by Geneva Lee
“I’m expected,” I say coolly, wondering if his memory is going along with his body.
“Yes, Mr. Malcolm, pardon me, sir, Mr. MacLaine, is in the sitting room,” he corrects himself. It must be hard to give an old dog a new master. “He asked that you join him for a drink before dinner.”
It’s impossible to judge whether his ignorance of me is deliberate or not. Butlers have a peculiar sense of decorum even with old friends, and truth be told, I always liked the old butler. I have no idea how he puts up with the lot of them. But loyalty is a tricky thing. Sometimes it’s only habit. Sometimes you don’t know better. Like any relationship, sometimes you stay when you should go.
He shows me to the sitting room, which I could find on my own. Like most of Windfall, nothing’s changed. An oil painting of the family hangs over a carved Italian marble hearth. Despite the warm weather outside, a gentle fire burns in its grates. The room’s temperature remains perfectly controlled, naturally. The MacLaines aren’t the type to worry about energy efficiency. It’s all part of the traditional Southern image they project. Felix moves to stoke the fire as Malcolm rises from a leather wingback. He’s abandoned his suit and tie for a checked shirt, rolled at the sleeves and crisp khakis. It’s all the very picture of gentility.
He extends his hand to shake mine. “Mr. Ford, I’m pleased you can join us. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Whiskey over ice,” I say.
“Felix, did you open that bottle of West Reserve?” It’s an order masquerading as a question. Malcolm MacLaine doesn’t serve drinks to his guests no matter how important they are.
“Yes, sir.” Felix moves to a bar cart in the corner and begins preparing my drink. Ice cubes clink in the Waterford tumbler. I can’t help but notice how his hands shake as he drops them in one at a time.
I move closer as causally as possible, taking the drink when he turns to deliver it. I won’t watch the old man spill.
“Aged fifteen years,” Malcolm brags as he takes a sip of his. “So complex. You can taste the oak and sherry in it.”
I nod in agreement, unsurprised that he doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not drinking. People rarely do. Accepting the drink is the important part of the transaction between men with money. I learned a long time ago that powerful men see the world and its people through their own filters. Some men, like Felix, exist to serve. Most men exist to be intimidated, kept carefully under thumb. Other men might be useful but there’s always a test to be sure. Those are the types you offer a drink. Acceptance is simply the first step toward partnership. I’ve shown I’m willing to take something he gives me. Now what other offers will he make?
“I’ll send you a bottle,” he says. A gift? A bribe? There’s hardly a difference to a MacLaine. “Tell me about this real estate transaction.”
He manages to hide the panic in his voice but a small note of anxiety sounds in the background.
“A penthouse,” I tell him. “I need a place to stay in the city.”
“So you won’t be staying in Valmont?” It’s a loaded question. He wants to know how close I’ll be to the dragon’s hoard he’s trying to protect. Or if it’s already too late.
He doesn’t need to know the truth. “I prefer the city.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s harder when you have a family.” He glances at a framed picture on the mantle. I recognize his wife but I’ve never seen the dark-haired girl before. “My daughter, Ellie. I don’t think we could coop her up in an apartment.”
“Better to give her fifty acres to roam,” I say, my words an innocuous reminder that I’m well-schooled on this estate.
“Indeed.” He reaches to straighten a tie that’s not there, tugging loose the top button instead. “I’m sure dinner is nearly ready. My wife will be joining us.”
He rises and I follow suit. I don’t ask about Adair. Malcolm MacLaine knows what I’m after, which means she’ll be there, too. He doesn’t need to know how much or why. Not yet.
When I don’t prod him for more information, he adds, “And Adair, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I murmur as we make our way toward the dining room.
“You never told me how you know my sister?” He stops for a second. “You do know my sister?”
Bless his heart. This was the best Angus MacLaine did as a replacement. It’s going to be far too easy to ruin the entire family. “I attended Valmont with her.”
“Oh, you’re a Viper.” He references the school’s mascot like the overly devoted former frat boy he is.
“More or less. I started at Valmont, but I finished my education elsewhere.”
Wheels turn in his dark eyes as he ushers me into the dining room. An arrangement of roses and tulips in various hues of pink rests artfully in the middle of the table laid with crystal and gold-rimmed china. Malcolm MacLaine is showcasing his wealth to remind me who I’m getting into bed with. But it’s more than a performance, he’s trying to figure out who I am. He thinks I’ve given him a clue. I have. When this is over, I want the MacLaines to know exactly who ruined them. I want them to know there’s no mercy coming from me. I want them to remember sitting down to dine with the enemy.
12
Adair
Poppy distracts me from thoughts of Sterling as best she can for the rest of the trip, but I don’t sell my enthusiasm very well. In the end, I buy a handful of new tops she forces on me, her version of therapy always defaulting to the retail variety. The only item I put real consideration into is the gown for Poppy’s upcoming charity auction.
After trying on what feels like hundreds of dresses, a red silk one finally meets her approval. It’s the last gown I would have considered, considering my hair, but she’s right about it. The color sets off my copper locks rather than clashing with it. It’s elegant and sexy without being too much for a room full of philanthropists.
