1920s: Lacy and Tom
Author’s Note: This is an excerpt of a much greater (incomplete) work.
The rolling hills carried wind from the countryside to the city, and by dusk, the industrial smog that had taken hold of Manhattan in the day was ushered away by the labours of the strong gusts. The asphalt tiles of rooftops and cement roads, at last found relief from the beatings of the sweltering afternoon heat, as the sun set and the horizons coloured to a navy hue. A jet black Auburn drove up the incline of Main Street. Cars had been double-parked alongside the road for the past mile, and continued onwards, but in an increasingly dense fashion, as the Auburn approached midtown.
“Should I have bought that dress at the boutique?” said Lacy, the woman sitting in the passenger seat of the Auburn.
“What?” said Tom, who was at the wheel and seemed slightly agitated having been disrupted from his internal discourse.
“You don’t remember the dress?” she continued, “The one you said matched my eyes? From Genevieve’s boutique?” Lacy felt the material of her white gown, and traced, with reproach in her eyes, the floral patterns that trailed around her waist. “To think I have to wear this dreadful thing all night.”
“We saved a fortune not acting on those woman impulses of yours. Nobody is going to notice you, so stop worrying.” He began waving his hand, a habit Lacy loathed. “Look. No more talking. Not until we get there. End of story.”
Lacy turned to the window, declaring her husband a brute under her breath.
At a bend in the road, the Auburn’s beams hit the eyes of two men in suits. Stark shadows of the men were cast against a creamy-white car. Embers of their cigars traced the trailing motion of the men raising their arms at the onset of the blinding headlights. Tom chuckled at causing the discomfort to the men. Lacy had her head turned to the window as they drove past the men; she made eyes with both of them while wetting her lips.
“Have you seen those men before?” said Tom, with an imperceptible loss of authority in his tone.
Lacy relaxed into the back of her seat and kept a cool look out the window, “What men?”
“Don’t play innocent. I can see everything. I saw the way you looked at those men.”
Lacy turned to Tom: “Looked at who?” She said who with pursed lips and a look of contempt in her eyes.
Tom diverted his accusing gaze back to the road sheepishly. “Never mind.” He cleared his throat and shifted his driving cap. “Look, we’re here.” he said, with a sigh of relief for the change in subject.
The gated estate had tall stone, ivy-covered walls that stretched far into the dark of night. The double-door had the initials K. M.. Past the iron gate, a mansion with inviting lights stood on the top of the hill, bellowing murmurs of the buzzing crowd across the field.