The investigators thought this was amusing—that I wanted my husband to face utter humiliation in front of people who meant something to him. Which at first made me feel small. The University Club shouldn’t have to pay for my own pleasure in seeing my husband in cuffs. They really did some wonderful things in our community, even if they’d shortsightedly honored my cheating husband. But truth was, the University Club had been deceived, too.
The old Cricket would have been mortified to have her husband arrested at such a luncheon.
The new Cricket made sure she wore whore-red lipstick with her big-ass emerald earrings. I was positively bloodthirsty.
“Ready?” I asked Ruby, who was my date. I had asked Scott for an extra ticket. I figured that Ruby had earned her ringside seat for the defeat of the man who’d allowed himself to be pulled down by greed and lust.
“Yep. Let’s roll. See ya later, Jade. Don’t forget, someone is coming for those iced-tea glasses. I put all twelve in a box in the back,” Ruby said as she followed me.
Jade shooed us out, and we headed through the kitchen to the newly waxed Spider. The top was up because, duh, my hair wouldn’t survive the wind. But this car now felt more me than it ever had. I trailed my hand across the shiny smoothness of the hood as I stepped to the driver’s side, saying hello to my grandmother—the woman who had given me the car, the business, and the gumption to do what I did. My mother had lent me her cold, calculating detachment, but my grandmother had sewn inside me her passion, her rebellion, her thumbing of the nose at convention. I had let that part of me lie dormant for far too long, but I had rediscovered it through this process.
Obviously, since I was heading to watch my husband being arrested.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I opened the door and slid inside.
Ten minutes later we pulled into the newly refurbished University Club right off Fairfield Avenue. The club was housed in an old mansion similar to Printemps, with loads of screened porches, curlicue woodwork, and personality. The Old South feel remained intact, and perhaps that was the intent. Cars streamed down the street, announcing the event. I pulled into the circular drive, and a twentysomething guy hurried to me with a smile. I handed over the keys and waited on Ruby to come round.
“Thanks,” I said to the young man, who took the keys and gave me a numbered ticket.
“Ready?” Ruby asked, releasing a breath, looking a little nervous, a tad like she had the night of the gala. I had been born into this world, thanks to my mother, so it bordered on boring for me. But Ruby seemed to find it intimidating, and I could understand that. When you hadn’t grown up knowing that Lindy Williams ate her boogers and Sheridan Hyde had done the nasty with disgusting George Kuntz on the country-club tennis court, you got a little twitchy around the cliquish women inside.
“Yeah. I’m totally ready. After this, I can breathe. I’ll have to do damage control with Julia Kate, but I will be able to breathe. To move. To focus on my future. On your future.” I looked over at her, trying to show her that I wasn’t nervous. But I was.
Because even though all those words were true, this was the end. I was closing a chapter. No, closing a book and tucking it away forever. So I was feeling full of too many feelings to name, so I didn’t try. I just shoved them all into the closet of my psyche and pasted on a smile. Hey, I was a master of pretense at this point.
We entered the club, and after a quick trip to the bathroom to take deep breaths and regather myself, I emerged with fresh lipstick and determination. Ruby looked antsy, so I winked at her as I sauntered up to a few of my friends, who immediately congratulated me on Scott’s award. I smiled, nodded, and changed the subject to Amy Barnwell’s new haircut, shifting the conversation to what these women really liked to talk about—themselves. Of course, they had much to say about my jacket, which was exactly what I wanted to talk about.
I introduced Ruby around as a designer of a new clothing line that would debut at Spring Fling. I hinted that she had interest from an NYC designer and that Printemps would be carrying her designs exclusively in the area. Oh, and a few boutiques in Dallas would, too. I lied about the last one, but that was only because I hadn’t yet called my sorority sister Ellen Benoit, who had a hoity-toity boutique and who I knew would love to feature Deconstructed in her very successful shop. If she didn’t, I could let a few incriminating pictures from spring break at Cash’s in Florida leak. Second place in the wet-T-shirt contest was nothing to sniff at.
Lord, I had become a blackmailer.