said. “I hope that’s not too much trouble for you.”

“Of course not,” Binky nodded. She looked at me. “Hello, Miss Natalie.”

I smiled and nodded back at Binky but decided to keep my mouth shut. It was only the hundredth time I’d had dinner with Mike’s parents, but I was still forever designated as the “guest.”

It was getting to be that time of year in Charleston when it was still warm enough to swim, and the advancing sunsets always came as a surprise. The canopy of pine trees above us cast an acid-green tint on the Kings and me as each of us waited for someone else to pick up the conversation. Cicadas buzzed in the dusk. A pinecone thumped to the ground.

At the sound of voices near the dock, Diana beamed and rose from her chair. She gave her staid, ex-beauty- queen wrist twist to Mike’s brother Phillip Jr. and his new fiancee, Isabelle, as they came up the path.

I noticed a sailboat docked in the King marina, but from the freshly pressed look of Phillip and Isabelle’s matching white dinner clothes, I was guessing that they, too, had a couple of hired hands on deck.

“You made it,” Diana called.

Isabelle doled out a slew of squeaky air kisses while Phillip Jr. moved in at the bar. “We heard your little dinner bell and just came running,” he said dryly, dropping bitters into a bourbon.

Despite his namesake, Phillip Jr. had opted out of the family radiology business when he graduated from med school last year. Instead, he’d started his own practice and had since become one of Charleston’s hottest young plastic surgeons. It was all very hush-hush — plastics being borderline unacceptable in a family of “real” doctors — but from the seamless skin around Diana’s eyes when she smiled at her future daughter-in-law, it was obvious that someone had discovered the perks of having a son with an endless supply of botox.

“Isabelle, darling, I was just telling Natalie about the refur bishments you and Phillip are making to the boat,” Diana lied, smoothing her future daughter-in-law’s blonde tresses, which looked remarkably like her own.

She turned to me. “I’d ask you to join us after dinner for a cruise, but,” she hesitated, searching for just the right words, “you seem to prefer a faster ride.”

The daggers were out early tonight; we were barely into aperitifs. How to quip back that I’d sooner send myself down with the anchor before I spent another three hours droning on some sailboat with the Kings?

Mike had promised me a private moonlit ride on the cigarette boat. But when I looked at him, miming his golf stroke across the lawn at his father’s command, I knew our little boat cruise would dissolve instantly if he caught wind of a ride in Phillip Jr.’s boat. Mike hated being left out of family plans. Classic younger-child complex.

“We’d love to join you,” I said. “It’s just, I haven’t been able to bring myself aboard a sailboat in years — not since what happened to Daddy.” I held Diana’s gaze. “I’m sure Mike told you about the accident?”

“Of course,” Diana said evenly. She tilted her head slightly before turning to Isabelle. “Well, I’m sure the rest of us will still have an enchanting ride,” she said, patting her protege’s acrylic-manicured hand. “Oh, there’s Binky to refresh the drinks, thank God.”

When the rest of the family descended on the silver cocktail platter, I found Mike and tugged on his sleeve.

“She still speaks to me like I’m disposable,” I said through gritted teeth.

Mike looped his arm around my waist and squeezed my side. For one too-short second, the rest of them disappeared.

“It’s not personal, Nat; it’s tradition.” His tone indicated that this was something I already knew. “Mom barely acknowledged Isabelle until Phillip put a ring on her finger. And our families have been friends for generations.”

There it was. Even when Mike was trying to console me, it was impossible not to address the ever-present hierarchy of Charleston breeding. What was it going to take to get the Kings to think I was worth a spot in their court?

“Just so you know,” I said quickly as Binky wheeled out a tray of salads, “I declined your mother’s offer to take a ride on P.J.’s sailboat after dinner.” Before Mike could register a complaint, I added, “You know they make me nervous.”

“I do?” Mike looked confused.

The ringing sound of the bell interrupted us.

“Dinner is served,” Binky announced, and the whole happy family took a seat. I smirked when I noted that my place card had Mike seated directly across from me. I highly doubted Diana would have ordained this arrangement if she had any idea what my foot was reaching for surreptitiously under the table. Who likes a fast ride now, Mrs. King?

“So, Mikie,” Phillip Jr. said, using the nickname I hated as he buttered a sweet potato biscuit. “Justin Balmer’s old lady came in for a consultation today.”

Have I mentioned what an infamous bore Phillip Jr. usually was? But suddenly he had my undivided attention.

“From the way she was talking,” he continued, “the bags under her eyes aren’t the only things sinking around Palmetto. How are your numbers in the projections for Prince? Is Mrs. Balmer full of hot air, or is J.B. actually going to give you a run?”

Diana dropped her fork to her plate in alarm. Her eyes shot up at Mike.

“Phillip’s joking, Mother,” Mike said, shrugging it off.