by Lyla Payne
Copyediting: Shannon Page
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Chapter One
Beau
The drive out to my family’s home never takes long enough to prepare me to face them. Especially my mother.
But Cordelia Esther Lee Drayton isn’t accustomed to hearing the word no, especially from her numerous offspring, so when she left me a voice mail requesting my presence at Friday tea, we both knew I’d be there—almost right on time, dressed appropriately, and with the most convincing good attitude I can muster.
It’s been almost a month since I’ve been to the traditional Charleston single house my family calls home, at least when they’re inclined to reside in town. Too long, according to my mother, who I suspect has Badger Beau about Every Decision He’s Ever Made penciled in to her overfilled planner on a regular basis. If she bothered to figure out technology, I’m sure there would be an alert on her phone dinging with that reminder at least every thirty days.
A sense of relief courses through me at the thought of that blasted trial. It’s over. At least she won’t have that to hold over my head, even though my career could still be affected by the fallout. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I make the turn onto Water Street and pull up to the ornate gate. I take a few breaths while I wait for one of the servants to recognize my face in the camera, then pull through as the wrought iron eases open on well-oiled hinges.
No other cars line the drive, which should cause me to relax even more—at least Brick and my other siblings will be absent for my scolding—but at this point only a few stiff drinks, or getting this afternoon over with is going to do the trick.
My phone chirps with a text message alert and the sight of Gracie’s name on the screen brings a smile to my face in spite of the impending tea.
I swipe it open, shaking my head a little at the warmth in my chest. It still seems a tad surreal that after all these years being happy with my bachelor status, one adorable crackpot of a girl could knock me so hard for a loop.
I really hope you don’t have plans for tonight, because I need help.
With…? I text back, the warmth moving lower in anticipation. Of seeing her. Touching her.
Letting her remind me of all the reasons Heron Creek is the place I need to be, the place where people and things matter. Not here in Charleston.
Getting out of my clothes, obvs.
The warmth turns to heat and I know it’s going to be at least a minute before I can comfortably get out of the car and greet my mother. Or anyone.
I am very serious about my sworn duty, and you are my favorite constituent. Count on it.
And you have to promise to call me a constituent the whole time.
You are so beautiful. And strange.
Gracie sends me a series of random emoticons that have nothing to do with anything—a monkey, a bikini, and a bicycle—which is more often than not her way of signing off. Sometimes she explains the supposed meaning to me later, but I’ve accused her more than once of pulling my leg.
I take a deep breath and then, with my hormones under control and the promise of tonight in the back of my mind, I unfold myself from my silver Buick—my concession to buying American—and stretch until my joints pop.
The sun is warm for late September but with a cooler breeze that hints at autumn. It will be nice to have a break from the heat, to start a new season. Start fresh, experience something new with my girlfriend and hope that we don’t have nearly as many distractions over the next couple of months.
As much as I like her, as strong as my feelings for Gracie are, it’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other since June. There’s still so many things I want to know, questions I’m dying to ask, but between Martin’s death, the upheaval in her cousin’s life, and my indictment, we’ve had our fair share of personal issues tugging at our time and attention.
I ring the doorbell because it will piss my mother off, a smile ghosting at my lips. The way trouble seems to find Gracie, I doubt we’ll ever be one hundred percent free of distractions, but I’ve had enough drama to last me the rest of my political career.
The thought wipes away even the suggestion of a smile, because even though I was exonerated in front of a judge, the court of public opinion is another thing entirely. My pedigree, as it were, could help or hurt depending on the day and the critics, which is why I’ve tried as hard as possible to make it this far without falling back on my family name.
“Mr. Beau. How nice to see you.”
Henrietta gives me a quiet smile, her soft brown eyes and the lines in her deep, matching skin more of a reminder of home than anything else in this entire place. She’s wearing the traditional black-and-white uniform she’s worn since she wiped blood off my knees and settled arguments between us Drayton siblings. It might be a little looser these days.
I make a mental note to find out when she’s retiring and make sure my parents are taking proper care of her when that day comes.
For now, I step forward into her frail embrace. “Hi, Henrietta. You know the only reason I show up for these teas is to see how you’re doing.”
She swats me on the arm, never one to disparage my mother in my presence. “You’re a silly man. You and I both know you show up at this house once a month for my cucumber sandwiches, nothing more.”
“That’s only part of it, I swear.”
She takes my jacket and inspects my shoes to ensure no dirt or grass or any other offensive outdoor bits track onto the polished wooden floors before nudging me toward the parlor. “Your mama’s waiting. You know how she feels about that.”
The knowing look Henrietta passes my way somehow communicates her disapproval of my purposeful lateness and amusement at the same antic. It makes me remember the good parts of growing up here under this roof, and encourages me to go see my mother with the best attitude possible.
She’s standing in front of the giant front windows, her rigid back to me. The midafternoon light washes her in an ethereal glow, catching the auburn highlights in her chestnut hair and hugging her slender figure. Cordelia Drayton has always been, and as far as anyone can tell always will be, a knockout.
