by Lanyon, Josh
Austin’s offering was a Kindle wireless reading device.
“Well, well,” Harrison mused, holding the box up. “Electronic books, eh? That’s very thoughtful, Austin.”
Ernest’s gift was a computer game called NIER. Harrison chuckled and hugged him. “You’ll have to teach me how to play this, Son.”
After the presents came the cake and ice cream and the annual speech from Harrison about his real legacy being his family. His legacy patted him on the back and kissed the top of his head and urged him to hurry up and cut the cake.
Austin listened and ate cake and watched his smiling stepmothers and sisters and brother—and felt like a stranger staring through a window. This was his family. He loved them. And yet he didn’t think he could feel more alien if he had been one of those white-haired, angular-faced characters in Ernest’s video game.
What was wrong with him tonight?
Partly it was his anxiety at the idea of returning to Ballineen. As much as he’d love to know if the Lee bottles were in that dusty dungeon of a cellar, he dreaded the possibility of running into Jeff again. He was embarrassed when he remembered how worked up he’d gotten over the one night they’d spent together. Sure, the sex had been terrific, but…Austin had carried on like it was love at first sight. He went cold every time he remembered the things he’d blurted to Jeff. Clearly he was not cut out for casual flings. Clearly he was a lot more romantic than he’d realized. Clearly he was a lot lonelier than he realized.
No, he definitely didn’t want to risk running into Jeff again.
Forefront, though, was the worry about what to do over the situation at the wine shop. The more Austin considered the blatant dis of Theresa’s promotion over him, the more convinced he was that he needed to do something, needed to react strongly, decisively. React as Harrison would if Harrison had elected to spend his life pursuing something as peripheral as wine consulting—and someone had the balls to challenge him. But the only something left open to Austin was to leave Martyn, North, & Compeau, and the idea of that scared him silly.
Without the clout of MN&C behind him, he was just another guy with a blog and an opinion. And who would care about his opinions if he didn’t work for MN&C?
He could try for another position at another wine shop, of course. Start over somewhere. Or he could try for a job at a winery. Or a restaurant.
Or even go for something completely different.
He didn’t want to go for something different, though. He loved his work. He loved wine. He was proud of his achievements, even if they didn’t feel like much compared to those of his family’s.
Every time one of his sisters or stepmothers asked him in that tactful way about how his job was going, he was deeply relieved that he hadn’t resigned that afternoon. Having to try to explain why he had quit… No.
So maybe he should just accept Theresa’s promotion with good grace and be grateful he still had a job.
“I’ve decided not to sue Mother and Harrison,” Ernest informed him when Austin went upstairs to say good night.
“I think that’s a wise decision.”
Ernest wore green pajamas with dinosaurs. He was brushing his teeth, and he let the toothpaste boil out and spill over his chin and spatter his pajama top. Austin sat on Ernest’s bed and watched, fascinated. Ernest didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, and Austin envied him that. He’d been a neurotic mess of insecurities at Ernest’s age. He was probably still a neurotic mess of insecurities compared to Ernest.
“Not because I wouldn’t win,” Ernest said, foaming at the mouth. “I would. But you were right about my birthday and Christmas. I don’t think Mother and Father will let me build a reflecting telescope in the attic if I sue them.”
“You’re all heart, Ernesto.”
Ernest made an ar-ar-ar sound like a laughing sea lion. “Humor, earthling!” He nearly choked on toothpaste and had to retreat to the bathroom, where he was wasting gallons of water running the taps at full blast.
Austin was still chuckling when Ernest returned dripping but foam free.
“I’m going to make them let me come home on weekends.”
“Oh?” Austin said noncommittally.
“Harrison will do that for me,” Ernest said, supremely confident. Maybe he was right. Harrison wasn’t traveling much these days, and it wasn’t like Ernest was a child who required a lot of parental interaction.
Ernest’s small, wet hands locked on Austin’s shoulders, and he gave Austin a quick, damp kiss on his forehead. “I’m going to bed now. Good night.”
