“So get your ass here. Meet with that damn gallery owner. You’ve been putting your wants and your dreams on hold for long enough while you played wifey!”
That wasn’t how it was. Clayton had never asked me to give up my art. He’d supported it one hundred percent. I had made that choice in a dozen little ways every day. I was the one who decided to become the dance mom, the car pooler, the cupcake baker. I’d tied myself up in every aspect of Emma Grace’s life. Mostly because I was trying to be the antithesis of what my mother had been… absent. But I didn’t say that to Brit. She got pissed at even a hint of me defending Clayton.
“Do I really have to go out with this guy, Brit? Can’t I just cancel it?”
“You haven’t looked at another man in twelve years. Not since he walked out on that balcony and looked down at you dancing around a burning couch,” Brit accused. “Maybe he isn’t it, Annalee? Maybe there’s something out there that’s better.”
I don’t believe that. I never have.
“Besides,” she continues, “It would be a shit move to cancel on Stephen when he’s going through the same thing you are. This is his first post-split foray into the dating world too.”
And there it is. Guilt. No. I won’t stand the poor bastard up. I’ll go. We’ll talk. And then I’ll come home. It’ll be like a two person support group meeting.
“Fine. I’ll be there. But it’s just coffee and I’m telling him up front that I am not looking for anything at all.”
“Fine. Do whatever. But just go. It makes it more real for you and for Clayton. You wanted to force his hand, Annalee,” she reminds me. “This is the best way to do it.”
“He’s never been the jealous type,” I protest.
“He never had to be. You looked at him like he was a god.”
I have no response for that. Instead, I lie. “I’m hitting a dead spot. I’ll probably lose service. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up the phone quickly before she can reply. It was a chicken thing to do, but I’m tired of everything being a fight. I also need to go home and get ready for my meeting with the gallery owner. I don’t think there’s a single thing in my wardrobe that says ‘serious artist’. It’s soccer mom, all the way.
Clayton
* * *
I’m walking into the office, not so quietly fuming. Based on the wide berth everyone is giving me, I’d say it’s pretty obvious that I’m in a shitty mood.
I can’t believe she’s doing this. Our divorce isn’t final. We haven’t even signed the papers and she’s already moving on, dating other people. A part of me knows that I have no right to feel this way. This is all happening because of me. I did this. That doesn’t make it any easier to live with. I’m dying here. Somehow, the idea of her being with another man, even if it is just an innocent meeting, that makes it feel more permanent than all the lawyers and negotiations have.
Then, there is the other issue. I’m the one who pushed Mia, who told her that if she wanted Bennett Hayes to do something about it. I also told her to be discreet, dammit. Having him crawling out of her bedroom window in the bright light of day does not fall into that description.
I climb the stairs from the distillery floor to the administrative offices. Quentin is waiting for me at the top.
“What the hell crawled up your ass?”
“I don’t need your shit today, Quentin,” I tell him as I brush past him.
“Wasn’t aware I was giving you any,” he replies. “But you look like you’re on your way to commit a murder, and since I’m related to everyone who works on this floor, I figure I’m entitled to ask a question or two.”
“This,” I say sharply, “has nothing to do with work.”
“The former ball and chain?” Quentin says, tongue in cheek.
“I’m glad you find it funny, you dick.”
Quentin sighs and follows me down the hallway to my office. Of course, he would choose to be a dog with a bone today. The fuck.
Quentin is still on my heels as I retreat into my office. He drops into the chair across from my desk and then props his feet up on it like he owns the damn place. “If you want to prop your feet up and get comfy, go to your own damn office.”
“I’ve got questions,” he says. “I’m not just here to bust your balls.”
“Then get to it. I’m not in a mood to be social.”
Quentin continues, “We can’t keep pouring money into the distillery and not getting anything back out of it. Our salaries are not even a living wage and given that you’re now going to be supporting two households on it, that’s gonna fucking sting.”