Our bags and boxes fill the Roadster’s trunk by that evening. Poppy shoves at a bag to get the lid to close before collapsing against the car. “I’m starving. Do you think Felix will feed me?”
I force a smile. Felix has been avoiding me the last few days, or I’ve been avoiding him. It’s hard to tell in a house as big as Windfall. “I’m sure he’ll feed you.”
As we head back to the estate, Poppy lets out a shriek. “Kai is going to make it to the auction!”
Finally, some good news. Usually, I dread these parties, but it’s been too long since I’ve seen Kai Miles. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He’s going to be the celebrity emcee,” she tells me. “There was a conflict but he moved things around.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t helped you with this.” It’s been eating away at me for months that she’s doing this on her own, especially since she’s doing it for me.
“You’ve had a lot on your plate,” she says, dismissing my concern.
“You wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t for me.”
“And that’s not a good enough reason?” she counters. “They need to raise the funds, and I can help. It’s not your job to fix everything. Your dad was sick, honey. You were needed at home. But you’re going to put on that killer dress, come to this party, drink too much champagne, and actually enjoy yourself.”
“Is that so?” I can’t help laughing at her determination.
“The last few weeks have been hell, and you deserve to have a good time.”
Poppy might be the only person in my life who believes I deserve anything. I have no idea why. If she peeled back a few layers of me, she’d probably reverse her position on that.
My life has been hell for more than the last few weeks, which is why she never tries. I’ve done my best to hide it over the years, but when my father’s health took a turn for the worse, it became not only impossible but also, for the first time, acceptable to be open about it. No one can fault a daughter suffering while her father is on his deathbed. It only made me look like the dutiful, obedient child he’d always wanted. He had
known why I was really around, playing my part. Just like he knew why I had come back from Cambridge to Valmont after my short-lived escape. The world assumes I came home to be by his side. I let them believe that. Sometimes the lie is prettier than the truth.
“I need to remember to get tickets,” I say, making a mental to-do list in my head. I no longer have a dying man to care for, it’s time to take back my life.
“Malcolm already bought a table,” Poppy reassures me. “Or his secretary did.”
That sounds more like it. I’m not thrilled to share the evening with my brother, but a charity event in Valmont never runs out of booze. There will be enough social lubricant for the both of us.
“Do I have to bring a date?” I ask.
“Absolutely not!” She casts a coy look in my direction. “There will be plenty of bachelors from all over Nashville there.”
I’ve known ninety percent of Nashville bachelors since grade school. “I’m not really interested in meeting someone. I just don’t want to look like a loser sitting alone.”
“No one is going to let you sit alone,” Poppy says. “I have plenty of people I want to introduce you to.”
Her matchmaking won’t be denied. “Do you have selective hearing?”
“Only when it comes to you denying your happiness,” she says.
I can’t blame my best friend for wanting to see me happy. Her matchmaking has been on the uptick since she and Cyrus began discussing rings. Why do happy people always try to force everyone around them to be happy, too?
I turn the Roadster down Windfall’s private drive. The magnolias have begun to bloom, the delicate pink blossoms perfuming the sultry, spring evening. I need to pick some for mama’s grave before they wilt. They never last long enough.
A black Vanquish is parked in the circle drive, which means Malcolm has guests for dinner. At least, I’ll have an excuse to eat in the kitchen now. I park the Jaguar in the garage and we pile our purchases as Poppy continues to fill me in on the details of how the auction will work, down to her conflict over the centerpieces. “I want to do something cute and on theme.”
“Like?”
Her arms are full as she continues, “Little dog bones or something, but my mother says it’s tacky.”
Miranda Landry believes anything less than Waterford crystal spilling liquid gold and diamonds is tacky. It’s going to take effort to persuade her to go with a theme.
“Why not a traditional centerpiece with little dog bone cookies at the table?”
“That’s genius. She can’t argue with that.” She nearly drops her bag as she struggles to get her phone out to make a note. I hold open the back door to the kitchen while she types it out.
We deposit our bags in a heap on the corner desk where Felix usually plans menus and grocery lists. I turn in time to spot excited, blue eyes pop up over the back of a stool at the counter. “Auntie Dair, you’re home!”
Warmth spreads through me at Ellie’s greeting. She’s probably the only person in this house to genuinely miss me when I’m gone. In fairness, she’s the only person in this house that I miss most of the time, too. Her eyes skip to Poppy, growing from quarters to saucers. “Auntie Poppy!”
I can’t compete with my best friend for her affection, though.
“There is my little darling,” she coos, going over to give her a hug. Her slender, amber arms circle the little girl and Ellie melts into the hug. Poppy loves her almost as much as I do.
“I got you something,” Poppy tells Ellie. She produces a bright red bag emblazoned with a star.
Ellie leaps out of her chair, knocking her glass over as she reaches for the American Girl bag.
“You spoil her,” I whisper to Poppy as Ellie unwraps the doll she brought her.
“I love it!” Her tiny arms wrap tightly around her new treasure before she releases the doll to study it more closely. She analyzes it with the intensity of an astronomer discovering a new star. “She’s so beautiful.”
“Someone should.” Poppy mutters so only I can hear.
