I move to the windows looking out at the backyard, overgrown hedges, and the garçonnière beyond. The glass is wavy and in dire need of a cleaning, but I can catch glimpses of sunlight like tiny pieces of tinfoil bobbing in the lazy bayou. Here and there I can see remnants of the past that have yet to be completely taken over by kudzu and honeysuckle. At one time, Sutton Hall was a working sugar plantation with all that implies—but, of course, we don’t talk about that. There are a lot of things we Suttons don’t talk about.
A white wrought-iron bench tilts to one side in the overgrown garden below, and a tall rusted pipe sticks up from a crumbling fountain. All that’s left of the original kitchen, to my right, are a big iron pot and a decaying brick foundation.
As I look out, I feel neither the familial pride nor the longing that Mother feels about this place. I see a sad past gone to ruin, and I wonder why someone would leave a bench to rust in the elements.
Behind the garage I can see the cobblestone path that leads to the cemetery and towering white tombs. Mother will want to go to those tombs and pay a visit to the glorious dead. I’m not a scaredy-cat like Lindsey, but I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t want to think about Mother dying or get into a discussion about what she wants engraved on her tombstone. I don’t want my memories of our time at Sutton Hall to be overshadowed by the talk of death.
“The boys tell me you’re a love expert.”
I turn toward Simon as he enters the room. I knew it was only a matter of time before the news got out.
“They want to ask about your tips for impressing women.”
“They or you?”
One corner of his mouth turns up. “I got that part covered.”
I’ll just bet he does. I hold up three fingers and count off the basics. “Take a shower. Bar nuts aren’t a dinner date. Don’t call your ex-girlfriend a bitch until at least the third date.”
“You get paid for that?” he scoffs as he shakes his head. “Shoot, you need to come up with something that their mommas didn’t teach them a long time ago. No offense.”
“Uh-huh.” I raise my fingers once more. “Brush your teeth,” I count off. “Squirrel is not a protein choice. Don’t date your sister.”
He raises a brow. “Or marry your first cousin.”
He got me on that one. I laugh and raise a fourth finger. “Never swim in your own gene pool.”
“I’ll let the guys know your expert tips.” He points to the room across the hall and changes the subject. “The furniture is ready to go downstairs. Do y’all want to paint the room before we set it up?”
“Mom says no.” I don’t feel like an expert on anything anymore. Least of all
on dating. “She wants to keep everything the same as she remembers.”
“I should have guessed.” He chuckles. “Y’all Suttons cling to your clutter. At the end of the day, you can’t take your hoarded treasures with you to the grave.”
“I don’t really know my family.” The room is filled with oversize furniture, but I wouldn’t call it cluttered. Not like the back staircase. “But they don’t seem to be hoarders.”
“Have you been in the attic?”
“Never.” As a child, I was scared shitless just looking at the closed door. Coming back as a savvy, well-traveled, educated adult, I still find it spooky as hell. I don’t believe in spooky stuff, but after last night, I’m not a nonbeliever either. “Is it bad?”
“I wouldn’t recommend going up there without a pith helmet and camp shovel.”
I look up at the ceiling, and I think I can safely predict that I won’t be climbing the stairs at the end of the hall anytime soon.
“Jasper had a running catalog in his head of every last thing crammed up there. That fireplace screen Ms. Patricia’s asked about is probably hidden in a chest or hanging from the rafters.”
“Maybe she’ll forget,” I say, even though I know Mom will forget what she had for breakfast before she forgets about that screen.
“Some folks say the Suttons are short on common sense but have long memories. That was true with Jasper.”
“What folks?” Did I just say “folks”? I never say “folks.” It sounds so… folksy. Then again, I never thought I’d say the f-word either. Welcome to my new life.
“The old families still living in the parish. The Guidrys.” His boots stir up dust as he moves to the windows and looks out. “The Browns at Roselea. My folks are still in the big house at Sugar Hill.” He looks off in the distance and places his hand on the window casing. “Ms. Patricia probably remembers my maman, Mazie Landers. They’re about the same age and Maman remembers every one and ’em.”
I lean a hip into the footboard and cross my arms beneath my breasts. “Mom has Alzheimer’s. Her long-term memory is better than her short-term, so she might remember.”
He drops his hand and slowly turns toward me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”