Amused at his clear dismissal, Austin rose. “Right. Night.” He dropped a quick kiss on Ernest’s spiky, little-boy-smelling hair and went to the door. “Lights on or off?”
“On. I’m going to read.” Ernest picked up a copy of An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics and crawled between sheets featuring The Jetsons. The sheets were Debra’s choice. Ernest disapproved of The Jetsons.
“Nighty-night,” Austin said and left him there surrounded by his mobiles of distant galaxies and assorted glow-in-the-dark models of planets and stars.
“Your father wants to speak to you,” Debra said when Austin arrived downstairs. “He’s in his study.”
Austin nodded, ignoring that flare of foreboding, and headed for Harrison’s study, where he found his father reclining in the big leather chair behind his desk, enjoying his habitual after-dinner cigar and brandy.
“Help yourself, Austin,” Harrison instructed.
Austin loathed cigars—few things were more effective at spoiling palate and nose—but he poured himself a brandy and took the chair on the other side of his father’s desk. Now that he thought about it, most of his meetings with his father took place either across this desk or meal tables. He could count on one hand the number of hugs he remembered receiving—even including when he was younger than Ernest. But Harrison had mellowed with age. He was more sentimental these days.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” Harrison said, studying the tip of his cigar. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Everything’s fine, Dad.”
Harrison’s dark gaze moved to Austin’s face, scrutinizing him. “How’s the job?”
“Fine.” More than ever, Austin was glad he had not quit in a fury that afternoon. Peter was liable to phone Harrison with the news. No way would Austin’s resignation have gone unnoticed. He had an uneasy feeling not even his recent run-in with Whitney had gone unnoticed.
“I see.” Harrison was silent. Austin felt his nerves tighten. “You know, Austin,” Harrison said at last, “you’re getting to an age when it’s time to make some decisions about the future.”
Austin sipped his brandy and waited, nerves on edge.
“You rejected the idea of journalism, even though that’s what you majored in and that’s what you’ve got a degree in. You wanted to try music and then modeling. Well, your mother was a model, so I guess that’s not as strange as it might otherwise have been.”
“I did the modeling for spending money. It wasn’t ever a career choice.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Or would be, except for the fact that you don’t seem to have ever settled on any career choice. At nine, Ernest has a better idea of what he wants to do with his life than you do at twenty-nine.”
Austin could feel the blood draining from his face. It had been a long time since they’d had one of these father-son chats. He’d have been happy to go the rest of his life without another one. “I have settled on a choice. I’m a master of wine—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Harrison burst out. “That’s a hobby. That’s not a career. What the hell kind of job is that for a grown man? Master of wine. That’s one step from claiming you want to be a Jedi knight when you grow up.” Harrison broke off and seemed to struggle for a more reasonable tone. “I understand you have some resentments, but it’s time to pull yourself together. I can get you a starting position at the Washington Post the minute you say the word.”
>
“I don’t want to be a journalist.” Like it wasn’t hard enough living up to the legend? Try competing in the same field.
“Then why the hell did you study journalism in college?”
“Because you wanted me to.”
That took Harrison aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “You didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life then, and you still don’t. Sometimes I even think this whole matter of your sexual orientation is just…” Harrison let that go.
Austin asked evenly, “Is just what?”
Harrison’s eyes were as black and hard as jet. “I’m not sure. Fear of competition? A bid for attention? Adolescent rebellion?”
Well, he’d asked. Now he knew. He should probably be furious. Oddly, he just felt numb. Numb and more depressed than he’d ever felt in his life. Austin set his brandy snifter on the desk and rose.
“I’m not an adolescent, and I’m not aware of any particular resentment. I’ve always been proud to be your son.” Harrison’s face changed. He moved as though to speak, but Austin made himself finish. “My sexuality doesn’t have to do with anything but me. It’s not a choice. I’m sorry the choices I have made with my life disappoint you, but better you than me.”
“Austin—”
“Night, Dad. Happy birthday.”
