The Bourbon Kings
Page 72
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God, he was more exhausted than usual. More achy, too. Or maybe the two were inextricably intertwined?
And yet he still couldn’t pick up the bottle.
Instead, he got to his feet with his cane and gimped his way to the drapes, which had been closed since the day he’d moved in. It was pitch-black outside now, only the big sodium lights at the heads of the barns throwing a peach glow against the darkness.
Cursing under his breath, he went to the front door and opened it. Paused for a moment. Limped out into the night.
Edward crossed the grass on a ragged gait and told himself he was going to look in on that mare who was having problems. Yes. That’s what he was doing.
He was not checking in with Shelby Landis. Nope. He was not, for example, concerned that he hadn’t seen her leave the farm all day and that meant that she probably had no food in that apartment of hers. He was also not, say, making certain that she had hot running water because, after the twelve hours she’d put in hauling wheelbarrows, sacks of grain that were the size of her truck, and itchy hay bales, she probably was going to be sore and in need of a good shower.
He was absolutely, positively—
“Damn it.”
Without even being aware of it, he’d gone to the side door to Barn B … the one that opened up to the office, as well as the set of stairs that would take him to her place.
Well, considering he was here already … he might as well see how she was doing. Out of loyalty to her father, of course.
He did not run a hand through his hair before he turned the knob—
All right, maybe just a little, but only because he needed a haircut and the stuff was in his eyes.
Motion-activated lights came on as he stepped into the office area, and all those steps to the old hayloft area loomed over his head like a mountain he was going to have to struggle to climb. And what do you know, his pessimism was well founded: He had to take a breather halfway up. And another as soon as he reached the top.
Which was how he heard the laughter.
A man’s. A woman’s. Coming from Moe’s apartment.
Frowning, Edward glanced toward Shelby’s door. Shuffling over, he put his ear to the panels. Nothing.
When he did the same to Moe’s? He could hear them both, the strong Southern drawls going back and forth like the fiddle and the banjo of a Bluegrass Band.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment and sagged against the closed door.
Then he picked himself up and caned his way down those stairs, out onto that grass, and back to his cottage.
This time he had no problem opening his booze. Or pouring it into his glass.
It was during his second serving that he realized it was Friday. Friday night.
Wasn’t that a lucky draw.
He had a date, too.
TWENTY-SIX
Sutton Smythe looked over the crowd that had filled the Charlemont Museum of Art’s main gallery space to capacity. So many faces she recognized, both those she knew personally and those she had seen on newscasts, on television, and on the big screen. Many people waved at her as they caught her eye, and she was cordial enough, lifting her palm in return.
She hoped that none of them came up to her.
She wasn’t interested in connecting over a kiss on the cheek and an inquiry about their spouse or an introduction to their escort of the night. She didn’t want to be thanked, yet again, for her generous donation last month of ten million dollars to kick-start the capital campaign for the museum’s expansion. She also didn’t want to have to acknowledge her father’s permanent loan of that Rembrandt or the Fabergé egg that had been gifted outright in honor of her dearly departed mother.
Sutton wanted to be left alone to search the crowd for that one face she was looking for.
The one face she wanted … needed … to see.
But Edward Baldwine was, once again, not coming. And she knew this not because she’d been standing here in the shadows for the past hour and a half as the guests arrived to the party she was throwing on behalf of her family, but because she’d insisted on seeing a copy of the RSVP list once a week, and then daily, leading up to the event.
He hadn’t responded at all. No, “Yes, I shall attend with pleasure,” nor any “No, I am sending my regrets.”
Could she really be surprised?
And yet it hurt. In fact, the only reason she’d gone to William Baldwine’s party the night before was in hopes of seeing Edward in his own home. After he had not returned her calls for days, months, and now years, she had thought that maybe he would make an appearance at his father’s table and they could organically reconnect.
But no. Edward had not been there, either—
“Miss Smythe, we’re ready to seat the guests, if that’s all right with you? The salads are down on the tables.”
Sutton smiled at the woman with the clipboard and the earpiece. “Yes, let’s dim the lights. I’ll make my remarks as soon as they’re in their chairs.”
“Very well, Miss Smythe.”
Sutton took a deep breath and watched the herd of expensive cattle do what they were told and find their places at all those round tables with their elaborate centerpieces, and their golden plates, and their engraved menus on top of linen napkins.
Back before the tragedy, Edward had always been at these things: Shooting her sardonic smiles as yet another person glommed on to him to ask him for money for their causes. Asking her to dance as a rescue maneuver when she got cornered by a close talker. Looking at her and winking … just because he could.
