The Bourbon Kings
Page 111
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Jogging up the stairs, he went to his room and showered, shaved, and seersuckered. It took him two tries to get the bow tie right.
Man, he hated the things.
He took the staff stairs back down, cut through the kitchen, and went to Miss Aurora’s door. As he had when he’d come to see her earlier, he checked that everything was tucked in, buttoned properly, and as it should be before he knocked.
Except then he stilled. For some reason, he had an abject fear that she wouldn’t answer the door this time. That he would rap his knuckles, and wait … and do it again, and wait some more …
And then he would have to break down the panels as he had with Rosalinda’s office—and he would find another dead—
The door opened, and Miss Aurora frowned at him. “You’re late.”
Lane jumped out of his skin, but recovered fast. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Miss Aurora gave him a grunt and patted her bright blue church hat. Her outfit was as brilliant as a spring sky, and she had matching gloves, matching shoes, and a perfectly coordinated pocketbook that was the size of a tennis racquet. Her lipstick was cherry red, her earrings were the pearl ones he’d given her three years ago, and she was wearing the pearl ring he’d gotten her the year before that.
He offered her his arm as she shut her door, and she took it.
Together, they walked out through the front of the house, passing Mr. Harris, who knew better than to say anything about which door they were using.
Lane escorted Miss Aurora to the Porsche’s passenger seat and settled her in the car. Then he went around, got behind the wheel, and restarted the engine.
“We’re going to be late,” she said crisply.
“I’ll get us there on time. Just watch me.”
“I don’t abide by no speeding.”
He found himself looking over at her with a wink. “Then close your eyes, Miss Aurora.”
She batted at his arm and glared at him. “You are not too old to spank.”
“I know you want a seat in the front pew.”
“Tulane Baldwine, don’t you dare break the law.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a sly grin, he hit the gas, shooting the 911 down the hill—and as he passed a quick glance in her direction? He found that Miss Aurora was smiling to herself.
For a moment, all was right in his world.
FORTY
The Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and the bright white of its clapboards stood out among the blocks and blocks of lower-income housing units that surrounded the place. Talk about pristine, though. From its carefully tended-to grounds to its freshly surfaced parking lot, from the flowering pots by the double front doors to the basketball courts out back, the place was as polished and cared for as something from a 1950s postcard.
And at twenty minutes of nine on a Sunday morning, it was teeming with people.
The instant Lane pulled in, the greetings came so fast and so many that he had to slow the car to a crawl. Putting both their windows down, he took hold of hands, called out names, returned challenges for pickup games. Parking in the back, he went around and helped Miss Aurora out; then he led her over to the sidewalk that ran down the side of the church’s flank.
Children were everywhere, dressed in flouncing gowns and little suits, the colors as bright as crayon boxes, their behavior better than that of a lot of the grown-ups who came to the parties at Easterly. Everyone, but everyone, paused and spoke to him and Miss Aurora, checking in, catching up—and in the process, he realized how much he had missed this community.
Funny, he wasn’t a churchgoer, but whenever he was home, he never failed to come here with Miss Aurora.
Inside, there were easily a thousand people, the rows of pews filled with the faithful, everyone talking, hugging, laughing. It was too early for the fans to get broken out, but they would come, usually in June. Down in front, there was a band with electric guitars, drums and basses, and next to them were the risers that would hold the gospel choir. And behind all that? The incredible organ pipes—the kind that could blow the doors and the windows and the very roof wide open—rose as if connecting the congregation directly to Heaven.
Max should be here, Lane thought. That brother of his had sung in the choir for years before he’d gone off to college.
But that was a tradition that was lost, seemingly forever now.
Two rows from the front there was space for them, a family of seven squeezing in to make room.
“Much obliged,” Lane said, as he shook the father’s hand. “Hey, aren’t you Thomas Blake’s brother?”
“Am, yes,” the man said. “I’m Stan, the older. And you’re Miss Aurora’s boy.”
“Yessir.”
“Where you been? We haven’t seen you here for a while.”
As Miss Aurora cocked a brow to him, Lane cleared his throat. “I’ve been up north.”
“My condolences,” Stan said. “But at least you’re back now.”
“There’s my nephews.” Miss Aurora pointed across the aisle. “D’Shawne is playing for the Indiana Colts now. Wide receiver. And Qwentin beside him is center for the Miami Heat.”
Lane lifted his hand as the two men caught Miss Aurora’s eye. “I remember when they were playing in college. Qwentin was one of the best centers the Eagles have ever had, and I was there when D’Shawne helped us win the Sugar Bowl.”
