All Her Little Secrets, page 7
The flight attendant, a lean guy with a goatee and spiky hair, tried to make small talk. I wasn’t really in the mood for chitchat and he finally picked up the hint. All I wanted to do was get to Savannah, survive the irritation of yuck-yucking it up with a bunch of people I didn’t know, get back on this plane, and head home.
Forty-five minutes later, I landed in Savannah where a driver and a private car at the airport whisked me off to the Altamonte Club, just outside Savannah on Tybee Island. I did my research and I didn’t like what I found. The Altamonte was established as a men’s social club at the turn of the last century. Women were allowed inside only if they were accompanied by their husbands. No Jews. No Blacks. No Catholics. Essentially, no “Others.” The club deity finally decided to join the twentieth century in 1996 when they admitted their first Black member. From what I could tell, he was still the only member of color. Going to a party inside a place like this made me question the people I now called my colleagues.
Another forty-five minutes later, we reached the grounds of the Altamonte. Nate’s “lil’ club,” as he called it, was sprawling. Two-hundred-year-old southern live oak trees draped in Spanish moss lined the winding driveway to the club. Their gnarled and twisted branches had hidden my runaway slave ancestors and cast shadows to cool the sunburnt heads of Confederate soldiers alike. A tortured past that shamefully connected all of us in the South.
The car eased past horse stables and tennis courts before finally cruising to a stop in front of a huge water fountain and sago palm trees flanking a massive white stucco building with terra-cotta roof tiles. I took a few deep breaths, willing myself not to act like a goofy-eyed tourist on her first trip off the farm.
It seemed cruel—almost blasphemous—to attend a cocktail party the day after Michael’s funeral. Michael was murdered. His body hadn’t been in the ground a full twenty-four hours yet. His fellow executives couldn’t even bother to attend his funeral but were now laughing and gallivanting about like he never existed. What happened to all that Houghton family BS?
My new colleagues joined Detective Bradford on that list of people I didn’t trust.
I touched up my lipstick, plumped my hair—a fresh silk press—and slid out of the town car. I brushed the front of my black crepe halter dress one last time. Shoulders back. Head up. Showtime.
I entered through a large marbled foyer that opened onto a huge great room swathed in a wall of windows, a picture-perfect frame for the sparkling blue water of the Atlantic Ocean. Soft music drifted from a small jazz trio stationed in a corner of the room. The club brimmed with people, including board members, executives, and even a couple US senators. I spotted a Fox News commentator, too, one of the more ardent supporters of making America great again for some folks. Men stood about pompous and barrel-chested, bragging about their golf games. Their reed-thin wives huddled together nearby in strapless sundresses and Tory Burch sandals, their faces full of Botox and unmet desires.
I quickly scanned the room, as I always do at events like this, looking for guest faces like mine, counting the number of women, brown folks, anyone else who might be an “Other” like me. I was it. As usual. Nate’s party was a glimpse inside a lavish cross section of the world that reminded me of Coventry Academy: wealth that went beyond the imagination; people who eyed me like a party novelty; and just like Coventry, I was “the one.” The good one. The safe one.
Everyone mingled about, sipping Moët & Chandon, chatting and laughing as the waitstaff, all Black, served gravlax and caviar blinis from silver trays. Nate was already working the room like the silver-haired politician he could have been, patting people on the back and bending over in laughter, even teasing one of the board members about his tennis swing.
“There she is!” A booming voice echoed through the foyer behind me. I spun around and Hardy was already in motion, throwing both arms around me, swallowing me in a big bear hug.
“Oh, hey, Hardy,” I said, struggling against his flabby frame. He was sweating and, for a brief moment, I was slightly repulsed by his grip.
“A party the day after Michael’s funeral?” I said. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon for something like this when one of the company’s executives was murdered?”
“Hell, yeah, but do you think I’m going to tell the CEO when and where he can throw a party? I’m just here to make sure nobody touches a precious hair on the well-heeled heads of all these inebriated folks.” We both laughed.
“Point taken.”
“Hey, you want something to drink? Let me get you a glass of wine or something.”
“No, I’m fine.”
Hardy plucked a few bruschetta from a passing tray and popped at least two of them in his mouth at the same time. “So you heard about Michael?”
“Yeah. Have you talked to the police? Do they have any leads?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. That detective told me the only thing they have to go on is that it had to be somebody with access to the building. Brilliant, huh? But I think you were right about Mikey not liking guns. I think that’s what tipped the police off that they had a homicide and not a suicide.”
“That’s a lot of trouble for someone to go through. They wanted Michael dead without anyone asking questions.” I thought about Michael’s duffel bag at my house. Why would he have a flyer for a gun shop if he didn’t like guns and he didn’t kill himself?
“Unfortunately, Nate doesn’t want security cameras in the executive suite, so we don’t have any footage from Twenty.”
“Why doesn’t he want cameras on the twentieth floor?”
Hardy shook his head. “Something about everybody being family you can trust. Not a great idea for security protocol, if you ask me—the guy in charge of security. Like I said before, he’s the CEO. The big guy speaks, I just do as I’m told.”
