Dead to Her Read online

  Dedication

  For the real Marcie and Jason (and their cat collective . . . )

  With much love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One Epigraph

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  Part Two Epigraph

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  Part Three Epigraph

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  60.

  61.

  62.

  63.

  64.

  Part Four 65.

  66.

  67.

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sarah Pinborough

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Epigraph

  Hell is empty, and all the devils are here . . .

  The Tempest

  1.

  The candle burns.

  Crisp paper. A pen.

  WHAT HAPPENED TO JONNY?

  Envelope.

  Seal.

  Whisper.

  Wait.

  2.

  You can’t tame a wild thing.

  The thought bubbled up from someplace deep inside Marcie, a ripple in the stagnant water that had become her life. She could feel Eleanor’s appraising eyes on the guests, looking down from the gilt-framed portrait that still hung on the staircase wall, overshadowing them all. Dead less than a year. What would she make of this turn of events?

  A hubbub of quietly spoken comments from the tight circle of people among whom Marcie stood fluttered in the warm air. Elsewhere, the tension of repressed snickers and sideways glances.

  “Well my, will you look at that.”

  “The old dog.”

  “Has he lost weight? Sure doesn’t look like a man ready to retire.”

  “I didn’t know what I was expecting, but she is something . . . else.”

  “And so young.”

  She was young, this newcomer among them, this second Mrs. William Radford IV. What, twenty-two? Younger? Twenty-three at the most. Eleanor had been forty years older than that when she died.

  “There’s no fool like an old fool.” Iris. Ever dry. Eleanor’s close friend since they’d been young together a different world ago. It was Iris who’d done her best to keep Eleanor the elegant Savannah belle she’d long been, even when the cancer had ravaged her to skeletal. By the end her makeup was so thick Marcie had thought Eleanor looked like Baby Jane, but what could she say? She’d said the same as everyone else did, My, you’re looking so well, Eleanor. Always so lovely. Can I fetch you a sweet tea?

  This new wife, though, this black second wife, was ravishing, not ravaged. Her skin shone with health and strength. She was sleek and proud with strong, slim limbs and perfect curves at hip and bust. Hair, straightened and glossy, was pulled back tight. A small belly that promised a steak indulgence rather than a rabbit salad. The kind of belly men loved in women and women hated in themselves.

  She came down the sweeping stairway smiling, with her chin held high, eyes alight with pride as if the man on her arm were a handsome movie star, not a sixty-five-year-old with vein-purple cheeks, who may have lost some weight, but on whom years of indulgence had taken their toll. William Radford IV was the epitome of indulged; wasn’t that why they were all there after all?

  Neither bride nor groom looked toward the painting of the last wife, whose influence lay like a film all over the magnificent house.

  Eyes scanned the new wife’s gold dress—Versace maybe—figure hugging, but an inch too short for this society crowd. The heels—half an inch too high. The jewelry, thick coils around her neck and hanging from her ears, impressive but attention-seeking. All the women—nearly all over fifty—would be making the same assessment: she’s not one of us. Marcie knew how that felt.

  “Her name’s Keisha.” Elizabeth bustled over, dragging Marcie’s attention away. Staid office wear had been abandoned for the night in favor of a green dress that looked new—although certainly not Versace. Elizabeth’s short, dark, curly hair, run through with wiry gray, had been fluffed up so she looked like an aging poodle. Did Elizabeth feel it too? This frisson of excitement—of change? Their feathers being ruffled by the sudden arrival of this cuckoo?

  “She’s just turned twenty-two and is from London,” Elizabeth continued, leaning in closer, eyes twinkling with as yet unspilled gossip, happy to have snippets of information to share that might make her feel part of the set. There was a fondness for her, but it was the kind of affection you might give an old dog simply because it always wanted to please you.

  Elizabeth might have been Eleanor’s assistant forever—and then William’s when Eleanor got too sick—but she was still only staff. William said she was family, but Marcie knew better. Real family mattered in this circle of friends. Your blood. How far back your name went. There was pride in history. Elizabeth had no eminent cotton or sugar ancestry and no style. She’d been stillborn into the waters of this society.

  “That’s where they met: London. Four months ago. A whirlwind romance. William wanted to keep their early return as a surprise, but someone had to get them home and arrange all this.” Elizabeth wafted a hand around as if she’d been spending her own money on the occasion. “He swore me to secrecy. But thank the lord for Julian and Pierre. They truly do organize the best parties.” She smiled again.

  “Here come the happy couple,” Emmett muttered—William was always going to bring her to them first, his best friends, the club set—and then it was a flurry of exclamations and smiles and wafts of perfume as each of the women leaned in to air kiss the pair. Marcie, the other second wife, the older second wife, took a few involuntary steps backward as the rest crowded in. Close up, Keisha was even more magnificent. Her skin was a deep rich brown. She glowed. Eleanor had glowed once too.

