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Elsa calculated the six tables times ten people. Sixty guests would be congratulating the Grimeses and the Porters, the joining of two powerful, rich families, as if they needed any more of what the other had.

"Aren't you supposed to have a hair appointment?" Her mama's voice echoed from the foyer landing when she spotted Elsa doing nothing. Idleness is a sin. "You're going to be late," she said after checking her thin wristwatch. Lists and schedules were her mama's true power. They were how she got things done.

Elsa leaned her elbows on the banister. "I have plenty of time." 

"I think not. At least not the way you drive. Get moving."

"Yes, ma'am," Elsa calmly replied. She had plenty of time. But come to think of it, there was somewhere she needed to be, wanted to be.

"Oh no you don't. You will not leave this house looking like a scallywag." 

Scallywag. The term bothered Elsa. It shouldn't have bothered her. She should have been used to it by now. Their family was considered small-town royalty; it came with the territory. Gossip, jokes, and backstabbing about every detail of Elsa's life made her an open book, from the way she dressed and wore her impossibly straight hair to how she spoke, though every possible resource had been used to fix her drawl—as if she'd come from the swamps instead of the best of what Mendol had to offer, she'd once overheard someone say.

"I'll be sitting in a salon chair with a cape draped over my entire body. No one is going to see me," Elsa said.

"Change. Now," her mama hissed. "I have way more to do than argue with you."

Elsa shook her head. "I'm fine as I am," she said calmly. "I'm sure no one will see me. I won't embarrass you." She snatched the keys from the drawer, then stopped before breaching the front door, already open. Defying her mama would have consequences. She always found a way to make Elsa pay for back talk and defiance.

"You go right to Lucy's and come back here straightaway," her mama called after her from the porch. "Make sure you leave the curlers in your hair for pictures tomorrow. We'll take them out ourselves. You hear me? And don't forget you have dance lessons at four thirty. But you should be back in plenty of time for that. Especially if Lucy leaves the curlers in place. You won't have to sit through her long-winded one-way conversation while she tries to style your hair."

"All right, Mama." Elsa had already made it to the brand-new Studebaker. The car was her mama's, a gift for twenty years of service. Or what some would call an anniversary present. Her mama had been pregnant when her parents got married in 1934, the year Elsa was born. Elsa had calculated the months and figured it out. Her holier-than-thou mama had obviously lost the key to her self-righteousness. Elsa never thought of her parents' union as anything but duty and presentation. If they showed even the slightest amount of affection, it was because someone was watching—guests, visitors, an audience who could report back all was well in paradise. A perfect family required admiration from others. Otherwise, what was the point?

At least they were still married. Elsa knew of three families in the last six months who'd decided to split and go their separate ways. Divorce was like a common cold, spreading in their little enclave. The men took their martinis and suits to the newly built downtown and the women kept the houses in the suburbs, clad in housecoats and sipping afternoon tequila sunrises.

When Elsa was younger, her parents often fought in hushed murmurs, rapid-fire whispers pushing past the flat walls. If they fought anymore, they were much more understated about it.

Elsa turned on the ignition and waited for the workmen to clear the way. She maneuvered slightly to bypass the fountain and she was free. Breaking out of the estate felt like winning—making it to the end of the Candyland board game she'd liked to play as a child. She felt victorious, flooring the gas pedal, sending up gravel dust, and peeking every now again in the side mirror down the long path. Relief filled her lungs. The imaginary weight eased. She turned on the radio to hear wailing about the end of the earth and dying in sin. She turned the dial until she reached her favorite snappy jazz station.

Too many times, she'd forgotten to turn back to her mama's brimstone gospel station. Occasionally Elsa listened longer than she should have, out of curiosity.

Death by way of shame seemed to be a requirement of life, from what Elsa could understand. If so, she'd go out in a blaze of glory. It would never be said that Elsa led a quiet life. She'd make sure of that.

Ingrid Grimes was told daughters were born to relive their mothers' old sins, a vindication of sorts. She stood at the door and watched the twirl of dust behind the wheels of the car. She'd heard the saying from her own mother a number of times throughout her childhood. Ingrid only remembered being a dutiful and agreeable daughter, one of the good ones. She hadn't done anything terrible enough to deserve a daughter like Elsa.