It already stings like a damned hornet’s nest. “This is not news.”
“I have an investor,” he says quietly.
“I’m not giving up any of our control,” I remind him. “Right now, between the three of us, we can keep Samuel in check, sort of. If we let go of any of that, and this investor falls for his shit, we’re fucked.”
Quentin nods. “This investor would not fall for his shit because this investor is not female… secondly, I wasn’t thinking about selling any of our shares. I was thinking about finding someone to buy out Samuel.”
I’m shaking my head as I answer. “He’ll never sell. Not right now. He’s got the promise of the rest of Mom’s inheritance coming in… as long as that little gem is hanging out there, he’s got no incentive to let go of anything.”
He gives me an assessing stare and I’m reminded that Quentin, partying and womanizing aside, is as shrewd as they come. “Isn’t that what you’re working on… finding incentive for him?”
Regardless of how shrewd he might be, and of the ruthless streak that I know he has in him, I’ve kept my family out of this mess for a reason and that reason has not changed. “You need to stay out of this. You and Mia. If it goes to shit, that way only of us has to take the fall,” I remind him.
Quentin looks down at his folded hands. “I may have something you can use. I’ll know more after this next trip to Knoxville. I’ve got a line on something big.”
I’ve been digging for months and while I’ve found plenty of dirty secrets and shady deals, nothing concrete enough to hang the bastard. “Fine. But play it careful. No risks.”
Quentin gets to his feet and straightens his suit jacket. He’s always immaculately dressed, always put together. He’s more vain even than Mia. “I’m always careful.”
“If you see Mia,” I tell him, “I need to talk to her.”
He nods and exits, leaving me alone with the same miserable thoughts that were tormenting as I walked in. I can’t get Annalee out of my head, her and whoever this jackass is that she’s meeting. It’s fucking torture.
In an effort to get my mind on work and the shit I actually need to do, I open my email and immediately wish I hadn’t. The first one is from Erica. It’s going to be a shit storm and I know it, but I open it anyway.
Clayton,
Given the family dynamic of the business structure at Fire Creek, I’m not in a position to lodge a formal complaint against Mia. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. However, I’m putting you on notice. I’m not going to be spoken to the way she spoke to me again. The things she said are grounds for a sexual harassment suit, and if pushed, I will file it. If she continues, I will quit my job, but before I do that, I will file a complaint and I will obtain the best attorney I can to prove that she created a hostile work environment and that you, as acting CEO of Fire Creek, supported it. Not to mention, I’ll be only too happy to relay that information to your father. I don’t think he’d be pleased.
Erica.
* * *
Fuck me. Running my hands through my hair in frustration, I consider how to proceed. I can’t respond to it immediately. I can’t. Whatever I say would be evidence, and I’m not in any frame of mind to deal with her shit.
The next email is no better. It’s from a friend of mine at the bank who has been monitoring our father’s spending and alerting me, against every rule in
the book, of any major purchases or suspicious activity. The son of a bitch has rented a condo in Los Cabos for a weekend. And Erica hasn’t asked for any time off, so clearly, she won’t be accompanying him. No wonder she’s threatening to sue over Mia’s little tirade the other day. Erica is no dummy. She sees the writing on the wall and knows that her tenure with Samuel is just about up. Her expiration date is on the horizon.
I’m interrupted from considering the dire ramifications of a lawsuit when there’s a knock at the door. I call out for the person to enter but my tone is definitely less than welcoming.
“I take it you’re having a bad morning?” Mia asks walking into the office.
“You might say that. Dad has been shopping again.”
“Shopping for what?” she asks, settling into the chair that Quentin so recently vacated.
“Women. Erica is in an uproar, threatening to quit… the problem with that is she knows all about this company. She knows about the massive auction of our product in Japan.”
“So she has the power to sink us, and now she has the motivation to do so,” Mia states it matter-of-factly, without emotion.
