Southern Ghost

Amanda reached out, picked up the frame, and stared at her image. Her eyes smeared with tears, and she turned the frame facedown. She huddled in the chair in front of the ornate rosewood dressing table in a room fragrant with the lily of the valley perfume she always wore, and, unwillingly, almost in disbelief looked in the mirror. Mirror, mirror . . . She couldn't look like that! She couldn't! Her hair in blowsy disarray, her eyes wild and filled with misery, her lips trem­bling . . . And she couldn't stop the little hiccups of distress or control the jagged rhythm of her breathing. She lifted a trembling hand to touch the bright-red mark on her cheek where Augustus had struck her. That was hideous, but worse, much worse, was the threat he had made, his voice as cold as death.

She might as well be dead.

Suddenly, the perfume she loved so much seemed overpower­ing, threatening to choke her. Striking out, she overturned the ornate crystal scent bottle. It shattered into sharp fragments, and perfume spread across the gleaming dressing table. She scarcely noticed the cut on her palm and the blood mingling with the scent.

Oh, God, what was she going to do?

Annie knew the outcome of the gathering at Miss Dora's couldn't be predicted, but her first shock came when she and Max entered the elegant, austere drawing room and Sybil Chastain Giacomo flicked her an incurious, bored glance, then focused on Max, her dark eyes suddenly alive and lusty. A quiver of a smile touched those full, sensuous lips.

Annie felt her cheeks flush. What was Sybil doing here? Sybil lived just two doors away from Miss Dora, but that, of course, was irrelevant to this evening. Or was it? Shrewd old Miss Dora never acted without reason.

But there'd been no mention at all of Sybil in any of the materials about the events at Tarrant House on May 9, 1970.

Sybil wore a green, dйcolletй gown. Very dйcolletй. She was a striking, vivid figure against the cool ivory of the walls. An aura of wildness invested Sybil's every glance and every throaty remark with a current of fascination. Her presence dominated the room. Each woman and each man was acutely aware of her flamboyant, unrestrained sexuality.

Sybil knew it, of course, knew and took some pleasure in it, although her brown eyes held a depth of unhappiness that no momentary pleasure could relieve.

Miss Dora, her ever-present cane tightly gripped in her left hand, thumped across the floor to Annie and Max. 'You know Sybil.'

Sybil moved closer to Max and gave him her hand. 'Not nearly well enough. But perhaps we can remedy that.' Sybil gave him a come-on-over-tonight-honey look, ignoring Annie altogether.

It only added to Annie's fury that Max, dammit, was en­joying every second of Sybil's high-voltage performance. It would serve him right if Annie abandoned him to Sybil for the rest of the evening. He might learn something about the old adage that those who play with matches can bloody well get singed.

But there were no flies on Miss Dora. Somehow—Annie wasn't certain how—Sybil was bypassed, and she and Max were on a circuit of the room with Miss Dora. 'My young friends from Broward's Rock, Max and Annie Darling,' Miss Dora announced to each family member in turn.

Milam Tarrant was minimally polite but obviously unin­terested. His long—by Chastain standards extraordinarily long—blond hair curled on his collar like that of an Edwar­dian dandy. He wore a pink dinner jacket that didn't hide a heavy paunch.

Milam's wife, Julia, smiled pleasantly but her eyes had the lost and lonely look of a neglected child. Her evening dress was old and shabby, its once vibrant black dulled to the color of a winter night sky.

Weedy, aristocratic Whitney Tarrant, whose high-bridged nose and pointed chin were replicated in the family portraits, held Annie's hand a trifle too long in a moist grip. Annie fought away the desire to wipe her fingers when they were free.

Whitney's wife, Charlotte, gave Annie and Max a brief nod and a supercilious smile. Despite her dowdy white eveningdress, Charlotte exuded the self-assurance of a woman su­premely certain of her social position.

Conversation was politely formal: the unseasonably sultry weather, concern over the safety of Savannah River water for drinking ('How can we ever feel safe with that damned nu­clear weapons production plant upstream?' Whitney de­manded), the plans for the summer regatta. Annie was glad when Miss Dora promptly led her guests in to dinner, though she heard Sybil's caustic, 'No drinks first? God.' The dining room was gorgeously appointed, the crimson damask curtains a dramatic counterpoint to the deep emerald green of the walls. They sat around a Hepplewhite drop-leaf table on Hep­plewhite shieldback chairs. On a Sheraton sideboard, a large Georgian silver bowl and tea service glistened in the light from the enormous crystal teardrop chandelier.

Annie was delighted that Sybil was seated as far from Max as possible. Miss Dora, of course, was at the head of the table. At the other end was Milam. Sybil sat to his left, and Max was at Miss Dora's right.

That was on the plus side.

On the minus, Annie had Whitney to her right. Was he deliberately pressing his knee against hers? She pulled her leg away. But he moved his leg, too. Annie's eyes narrowed. She remembered a request she'd heard Gloria Steinern make once in a speech: 'Do something outrageous. Tell him to pick it up himself.' Annie gripped her shrimp cocktail fork, dropped her hand sharply to her right, and poked.

Whitney gave a small yelp, which he unsuccessfully tried to smother.

Max looked sharply down the table. Annie spread her right hand to indicate all was copacetic, but she hoped Whitney was aware of the dark look he was receiving from her husband. She turned to Whitney and smiled sweetly. 'I'm so sorry. It just got away from me.'

In a very different way, Annie was just as aware of Julia on her left. Julia's thin arms were pressed tightly to her sides until the wine was served. As soon as her glass was poured, she grabbed it and gulped the wine.

Miss Dora saw it, of course. But instead of the quick con­demnation Annie expected to see in those raisin-dark eyes, there was only sadness.