team many years ago, and was bald as a billiard ball and lean as a cue stick.
“Yes, Charles?” Mrs. Jenrette said, a voice dripping in magnolia, Charleston, and age, swirled with the essence of power that came naturally from birth and exercised without restraint for decades. She had once been as physically commanding as the view, an inch shy of six feet, willowy and graceful, with long auburn hair. She’d broken many a beau’s heart when she was a debutante; as a young married woman, she’d brought attention to herself and her husband, as he escorted her about on his arm. Men envied him, women hated her, and the truly insightful knew she was more than beauty: she was the brains behind the throne. Even in her later married years, as her hair turned silver and she disdained coloring it and cropped it back, she was still a marvel. But now, in her early nineties, the realities of arthritis and age had worn her down, literally shrinking her a few inches and making any excursion out of chair or bed a painful endeavor. Only the voice and the surroundings reminded one of who she was.
“The invitation list for the Ball has been finalized,” Rigney said.
He didn’t have to specify what ball, as there was only one that mattered in Charleston: the St. Cecilia Society Gala, held once a year. Which evening it was held was a closely guarded secret and at the whim of Mrs. Jenrette, who’d reigned as president of the Society for eighteen years. It was never reported on in the local newspaper and spoken only of in whispers. No one got in unless invited and no one was invited unless they were a member of Society of St. Cecilia, a dwindling, but still very powerful social circle, the most powerful one in Charleston. Mrs. Jenrette had ‘come out’ at that ball three quarters of a century ago.
Mrs. Jenrette sighed. This used to be one of her favorite tasks, an annual display of power. Even she admitted, only to herself, that she dipped into the well of petty once in a while, scratching a line through this name or that, for some slight, real or imagined. There was no point being powerful without some of the perks. But now, implicit in it, was a deep pain. And the realization the odds were rather good it would be her last one.
“There are no other men in my line,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “It dies with me.”
“It need not,” Rigney said, daring an argument that she always shot down. But it was late, and the large glass carafe on the table next to his patron was two-thirds empty, indicating she’d imbibed more than usual. Perhaps, for once, reason might prevail in this matter. “No woman was President before you. Perhaps the rules can be changed. You have a daughter. And she has a daughter.”
“But no living son or grandson; no male heir to carry on the name.” Mrs. Jenrette scoffed: “The men did not elect me. It passed to me when my husband and son moved on from this mortal coil in the crash, since no one was willing to step up during a difficult time. When I move on, no woman will set foot in the inner council. And they will never allow me to change the rule: only direct male descendants of founding members of the Order of St. Cecilia may become members.”
“It is a dwindling pool, ma’am,” Rigney pointed out. “Half of the houses south of Broad are now owned by strangers.”
“Turncoats,” Mrs. Jenrette stirred angrily. “Youngsters selling out their family homes for money.”
“They need the money,” Rigney gently pointed out. “Their parents did not provide as well for them as they should have. As you have so generously provided for your own family.”
“Tread carefully,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Those parents were, and those still alive are my friends.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rigney said.
Both were silent, the only sound the waves breaking on the rocks lining the Battery. It was late and the park south of the house was empty of tourists. There were those wondered if that was why Mrs. Jenrette always