White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  “You need anything, sir, you just holler and I’ll fetch it.” Dabbing her tearful eyes, Selma went back into the house through the wide front door, over which she had draped black crepe bunting.

  She had balked at hiring a caterer for the wake because she disliked having anyone else in her kitchen. But Huff had insisted. Selma wasn’t up to throwing a party. Since receiving the news about Danny, she’d been given to bouts of loud weeping, to falling to her knees and, with her hands clasped, calling on Jesus for mercy.

  She had worked for the Hoyles since Huff had carried Laurel over the threshold as a bride, nearly forty years ago. Laurel had grown up with domestics, so it was natural for her to relinquish the management of her own household to Selma. The black woman had seemed middle-aged and maternal then; her age now was anybody’s guess. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, if that, but she was as strong and resilient as a willow sapling.

  After the children came along, Selma had acted as their nanny. When Laurel died, Danny, as the youngest, was also the neediest. Selma had mothered him, and consequently they’d had a special bond. She was taking his death hard.

  “I saw the buffet in the dining room,” Chris remarked. He sat the plate Selma had given him, untouched, on a wicker side table. “There’s a vulgar abundance of food and liquor in there, don’t you think?”

  “Since you have never known a day of hunger in your life, I’d say you are no authority on how much food is too much.”

  Privately, Huff conceded that perhaps he had gone a little overboard. But he’d worked like the devil to provide the best for his children. He wasn’t about to skimp on his youngest boy’s wake.

  “Are you going to remind me how ungrateful I am for all I have, how I don’t know what it’s like to go without the basic necessities of life like you did?”

  “I’m glad I had to go without. Going without made me determined never to go without again. It made me who I am. And you’re who you are because of me.”

  “Relax, Huff.” Chris sat down in one of the rockers on the porch. “I know all the lessons by heart. I was suckled and weaned on them. We don’t have to rehash them today.”

  Huff felt his blood pressure receding to a safer level. “No, we don’t. Stand up, though, here comes more company.”

  Chris was beside him once again as a couple approached and started up the gallery steps toward them. “How do, George? Lila. Thank you for coming,” Huff said.

  George Robson pressed Huff’s right hand between his own. They were moist, fleshy, and pale. Like all of George, Huff thought with repugnance.

  “Danny was a fine young man, Huff. Nobody finer.”

  “You’re right about that, George.” He reclaimed his hand, barely curbing the impulse to wipe it dry on the leg of his trousers. “I sure appreciate you saying so.”

  “It’s a tragic thing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  George’s much younger second wife said nothing, but Huff intercepted the sly glance she cast at Chris, who smiled at her and said, “Better get this pretty lady inside and out of this heat, George. She looks sweet enough to melt. Help yourselves to the buffet.”

  “Plenty of gin in there, George,” Huff said. “Have one of those bartenders make you a tall one, light on the tonic.”

  The man seemed pleased that Huff remembered his drink of choice and quickly ushered his wife inside. Once they were out of earshot, Huff turned to Chris. “How long has Lila been one of yours?”

  “As of last Saturday afternoon while George was out fishing with his son by his first marriage.” Smiling, he added, “Second wives are advantageous that way. There’s usually an offspring that keeps their husbands occupied at least two weekends a month.”

  Huff scowled at him. “Speaking of wives, between diddling Lila Robson, have you talked to Mary Beth?”

  “For about five seconds.”

  “You told her about Danny?”

  “As soon as she said hello, I said, ‘Mary Beth, Danny killed himself.’ And her response was ‘Then my share just got bigger.’ ”

  Huff’s blood pressure soared again. “Her share, my ass. That gal won’t see one red cent of my money. Not unless she does right by you and gives you a divorce. And I don’t mean in her own sweet time. I mean now. Did you ask about those divorce papers we sent down there?”

  “Not specifically. But Mary Beth isn’t going to sign any divorce papers.”

  “Then get her back here and get her pregnant.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I can’t.”

  Attuned to Chris’s dark tone, Huff narrowed his eyes. “How come? Is there something you’re not telling me, something I don’t know?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “We’ll talk about it now.”

  “This isn’t the time, Huff,” Chris said, straining the words. “Besides, you’re getting red in the face, and we know what that means in terms of your blood pressure.” He headed for the front door. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  “Hold on. Look at this.”

  Huff directed Chris’s gaze toward the lane in front of the house, where Beck was approaching a car that had just pulled to a stop. He opened the driver’s door and extended his hand down.

  Sayre alighted, but without any assistance from Beck. In fact she looked ready to hiss at him if he touched her.

  “We’ll I’ll be damned,” Chris said.

  He and Huff watched as the two came across the yard and started up the walkway. About halfway, Sayre tilted her head back and looked up from beneath the wide brim of her black straw hat. When she saw him and Chris there on the gallery, she changed her direction and angled off toward the side of the house and the footpath that led to the rear.

  Huff watched her until she disappeared around the corner. He hadn’t known what to expect upon seeing his daughter for the first time in ten years, but he was proud of what he saw. Sayre Hoyle—that name-changing business was horseshit—was a fine-looking woman. Damn fine. To his mind, she couldn’t have turned out any better.

