The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

a shame we don’t realize how beautiful those simple, sweet moments of childhood are until we’ve lost them. But if as children we realized our lives wouldn’t always be so sweet and simple, then the simplicity of childhood would be lost altogether. My, how I crave that simplicity, that innocence. But before there was Beaux, there was Carrington and Anne Marshall. And under their care, the azaleas and roses are about the only thing that’s flourished.

I adjust my white denim and pick the lint off my black tank top as I step out of the car. White jeans are work to wear, but I learned long ago anything less was not acceptable for Marshall House, especially on the eve of Eva’s wedding. God only knows who she and my mother invited, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I embarrass my mother in front of her friends. Hints why she picked out and purchased all my formal attire for this weekend. For once, my less-than-ladylike style has come in handy.

I grab my duffel bag from the backseat and sling it over my shoulder. Yet another point of contention for my mother.

Ladies don’t use duffle bags, Emma. We use satchels or suitcases and nothing else.

“Jesus,” I mumble to myself. All I have to do is hold it together for a day and a half. I made a promise and I’m going to keep it. Though the closer I get to the house, the more my stomach twists.

How am I supposed to see my dad? How am I supposed to hug him, and act like everything is fine, normal? What is normal?

I feel like I could vomit, but in this heat, I’m scared of what insects it would attract.

I reach the grand steps that lead to the second-floor entrance. The white paint is chipped, and they creak beneath my feet as I climb them. Just up ahead is the front porch, which wraps around the entire exterior of the home. As I reach the top of the steps, I stop to take it all in—the grass, the trees, the flowers, the pond that glitters as it absorbs the setting sun. This is the setting of my childhood, and it is beautiful. Despite this, I count the hours until I’m able to leave again.

“Emma! You’re here!” Eva squeals.

My sister, dressed in a tea-length ivory dress, runs out of the house to embrace me. I let my duffle bag fall to the ground and return her hug.

“Happy wedding weekend,” I say. “You look beautiful.” And she does. The bodice of her dress is all ivory lace and has an off-the-shoulder neckline. The skirt is plain with a scalloped hem but is packed with enough tulle to fill out her slender frame in all the right ways.

“Thank you,” Eva says. She looks behind me as if she’s expecting someone else and seems confused when she finds I’ve come alone. “No Julian?” She asks.

“No,” I say, forcing a pained smile.

“Aw, Emma.”

“No, don’t . . . don’t worry about me,” I say, waving her off. “I’m fine and this is your weekend. Now show me inside before I have to re-curl my hair. This humidity is a killer.”

“Emma!” my mom says, standing from her seat in the sitting room.

“Mom,” I say.

I drop my duffle bag by the door and move to give her a hug. She practically winces at the sight of it. Some things never change, including the inside of Marshall House.

The floors are still a deep mahogany wood. The walls are shades of gray and cream. The furniture, wood-trimmed floral upholstery, must be within reach of its hundredth birthday. Everything looks the same. Everything smells the same—like potpourri and the ancient air of the inside of a museum, or a casket.

My mom pulls me in for a tighter hug than normal, which takes me by surprise. She’s dressed in a cream and pink floral print dress with cap sleeves that nearly blends in with the furniture.

“You look nice,” I tell her.

“Thank you, dear,” she says. “And your dress is hanging up in your room,” she tells me.

“Gotcha,” I say, giving her an awkward thumbs up.

I turn from my mom and find my dad across the room, leaned up against the bar cart. His brown hair is slicked back, and his stubble is freshly shaven. He’s dressed in a navy-blue day suit with black loafers and holds a crystal glass filled with the rich, warm liquid of expensive scotch.

“Emma, dear, come give your daddy a hug,” he says, extending his arm out to me. So as not to tip him off, I oblige his request, moving past the settee and glass coffee table with care. “The drive was okay?” he asks.

“Um, yeah. Just long,” I say.

He pulls me in and kisses me on the cheek. Thankfully, no one is standing behind him to see me cringe. He smells like the perfect mixture of cologne, alcohol, and cigar smoke. I imagine he’ll indulge a bit more than usual this evening in celebration of Eva and Bill’s nuptials. That’ll be when I make my move. Speaking of Bill . . .

“And the groom-to-be,” I say, pulling away from my dad.

Bill is tall, lanky, and classically handsome. He has blonde hair and hazel eyes, wears a crisp gray suit with a white button-down, no tie, and looks rather perfect next to my perky and polite sister. Which, I’m sure, is about all anyone is concerned with. Oh, and he’s an investment banker, which is a plus, according to my mother.

“Hi, Bill,” I say, standing on my tiptoes to embrace him.

“Hi, Emma,” he says, kneeling to give me a respectful hug.

“So, what’s next?” I ask, successfully completing all my pleasantries.

“What’s next? You act as if this weekend is a piece of furniture from Ikea. What’s next?” My father says, finishing off his glass of his scotch.

My cheeks flush and my skin feels hot, and not because of the hundred-degree, mosquito infested sauna that waits for us outside

“Now, now, Carrington,” my mom says, giving