It’s common knowledge that she scares away things like gray hairs and wrinkles the same way she scares everyone else in this town into doing her bidding—with the sheer force of her will.
My mother turns her cold smile on me, ice blue eyes appraising me from head to toe as she strides toward the table set for an elaborate tea for two.
“Mother.” She waits, as always, for me to greet her. To bow to the queen and kiss her hand—though in my case, I’m allowed a cheek. “You look wonderful.”
She sniffs, an acknowledgment of the compliment, and sits when I pull out her chair. “That suit is quite flattering. Did Arthur choose it for you?”
Because I can’t choose my own clothes, obviously. I force a smile. “No, I picked it up when I was out of town a few weeks ago.”
“Hmm.” She sips from a sweating crystal water glass in front of her while I wait for whatever’s coming.
I don’t have to wait long.
“Thank you for coming, Beauregard. Now that this mess of a trial is behind you, your father and I have been discussing the future of your career.”
Any goodwill that Henrietta instilled in the foyer shrivels in my gut. At least there won’t be any bullshit to deal with since we’re getting right to the point.
The wooden chair is uncomfortable, like the rest of the house. I don’t give Cordelia the satisfaction of a deep sigh, instead reaching for the teapot and offering to pour. She accepts with a tight nod.
Once the tea is poured, I give her the response we’re both expec
ting. “My career is just that…my career. Whatever fallout there is from the indictment, I’ll deal with it.”
The briefest tightening of her mouth is her only reaction. Her slender fingers are steady as they tip the milk pitcher and dispense a tiny amount into her dark, steaming tea. “Regardless, you are a Drayton and the fate of your future reflects on the family as a whole. How would old William Drayton feel about the kind of muck you’ve dragged his good name through these past several weeks? Years, really, if we want to be honest about the whole fiasco from the start.”
Anger sparks in my middle, catches fire like dry grasses on the marsh after too many days with no rain. History has proven there is nothing to be gained from letting it get the better of me during these conversations, because nothing can perturb my mother to a response, but keeping cool proves difficult some days.
And today has barely begun.
I tamp it down as best as I can. “William Drayton has been dead for two hundred years, so I doubt he’d feel much of anything.”
“I’d think he would be more of a role model for you. An inspiration, even, as a man who served in both public office and as a federal judge during the formative years of this great nation.”
Half of the men in my family tree had some hand in the actual formation of America. It’s not that it doesn’t fill me with a sense of pride—always has, always will—but that was then, and building a country was the work of their life. Mine’s different, and I very much doubt that anyone who helped mold America from the dirt under our feet would be anything but confused and horrified at even a small glimpse at how we’ve managed to mangle it these few centuries later.
“I have nothing but the greatest respect for my ancestors and for this family, Mother. You know that. I haven’t conducted myself in any manner that besmirches anything, a fact you could have witnessed yourself had you shown up in court.”
It’s more than I should have said. Even the small amount of hurt in my voice—and it had hurt more than I’d expected, having no family but Brick show up in support—will be noted by Cordelia. Filed away, sharpened, brought out and jabbed into a weak flank at the most opportune moment.
Her delicate nose wrinkles. “Such an unpleasant business. It’s good that your brother was able to make it all go away like he did, but do you not agree that the strength of the family will be something you’ll need to draw upon in the coming months? If you’re still planning on a state senate run, that is.”
“Brick worked hard leading up to the trial, but it was Graciela who made it all go away. She believed in me and kept looking for answers. All Brick wanted to do was spin the ones the prosecutor’s office had already documented.”
Her gaze snaps up to mine, fiery now, like glittering jewels. “Yes, I heard. We’re all grateful to her for her perseverance, no matter how unsavory her tactics.”
“Unsavory? Like what? Almost getting killed trying to save my reputation?”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Beauregard. The girl’s been arrested at least once since returning to our great state a few months ago, and the subject of at least one murder investigation besides. Her family is…middling, at best. Status-climbers at worst. She’s got her claws into you, that much is clear, and while your father and I are grateful for her assistance on this past case, we have concerns.”
“Well, once again, who I spend my time with is my concern, not yours.”
“You’ve never been willing to accept the pitfalls that come with being born into a family of great privilege, Beauregard, as much as you’ve enjoyed the summits.” My mother sips her tea, then pinches the corner off a blueberry scone, rolling it between her fingers. Checking consistency before she pops it between her lips. The expression on her face says it’s passable and no one’s getting fired today.
Not for the scones, anyway.
“Regardless of your silly notions about making it in the political world on your own, my darling son, we know that your family name is important to people. And if winning is as important to you as you’ve always said, then you can’t be seriously entertaining the idea of a long-term relationship with Miss Harper. You’re smarter than that.”