“That’s about it. So, don’t piss her off any more than necessary, okay? I can’t put out any more fires today.”
“What other fires have you had to put out?” she asked.
I look up at her, but I’m not answering questions. She doesn’t need to know about Annalee and she sure as hell doesn’t need to know about whatever mystery Quentin is working on. . “Nothing important,” I reply, shutting down further questions. “I’ve got work to do and so do you. If you want to look into working with Keeneland, I need that proposal by the end of the day… and Mia, make damn sure that Bennett Hayes climbs down that tree outside your window before daylight next time, okay?”
She blinks at me in surprise. Like I wouldn’t find out in a town the size of Fontaine. “Excuse me?”
“Annalee came by this morning and asked me to pick up the munchkin from school this afternoon because she’s got to go to Louisville.”
“What’s she going to Louisville for?”
I can feel my expression hardening. But I’m not about to discuss that topic any more than necessary. I don’t want the pity that would result. “I’m not her husband anymore. I don’t get to ask those kinds of questions. Point being, she saw him shimmying down that damn oak tree… Do what you want, but for the love of God, be discreet.”
Mia puts her hands on her hips and glares at me the same way she did when she was four. It’s considerably less adorable now. “Were you, or were you not, the one who told me to go for it?”
“Yes. Go for it. Enjoy it. You deserve this and a hell of a lot more, but be smart about it. Samuel gets wind of this and everything I—,” I stop abruptly. I’ve made it a point to keep my investigation of Samuel a secret. Sure, they know I’m doing it, but no one knows what I’ve found and I need to keep it that way until I’ve got the smoking gun in my possession.
“Everything what? Clayton, just tell me what you’re doing. You’ve been keeping secrets and I know they’re about him and it’s costing you everything. Tell me and I will help you.”
“I can’t,” I say. “The things I’m working on, Mia, they’re not really above board. I’m not cutting corners with the business. I would never do that. But to get what I need on him, to get the upper hand that I have to have to make this work, I can’t play by the rules. And I won’t let anyone else take those risks.”
“What things are you working on? Clayton, for the love of all that's holy, just tell me! You're keeping all those secrets and it's going to be the death of you.”
My hands are in my hair again, this time pressing at my temples where the headache is building from a dull roar to an agonizing scream. “As much of a shit as Samuel's been to us, fucking people over isn't restricted to family. I'm digging, Mia, digging up every bit of dirt and filth on him I can... you can't do that without getting a little dirty yourself.”
“What have you done?” There’s fear in her voice, worry for me and for everyone else.
“Nothing that I can’t come back from. Not yet, anyway,” I tell her. It isn’t completely true, but if it will ease her mind, so be it.
“This isn’t good for you.” There are tears in her eyes. Mia, in spite of her stoic resolve and her usually calm demeanor, is a softie on the inside. She’s got a tender heart. I know, because I watched our father break it.
“No, but he isn’t good for anyone. And if I can build a life here, for all of us, that he doesn’t get to taint with his presence, it’s worth the cost… So just be smart. Be discreet. And let me handle Samuel when the time comes.”
Mia doesn’t say anything else. She just stands there looking at me quietly for a moment before turning and heading out the door, presumably to her own office.
The rest of day goes by in a blur. I finish up payroll, handle some complaints from distributors because they don’t have the product they need.
Bourbon production cannot be rushed. The four year mark is a guideline, not a hard and fast date. The barrels aren’t ready yet. Maybe another month, maybe another four, but I can’t say. It’s simply done when it’s done, and if they don’t want to wait for it, then we’ll just find new distributors.
I leave the office and drive to the elementary school to wait in the purgatory that is the pick up line. There’s another car beside me, and I know the woman behind the wheel. She’s recently divorced and I can feel her eyes on me while I sit there, trapped.
She rolls down her window. “Clayton Darcy, is that you?”
Fuck. I roll down my own window. “Hello, Gina. How are you?”