  Marcie watched her friends chirruping their joy—the queen is dead, long live the queen—vying to be the happiest at the new union. Iris, birdlike and papery old, but elegantly preserved, and her husband, Noah, the judge, portly, red-faced, and yet somewhat regal, the two of them cornerstones of Savannah society. Virginia, constantly smiling, her body starved to slim but her full face, under her Stepford wife blowout, forever betraying the larger size her God had meant her to be. She was a stalwart of the church, where she was adored almost as much as Jesus himself for the size of her charitable donations. Beside her was her foppish husband, Emmett, slight and short and impeccably dressed. Also somewhere in his mid-fifties, he brokered various stocks and shares to pretend to himself that he didn’t simply while away his life
on inherited wealth, using the club as an easy pool for investors.

  Sometimes, in the increasingly frequent bad moods that struck when this life threatened to suffocate her, Marcie wondered if she’d reach menopause early just by being around so much middle age. But now, in the wake of poor Eleanor’s demise, here was youth among them, a shard of obsidian glistening in the staid, patted-down chalk. Freshness. Excitement.

  And twenty-two. Four years younger than Marcie had been when she’d met Jason. An affair, a year or so of melodrama, an unpleasant divorce—goodbye, Jacquie—and by twenty-nine, she had been the young second wife taking careful steps to find her place in this world.

  Now she was nearly thirty-five, with Jason coming up on fifty-three, and she was cemented—stuck—into the set. But Jason wasn’t like the others in many ways. Not quite of the same stock, even though his family had been around for generations. And then there was the business with his father. He’d had to rise above that; no mean feat in this world. He’d crawled back onto the social ladder while married to Jacquie. It was something they had in common, this tenacity to achieve more, and Marcie was determined they’d keep climbing. She looked at the chattering, gushing wealth embodied in her friends. How wonderful it must be to be born an Iris or a William, when people hung on your every word, wanted to please you. Royalty. Shame they didn’t have anything of note to say, but then they didn’t have to.

  She glanced toward Jason, wanting to share a quick secret smile at the ridiculousness of all this, but her husband’s eyes were on Keisha. Marcie watched as his hand half-stroked the young woman’s bare arm when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, as if he couldn’t resist touching her.

  Unlike the women’s, this was no air kiss. Did his lips linger against Keisha’s flawless skin a fraction too long? He wasn’t smiling, not amusedly dazzled like the others, and she noted his Adam’s apple dipping as he swallowed. She knew that look too well. Lust. It was the way he’d looked at her in the first heat after they’d met. He hadn’t looked at her like that for a while. She felt her stomach constrict, her champagne suddenly sour.

  Once a cheat, always a cheat.

  “Jason, introduce your wife, where are your manners? Oh, these boys . . .”

  “Yes, Marcie, what are you doing back there? Come on in!”

  “Marcie?”

  For a moment she didn’t even recognize her own name, still feeling the sting of that heated expression in Jason’s eyes, and then the huddle parted as William’s thick fingers touched her arm and she automatically smiled, all worry hidden away.

  “Congratulations,” she said softly. “I’m so happy for you.” She turned to Keisha, tall and glorious in front of her, suddenly feeling old. “And, of course, lovely to meet you.”

  Their eyes stayed locked for a second or two too long, rich, deep brown on her watery blue, and Marcie knew she was being appraised—judged—in a way the other wives hadn’t been. They were in a different age bracket. They weren’t competition. But maybe Marcie wasn’t so old, after all.

  “I feel like I already know you all.” Keisha’s English accent was hard and clipped; strangely captivating. You all. Two words. Even Marcie now automatically drawled them together in that Southern liquid way. “Billy’s talked about you so much.”

  Billy? Eleanor would turn in her grave. William Radford IV was no one’s Billy. Or at least he hadn’t been. Times were changing. Keisha turned her attention back to Jason. “Especially you. The great Jason Maddox, the brains of the firm and all-round great guy. I hope you don’t disappoint.” She winked, flirtatious and friendly, at ease with being the center of attention, and then laughed, a surprisingly brash sound, or perhaps just uninhibited, and they all dutifully joined in, a tinkling of politeness. When Jason winked back at the new star in their firmament, Marcie wasn’t sure if she wanted to rip this breathtaking woman’s eyes out or go and scream in a corner.

  “I know this has all been sudden and you may think we’re crazy.” William took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to his new bride, and then letting his fingers slide down to the curve of her back. “But when you know, you know. Keisha brought life back into my heart. I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “You didn’t want to take the other six months as a honeymoon?” Jason asked, at last looking at William. “You were so adamant you were going for a year.”

  “Plans change, Jason. Plans change. And how could I stay away from my wonderful friends for so long?”

  “Well, I know you’re retiring but . . .”

  “No work tonight.” William slapped Jason hard—maybe a little too hard—on the arm. “Now come on, let’s go eat. I want Keisha to see what she’s been missing out on over there in London.” He leaned into Jason. “And I should thank you. If you hadn’t told me all the best places to go on my trip, I’d never have found her.”