Hardy polished off the last remnants of his bruschetta and swallowed. “One of my guys said Mikey was working pretty hard lately. Said he came into the office last Saturday and Sunday to work.”
“He did?” I tried to think back to last weekend. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d spent the night at my place Friday night, but he didn’t mention going into the office the next day. It was New Year’s weekend. I just assumed he was going home to be with his family.
Hardy continued, “I know he and Jonathan had their heads together over the past couple weeks. I tried to ask Jonathan about it but . . .” An older Black man passed by with a tray of chicken satay. I smiled and motioned no thanks to the server. Hardy took three off the tray.
“But what?”
“Let’s just say Jonathan was less than helpful.” Hardy popped a skewer into his mouth.
“What does that mean?”
“Said he and Mikey were working on some big deal, but he couldn’t go into it with me. That it was confidential work stuff.” Hardy downed another skewer. “But can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I looked around the room and scanned the door, a habit mostly. The same way I never liked to sit with my back to the door.
“What’s going to happen with the protesters and the EEOC stuff?”
“They’re lawyered up so most likely a lawsuit unless we can come to an agreement and settle. Why?”
“I heard a few of the folks on Twenty talking about it. Not everybody sees it the same way you do.”
“What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, Jonathan Everett sauntered up to us as if he were trailing a voice-over announcing his arrival. Jonathan was the “yin” to Hardy’s “yang.” As Houghton’s chief financial officer, he always commanded attention with his “cash is king” vibe, salt-and-pepper stubble, and horn-rimmed glasses. He had an annoying habit of always looking down at his Rolex, in the hopes that other people would too. He constantly threw around words like deep dive and the optics of a situation to make people think he was smart. A lot of women in the company found him attractive. I didn’t see it.
“Congratulations, Ellice,” Jonathan said.
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me. I gotta go make a phone call. Ellice, let me know if you need anything else,” Hardy said with an annoyed expression before he rolled his eyes at Jonathan and hustled off. Jonathan neither acknowledged Hardy’s presence nor batted an eye at his departure. Odd.
“So . . . you getting all settled in?” Jonathan asked.
“I am.” I slid my hands inside the pockets of my dress. “I’m looking forward to working on Twenty.”
“We’re looking forward to it too. Now, I hope you’re not planning to run a department of no like your predecessor. We’re expecting big things out of you.”
A department of no? What the hell? Maybe the rumors were true about this guy being a jerk. Before I could respond, Nate walked up from behind me and shoved a champagne flute in my hand, despite the fact that I don’t drink.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt you two. Ellice, come with me. I want you to meet some folks.” Judging from Nate’s unusually loose manner and the pungent smell of bourbon on his breath, he had started partying long before I arrived. He swiftly ushered me through the room with promises to the people we passed that we’d be back later for formal introductions.
“I want you to meet these two board members in particular. They can be a little stodgy, and I want them to think as highly of you as I do.”
We stepped out onto the deck where a smattering of guests mingled about. The southern Georgia temperature was warmer, a refreshing change from the frigid Atlanta winter weather. The deck spanned the entire length of the building and seemed to beckon the soft tumble of waves and sea foam dancing against the beach below. The ocean air gave me a rush and, under ordinary circumstances, I might have relaxed a bit to enjoy the atmosphere. But this was a work event and, despite the enticing surroundings, work was work.
Nate escorted me over to a couple of graying men huddled together in quiet conversation.
“Gentlemen,” Nate said. “I’d like to introduce you to our new chief legal officer, Ellice Littlejohn.”
Both men immediately rose to their feet. Old school. I liked that.
“Ellice, I’d like you to meet Newt Harris and Denmark . . . Denmark . . .”
“Ealy. Denmark Ealy.” The man shook his head and smiled at Nate. “Pace yourself on the Jack Daniels, huh?”
All three men laughed. “Sorry about that, Denny,” Nate said. “These two fellas are board members on the Finance Committee.” I smiled and offered my firmest grip.
Nate patted one of the men on the back and politely excused himself. The older of the two men nodded and gazed at me with a frozen, uncomfortable smile. His receding hairline revealed a haphazard pattern of age spots and a kidney-shaped mole he probably needed to keep an eye on. The other man looked so weirded out, I thought he would piss his pants or have a heart attack right in front of me. We stood there facing one another, all three of us quiet. I noticed their identical lapel pins, a red heart sitting across two intersecting gold flags.
I tried to knock off the awkwardness of the moment with a stab at small talk. “That’s an unusual pin you’re wearing. What does it mean?”
The older man gave a stiff smile that barely flexed a muscle in his face and gently patted the pin. “Oh, just a little club we belong to. So, Ellice Littlejohn . . . now what kind of name is that?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Littlejohn? I mean it’s not very common. What kind of name is that? Where d’ya come from with a name like that?”
Was this guy serious? I glanced around the deck, stunned and offended at the same time. Half the Black people I know can’t trace their lineage past their great-grandparents. Who are my people? My people are his ancestors’ chattel. “Well, I haven’t done my Ancestry.com research, but I suspect my name comes about much like yours. From our shared ancestors, huh? I would love to hear about where your ancestors immigrated from, but maybe we can do that another time. Would you excuse me for a moment?”
