Southern Lights: A Novel

Savannah followed Tom into the house. The ceiling in the hall was immensely high, with a gigantic crystal chandelier that the original owners had brought from France. And there was the kind of sweeping staircase you saw only in movies. Savannah remembered that now too, and running down it with her mother when they were rushing somewhere. Her room had been close to her parents’ and down the hall from her brothers’. It had been a pretty pink room, full of sunshine, stuffed animals, and toys, and flowered chintzes. It was in sharp contrast to the room her mother had decorated for her in New York, which was simple, modern, and stark white. She still had that same room now, and had just left it. In its own way, it had represented her mother’s icy, barren state of mind when they moved into the apartment in New York. Her life was a blank page, and in some ways, Savannah thought their apartment still looked it. Her mother was warm, but their home wasn’t. And Thousand Oaks was filled with a sense of tradition, spectacular antiques, family heirlooms, and grandeur. Alexa had had a wonderful life there, for the seven years it had been her home. And Savannah had been happy too.

Her father led her into the living room, which was equally opulent and full of antiques. There was another beautiful chandelier, and the furniture was upholstered in delicate brocades. There were family portraits and statues, and vases full of flowers. The room had a delicate scent, and Savannah noticed that all the lampshades and the curtains were decorated with silk tassles. It reminded her of France. Everything was impeccable and in perfect order, but there was no one around. There was no sign of Luisa, or her and Tom’s daughter, and the house was deadly silent.

They walked through the enormous dining room, where every wall boasted the portrait of a Confederate general, their ancestors. Tom escorted Savannah into the kitchen, which was large, bright, and modern, and he told her to help herself there whenever she wanted. Meals were prepared by a cook and two assistants, but there was no sign of them either. The house was deserted.

Tom led her up the stairs then, to her room, which took Savannah’s breath away. It was a room for a princess or a queen, and her suitcases already sat on stands, ready for her to unpack them. But Luisa was nowhere in evidence.

Tom left Savannah then, and went to his own room down the hall, and found Luisa there, stretched out under the canopy of their enormous four-poster bed with a damp cloth on her head and her eyes closed. She heard him come into the room and said nothing.

“We’re here,” he said simply, and didn’t approach her. He slept in his study occasionally when she had “sick days,” which meant they weren’t speaking to each other. Her mother’s migraines were how they explained their sleeping arrangements to Daisy, so he didn’t “disturb” her. They tried to hide the fact that their marriage was rocky. She was too young to understand it, or so they thought. “Luisa?” he said more loudly, when she didn’t answer. He knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her jaw was tense, and she was fully dressed. She was wearing a pink Chanel suit, with a ruffled pink blouse, and her pink and black Chanel shoes looked hastily abandoned beside the bed. He suspected she had dived onto it, and grabbed the damp cloth when she heard them coming. She had no intention of welcoming Savannah. As far as Luisa was concerned, she didn’t belong here, and she was anything but welcome.

“I have a migraine,” she said in a strong voice that suggested otherwise, and in a heavy South Carolinian accent, like his own. His family had been in Charleston for hundreds of years now, and hers had originally arrived in New Orleans, but had come to Charleston before the Civil War as well. Their histories and roots and traditions were deeply woven into the South. It wouldn’t have occurred to either of them to live anywhere but here. Her seven-year sojourn in Dallas when she left him had been an agony for her. She thought Texans uncivilized and tacky, but liked the fact that most of them were rich, at least those she met with her husband. But all they had was money, she liked to say, not manners. Luisa was a snob about all things southern, and as far as she was concerned, Texas was not the South, and it was all new money. It had none of the history and dignity of Charleston.

“I’d like you to come and say hello to Savannah,” he said firmly, offering no sympathy for her headache, which he did not believe for an instant. “She’s in the Blue Room.”