“Nah, I can tell you won’t be back. You always thought you was better than this,” she said, waving her hand through the air. “Like you too good for Chillicothe. Like you better than me or something.”
Her words cut deep this time. It was as if she were poking her finger at me, accusing me of the crime of wanting something better. I reached down and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
Martha jerked her shoulder away and ground her cigarette butt in the ashtray. She stood from the sofa, as straight as a lead pencil. Everything about her changed in an instant. She raised her head and stared back at the screen door for a moment, like she’d reached the end of the conversation and had come to a decision. I wasn’t used to seeing this kind of resolve in her. Maybe I was lucky and she was going to go along with Vera’s plan. I waited for her to hug me and if she did, I would make up for flinching earlier. I’d hug her so tight if she reached out this time.
She didn’t. Instead, Martha gave me a hateful side-eye and strolled off to the kitchen. The last words I heard her utter before I left Chillicothe: “Make sure you don’t slam my goddamn door behind you when you leave.”
Chapter 8
Saturday morning, I boarded the Houghton corporate jet, a Gulfstream 550, all handcrafted leather interior propelled by a couple of Rolls-Royce turbo engines. Another executive perk. I was the only passenger, traveling alone to Nate’s party in Savannah, Georgia. Everyone else from the executive suite had flown in the night before. Me, traveling on this plane alone—to a party no less—seemed like such a wasteful endeavor. And the thought of spending part of my weekend with work colleagues was about as enticing as a root canal on a hard-to-reach molar. I hated events like this. But I learned by my third-year law school internship, invitations to partners’ lake homes and law firm charity golf tournaments were not optional. These were work events just as much as attending a 7:30 A.M. breakfast meeting.
The flight attendant, a lean guy with a goatee and spiky hair, tried to make small talk. I wasn’t really in the mood for chitchat and he finally picked up the hint. All I wanted to do was get to Savannah, survive the irritation of yuck-yucking it up with a bunch of people I didn’t know, get back on this plane, and head home.
Forty-five minutes later, I landed in Savannah where a driver and a private car at the airport whisked me off to the Altamonte Club, just outside Savannah on Tybee Island. I did my research and I didn’t like what I found. The Altamonte was established as a men’s social club at the turn of the last century. Women were allowed inside only if they were accompanied by their husbands. No Jews. No Blacks. No Catholics. Essentially, no “Others.” The club deity finally decided to join the twentieth century in 1996 when they admitted their first Black member. From what I could tell, he was still the only member of color. Going to a party inside a place like this made me question the people I now called my colleagues.
Another forty-five minutes later, we reached the grounds of the Altamonte. Nate’s “lil’ club,” as he called it, was sprawling. Two-hundred-year-old southern live oak trees draped in Spanish moss lined the winding driveway to the club. Their gnarled and twisted branches had hidden my runaway slave ancestors and cast shadows to cool the sunburnt heads of Confederate soldiers alike. A tortured past that shamefully connected all of us in the South.
The car eased past horse stables and tennis courts before finally cruising to a stop in front of a huge water fountain and sago palm trees flanking a massive white stucco building with terra-cotta roof tiles. I took a few deep breaths, willing myself not to act like a goofy-eyed tourist on her first trip off the farm.
It seemed cruel—almost blasphemous—to attend a cocktail party the day after Michael’s funeral. Michael was murdered. His body hadn’t been in the ground a full twenty-four hours yet. His fellow executives couldn’t even bother to attend his funeral but were now laughing and gallivanting about like he never existed. What happened to all that Houghton family BS?
My new colleagues joined Detective Bradford on that list of people I didn’t trust.
I touched up my lipstick, plumped my hair—a fresh silk press—and slid out of the town car. I brushed the front of my black crepe halter dress one last time. Shoulders back. Head up. Showtime.
I entered through a large marbled foyer that opened onto a huge great room swathed in a wall of windows, a picture-perfect frame for the sparkling blue water of the Atlantic Ocean. Soft music drifted from a small jazz trio stationed in a corner of the room. The club brimmed with people, including board members, executives, and even a couple US senators. I spotted a Fox News commentator, too, one of the more ardent supporters of making America great again for some folks. Men stood about pompous and barrel-chested, bragging about their golf games. Their reed-thin wives huddled together nearby in strapless sundresses and Tory Burch sandals, their faces full of Botox and unmet desires.