Enough said. Poppy gets away with it, though, since she’s not family. It’s harder when I try to spoil Ellie. Malcolm doesn’t like it when I bring her gifts. He says it’s not my place. It’s not as though she wants for anything. Ginny has filled her room with beautiful objects and books and clothes all with a particular place they must remain to “look right.” It’s like stepping into a page from a catalog. Ginny throws her lavish birthday parties, just like my father used to give us. Those objects appear in Ellie’s life, showing up in her room in place of her mother and father. Those parties are full of people she doesn’t know, occupying her parents’ time. It’s moments like this that the little girl craves. A simple surprise. A loving gesture.
“Why is she eating down here?” I ask Cara, the night nanny, who’s taken our arrival as an opportunity to play a game on her phone. She looks up and answers with some hesitation, “Mr. Malcolm has a guest at dinner.”
“Oh, I forgot.” I’d seen the car, but it’s just like my brother to send his daughter to the kitchen while he entertains a business partner. It’s what our father did. Our mother never allowed that when she was alive. She said supper was family time. My father’s soft spot had allowed that. But when Ellie was born, he hadn’t wanted her at the dinner table. A sentiment his son parroted and her mother didn’t fight. I’d hoped that she’d be welcome there now that there was an empty spot at the table.
“Well, we’ll join you,” I tell Ellie.
“You, too, Auntie Poppy?”
“Of course.” Poppy grabs her tiny hands and they twirl around the kitchen.
Cara puts down her phone, looking nervous. “They’ve set the table for you,” she tells me. “I’m supposed to ask you to head up as soon as you’re home.”
The underlying implication is clear. I’m expected to be at dinner. I’m expected to play my role in this family.
“Is that so?” I stride out of the kitchen until I find Felix in the butler’s pantry. He’s prepping what looks like the second course.
“There you are! Your brother wants you at dinner. He’s been asking where you were since I served the salad.”
“My brother should have invited me to dinner,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m an adult. I might have other plans.”
“I told him so.” He nods sympathetically, and I feel bad for avoiding him. None of this is his fault. “Adair, there’s something—”
“Can you have Lindsay set two more places at the table?” I interrupt.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he warns me. Felix has always looked out for me, but things need to change. Malcolm can’t order me around like our father did. I’m not about to trade one tyrant for another.
“I have guests of my own,” I say.
He glances over at his soup, and I can see he’s calculating how to split it with the sudden addition.
“Unless there’s not enough,” I say quickly, realizing too late that once again my brother and I are burdening someone else’s life with our childish disagreements.
“I can make it work,” he says. “Ginny never eats anything anyway. I’ll give her a smaller portion.”
I make my way back to Poppy and Ellie. Bending down, I lift the little girl onto my hip.
“Miss?” Cara asks.
“She’s going to dinner upstairs,” I inform her.
It’s time for this to stop. If that means making a scene and shaming Malcolm into being the father I expect him to be, then so be it.
“Felix is setting a place for you, too,” I tell Poppy. “Will you stay?”
So maybe I need a little backup to wage this war.
She reads between the lines. “Of course. You can give me more brilliant ideas to sell my mother on the theme. Malcolm won’t mind?”
“I’m sure it’s just another one of daddy’s old buddies. Malcolm is trying to sort out the family estate.” I may have filled Poppy in on the funeral, but I left out the details of
the will. It’s not that I don’t trust her with them, it’s that I know she’ll worry. Knowing her, she’ll try to get the money from her parents to help us buy back the stock we lost. It doesn’t matter if she’s my best friend, a MacLaine doesn’t take charity.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought guests to dinner,” I announce, unable to keep a smug smile from spreading over my face as we enter the dining room with Ellie in tow. The arrogance oozes out of me when Malcolm’s guest turns to greet us.
“I don’t mind,” Sterling says from his place at the table.
I can’t think of anything to say in response.
“Oh fuck,” Poppy murmurs next to me. Clearly, she’s not been rendered speechless.
“Auntie Poppy, you said a bad word.” Ellie’s voice is hushed with surprise at her angelic idol’s faux pas.
Poppy scoops her from my arms, and I’m too surprised to stop her. “Yes, I did. How silly of me.”
She carries the girl to the opposite side of the table, sitting next to her in two of the available seats and leaving the seat next to Sterling empty.
She said it best.
Fuck.
13
Sterling
I have her attention. Adair MacLaine is on the hook, and I’m going to enjoy watching her wriggle.
“We started without you,” Malcolm says without a hint of apology.
It had been clear to me when we started the soup course that Malcolm hadn’t invited Adair to dinner. He had assumed, like the privileged asshole he was, that she would simply be there. I was annoyed earlier. Now? Seeing her sort through several stages of surprise makes her late arrival worth it.
Poppy does her best to appear oblivious as she deposits Malcolm’s daughter into the seat across from mine. I know she recognizes me. I expect Cyrus told her I’m back in town. It’s neither good nor bad to see her. Her presence is just a distraction for Adair. Still, while I’ve never hated Poppy, her ability to stay politely neutral annoys me. She’s always been a diplomat, more concerned with keeping the peace than standing up in her friend’s defense.