“They’re good boys.”
Man, he hated the things.
He took the staff stairs back down, cut through the kitchen, and went to Miss Aurora’s door. As he had when he’d come to see her earlier, he checked that everything was tucked in, buttoned properly, and as it should be before he knocked.
Except then he stilled. For some reason, he had an abject fear that she wouldn’t answer the door this time. That he would rap his knuckles, and wait … and do it again, and wait some more …
And then he would have to break down the panels as he had with Rosalinda’s office—and he would find another dead—
The door opened, and Miss Aurora frowned at him. “You’re late.”
Lane jumped out of his skin, but recovered fast. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Miss Aurora gave him a grunt and patted her bright blue church hat. Her outfit was as brilliant as a spring sky, and she had matching gloves, matching shoes, and a perfectly coordinated pocketbook that was the size of a tennis racquet. Her lipstick was cherry red, her earrings were the pearl ones he’d given her three years ago, and she was wearing the pearl ring he’d gotten her the year before that.
He offered her his arm as she shut her door, and she took it.
Together, they walked out through the front of the house, passing Mr. Harris, who knew better than to say anything about which door they were using.
Lane escorted Miss Aurora to the Porsche’s passenger seat and settled her in the car. Then he went around, got behind the wheel, and restarted the engine.
“We’re going to be late,” she said crisply.
“I’ll get us there on time. Just watch me.”
“I don’t abide by no speeding.”
He found himself looking over at her with a wink. “Then close your eyes, Miss Aurora.”
She batted at his arm and glared at him. “You are not too old to spank.”
“I know you want a seat in the front pew.”
“Tulane Baldwine, don’t you dare break the law.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a sly grin, he hit the gas, shooting the 911 down the hill—and as he passed a quick glance in her direction? He found that Miss Aurora was smiling to herself.
For a moment, all was right in his world.
FORTY
The Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and the bright white of its clapboards stood out among the blocks and blocks of lower-income housing units that surrounded the place. Talk about pristine, though. From its carefully tended-to grounds to its freshly surfaced parking lot, from the flowering pots by the double front doors to the basketball courts out back, the place was as polished and cared for as something from a 1950s postcard.
And at twenty minutes of nine on a Sunday morning, it was teeming with people.
The instant Lane pulled in, the greetings came so fast and so many that he had to slow the car to a crawl. Putting both their windows down, he took hold of hands, called out names, returned challenges for pickup games. Parking in the back, he went around and helped Miss Aurora out; then he led her over to the sidewalk that ran down the side of the church’s flank.
Children were everywhere, dressed in flouncing gowns and little suits, the colors as bright as crayon boxes, their behavior better than that of a lot of the grown-ups who came to the parties at Easterly. Everyone, but everyone, paused and spoke to him and Miss Aurora, checking in, catching up—and in the process, he realized how much he had missed this community.
Funny, he wasn’t a churchgoer, but whenever he was home, he never failed to come here with Miss Aurora.
Inside, there were easily a thousand people, the rows of pews filled with the faithful, everyone talking, hugging, laughing. It was too early for the fans to get broken out, but they would come, usually in June. Down in front, there was a band with electric guitars, drums and basses, and next to them were the risers that would hold the gospel choir. And behind all that? The incredible organ pipes—the kind that could blow the doors and the windows and the very roof wide open—rose as if connecting the congregation directly to Heaven.
Max should be here, Lane thought. That brother of his had sung in the choir for years before he’d gone off to college.
But that was a tradition that was lost, seemingly forever now.
Two rows from the front there was space for them, a family of seven squeezing in to make room.
“Much obliged,” Lane said, as he shook the father’s hand. “Hey, aren’t you Thomas Blake’s brother?”
“Am, yes,” the man said. “I’m Stan, the older. And you’re Miss Aurora’s boy.”
“Yessir.”
“Where you been? We haven’t seen you here for a while.”
As Miss Aurora cocked a brow to him, Lane cleared his throat. “I’ve been up north.”
“My condolences,” Stan said. “But at least you’re back now.”
“There’s my nephews.” Miss Aurora pointed across the aisle. “D’Shawne is playing for the Indiana Colts now. Wide receiver. And Qwentin beside him is center for the Miami Heat.”
Lane lifted his hand as the two men caught Miss Aurora’s eye. “I remember when they were playing in college. Qwentin was one of the best centers the Eagles have ever had, and I was there when D’Shawne helped us win the Sugar Bowl.”
“They’re good boys.”
