A north wind slices across Charleston Harbor, rocking my car as it reaches the pinnacle of the Ravenel Bridge. Finally, some cool weather has arrived—hopefully for good. The marsh grass below has begun its steady transition from a spring green to a winter-wheat color. The Lowcountry summer water—hot, soupy, and teeming with marine life—has morphed into a cleaner, clearer version of itself. No pudding-thick thunderheads cover the city, no tropical storms whip up suddenly. Wispy cirrus clouds meander overhead; migratory birds head south.
Dead leaves skitter across the parking lot. Angela is uncharacteristically outdoors. She’s on her phone, pacing under the oak tree. I pull into a parking spot closest to the employee entrance, giving her some space. Whatever the call is about, she came out here for privacy. To my surprise, she motions me over.
Joining her under the old tree, I’m grateful that at least one developer in this town chose a living work of art over yet another asphalt parking spot. “Well, how much would that cost? Okay. But you say you don’t think it would help much?”
Damn. It’s gotta be her dog. “Cooper?” I mouth. Angela nods and resumes pacing, crunching acorns underfoot.
It’s almost time for the morning meeting. I tap my wrist to let Angela know. She cups her hand over the phone and asks, “Can you tell the team to start without me? You run the meeting.” I tell her to take her time.
* * *
The newsroom is arctic cold. A thin film of condensation coats my keyboard. I pull my blanket around my shoulders, chewing a piece of candied ginger while scanning the news feeds.
My cell phone rings. “Hi, Mom.”
“Honey, your grandmother died.”
What? No! I was just with her this morning. She was as she had been for the last week—her breaths were labored, but she was pink-skinned, at least in her face. That’s why I didn’t tell her goodbye. I thought I had time to gather the courage. I feel sick. “Was anyone with her?”
“Tito was in the room. And Shaniece. She died peacefully, honey.”
“Wow.” It finally happened. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, right? So why didn’t the earth shake or a meteor fall on Charleston? How is everything around me exactly the same? A momentous transition just occurred, and here I am, hunkered down for another day at News 14. “How are you holding up, Mom?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Sorry I took her to the ballet, are my unsaid words. Sorry I took her away from you sooner. “Is there anything I can do?”
“We’re going to need help with the reception. I already put in an order with the caterers, so that’s covered, thank goodness. Maybe you could help your father arrange the furniture.”
Mom babbles on about what couch should be moved where, but I am wondering where Laudie is at this very moment. Still in that hospital bed? Or—yikes—in one of those body refrigerators?
Beep. Bop. Beeeep. “Simons? What on earth . . . ?” Mom is randomly mashing telephone buttons. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” I shout, a little too loudly. A couple of heads spin in my direction.
“So, can we count on you to pick up the liquor?”
I duck behind my computer monitor, cup my hand over my mouth. Personal calls are frowned upon. “Sure, what kind?”
“Honey, I just told you. Write it down this time. Gin, vermouth, sherry, vodka, and whiskey,” she says exasperatedly. “And some tonic water. Oh. That’s Jim Mackey. I’ve got to go.”
The Mackeys are the undertakers for South of Broad residents and have been for generations. “Okay, bye, Mom. I love you,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
* * *
At my door are two large square envelopes. On both, my name is written in elegant calligraphy: Miss Simons Parks Smythe. In the bottom corner of each is also written: By hand. In Charleston, “by hand” is considered the more elegant way to send formal mail, when possible. My mother carries the invitations on her walks, slipping the cards into mail slots along the way. When Weezy debuted, I delivered most of the invitations. Mom even made me drive over the bridge to Mount Pleasant to drop some off, which was ridiculous, but she paid me, so I kept my mouth shut.
I study the first, slimmer envelope, running my fingers over the edge, which feels more like fabric than paper. Laudie would have done the same. She appreciated the details—watermarks, fonts, paper weight, and whatnot. It’s an invitation to Caroline’s debutante party at Mom and Dad’s, the one Mom asked me to proofread at Laudie’s.
The bulkier envelope is for the ball, a large and lavish event that will honor perhaps ten young ladies at once. They will be formally introduced to society. (In previous generations, when the sexes didn’t commingle so freely, this was a momentous occasion, an opportunity for potential marital alliances to be made.) As with all formal society events, the paper stock is always white or ecru; the printing is always in black. For an extra touch, some invitations include a family coat of arms at the top. Elegant yet restrained script spells words the European way: “honour” and “favour”; the word “o’clock” written out. The heavy card is protected by a flimsy square of tissue and feels wet to the touch. And the invitees’ names are handwritten, often in gorgeous, painstaking calligraphy.
Also inside: the dance card. It’s a tiny booklet tethered to a silky white loop. The women wear it around their wrists during the formal dancing before dinner. A tiny pencil dangles from the rope to write the names of dancing partners on the dotted lines next to songs chosen probably a century ago for the evening: a waltz first, two foxtrots, and so on until the midnight dinner.
Years ago, at my debutante ball, Trip jokingly started to write his name next to every song. Laughing, I snatched the dance card from him before he could finish. Now, I wonder whose name will be written on the dotted line.