"Saylor called today," Mama said, "She called yesterday too. When are you going to call that poor girl back?"
Saylor Embers was Declan’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. He had known her since before they were born, practically. Their mothers had gone to the University of Alabama together and both married old Charleston money. It was all very socially incestuous and forced, Saylor and Declan's relationship. She was a beautiful girl, yes. Probably one of the prettiest in South Carolina. She had legs for miles. Men would have turned their lives inside out just for her to smile in their direction. People couldn't help but look at her. She was raised to be admired, but at the same time to pretend she didn't notice.
But she knew. Which led to her having an almost insufferable personality in private. Over the past six months it had become completely horrible to be around her, alone anyway. Thus, the present "off" status of their relationship.
"I don't know. Maybe never. Maybe in five minutes. You know how it is with us," Declan said. His mother did know. Just this past Christmas she had to deal with Saylor's debutante ball. The event had made it clear to everyone that if Saylor was this demanding and monstrous for a damn coming-out party, she would be a beast whenever her wedding day approached. It was then that Declan knew he did not want to be on the other end of that deal. So he’d cooled it off with her. Pretty only gets you so far. I think that's something women don't always realize, Declan thought. Being beautiful is a big, huge deal. But being pleasant to be around eventually becomes just as important. Particularly when you're the level of turbo bitch that Saylor could be.
"Well. Try to get back to her. I’m tired of screening my calls."
"I'll text her later. I don't know why she's calling the house."
They both sat quietly while a horse drawn carriage click-clacked by the house. Tourists in chinos, polo’s, and boat shoes sweated and snapped photos as the driver of the carriage lectured them on the age of the Vanderpage home (the DeGraff’s neighbors).
"It's the largest private residence in Charleston. A wedding gift for..." His voice trailed off as they sauntered by. Declan always felt so bad for the poor horses that had to pull those pasty people down this street every day. It couldn't be a fun gig in life.
It was the perfect day, other than the suffocating humidity. The plantation-style fans hummed above their very privileged heads. The DeGraffs’ housekeeper, Antonia, was setting out cold cuts in the kitchen. Anna DeGraff stirred the sweating pitcher of tea between them on what was a very overpriced serving cart Declan’s dad had bid too much on at one of his Sotheby auctions.
"You haven't really made plans for this summer, have you?" Anna's voice was slow and sweet. Declan watched as she tried to discreetly pour gin in her tea.
"Not so much. I’ll probably spend a bit of time at Sullivan’s,” he stretched his well-muscled calves and yawned. “Or just nap the months away.”
“You know, the house on Sullivan’s is getting renovated this summer, sugar. Didn’t Daddy tell you?” Anna crossed her ankles. “I don’t know why he thought summer of all times would be a good time for that, but such is the way of your daddy.”
Well, hell. The Sullivan’s Island house was the DeGraffs’ mansion on the beach, about 20 minutes from the Meeting Street house. Declan had spent every summer since birth lounging on the deck and shouting at beautiful women from the beachside pool. His Labor Day party at the end of summer was the event of the season. He hadn’t expected the renovations to be this summer. He’d just assumed they wouldn’t start until the fall. This was not what he wanted to hear.
“Have they started yet?” Maybe he could have Dad postpone the work. Declan didn’t know what his father could be thinking. He knew Declan pretty much lived full-time at Sullivan’s and Isle of Palms in the summer time.
“They started two weeks ago,” Anna burst his bubble. “I went by just the other day. All the floors are ripped up to hell.”
Declan stood up and looked over the balcony onto Meeting Street. A couple stood kissing in front of the Vanderpage gate. He’d seen that scene hundreds of times. Kissing couples, newlyweds, elderly couples, gay couples. People saw that gate and started dreaming about what it must be like to live in an old southern mansion, with no worries, the love of their life by their side.
Declan didn’t have to dream about it. He’d been living it his whole life. He couldn’t complain. It wasn’t all that horrible. There were worse destinies to have in life than being an old money, southern male. Much worse. He tried not to take it for granted like so many of his buddies did. If he feared anything, it was becoming one of those men who feel entitled, who enter places expecting to be known and catered to.