idle gossip

    Charles Smith moved into the Georgica Estate exactly one year ago today. It is a very grand estate, with twelve bedrooms with on suite bathrooms, four living rooms, a ballroom with six crystal chandeliers, a study, an exercise room, and an eat-in kitchen with a connected dining room. But eleven of the twelve bedrooms are vacant, and the four living rooms serve as a furniture morgue of sorts. All of the unused sofas and armchairs are covered in white sheets seemingly anticipating their fate. The ballroom, on the other hand, is used once a month in honor of Mr. Smith’s famous parties. It is not used tonight.  The weather is too good to hold a party indoors; instead he chose to entertain his guests around his oversized pool.
      His elegant invitation said that the party was at eight, and although it was half past seven I took my time. I am not by any means trying to be fashionably late, it is just that I am new to the neighborhood, and do not want to seem eager. I arrive at around half past eight, and everyone is already assembled. All the seats are taken. I walk around the room, frantically searching for a seat, all the while thinking of how my entrance was nothing like the grand one I had imagined on the way here.
      To my embarrassment and relief a large woman in a pink suit starts waving and pointing at me, shouting “brown hair, blue dress” whilst laughing hysterically. I look at her, point to my self, she nods, I smile in acknowledgement and warily make my way towards her table.
  She gets pinker and louder the closer I get. She pulls out a chair for me, asks me for my name, and then interrupts me with hers. I smooth the skirt of my dress, and sit down. Besides the loquacious Mrs. James, the table holds an elderly couple, a young widow, and her young cousin. But, it feels like Mrs. James is the only one in the table, she artfully and deafeningly manages to either veer the conversation back to her, or block any other conversation with her opinions. I immediately realized why my seat was empty.
         Thankfully, the dinner bell rings. It manages to hush the loud chatter, namely Mrs. James’s, into a murmur, and then to complete silence. Out of curiosity I turn to the sound of the bell in search of its source, and find Mr. Smith. It is rather obvious that it is not the ring of the bell that hushes the crowed, but rather the man that rings it. For, every other head in the room is turned in his direction.  We are all unashamedly gawking at the tall mysterious figure before us.
         When I first arrived I opposed their idle gossip, I accused them of being thankless, insincere, and fickle.  How can they ridicule a man who has thus treated them so kindly? But my sermon fell on deaf ears and stubborn minds. I was forced to listen to their intricate theories about his character. And in a pathetic five minutes I was totally immersed in their world, and his fabricated world. Before the bell rang I was trying to decide whether I believed he was a widowed billionaire, or a trained ex assassin.
         But seeing him helplessly standing there, bell in hand, smile in place, looking earnestly back at them, colors my cheeks to a Mrs. James shade of pink. Everyone else goes back to whispering, but I cannot take my eyes off of him. I watch him, as he tastes every dish before it comes out, and I watch him as he greets each guest young and old. I smile when he smiles, and follow his every gaze. I am lost in contemplation; why does he live alone in this magnificent house when he is still relatively young, and distinctively handsome. This is the sort of wonder that is not accompanied by speculation; however, speculation was still the theme of this party, and of that Mrs. James did not fail to remind me. She looks at me, follows my wandering gaze, and when she realizes that I am gazing at Mr. Smith, she lets out an annoyingly loud shriek and slaps my shoulder. My shoulder hits the table, her voice echoes in my ear, and I’m painfully awakened from my reverie. Mrs. James starts to make cooing sounds, and I stand up to leave.
          Besides, I can no longer handle the mystery, and so I partly leave the scandal-laden table in search of truth, of something that could satisfy any part of my curiosity. I find him standing by the pool house, smoking a cigar, casting a satisfied glance around the party.  There he stands totally unaware of his fame or notoriety. I approach him like I would a wild animal, slowly, cautiously, and anxiously. All the while wondering if I would follow the fate of the cat.