She flushed and gave me a grin, then took the ice container back to the freezer. “Don’t worry, Neely Kate. I know this is only a fling. My eyes are wide open. Yeah, I really care about him and he cares about me, but we both know it won’t last.”
She’d expected me to give her a lecture, and I understood why. I’d been adamantly opposed to her starting something with Skeeter Malcolm for a whole variety of reasons, but first and foremost, I knew in my gut that man would break her heart. She’d suffered enough heartbreak to fill a lifetime, and it was hard to watch her willingly walk into another one. But she was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. I’d said my piece—several times, in fact—and I truly believed she’d weighed her options before taking up with Skeeter. And I had to admit that he was a different man when he was around her. Still, if and when he broke her heart, I’d not only be there to pick up the pieces; I’d hand his castrated balls to her on a silver platter.
Maybe I’d learn how to properly serve them in our etiquette class.
But for now my best friend looked happier than I’d seen her in months. We’d had few causes to celebrate, but I’d happily toast to that.
We pulled up in front of Miss Mary Ellen’s house right at seven. Since Rose was leaving town tomorrow afternoon, she wasn’t planning on spending the night with Skeeter, but she’d packed up leftovers for him and then spent a lot of time on her appearance. We were perfectly on time, which meant we were running late.
“Violet’s not gonna be happy,” I said, my words tight with anxiety. “She said not to be late. She said to be five minutes early.”
“We’re not late,” Rose said with a wave of her hand. “We’re fine.”
I frowned. I was pretty certain Miss Mary Ellen wouldn’t see it that way.
Miss Mary Ellen Evanston lived in a blue, white-trimmed Victorian house close to the town square. It was old as the hills, which meant it had been built in the early 1900s.
We walked up the steps to a wraparound porch filled with pristine white wicker furniture that likely hadn’t seen a single posterior. I knocked on the front door while Rose was busy looking at the potted plants next to the door.
“That fern is root-bound.”
“What?” I asked absently, peering through the large oval window in the door.
“It needs a bigger pot.”
I gave her a look that suggested now was not the time, and when I turned back, a middle-aged woman opened the door with a disapproving frown. She was dressed in a loud pink, green, and white Lilly Pulitzer dress, and her shoulder-length blond hair was in loose curls.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Neely Kate Rivers and this is Rose Gardner. Violet Beauregard called to sign us up for your class tonight.”
Her mouth puckered like she’d taken a big bite out of a grapefruit. “You’re late.”
Rose looked at her phone, then said, “We were told the class starts at seven. It’s exactly seven.”
Miss Mary Ellen did not look amused. “It’s seven-oh-one, and I have half a mind to send you on your way.”
I shot Rose a warning look, then gave Miss Mary Ellen a sweet one. “We’re so, so sorry, Miss Mary Ellen. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re correct—it won’t happen again because you are not my students.”
“Please, Miss Mary Ellen,” I said. “I really need this class.”
She started to close the door when Rose said, “Isn’t gardening part of being a refined Southern woman?”
“Maybe fifty years ago,” Miss Mary Ellen said with a sniff, “but not for sophisticated, modern women.”
Rose gave her an innocent look. “Then you won’t mind me mentioning your root-bound ferns to the Henryetta Garden Club members. And don’t get me started on your overpruned rose bushes.”
Well played, Rose.
Acceptance by the Henryetta Garden Club was highly competitive for women of society in Henryetta. Of course, our town’s high society was to real aristocracy what Walmart was to upscale shopping, but it didn’t matter. The garden club members were as fierce as barracudas, and, strangely enough, the members were all expected to have real gardening skills.
Miss Mary Ellen’s mouth formed an “o” and she backed up and made a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to Miss Mary Ellen’s School of Etiquette.”
Rose flashed me a grin, and we followed her inside.
Miss Mary Ellen led us through a two-story foyer with a large wooden staircase, into a dining room with a table that seated twelve. It was full but for two empty seats at the far end of the table and one at the head of the table. Each place setting featured a wide array of silverware, stacked plates, and multiple wine glasses. I was overwhelmed just looking at it.
“Ladies,” Miss Mary Ellen said in a formal tone. “May I introduce Mrs. Neely Kate Colson and her friend, Miss Rose Gardner.”
I cringed—for one, she’d called me Mrs., and two, she’d used my married name, and three, eight teenage girls were staring at us along with a woman who looked like she was barely out of high school. The girls were dressed in nice clothing, but the woman was wearing a silver sequined dress with a gaudy rhinestone necklace, topped off with a pink feathered boa.
“Hello,” Rose said to the group, then froze when she got a good look at the participants. She turned to Miss Mary Ellen. “Uh… I think there’s been a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes,” Miss Mary Ellen said. “You two may sit there at the end.” She gestured to the two empty seats as she took her own chair at the opposite end.
Once we were seated, she said, “Since our new participants missed the first two lessons, we’ll reintroduce ourselves. Remember that the way you introduce yourself forms a person’s first impression of you. You want to include just enough information to make yourself interesting but not so much as to come across as narcissistic.” She gave us a broad smile and turned to the girl next to her. “Hello.” She offered the girl her hand. “I’m Miss Mary Ellen Evanston. I was born in Baton Rouge and began teaching young girls how to become genteel Southern women soon after I graduated from LSU.”
“Then what are you doin’ here?” asked the woman with the boa in a thick Southern accent.
Miss Mary Ellen’s brow rose so gently it looked like her eyebrows had been lifted with marionette strings. “Teaching girls to become well-mannered young ladies.”
“But why Henryetta?”
Miss Mary’s Ellen’s upper lip began to twitch. “It is impolite to ask such personal questions.”
“That’s not what you said in our first class,” said the girl next to me, looking up from her phone. “You said it was good to ask the person you were introduced to questions about where they’re from.”
“I heard that she embezzled money from her boss and she’s hidin’ out from the law,” another girl said. “My daddy says there’s so much corruption in Fenton County it draws criminals like dung beetles to a pile of poo.”
Our instructor looked so taken aback, she didn’t know which comment to address first. After a few seconds, she said in a tone with a hint of bite, “Amanda, we do not discuss bodily secretions at the table.”
“I didn’t,” Amanda said defensively. She looked like she was thirteen or fourteen. “I was talking about criminals.”
The girl next to me glanced up from her phone again. She looked a couple of years older and a whole lot bitchier. “You said poo. Apparently Miss Mary Ellen finds that offensive.”
Then she returned to tapping on her screen.
Miss Mary Ellen straightened her back, which seemed like an impossible task given her back was already ramrod stiff. “Darcy, what have I said about electronic devices? It’s even more important at the dinner table. Being on your phone suggests you’re bored with the dinner conversation, which is extremely rude to your host.”