  Beck climbed the steps to join them.

  “I’m impressed,” Chris said. “I figured she’d tell you to fuck off.”

  “Close.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just as you thought, Huff, she was planning to leave without seeing you.”

  “So how’d you get her here?”

  “I appealed to her sense of family loyalty and decency.”

  Chris made a scoffing sound.

  “Has she always been that snotty?” Beck asked.

  Chris answered yes at the same time Huff said, “She’s always been a little high-strung.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying that she’s a pain in the ass.” Chris scanned the yard. “I think everybody who’s coming is here. Let’s go inside and give Danny his due.”

  • • •

  The house was jammed with people, which didn’t surprise Beck. Anyone even remotely connected to or acquainted with the Hoyles would turn out to pay respects to one who died.

  Top- and middle-management personnel from the plant were there with their wives. Only a few laborers were there, men Beck knew had been employees since they were old enough to work. They stood apart from everyone else, wearing clip-on neckties with their short-sleeve shirts, looking ill at ease inside Huff Hoyle’s house, awkwardly balancing plates of food and trying to avoid a spill.

  Then there were the ass-kissers who were always eager to stay on the Hoyles’ good side because their livelihoods depended on it. The local politicians, bankers, educators, retailers, and physicians all operated under Huff’s largesse. If one got crosswise with him, he was soon out of business. It wasn’t a written law, but it was etched into the stone of common knowledge. Each made certain to sign the guest register so that, in the unlikely event they didn’t speak to Huff personally, he would at least know they had paid homage.

  The fewest in number were the people wh
o were actually there for Danny, standouts because of their expressions of genuine grief. For the most part, they stayed clustered together, talking sadly among themselves, but having little to say to him, Chris, or Huff, out of either indifference or intimidation. As soon as they had stayed for a polite length of time, they left.

  Beck mingled, accepting condolences like a bona fide member of the family.

  Sayre mingled, too, but only with guests. Him, Chris, and Huff she avoided, ignoring them as though they weren’t there. People kept their distance from her unless she approached them, he noticed. These were simple, small-town folk. Sayre was anything but. She made herself accessible, but many seemed shy of her sophistication.

  He succeeded in making eye contact with her only once. Her arm was linked with Selma’s as they made their way along the central hallway. Sayre was consoling the housekeeper, who was sobbing onto her shoulder. She spotted him watching them but looked straight through him.

  Two hours elapsed before the crowd began to thin out. He joined Chris, who was grazing at the buffet. “Where’s Huff?”

  “Having a smoke in the den. Ham’s good. Have you eaten?”

  “I will later. Is Huff all right?”

  “Tired, I think. The last couple of days have been a strain.”

  “How about you?”

  Chris shrugged. “Danny and I had our differences, you know. But he was still my brother.”

  “I’ll go check on Huff and leave you to play host.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Chris muttered.

  “It can’t be that bad. I see Lila Robson over there.” Chris had boasted of his latest conquest, confirming what Beck had always suspected—that Lila’s husband was a schmuck. “She looks a little forlorn, like she could use some company.”

  “No, she’s sulking.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She thinks I’m using her just for sex.”

  “Now why would she think that?” Beck asked sarcastically.

  “Beats me. She started whining about it right after she gave me a blow job in the upstairs bathroom.” Chris checked his wristwatch. “About ten minutes ago.”

  Beck looked at him. “You’re not serious.”

  Chris’s shrug neither denied nor confirmed. “Go check on Huff. I’ll try to keep these yahoos from walking out with the family sterling.”

  Beck found Huff in his recliner, smoking. He closed the door behind himself. “Mind if I sit with you for a while?”

  “Who sent you, Chris or Selma? I know it wasn’t Sayre. She wouldn’t waste any worry on me.”

  “I can’t speak for her.” Beck sat down on the sofa. “But I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” He blew a gust of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You’re putting up a brave front, but you just lost your son and that’s gotta be tough.”

  The older man smoked in silence for several moments, then said, “You know, I think Danny would have been Laurel’s favorite.”

  Beck leaned forward and propped his forearms on his knees. “Because . . . ?”

  “Because he was like her.” He shot Beck a glance. “I ever tell you about Laurel?”

  “I’ve picked up things here and there.”

  “She was exactly what I wanted, Beck. Not particularly bright. But hell, who wants that? Laurel was soft and sweet and pretty.”

  Beck nodded. The oil portrait that dominated the staircase landing depicted a woman who was soft, sweet, and pretty. But he couldn’t help but think that part of Laurel Lynch’s attraction had been the metal pipe casting factory that her daddy had owned and where Huff had been an employee.

  “I was rough and uncouth, foul talking. She was a refined lady. Knew which fork to use.”

  “So how did you talk her into marrying you?”

  “I bowled her over,” he said, chuckling at the memory. “I said, ‘Laurel, you’re going to be my wife,’ and she said all right. She’d been courted by men who walked on eggshells around her. I guess she liked my brass.”