He blinked, stunned to silence. I sat my champagne flute on a nearby table and headed back inside.
His question was another example of the “polite racism” of the New South, much like the way Black people in Atlanta coexisted around Confederate soldier statues and venues containing the words plantation and Dixie. The expectation was that such things were harmless symbols of white heritage. They weren’t. They were relics of slavery and a secessionist society that stirred hurtful messages of racism. And now, a board member wanted to know where my family’s slave owners were from. I wanted to hustle to the nearest exit and a plane back home. I’d pay for the damned ticket myself and they could keep their corporate jet.
I stepped back inside the party, where Nate was holding court with Willow and a couple other board members. He caught my eye, tinkled his glass with his Auburn University class ring, and cleared his throat.
“Everyone, let me have your attention,” Nate said. I stopped in my tracks.
A hush fell over the room as people lowered their voices. “Some of you have already met Ellice Littlejohn, our new general counsel. For those of you who haven’t, I hope you’ll take the opportunity to introduce yourselves. Ellice is a brilliant lawyer who will help us navigate Houghton into new heights of success. I am proud she has accepted the offer to lead us in all matters legal. Here’s to Ellice.”
“To Ellice!” everyone said in unison.
People cheered and clinked their glasses in a pretentious little chime, as if I had done something extraordinary. I could feel my face warm. I wasn’t sure whether it was the embarrassment or a hot flash.
* * *
For the rest of the party, I tried to make the best of things. But there was a disturbing undercurrent that ran through the crowd, as if people were anxious, nervous even. A few people tried to engage with me. But most of them stood off, staring at me or ignoring me altogether. I was a big girl. I could tell they didn’t want me here. The feeling was mutual.
Office gatherings like this, the need to be “on,” can be so exhausting. Smiling and pretending to enjoy the stilted conversations and awaiting the threat that someone might tell a wildly inappropriate joke with everyone looking at me for reassurance that it was okay to laugh. Once at a legal conference, I stood alongside Michael and a group of male lawyers. One of the men, red-faced and potbellied, had stood in the circle complaining about one of the female presenters during an earlier panel presentation and said, “I couldn’t tell whether she was just passionate about class action lawsuits or she was on her period.” They are all roared in laughter. I left the group. Michael followed behind me, trying to explain that’s just the way guys talk. That boys-will-be-boys bullshit. It was like I was invisible to them.
I scanned the room again. The so-called New South wasn’t very different from the “Old South”—me and the waitstaff, the only people of color. Surely, this couldn’t be normal in the twenty-first century. I caught the eye of one of the waiters, a Black woman, about my age, dressed in black slacks and shirt, white apron, and a pair of dark Skechers speckled with the stains of a dozen parties before this one. Her eyes were vacant and cold, as she served patê and lamb pops on a silver tray. There but for the grace of God go I. Deep down, I knew I could be the one in the white apron passing trays if I had been born a few years earlier or if I had never escaped Chillicothe. She extended the tray in my direction. I gave a warm smile and nodded at her. A habit mostly. My small way of saying, I might mingle with them, but I’m still down with my tribe. She returned my warm greeting with the same stone face she gave every other guest at the party. Obviously, she wasn’t buying my I’m-part-of-the-tribe crap. Or maybe she’d worked too many of these kinds of parties, witness to the excesses and trivialities of its guests—both Black and white—and she was just too tired to care about making me feel better about me.
I chalked this party up to another example of my being “too Black” for one group of people here and “not Black enough” for the other. I left the party in search of the bathroom to take a respite. I crossed the foyer and walked down the hall where I heard the voices of men arguing. The men were holed up in a room across the hall from the bathroom. I stood outside the door for a moment.
“I gave him one fucking job to do and he screwed that up!”
Jonathan?
The other voice, southern, twangy: “Can we talk about Libertad for a minute? I don’t think Libertad should be a part of this. It’s too risky. Everything could be exposed.”
Jonathan responded, “I tried to tell Nate this was all a bad idea. I’ll have to fix it myself. And take off that fucking pin!”
Their voices lowered. I tiptoed inside the bathroom and closed the door to a crack. And I waited. A moment later, Jonathan stormed from the room with Max Lumpkin, the executive vice president of Operations, in tow behind him.
* * *
I stood in front of the Altamonte Club waiting for the car service to shuttle me back to the airport. All I wanted was a shower and my own bed. The next time Nate invited me to one of these creepy, racially nondiverse parties at his old boys’ club, I would have an ironclad excuse for not attending at the ready.
A couple minutes later Maxwell Lumpkin strolled up beside me. Max was in his midsixties, a short, mousy sort of man with a passable comb-over and the extraordinary ability to blend into the wall of any room he entered. I hadn’t even realized he was at the party until I saw him following Jonathan. He wore a suit jacket and sported the same lapel pin as the board members. Not surprising since Max looked like he could easily belong to the same lily-white country club as those dusty old board members.
