You can’t tame a wild thing.
The thought bubbled up from some place deep inside Marcie, a ripple in the stagnant water that had become her life. She could feel Eleanor’s appraising eyes on the guests, looking down from the gilt-framed portrait that still hung on the staircase wall, overshadowing them all. Dead less than a year. What would she make of this turn of events?
A hubbub of quietly spoken comments from the tight circle of people among whom Marcie stood fluttered in the warm air. Elsewhere, the tension of repressed snickers and sideways glances.
‘Well my, will you look at that.’
‘The old dog.’
‘Has he lost weight? Sure doesn’t look like a man ready to retire.’
‘I didn’t know what I was expecting, but she is something … else.’
‘And so young.’
She was young, this newcomer amongst them, this second Mrs William Radford IV. What, twenty-two? Younger? Twenty-three at the most. Eleanor had been forty years older than that when she died.
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