  As they walked away, friends following in their wake, Marcie noticed that this time it was William who Jason was watching. A dark, thoughtful expression. Maybe Keisha was upsetting the apple cart for both of them.

  Once the champagne and cocktails had washed away their polite shock and the band had struck up on the terrace, the party turned out to be less of a bore than Marcie had been expecting. The guests kicked off their shoes and danced in the night air, care for expensive dresses forgotten, and even Iris and Noah took a turn on the grass. As they swayed, Marcie thought she caught a glimpse of ghosts of the teenage sweethearts they’d once been.

  Marcie watched as Jason chatted loudly to some of the other guests. She couldn’t get the look he’d given Keisha out of her head. He’d been pulling away for a few months, but she’d put it down to work—the responsibility of running the partnership while William was away, gearing up to take the next step of buying him out.

  Their sex life had dwindled down to occasional drunken screws and she wondered if those were only to fulfill his need for a child, an heir, a social accessory they could send to County Day and expand their affluent network.

  Looking at him now, the same questions swirled in her head as they had for weeks. Had he grown bored with her? Was she a challenge completed? Now, here, in that look that whispered thoughts of betrayal, there had been the first clear fracture in the structure of their marriage. She’d never seen him look at another woman that way. Never.

  Keisha had come to join them once or twice, increasingly unsteady on her feet but still trying to twirl and shimmy to the music, head thrown back, laughing that raucous, fascinating sound. She lingered too close to where Jason and Marcie were sharing a lounger later in the evening, and although Jason did snatch the occasional glance her way, if Keisha was looking for further flirtation she was disappointed. But still, that look. William, following constantly in his young wife’s shadow, finally led her away and they didn’t see her again. Given her state, he probably had Zelda, his housekeeper, put her to bed.

  Virginia was all raised eyebrows, even though she wasn’t beyond having one or two drinks too many when the mood took her, church or no church, but Iris pointed out that it must be hard to move across the world and be expected to live up to someone like Eleanor when you were so completely different. Completely different. What she meant was young, crude, and, the most unspoken word of all, black. Anyway, Keisha hadn’t seemed awkward, just a drunk girl who didn’t care what people thought of her because she’d just won the jackpot. A rich old man. Still, it wasn’t a prize Marcie would want to win. The thought of William heaving away on top of her . . . God, no wonder Keisha had been draining the champagne and flirting with her husband.

  3.

  She and Jason finally got home around one, and before they’d even turned on the lights he was kissing her, catching her by surprise.

  “You wanna have another go at making a baby?” He grinned, his mouth all lopsided charm, made somehow more attractive by the beer haze in his eyes, and before Marcie could answer he was pulling her up the stairs and tugging at her clothes. She couldn’t help laugh
ing. Yes, he was drunk, but she wasn’t exactly sober herself and it was good to feel him wanting her again. To be close to him. To be something like they were before. Maybe she was wrong to worry earlier. Keisha was beautiful, but he loved her, his wife.

  They fell on the bed, only half-naked, a mess of panting urgency. She sought out his eyes in the gloom as he pushed her arms over her head, holding her wrists down with one hand. She tried to nuzzle at his face to get him to look at her, to kiss her. With Marcie’s legs gripping his waist, he thrust himself inside her. She gasped—she always did, there had never been a man who could come close to Jason at turning her on—but his face stayed pressed into her shoulder, his breath dampening her skin as it quickened. He’s not with me. The thought was a cold shower between her thighs. He’s not thinking of me.

  He finished fast and when he flopped over to his side of the bed, Marcie stayed breathless. It was one thing that they rarely fucked anymore, but until now, when they had, she’d always felt he was present. Not this time. Had he been thinking of her? It was nothing. It meant nothing. People fantasized all the time. She was overreacting. What was it about Keisha that unsettled her so?

  “I love you,” Jason said, perfunctorily, his hand reaching across and resting on her thigh.

  “I know,” she answered, and let out a chuckle she didn’t feel. She couldn’t make a thing of it. She wouldn’t.

  “Oh so funny, Mrs. Maddox.” He let out a long, contented sigh. Marcie’s heart was still racing.

  “I think she likes you,” she said, the words blurting out. At least she sounded mildly amused, not jealous or insecure. His eyes were no longer shut. He was staring at the ceiling.

  “Who?”

  “You know who!” Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? She felt stupid. Obvious. “Keisha.”

  “Ah, that she.” He stared at the ceiling a moment longer, expression unreadable in the dark, and then he rolled back on top of her, and smiled. “Your old man’s still got it. You’d better work harder to keep me.” He kissed her, slow and soft, and she kissed him back but she felt hollow. She’d worked hard enough to get him; she didn’t want the rest of her life spent working hard to keep him. Was he even worth it?