After Grace and Carlotta left, Violetta opened her laptop computer to check her ranking on theDaily Socialitewebsite. ‘Number 73,’ she yelled. ‘What the fuck?’
She scrolled down and looked at the comments.
Who goes out when their mother is in a coma?
Who does a TV show when their mother is brain damaged?
She needs to get a job, not just a trust fund.
Tacky Avenue Princess
She’s a slut.
Violetta closed the computer.
‘Enough,’ she said to herself. ‘Enough.’
She wondered who had seen the article and comments and Jeff Carson crossed her mind.
Please don’t let Jeff have seen it, she thought. Please.
9
Spencer, Atlanta – 1984
Spencer Blanchard pulled into the driveway of his house, an antebellum home that had stayed in his family since it was built. It was too large for him, he knew that, but he had been determined to fill it with children and a happy marriage. Only Birdie had broken his heart when she married that sly Spaniard under the magnolia trees at the Blackwood estate.
He had bowed out gracefully once he saw how in love Birdie was with Leon. She refused to hear a bad word about him when her beloved father, Andrew, had raised doubts over Leon’s intentions.
‘You just want me to marry Spencer, Daddy,’ she had cried. ‘Well, I don’t love him. You know I thought I did before I left but then I met Leon. I know what real passion and love are now. Not some simple boy from the South.’
Spencer had stood in the hallway listening and hadn’t taken offence. He was a simple boy from the South who simply loved Birdie, and now she was gone.
It was Spencer’s insistence that he draw up a contract to protect Birdie and the Blackwood money from Leon and to help her start her new fashion design company. She had gone to see him on her last night in Atlanta; no Leon, just the two of them on the porch. They sat in his swing chair, looking out into the night.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as they rocked back and forth.
‘For what?’ he asked.
‘For hurting you.’
‘I’m fine. Just a crush, nothing I can’t get over,’ he said lightly.
Birdie took his hand. ‘I do love you, you know,’ she said to the man who had been her best friend when she was growing up.
‘I love you too, Birdie,’ he said.
She jumped from the seat, kissed him on the cheek and ran into the darkness towards her property.
That was the last time they spoke. Not even on the phone or via letters. Nothing, and Spencer didn’t ask about her when he saw the Blackwoods from time to time.
Her marriage had driven a wedge through the Blanchard and Blackwood families, and since Birdie’s wedding his mother had died, his father had been moved to a nursing home, and still no word from Birdie. She must have known, her mother would have told her, but no communication came his way.
Spencer had devoted himself to his law and was a successful junior associate at one of Atlanta’s most prestigious firms. He worked long hours and hard; it helped to forget this way. But at night he dreamed of Birdie. When they used to ride their horses backwards, go fishing together, practise kissing on their hands. When he had first kissed her at the prom. When she left him for Leon.
Spencer sat in his car and sighed. Another night alone, he thought, both thankful and tired of the monotony.
He opened his old Mercedes that had belonged to his father and, taking his briefcase, walked towards the house. He walked up the stairs and just as he was about to put the key in the lock, he heard the swing seat on the porch creak.