  He contemplated the smoke rising from the tip of his cigarette. “You may not believe this, Beck, but I was faithful to her. Never strayed. Not once. I didn’t go to another woman until she had been dead a respectable amount of time, either. I figured I owed her that.”

  After a moment of reflection, he continued. “When she got pregnant, I busted my buttons with pride. I knew the baby would be a boy. Had to be. Chris was mine from the second they pulled him out of her and handed him to me. Back then, delivery rooms were off-limits to fathers. But I bribed the staff with a huge donation and they agreed quick enough to let me come in. I wanted my face to be the first one my son saw when he entered this world.

  “Anyhow, I claimed Chris from the start, and from then on, he was mine. As the trade-off, it was easy to leave Sayre to Laurel. Sayre was her little doll to put in ruffled dresses, and to throw tea parties for, give English riding lessons to. Bullshit like that. But if Laurel had lived, she and Sayre would have wound up fighting tooth and toenail. Sayre isn’t exactly the tea party type, is she?”

  Beck doubted that she was.

  “Sayre wouldn’t have cared a flip about anything that was important to Laurel,” Huff continued. “But Danny now, his mother would have doted on him. He is—he was—a gentleman. Like Laurel, he was born about a century too late. He should have been born in a time when everybody dressed in white clothes and knocked around croquet balls and had clean fingernails all the time. Sipped champagne cocktails on the gallery. When leisure was an art form.”

  He looked across at Beck, and the tender expression brought on by his reverie disappeared. “Danny wasn’t cut out for business. Especially our business. It’s too dirty. Not clean enough for the likes of him.”

  “He did his job well, Huff. The workers loved him.”

  “They’re not supposed to love us. They’re supposed to be scared shitless of us. We appear, their knees should start knocking.”

  “Yes, but Danny served as a buffer. He was proof to them that we’re human. At least to some extent.”

  Huff shook his head. “Naw, Danny was too tenderhearted to be a good businessman. Wishy-washy. Always agreeing with the last speaker. He could be swayed too easily.”

  “A trait that you frequently relied on,” Beck reminded him.

  He snuffled an agreement. “Hell, I admit that. He wanted to make everybody happy. I knew that about him, and I used it to my advantage. What Danny never figured out was that you can’t make everybody happy. If you try, you’re whipped before you begin.

  “Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only person he listened to. I hate to speak ill of him, but I’ve always called a spade a spade. I can be honest about the natures of my own children, and Danny was weak.”

  Although he didn’t argue the point, Beck wouldn’t have used weak as the adjective to sum up Danny’s character. Granted, he didn’t go for the jugular like his father and brother—or like Beck himself, for that matter. But gentleness had its advantages, too. It didn’t necessarily make one weak. Indeed, Danny had been steadfast in his view of where one should draw the line between right and wrong.

  Beck wondered if his strict moral code was the reason he’d had to die.

  Huff took one final pull on the cigarette, then ground it out. “I should get back to the party.”

  As they stood, Beck said, “Last night I put a folder on the desk in your bedroom. You probably haven’t had a chance to look at it.”

  “No. What’s in it?”

  “I just wanted to bring it to your attention. We can talk about it later.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  Beck knew that Huff’s mind was never far from his business, even on the day he buried his son. “Ever heard of a man named Charles Nielson?”

  “Don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “A labor advocate.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Synonyms for sure,” Beck said with a wry smile. “He’s written us a letter. A copy of it is in
the folder. I need to know how you want me to respond. It’s not urgent business, but it needs to be addressed, so don’t wait too long to give it a look.”

  Together they moved toward the door. “Is he good, this Nielson?”

  Beck hesitated, and when Huff picked up on it, he made a hand gesture that said, “Give it to me.” “He’s building a reputation in other parts of the country,” Beck said. “But we can handle him.”

  Huff slapped him on the back. “I have every confidence in you. Whoever the son of a bitch is, or thinks he is, he’ll be a flyspeck when you get through with him.”

  He opened the den door. Across the wide hallway they could see into the informal parlor, which Laurel had designated a conservatory because of its expansive windows. She had filled it with ferns, orchids, violets, and other tropical plants. The room had been her pride and joy, as well as that of the Destiny Garden Club, of which she had been president for several consecutive years.

  After she died, Huff had hired an indoor plant service in New Orleans to come to Destiny once a week to tend the plants. He paid them a hefty retainer but had also threatened them with a lawsuit if the plants died. The room remained the prettiest one in the house, also the most infrequently used. The men who lived there seldom went into it.

  It was presently occupied, however. Sayre was seated at the baby grand piano, her back to them, her head bent over the keyboard.

  “Can you get her to speak to me, Beck?”

  “I could barely get her to speak to me.”

  Huff nudged him forward. “Use your powers of persuasion.”

  chapter 4

  “Do you play?”

  Sayre turned. Beck Merchant strolled into the room, his hands in his pants pockets. When he reached the end of the piano bench, he acted as though he expected her to scoot over and make room for him. She didn’t respond to the hint and, instead, remained firmly fixed.