November
Great news: I heard through the grapevine that Belle has left town. They say temporarily, but I hope permanently. I guess with Rhett no longer here, she thought there's no reason to stay. Then again, she has her brothel, so... who knows. All I know is: 1 less whore in town for the interim.
Recent epiphanies: 1. I haven't had a new hat since Rhett left.
Recent suicidal thoughts: 10. and all in 1 night.
Through afternoon teas, weekly social events, and just being around, I've gotten to know my tenants better. I'll admit- having people around is better than being alone, although I do prefer male company over female company. They talk less about dumb shit.
Two days ago, we held a "females socialization night for tenants and friends," aka ladies night, at the Butler residence. I figured it would be good for business, morale, and a great way to meet a future Mrs. Wilkes. In search of a lady, I had a wonderful night filled with female camaraderie, cards, and lively discussions of feelings/interests/family/life hopes-aka pipe dreams.
I realized I had died and gone to hell, and I drank vehemently during "bathroom breaks." Thank God for booze.
I have taken a liking to a female tenant, Emily Hazel, though. She is around my age, pale with black hair and hazel eyes, can handle a few drinks, speaks the least about feelings/pipe dreams (her best attribute), and has a British accent. She's on a prolonged visit from London, and I like hearing about London. Without her company, I would have surely killed myself before another horrific female gathering.
Big bonus: she knows no one from Atlanta society (despite being a distant relative of Dr. Meade's). Thank God. Mental note- how the Meades came to have a witty and attractive, foreign relative is lost upon me. I am somewhat cautious, however, to be sure I don't say anything too personal to her. Mrs. Meade could have recommended the Butler residence to keep an eye on us.
Admittedly, girls night has it's less shitty moments. I like talking about fashion, and that part of wasn't bad. We discussed impending dress orders and any acquisitions of new hats. It was then that I realized I haven't had a new hat since Rhett left, so I decided to remedy that.
Yesterday, I found myself peering through the window of a hat shop, and I remembered the old times. The first hat Rhett had bought for me. Green. from Paris. Most of my hats afterwards came either directly or indirectly from him. Then, like a true crazy person, I heard his voice again.
You're throwing happiness away.
BLECH. Then, in true crazy form, I said aloud, "shut up, bitch," and swung the hat shop door open and lined up 5 selections. I bought 3, but as I walked out of the store, I felt kind of shitty, and that was shitty. I think it's one of the few times in history I have spent money and felt bad. Two things that haven't changed through the war is my love of nice things and love of money, and yet, walking out with 3 hats yesterday was a drag.
After thinking about it all day, I realized that I like having hats bought for me, which led me to one conclusion to make these crap feelings go away: I need a hat-gifter.
I am very confused.
Bad surprises: 1 or 2.
Surprise 1:
A week ago, someone bought a puppy. For... the house? My first thought was: "Oh God, something else that shits and pees." There was a reason I sent my children away. At least, I have comfort in knowing it won't talk to me.
I know better than to think this puppy is from Rhett. I know it's not. That bitch hasn't shown his face or said a peep forever.
And it definitely wasn't from Ashley. He's too busy drowning in his rotting house to do much, let alone think of others. Plus, he isn't very "romantic" like that (to clarify- buying/giving/impregnating me with anything that shits and pees is not romantic... it's parasitic).
I'm sure it definitely isn't from Tara, either. Suellen would rather die than give me anything... unless this puppy is the carrier of a transmittable autoimmune disease... and Carreen has no money of her own besides that of which I give her.
It certainly is a mystery I'd like to solve, so I can knock their lights out. I should like to retaliate by releasing the pestilence in their house and letting it shit everywhere. Let them know how it feels.
Am now wondering if it was a mistake. It did have a ribbon on its neck... but it probably wandered into our residence from elsewhere. It wasn't in a basket or anything, either, from what I hear. I would throw it out or sell it, but unfortunately, tenants found it first. A few of them love it, and their children won't leave it alone. I can only imagine its disappearance would be bad for business (believe me, I've thought about it). Sigh.
