The Bourbon Kings
Page 103

Edward couldn’t breathe.
Precious boy … that was what she had always called him when he was little. Precious boy. Lane was her favorite, always had been, and Max she had tolerated because she’d had to, but Miss Aurora had called him, Edward, precious.
Because she was old-school and the firstborn-son thing did matter to her.
“I prayed for you,” she whispered. “I prayed for Him to bring you home to us. And my miracle has come finally.”
He wanted to say something strong. He wanted to push her way because it was just too much. He wanted …
Next thing he knew, he had leaned in to her and she had wrapped her arms around him.
Much later, when everything had changed and he was living a life he couldn’t have imagined on any level, he would come to recognize … that this moment, with his head in Miss Aurora’s hands, with her heart under his ear, with her familiar voice soothing him and his brother watching from a discreet distance, was when he began to truly heal: For a brief instant, a split second, a single breath, his pilot light flicked on. The spark didn’t last long—the flare died when she finally stepped back a little.
But the ignition did, in fact, occur. And that changed everything.
“I prayed every night for you,” she said, brushing his shoulder. “I prayed and I asked for you to be saved.”
“I don’t believe in God, Miss Aurora.”
“Neither does your brother. But like I tell him, He loves you anyway.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Because what else could he say to that?
“Thank you.” She touched his head, his jaw. “I know you don’t want to see me—”
He took her hand. “No, it’s not that.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
The idea that she felt she was somehow a second-class citizen made him feel like he’d been shot in the chest. “I don’t … want to see anyone. I’m not who I once was.”
She tilted his face up. “Look at me, boy.”
He had to force himself to meet her dark stare. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You are perfect in God’s eyes. Do you understand me? And you are perfect in mine as well—no matter what you look like.”
“Miss Aurora … it’s not just my body that’s changed.”
“That is in your hands, boy. You can choose to sink or swim based on what happened. Are you going to drown? Pretty stupid now that you’re back on dry land.”
If anyone else had said that bullshit to him, he would have rolled his eyes and never thought about the statement again. But he knew her background. He knew more than even Lane knew about what her life had been like before she had started to work at Easterly.
She was a survivor.
And she was inviting him to join the club.
So this was why he hadn’t wanted to see her, he thought. He hadn’t wanted this confrontation, this challenge that was clearly being offered to him.
“What if I can’t get there,” he found himself asking her in a voice that broke.
“You will.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have an angel watching over you.”
“I don’t believe in them, either.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Easing back, she stared at him for a long while, but not in a way that suggested she was taking note of how much older and thinner he looked.
“Are you okay?” he asked abruptly. “I heard you went to the—”
“I’m perfectly fine. Don’t you worry about me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“About what?” Before he could reply, she cut him off with her more typical, strident voice. “You don’t be sorry for taking care of yourself. I’ll always be with you, even when I’m not.”
She didn’t say good-bye. She just brushed his face one more time and then turned away. And it was funny. The image of her walking over to Lane and the pair of them talking together under the heavy dark green leaves of the magnolia tree was something that was going to also stick, as it turned out.
Just not for the reasons he thought.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The rain that was not forecasted started just after five p.m. As Lizzie folded up the last of the tables under the tent, she smelled the change in the air and looked out to the ivy on the brick wall of the garden. Sure enough, the trefoil leaves were dancing, their faces shining up to the grey sky.
“It isn’t supposed to rain,” she muttered to no one in particular.
“You know what they say about the weather around here,” one of the waiters retorted.
Yeah, yeah, she knew.
Where was Lane? she wondered. She hadn’t heard anything from him since she’d seen him by that truck, and that had been six hours ago.
Mr. Harris came up to her. “You’ll tell them that it’s all to go into the staging area?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s where the rentals always go afterward—and before you ask, yes, silverware and glassware, too.”
As the man lingered next to her, she was tempted to tell him to grab hold of the table and help her hump it across the event deck. But it was pretty clear he wasn’t a hands-dirty sort of fellow.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, frowning.
“The police have arrived again. They are trying to be respectful of our event¸ but they wish to interview me anew.”