The current owner is her adopted son, Camden.
––“Hidden Gems: Houses off the Beaten Path”
Southern Manors Magazine, June 2021
From the Desk of Ruby A. McTavish
March 14, 2013
I have to admit, I almost wasn’t going to write this today.
I know, I know, I promised you, but what is that saying? “Promises are like piecrusts, made to be broken.”
I’ve never made a piecrust, actually. Maybe I should learn? Probably too late now. Shocking how soon the “too late now” part of your life arrives. When you’re young, there’s nothing but possibility, just an endless line of tomorrows, and then you wake up one day and realize that no, you cannot move to Paris on a whim because so many of those old buildings don’t have elevators and stairs are hell on your knees now. And besides, you never learned to speak French, and now your brain, once so fresh and spongy and ready to soak up knowledge, feels about as pliable as a peach pit.
I could tell you to learn from an old lady, to not let the “too late now” moments surprise you, too, but it won’t do any good. No one listens to old ladies.
I certainly didn’t.
In fact, if I’d listened to one particular old lady, this next part of the story might never have happened. Which, I think most people would agree, would’ve been for the best.
But even now, even knowing what came after, I can’t bring myself to regret rejecting Mrs. Sidney’s advice when it came to Duke Callahan.
Oh, yes, my dear. We’re finally at the first of my husbands.
（Finally. That’s the word you’d use, isn’t it? Please bear in mind that I have made you read exactly one fucking letter thus far and that it was only around ten pages. You come by your impatience naturally, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.）
（Also, please note that I wrote that word again. I think I’m going to try to write it once per letter. And now I worry I’ve wasted it here when I could probably put it to better use later. Ah, well.）
I knew of Duke Callahan long before I met him. Everyone did. His father was even richer than mine, a tobacco millionaire with an estate in Asheville, a horse breeding operation in Kentucky, a penthouse in Manhattan, a pied-à-terre in Paris, and, rumor had it, a beautiful mistress installed in each location.
Duke was his eldest son and heir, the crown prince of Edward Callahan’s kingdom, his father’s pride and joy—and also the thorn in his side. The story was that Edward had named his son Duke because that’s how certain he was that the boy would follow his lead and play football for Duke University, but Duke was nothing if not his own man. He went to Yale instead, and his father had, briefly, disowned him.
That had not fazed Duke.
This doesn’t surprise me, by the way. One thing I quickly learned about Duke Callahan during our very brief marriage was that the man was completely unflappable—at least when he was sober. During an argument on our honeymoon, I threw a pair of earrings he’d given me into the Atlantic Ocean （emeralds, once belonging to Marie Antoinette, worth a not-so-small fortune, and yes, I do still regret this fit of pique）。
Thousands of dollars sailing over the side of a ship, a brand-new bride in furious tears, what felt like half of first class gawking at us, and Duke had merely sighed, lit a cigarette, and said, “Suppose I should’ve given you rubies,” before ambling back inside.
In fact, the only time I think I ever saw him look surprised was when I shot him.
But we’re not there yet, are we?
No, now it is the night of Nelle’s sixteenth birthday. Summer, 1960.
Nelle had, as you might imagine, been a huge pill about the whole thing. First, she wanted to wear red, then pink. Then finally it was silver, and I was told—told, mind you—that I could wear green, so I had chosen a mint-green chiffon draped over a gold taffeta lining.
Nelle had not seen the dress before the party, too consumed with making sure she had the right amount of flowers, the perfect band—no, not the one Loretta wanted, the one that had played at Nancy Baylor’s Sweet Sixteen last year—and the cake had the lemon filling, yes? Not strawberry—Linda Hanson had had a strawberry cake—and the thing looked like it was bleeding when they cut into it, no one wanted to eat a bleeding cake.
I’d thought about pointing out that the lemon might look like pus simply because I’d wanted the pleasure of watching Nelle’s head explode, but in the end, I’d kept my mouth shut, determined to get through the night with as little conflict as possible.