She smiles flirtatiously. “You ought to come over sometime and I’ll show you.”
That is never going to happen. “It was good talking to you, Gina. I’d prefer to keep out conversation and our interactions G-rated, if possible.”
She huffs out a breath, clearly insulted. “It’s your loss.”
“I’m sure it is. Have a good evening.” And that is why I hate to pick up Emma Grace at school. Every single, almost single, and unhappily married woman in Fontaine is looking at me like a fat kid looks at cake. I’m not stupid enough to think it’s because I’m that hot. In this town, the name Darcy equals money, at least to people who don’t realize we’re all teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. And since Annalee cut me loose, they’re looking at me as a reasonably attractive meal ticket.
The line moves steadily forward. I’m close enough to the front door now that I can see Emma Grace. My heart melts. That’s the only way to describe it. Every time I look at her, it just gets me. She’s wearing a pink dress and a white sweater and the ugliest fucking cowboy boots I’ve ever seen.
I can picture her and Annalee fighting over those boots in the morning. Emma Grace usually wins out just by sheer force of will and the overwhelming use of the word why. People underestimate the power of the word until they’re dealing with a stubborn child. Then it takes on a whole new meaning.
She runs forward, ignoring the teachers telling her not to, and opens the car door.
“Daddy, I don’t like boys,” she says as she climbs into the backseat and buckles herself in.
“Boys in general, or a boy in particular?” I don’t really care. I just pray for a few more years of reprieve. The thought of some god-awful, horny ass, disgusting teenage boy ever looking at her makes me want to increase the size of my gun collection.
“Most boys. Some are okay. But Cody Blevins picked his nose… and then,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “He ate it, Daddy. He’s soooo gross.”
I’m laughing as I finally escape the school parking lot. “That is pretty gross, baby,” I agree. Really that’s all I have to do with Emma Grace. She tells me about her day, I agree as needed. If only all relationships with women could be so simple.
“I'm hungry,” she announces.
“Pizza?”
She's dancing in the back seat now. Pizza is alwa
ys a winner. I turn the car toward Main Street and the only pizza place in town. It's been there forever. Hell, I used to hang out there in high school.
When we arrive, Annalee makes a beeline for the ancient PacMan machine and I grab one of the cracked vinyl booths where I can keep my eye on her. She's the only thing keeping me sane right now. In all the rest of the craziness, I know that when she sees me her face will light up. There's no anger or disappointment there. Did any of us ever look at Samuel that way?
I don't think so. Even searching my childhood memories, all I can recall is the sense of dread, of knowing that when he walked in, whatever we were doing wouldn't be good enough, would be messy, or sloppy and reflecting poorly on the Darcy family name.
“Daddy, can I have some quarters?”
I dig in my pocket for change and give her the few quarters that are in the mix.
I want this back. Not weekends. Not random nights when Annalee is sitting in a bar having martinis with some asshole I don't even know. I want us. Me, her and Emma Grace coming to this shithole for pizza on the weekend, or driving up to Newport to the Aquarium.
I see Emma Grace's face fall as she fails epically at PacMan. It's a common occurrence. When the last of her quarters are gone she comes back to the table just as the waitress is there to get our order.
“Pepperoni?”
“And extra cheese,” she says, grinning for added effect.
“And extra cheese,” I agree. “Water to drink.”
“I want a pop.”
“Your mother doesn't let you have pop,” I reply. She's tried this before, seeing if I'll bend the rules. “It rots your teeth and then I'll be in trouble.”
She makes a face, but doesn't say anything. Emma Grace is the one thing that Annalee and I have done completely right. She's a good kid—even with the mess our lives are in, she's a happy kid.
“So what happened at school besides that kid eating boogers?” I ask her.
She wrinkles up her nose and looks so much like Annalee it's a punch in the gut. “Allison told me her parents are getting a divorce like you and mom.”
Clayton (Bourbon & Blood Book 2) Page 2