I swallow half a cucumber sandwich, irritated that I’m having trouble enjoying them. “We’ve been dating a few months, all of which have been difficult. I’m not prepared to say whether I am or am not considering a long-term commitment, but I am prepared to say that there’s nothing that could stop me from figuring out the answer to that question.”
“Interesting.” She repeats the taste test with the ham salad, pressing her lips together in slight distaste. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in love, Beauregard. I’ve often wondered if you would allow it to derail your ambition the way it would have all those years ago.”
The mention of what happened the summer after I turned nineteen, even one so oblique as this, leaves a bad taste in my mouth that no amount of cucumber, cream cheese, and pepper is going to rinse out. I chew anyway, because letting her know she’s currently wielding the upper hand isn’t an option.
“My career is on thin ice, as you’ve so aptly observed. We’ll see how everything shakes out.”
“I was thinking that it’s about time we’ve met Miss Harper. The family archives are in the process of being moved into a new space at Magnolia in order to keep the majority of them away from the prying eyes of the public.” That frown of distaste again, but this time it’s not about my girlfriend. “All of my research suggests that she’s almost as good at archiving historical documents as she is at getting herself into jail cells.”
I feel my eyes narrow as suspicion wells up into my chest. My mother wanting to get eyes on Gracie doesn’t surprise me—she’s nothing if not polite and prepared—but asking her to get into our family documents? That’s something else all together. As far as I know, she’s never let anyone outside the family anywhere near those things. Hell, I’ve only seen a portion of them.
“And what does that have to do with the archives?”
“We need to get them into shape. Preserve the history properly, decide what should be shared and what should be filed. That sort of thing.”
“Right, but why do you want Gracie to do it?”
She sighs, sipping her cooling tea. “I’ve just told you, Beauregard. She’s the best at our disposal, and you know how I feel about anything less than that.”
I don’t like it, but the surest way to make it happen is to let my mother in on that little secret.
The sound of footsteps in the foyer is a blessed interruption, pulling my mother’s attention from my face and the quality of this meager lunch. The click of expensive shoes on polished, refinished wooden floors announces my brother Brick before his voice carries into the sitting room.
“It’s fine, Henrietta, I’m not planning to stay. Just a quick visit, I’m afraid.”
He appears in the doorway a breath later, thwarting my brief hope that he might be here to discuss business with my father and not my mother.
I should have known better. My father spends most of his time “working” at the golf course these days, leaving my brother and sister to run the law firm my grandfather started half a century ago now. The cat-that-ate-the-canary expression on my brother’s face makes me rethink the whole blessed interruption assumption. Because whenever Brick is that happy, it usually means no one else is.
Chapter Two
Gracie
I wake up thinking about that phone call from David. About how I was so calm, just spouted out my grandparents’ address in Heron Creek—my address in Heron Creek—to pass along to the man who claims to be my father but could, in reality, be any manner of psychopath.
Other people think actual raving lunatics are few and far between. Maybe they’re even right, but in the life I’ve been leading since my return to South Carolina, to this little town that’s starting to feel like home again, the lunatics seem a little bit closer together than that. Especially with the way they’ve been lining u
p outside my door to say how-do-you-do.
The ghost of Henry Woodward peers at me from the corner of the room, the spot I’ve come to think of as his. Anne Bonny had preferred the windowsill and the chair. She liked being situated with a clear view of the marsh stretching out behind the house toward the intracoastal, but Henry chooses the shadows. Walls at his back.
I’ve been watching him for over a month now, and I got to know Anne pretty well before she decided Amelia and I could deal with the curse well enough on our own and left the world behind for good. Their chosen spots in my bedroom seem telling. Anne had craved freedom, the open waters, a wandering path through the world she lived in. But Henry? I don’t know. He spent his life running from one culture to another, from ruined homes to ones that would be ruined soon enough, without much in the way of solid ground beneath his feet or friends to watch his back.
I think he likes knowing what’s behind him, and being able to see what’s in front. It’s hard to blame him, and would be even if I knew nothing of his life on earth. There’s something appealing about always being able to see what’s going to smack you in the face next, but as Henry—at the moment representative of all of my ghosts—doesn’t seem keen on affording me the same privilege, he mostly irritates me.
It’s not just the ghosts, I think as my bare feet hit the cool, worn wooden bedroom floor. Everything that’s happened over the past six months—David cheating on me, moving back to Heron Creek, meeting Beau, losing Gramps, almost being murdered, like, half-a-dozen times—I didn’t see even hints of those troubles flickering in front of my headlights.
“Yikes,” I mutter after catching sight of myself in the mirror. My unruly brown waves are tangled, sticking out in several directions, and the idiotic bangs Hadley Renee gave me a few weeks ago refuse to be tamed. “Why didn’t you look terrified just now?”
Henry doesn’t answer. Apparently part of the dead deal is not being able to speak. At first it annoyed me because verbal communication would make things so much easier, but then again, what if they could talk and never shut up? I like sleeping too much to consider that option, and besides, their demands are annoying enough the way they are.
