House of Royals(3)

“I don’t think this room requires too much explanation,” Rath says with a small smile.

I imagine the gowns that must have twirled here once upon a time, the kisses that must have been shared, the laughter and the music that must have filled this space.

And it all feels alien to me.

“You know, I think most girls dream of what it would be like to be a princess, to never have to worry about money again. To learn they have this grand life that was always awaiting them,” I say as I take it all in, turning slowly as I do. “But the reality of it is…well. I don’t have words for it. I don’t think it’s going to feel real for a very long time.”

Rath gives me a look. Sadness. Respect. Weight. And I think there’s meaning behind it all, but I don’t quite understand it. “Come,” he says finally, turning and exiting the ballroom.

We don’t go far. Off from the ballroom, he shows me a small, informal dining room, and just behind it is a grand, master chef kitchen. It takes my breath away.

“Do you like to cook?” Rath asks as I marvel over it.

“I bake,” I say, tracing my fingers over the beautiful stainless steel ovens. “I don’t cook much else, but I’ve worked at a bakery for the past four years.”

“Well, we do have the house cook,” Rath explains further.

“Katina,” I say, forcing myself to commit the names of the staff to memory.

Rath crosses his hands behind his back and looks regal doing it. “Of course, you don’t have to keep her, but she is the best in Mississippi.”

“I don’t feel right firing anyone,” I say with a small smile and a chuckle. “If they like their job, they can keep it. It’s not my money that’s paying their salaries.”

“But it is your money,” Rath says with a half-smile and a raise of one of his eyebrows.

“I suppose so,” I say uncomfortably, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Would you like to see your vehicles?” he offers when he sees how uncomfortable I am.

He opens a door that lets into a massive garage.

Sitting inside are four shining, beautiful vehicles. A lightning quick-looking black Ferrari, a black and silver motorcycle, a rugged-looking red Jeep, and a classic baby-blue Porsche.

“I can’t drive any of those,” I say with a strangled sounding laugh. “They all look like they’ll break the second I breathe on them.” Last week I was driving a twenty-year-old beater that smelled like exhaust all the time. On the inside.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Rath says with a smile.

I let out a heavy breath as he shuts the door, and I follow him through the ballroom again out onto the veranda out the back.

“The grounds crew work fulltime. The three of them have been employed here for over five years.”

It looks like a fairytale out here. Hedges trimmed to look like a maze span out from the house to the river. Walkways break off to unknown places. Flowers spill out in colorful explosions. Giant trees dot the property, beautiful moss hanging from their limbs. And a huge pool breaks off from the side of the ballroom, stretching along the bedrooms on the main level.

But straight ahead, just before the river, is a short fence, surrounding two above ground tombs.

I walk down the stone path that leads to it. It takes me a little while to get there, because the lawn is massive. But I stop just outside the tiny graveyard.

Henry Conrath. Elijah Conrath.

There are no dates. But while my father’s tomb is obviously brand new, Elijah’s looks like it could be centuries old.

I learned about these once. In places where the water rises too high and there’s a risk of bodies and coffins floating to the surface, these tombs or mausoleums are used. Often they’re recycled for centuries through the same families. At the back of the tomb is a chamber. Here in the south where it’s hot and humid, it only takes about a year or two to decompose a body. When the next family member dies, they re-open the tomb, shove the bones of grandpa into that chamber at the back, and slide in Aunt Jane.

Dozens of people can be endlessly cycled through one tomb.

But I have the feeling that only Elijah and only Henry have occupied these ones.

“How did he die?” I ask Rath. Because I can sense him behind me. Waiting.

“In an accident.” Rath says it simply and finally. He’ll give me no more details.

I stay there for a few more quiet minutes. Not really feeling anything. Not really thinking anything. Just being.

“Don’t let it overwhelm you,” Rath says quietly from my side. “All you can do is take it all in one day at a time.”

“Right,” I say, nodding my head.