I pull my car into the Brookhaven Heritage Club parking lot, each perfectly laid cobblestone seeming to judge my arrival. The grand Georgian-style building looms ahead with its gleaming white columns and meticulously manicured gardens, a monument to old Charleston money and older Charleston traditions. My stomach tightens as I smooth down my light gray jeans.
They’re designer, but still jeans. The navy blazer I’ve paired with them is tailored and classic, my loafers Italian leather. I’ve dressed carefully, knowing what awaits me on that sunny terrace.
Still, a voice whispers that it won’t be enough. It never is. I spot them before they see me: my father, Victor, ramrod straight in his linen suit; my mother, Lydia, pearls gleaming at her throat; my sister, Celeste, looking like she stepped from a country club catalog.
Their faces are arranged in pleasant expressions for anyone watching, but I recognize the familiar tension in their postures. A doorman nods respectfully as I enter. “Good morning, Miss Diaz.”
The click of my loafers against marble echoes through the grand foyer.
Crystal chandeliers cast prism-like patterns across oak-paneled walls. My parents requested this meeting. Sunday brunch at Brookhaven, where they’ve been members for thirty years.
To catch up. Their words, not mine. Father sees me first.
His slight frown deepens, eyes narrowing as they travel from my face to my shoes. Mother’s lips purse like she’s tasted something sour. Celeste merely smirks, already savoring what’s coming.
“Opal,” Father says as I reach their table. His voice carries across the terrace. “Did you forget this is a respectable establishment?”
I freeze mid-step.
Around us, conversations pause. Silverware stills against fine china. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, keeping my voice level.
Mother sighs dramatically. “Really, Opal? Look at yourself.
Jeans? Here? I told you we were meeting at Brookhaven.”
“They’re Armani, Mother.”
“They’re denim,” she snaps.
“Everyone else managed to dress appropriately.”
Celeste chimes in. “You look like staff, for heaven’s sake. Did you come straight from cleaning your apartment?”
Heads turn.
Whispers start. A woman two tables over touches her companion’s wrist, nodding in our direction. My cheeks burn.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