And yet he still couldn’t pick up the bottle.
Instead, he got to his feet with his cane and gimped his way to the drapes, which had been closed since the day he’d moved in. It was pitch-black outside now, only the big sodium lights at the heads of the barns throwing a peach glow against the darkness.
Cursing under his breath, he went to the front door and opened it. Paused for a moment. Limped out into the night.
Edward crossed the grass on a ragged gait and told himself he was going to look in on that mare who was having problems. Yes. That’s what he was doing.
He was not checking in with Shelby Landis. Nope. He was not, for example, concerned that he hadn’t seen her leave the farm all day and that meant that she probably had no food in that apartment of hers. He was also not, say, making certain that she had hot running water because, after the twelve hours she’d put in hauling wheelbarrows, sacks of grain that were the size of her truck, and itchy hay bales, she probably was going to be sore and in need of a good shower.
He was absolutely, positively—
“Damn it.”
Without even being aware of it, he’d gone to the side door to Barn B … the one that opened up to the office, as well as the set of stairs that would take him to her place.
Well, considering he was here already … he might as well see how she was doing. Out of loyalty to her father, of course.
He did not run a hand through his hair before he turned the knob—
All right, maybe just a little, but only because he needed a haircut and the stuff was in his eyes.
Motion-activated lights came on as he stepped into the office area, and all those steps to the old hayloft area loomed over his head like a mountain he was going to have to struggle to climb. And what do you know, his pessimism was well founded: He had to take a breather halfway up. And another as soon as he reached the top.
Which was how he heard the laughter.
A man’s. A woman’s. Coming from Moe’s apartment.
Frowning, Edward glanced toward Shelby’s door. Shuffling over, he put his ear to the panels. Nothing.
When he did the same to Moe’s? He could hear them both, the strong Southern drawls going back and forth like the fiddle and the banjo of a Bluegrass Band.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment and sagged against the closed door.
Then he picked himself up and caned his way down those stairs, out onto that grass, and back to his cottage.
This time he had no problem opening his booze. Or pouring it into his glass.
It was during his second serving that he realized it was Friday. Friday night.
Wasn’t that a lucky draw.
He had a date, too.
TWENTY-SIX
Sutton Smythe looked over the crowd that had filled the Charlemont Museum of Art’s main gallery space to capacity. So many faces she recognized, both those she knew personally and those she had seen on newscasts, on television, and on the big screen. Many people waved at her as they caught her eye, and she was cordial enough, lifting her palm in return.
She hoped that none of them came up to her.
She wasn’t interested in connecting over a kiss on the cheek and an inquiry about their spouse or an introduction to their escort of the night. She didn’t want to be thanked, yet again, for her generous donation last month of ten million dollars to kick-start the capital campaign for the museum’s expansion. She also didn’t want to have to acknowledge her father’s permanent loan of that Rembrandt or the Fabergé egg that had been gifted outright in honor of her dearly departed mother.
Sutton wanted to be left alone to search the crowd for that one face she was looking for.
The one face she wanted … needed … to see.
But Edward Baldwine was, once again, not coming. And she knew this not because she’d been standing here in the shadows for the past hour and a half as the guests arrived to the party she was throwing on behalf of her family, but because she’d insisted on seeing a copy of the RSVP list once a week, and then daily, leading up to the event.
He hadn’t responded at all. No, “Yes, I shall attend with pleasure,” nor any “No, I am sending my regrets.”
Could she really be surprised?
And yet it hurt. In fact, the only reason she’d gone to William Baldwine’s party the night before was in hopes of seeing Edward in his own home. After he had not returned her calls for days, months, and now years, she had thought that maybe he would make an appearance at his father’s table and they could organically reconnect.
But no. Edward had not been there, either—
“Miss Smythe, we’re ready to seat the guests, if that’s all right with you? The salads are down on the tables.”
Sutton smiled at the woman with the clipboard and the earpiece. “Yes, let’s dim the lights. I’ll make my remarks as soon as they’re in their chairs.”
“Very well, Miss Smythe.”
Sutton took a deep breath and watched the herd of expensive cattle do what they were told and find their places at all those round tables with their elaborate centerpieces, and their golden plates, and their engraved menus on top of linen napkins.
Back before the tragedy, Edward had always been at these things: Shooting her sardonic smiles as yet another person glommed on to him to ask him for money for their causes. Asking her to dance as a rescue maneuver when she got cornered by a close talker. Looking at her and winking … just because he could.