I almost feel sorry for the puppy. The children in the house stalk the shit out of it.
Speaking of it... Note to self- check gender, then have clients pick/vote on a name. I think they would like that, and it would be a nice marketing/community involvement pitch. Note dollar signs floating in air.
Surprise 2:
Recently, I've been spending more time in the kitchen. Not because I like cooking or being the kitchen. I don't. Although, I don't hate it as much as I used to. Hazel says that's where you meet everyone. If you loiter in the lobby, people are going in and out, but in the kitchen, people hang around. If I'm to find a Mrs. Wilkes, surely, this is the way. Or, so I thought. To make it look like I have a reason to spend unreasonable hours in the kitchen, I act like I help the kitchen out. This usually consists of kneading and throwing around some dough while cursing in my head.
Today, I ran into a Dr. Daniel Woodworth again, a 30-something year old traveling through Atlanta to join a new medical practice in Savannah. He looks like a Tarleton. Since his arrival, he has been constantly in the kitchen, and it is a wonder he is not obese.
He is about Rhett's build. I joined him kneading dough, and I learned he was heading out for Savannah tomorrow. When I wished him well, he began inquiring about Mr. Butler, which was shocking and (obviously) unwelcome. I began sharpening my claws (mentally) and simply said, "gone." (duh), but then he further inquired if I was divorced or separated. The only thing that prevented me from reacting more negatively was business. He's a client who pays, and it only took a few negative words around town to give this business a bad rap. As I was contemplating the ramifications of verbally socking him in the mouth, he said something I wanted to hear: "I'm sure he'll be back."
I opted for "poker face mode," but all I did was let out a heave. I was tired inside... tired of waiting. It must have shown, because he patted me on the shoulder blade and stfu. I returned to kneading dough. Reaching for a glass of water, he knocked over the salt. I handed it to him. Instead of retrieving the salt shaker like a normal person, he wrapped one hand around the shaker, and placed another beneath the hand holding it. Wtf.
He stayed there for a moment, then leaned towards me. Oddly enough, I stiffened but did not punch or flinch. Then, I felt warm, and I closed my eyes and thought of Rhett. I thought of the night he swept me upstairs. He tasted like blood and sugar.
Then, I remembered, this wasn't Rhett. I opened my eyes and took a step back, reclaiming the salt, and then decided to pull a classic Scarlett move: pretend that didn't happen.
I fumbled around for a place to set the salt, then pretended I was looking for something else. When I heard a door open somewhere in the house, I excused myself, but before leaving, I shook Dr. W's hand and bid him safe travels. Then, I floated upstairs and freaked the fuck out. Why did I shake his hand? And who the fuck just goes around kissing random people? Ugh. Rhett Butler would, that's who. And apparently my tenants.
After 30 minutes of thought, I decided the event would best go permanently undiscussed. Dr. W leaves for Savannah tomorrow and censuring him may only cause him to talk, which is the last thing I need... but something else still bothers me: I enjoyed a kiss. from a stranger. I can't describe it in any other way than feeling like a Twelve Oaks picnic. This must be a new sign of madness.
What does it mean?
As the whole day wore on, I felt a hot streak of guilt streak emblazoned my chest. -Oh God, now I've finally done it! I have finally become a cuckold...
I may as well have worn a scarlet letter. Deep inside, I know I should ready my resume for Belle's.
Likelihood of going to hell: high.
Lesson learned: Hazel was wrong. Stay away from the kitchen.
To distract myself from my wtf-ing, I'll write a letter to Carreen.
God, I wish Mellie was here.
- scarlett o'hara dons scarlet letter
Author Note: I am attempting to gauge viewer interest in the series to assess further continuation. If you are enjoying it, reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time and the guest reviews thus far, and I hope you've had a few laughs.