Monet Talks Read Free

matter. They check on that. Divorced men, yes, but not divorced women. At any rate, we’ll hit one of the costume shops and get you a fake mustache and a little boy’s tux—no offense, dear.”
    I must admit that for a millisecond I was tempted to participate in Mama’s shenanigan. The St. Ophelia Ball is the event of the season. That’s all folks talk about for two months prior and two months post. The talk is, of course, all speculation. No one really knows what happens at that ball except for the attendees, and their thin patrician lips are sealed. But it was absurd to think we could pull it off, and even if we did, would we dare tell anyone? I, for one,would bust a gut trying to keep all that juicy gossip to myself.
    â€œMama, my answer is no.”
    â€œThen I’ll ask C.J. She’ll do anything.”
    Boy, wasn’t that the truth. If my assistant accompanied my mother to the ball, Charleston society would never recover. And since Charleston is undisputedly the manners capital of the country, its decline would signal the end of Western civilization. Therefore, I had no choice but to accompany Mama and save the world as we know it.
    â€œOkay, Mama, I’ll be your date. But you’ve got to promise me you won’t do anything that Mrs. Crustopper wouldn’t do.”
    â€œBut she’s confined to a wheelchair, and I want to dance.”
    â€œMama!”
    â€œAll right, dear. I promise.”
    Just for the record, I didn’t expect her to keep her word; Mama’s promises are meant to be broken. But at least I’d be along to handle damage control. The South might teeter as a result of our charade, but it wouldn’t topple.
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    To be absolutely honest, by the time I got home that evening I was brimming with anticipation. The St. Ophelia Ball is held in the Daughters of Fine Lineage building. If you reside in Charleston and don’t know where that building is, chances are your lineage does notmeet their standards. The Daughters of Fine Lineage are every bit as secret as the St. Ophelia Society, and it was only by accident that I stumbled onto this building on lower Meeting Street. I mean that literally. I’d gotten a pebble in my pump and was hopping about on one foot, and lost my balance. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on some steps, and when I looked up I saw a row of tiny brass letters above a door. THIS IS IT , they spelled. Then several weeks later I was eavesdropping on some customers, Linen Ladies all, and I heard the word IT bandied about. I put two and two together and got three hundred—three hundred years of blood so blue, members of this exclusive group are forbidden to donate their periwinkle plasma, lest it cause the nurses to panic.
    At any rate, both Mama and I had to work very hard to keep from spilling the beans over dinner. Just because Greg is no longer employed as a detective doesn’t mean he’s stopped detecting.
    â€œI smell a rat,” he said as he passed the roast.
    â€œI don’t smell anything,” Mama said, and wiggled her nose like Samantha on Bewitched . The woman prides herself on her olfactory powers.
    Greg turned to me. “Abby, what kind of nefarious plot are you two hatching?”
    â€œNothing, darling. Would you like the gravy?”
    â€œWhat I’d like is to know how much trouble I have to prepare for. Will I need to bail you out?”
    â€œGracious no,” Mama said. “This isn’t one of C.J.’s schemes.”
    â€œMama!”
    â€œAha,” Greg said, trying to mask a smile, “so you are up to something.”
    â€œBut it isn’t illegal, darling. At least I don’t think it is.”
    â€œIt’s definitely not,” Mama said. “Unless we resist when they try to throw us out.”
    Greg pressed his hands to his ears. “Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to know the rest. Just remember that if I’m out