Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Eight

In the end, I decide to go along with the date with Mayor Beau not for him, or me, but for Gramps. The memory of the looks from the mothers in the library tweaks my stomach for the rest of the afternoon. My being back in town is stirring up gossip and rumors, and sooner or later they'll find their way to our house. Make Gramps worry, which is the last thing I want.

Beau showing up and me refusing to go out to dinner would only cause another scene. Gramps wouldn't understand, and with Mrs. Walters's ability to rival the U.S. Department of Homeland Security on spying, word would get out. It could mature into any number of monsters by the time it reached the end of the line—not only am I crazy, but if I'm not interested in the most eligible mayor ever to grace Heron Creek with pin-striped suits, maybe I am back in town to steal William Gayle back from sweet Melanie Massie.

And that would be the nicest result. I came here to help Gramps, to spend whatever time he has left together, not to make his life harder. Throwing a fit, clinging to the banister and screaming like a little girl determined to avoid Sunday school, won't do. I'll go, I'll smile and pretend it's my idea to be there. For Gramps.

At the end of the night, when we're alone, I have every intention of letting Mayor Beauregard Charles Drayton—of the Charleston Draytons; I couldn't help Googling him at the library—know, in no uncertain terms, that this isn't what I want. I'm not ready. I want to be alone, with my memories and my failures and my booze.

And my ghost, if she insists.

Regardless of why I'm going or what I mean to say at the end of the night, my nerves refuse to back the hell off. My palms sweat so much the tube of eyeliner slips from my fingers twice, and I get ready in a bra and underwear to keep my armpits aired out. No need to start the rumor that I smell like a rotting pirate corpse.

The dress is new, bought on the way home since my laundry still waits in trash bags. That stupid to-do list haunts me more than two weeks after pulling into town, and everything is still wrinkled to hell and back. Mrs. LaBadie's going to give me shit, probably, if I don't show up in clean, pressed things at some point.

Tomorrow. I'll do the laundry tomorrow, swear.

My purchase satisfies me, and the mirror reflects a girl who looks something like me. She's skinnier than the Gracie I used to be, and the weight loss has flattened my boobs more than I care to admit. The black dress is cut well, though, and shows off the legs that have long been my one vanity.

Those and my hair, which after a wash and dry and curl with the flat iron, looks better than it has in a month. Maybe longer. My appearance leaves a bit to be desired, with the bones too prominent under my skin and the smudges that won't vacate my under eyes, but I won't embarrass the mayor. If we can keep it short enough, maybe my mouth won't, either. My stomach flip-flops, then cartwheels as though it's trying out for the next summer Olympics. A shot of vodka stops my hands from shaking, or maybe it's my tight grip on the bathroom counter.

I stare my reflection down, checking briefly for Anne in the space behind me. "It's a date, Graciela. I know it's been, like, five years, but I'm sure it's like riding a bike."

Not that I've ridden a bike in better than five years.

The doorbell rings and startles me out of my skin. Gramps answers it, having been prepped as far as my night out, and his booming voice tangles with Beau's smoother one. I pat my hair, swipe on some lip gloss and an extra coat of deodorant, then say a quick prayer that Gramps's attempts to embarrass me will be minimal. He lives to tease his grandkids, and the fact that we're both girls never slowed him down.

My mind wanders to Amelia on my way down the stairs. I wonder whether, based on our family's history with childbearing, she expected the issues she's having conceiving and carrying to term.