Plantation (Continued)
I looked among the crowd for Reverend Charles Moore and spotted him talking to Richard. At least she'd had the good judgement not to sleep with the minister, even though he probably would have gladly hopped in the sack with her. Endowment campaingns did strange things to people. Well, I thought, maybe she's left him something in her will. God knows, he lobbied hard enough for a bequest.
So many people came for Mother, to offer their love and sympathy. It was remarkable. But even though they were all courtesy and protocol on the outside, I knew there was a strong undercurrent afoot. The unspoken gossip was nearly tangible - the wanting to know who would inherit the plantation? What of her renowned fortunes? How much was there? Would Frances Mae be the new queen of Tall Pines? Would I, the errant daughter who married that odious Brit, a Jewish man, and a shrink, come to my senses and renounce him? It was a situation which I was sure had driven the Lowcountry gentry nearly mad from not knowing.
Situations were what my family called "times of indecisiveness and trouble" which led to sullied reputations. Situations were best dealt with quickly and as quietly as possible. Between Mother's legendary soirees and love affairs, Frances Mae's greed, and my reappearance on the scene, we had enough jaws working overtime to keep the ears of Charleston, Colleton and Dorchester Counties burning indefinitely.
All the while I shook hands and thanked people for coming, I fantasized that even there, in the funeral home, money was changing hands. Bets were being placed. Until the rumors became facts, gallons of mint juleps would be consumed all over the Lowcountry. The practiced and polished sweet tongues of prediction would wag! The social wizards would convene and foretell our future from imagined signs, fabricated reports, and supposed hints from someone inside the bosom of the Wimbley family.
Well, it wouldn't be me. I had come home to see about Mother and I had every intention of executing a dignified farewell for her. So did Trip. In Mother's memory, he and Frances Mae were hosting a fabulous reception - with Millie's oversight - to take place when we left the funeral home. They had truly pushed all the buttons they could find to make it something people would remember. And they would.
"Let us pray," Reverend Moore said.
People became quiet and stood by respectfully. Trip and I had discussed this prayer service with the minister beforehand. All of us were grateful that Reverend Moore had agreed to stick to the standards and not to make a fuss about Mother's character. Her obituary in the Post & Courier had caused us some very unnecessary embarrassment. I suppose that there are some people who read them for entertainment - certainly the journalist who wrote Mother's needed to be reassigned to the Used Automobile pages.
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