Tiny Little Thing by Beatriz Williams Read Free Book Online

alluringly at the corners. Her curving red mouth. The old Pepper, now that it’s just the two of us, alone in her room. Her claws, my skin. We do so much better when there are others around. Someone else’s family to distract us, someone else’s irreversible birth order: flawless first, naughty second, locked in timeless conflict.
    At my silence, Pepper pulls the ends of her robe more closely together. “So. I saw your husband and the major out there on the water, sailing a boat. Did you get your
après-midi
after all? It must have been a quick one. Not that those aren’t sometimes the best.”
    “Actually, I had another miscarriage eight days ago,” I say. “I don’t know if Mums told you. So, no. No
après-midi
for a few more weeks yet, unfortunately. Quick or not.”
    Pepper’s arms uncross at last. Her tip-tilted eyes—the dark blue Schuyler eyes she shares with Vivian, except that hers are a shade or two lighter—go round with sympathy. “Oh, Tiny! Of course I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. What a bitch I am.”
    I turn to the door. “It’s all right. Really.”
    “My big fat mouth . . .”
    “You have a lovely mouth, Pepper. I’m going downstairs now to make sure everything’s ready. Let me know if you need anything.”
    “Tiny—”
    I close the door carefully behind me.
    •   •   •
    D ownstairs, everything is perfect, exactly as I left it three quarters of an hour ago. The vases are full of hyacinths—my first order, as lady of the compound, was nothing short of rebellion: I changed the house flower from lily to hyacinth, never mind the financial ruin when hyacinths were out of season—and the side tables are lined with coasters. All the windows and French doors have been thrown open, heedless of bugs, because the heat’s been building all day, hot layered on hot, and the Big House has no air-conditioning. Mrs. Crane and the two maids are busy in the kitchen, filling trays with Ritz crackers and crab dip. If this were a party for outside guests, I’d have hired a man from town, put him in a tuxedo, and had him pour drinks from the bar. But this is only family, and Frank and his father can do it themselves.
    Frank’s father. He rises from his favorite chair in the library, immaculate in a white dinner jacket and black tie, his graying hair polished into silver. “Good evening, Tiny. You look marvelous, as always.”
    I lean in for his kiss. “So do you, Mr. Hardcastle. Enjoying your last moment of peace?”
    He holds up his cigar, his glass of Scotch. “Guilty as charged. Anybody here yet?”
    “I think we’ll be running late. I stuck my head out the window at five thirty, and nobody was stirring from the beach.”
    “It’s a hot day.”
    “Yes, it is. At least it gives us a few moments to relax before everyone arrives.”
    “Indeed. Can I get you a drink?” He moves to the cabinet.
    “Yes, please. Vodka martini. Dry, olive.”
    He moves competently about the bottles and shakers, mixing my martini. You might be wondering why Frank’s mother isn’t the lady of the house instead of me, organizing its dinner parties, decreeing the house flower, and you might suspect she’s passed away, though of course you’re too tactful to ask. Well, you’re wrong. In fact, the Hardcastles divorced when Frank was five or six, I can’t remember exactly, but it was a terrible scandal and crushed Mr. Hardcastle’s own political ambitions in a stroke. You can’t run for Senate if you’re divorced, after all, or at least you couldn’t back in the forties. The torch was quietly tossed across the generation to my husband. Oh, and the ex–Mrs. Hardcastle? I’ve never been told why they divorced, and her name isn’t spoken around the exquisite hyacinth air of the Big House. I’ve never even met her. She lives in New York. Frank visits her sometimes, in her exile, when he’s there on business.
    There is a distant ring of the doorbell. The first guests. I glance up at the antique