Chapter Eight
It was already unseasonably hot and sultry at ten o’clock in the morning. The scent of roses and rust drifted on the restless breeze along with the scrape, scrape, scrape of a rake on stone. The same young black man Austin had seen working in the front garden of Ballineen was still at it. He didn’t seem to have made much progress against the encroaching jungle during the past month.
One of the green shutters had fallen to the grass, giving the face of the house a bare, lopsided look, like a woman missing one of her false eyelashes.
The peeling front door opened, and Carson Cashel, dressed in tight white jeans and a black-and-white-polka-dot midriff top that revealed her flat tummy and emphasized her small, perky breasts, drawled with friendly mockery, “Why, Mr. Gillespie, I do declare.”
Remembering his last trip to Ballineen, Austin said, “How was your party?”
She looked blank, then laughed. “It was a lot of fun till Cormac got thrown out for fighting.”
“What was the fight over?”
“I don’t remember now. Something to do with whether Carson McCullers was as fine a writer as Mr. Faulkner. Did you read Cormac’s stories?”
Did she know under what circumstances those stories had been delivered to him? Austin wondered, meeting her bright, mischievous eyes.
“I did, yeah.”
“Lucky thing, because I know Cormac is looking forward to talking to you.” Yes, she was definitely laughing at him. “I told that boss of yours that he was to send you and no one else.”
“Thanks.”
Austin followed her into the house. Buckets had been strategically placed down the front hallway to catch leaks near the window casements. His nostrils twitched. The place smelled strongly of dampness, cooking turnips, and ham.
“Corrie said he didn’t believe you would come back, but I knew you would.”
“How did you know that?”
“I just had that feeling.” As Carson led him down the dark hallways, she added, “I checked the cellar myself this morning, and everything seems normal. For this house. They never did figure out how poor Dom ended up down here.”
“It’s only been a month. The investigation must still be ongoing?”
“I suppose so. It sure is a mystery.”
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Austin remarked, “but you seem to take Williams’s death pretty much in stride.”
“Ballineen is a very old house. A lot of people have died here.” Carson added, “Any old how, there’s no use me pretending to feel something I don’t feel. It was all over between Dom and me long before crazy Henry started threatening to kill us.”
“Crazy Henry. You mean Williams’s wife?”
“That’s right. But in fairness to Henry, I’m sure a lot of people were happy to see the last of Dom. He did have a tendency to get on your nerves. Although, personally, I think it was probably just an unfortunate accident, his landing in our cellar.”
“Is that what the sheriffs say?”
“Oh, they don’t tell us anything.”
“But it is all right for me to work in the cellar? The sheriffs have okayed it?” Austin couldn’t help that flash of suspicion. The Cashels seemed to have peculiar notions of law and order.
He wasn’t reassured when Carson chortled without answering.
A thin voice wafted from the parlor as they passed. “Is that him, honey? Is that Mr. Gillespie?”
Carson whispered, “You better look in and say hello to Auntie Eudie.”
Austin followed her into the parlor. Auntie Eudie sat in her accustomed place on the moth-eaten sofa. She wore wire spectacles and was industriously knitting what appeared to be some kind of fox-fur stole complete with merino-wool paws.
She bestowed as friendly a smile as if Austin was a longtime friend, and Austin found himself bending down to kiss her dry, wrinkled cheek. She smelled comfortably of apple-blossom talc and gingerbread. “Why, you sit down here and tell me all the news, Mr. Gillespie.”
Austin had that familiar sense of being caught in a social riptide. There was something so…alternate universe about the Cashels. It seemed easier to go with the flow than to try to fight.
He gave a brief and probably uninformative account of the weeks since he’d left Madison. Auntie Eudie listened, her bright eyes fixed politely on his face while her fingers nimbly maneuvered the glinting needles.
“You poor boy,” she said disconcertingly at the end of his dull recital. “You’re plumb tuckered out. You need a nice long vacation.”
“You do look interestingly pale,” Carson put in mischievously, leaning over the back of the sofa so that her cheek nearly brushed Austin’s.
“It’s been a long week.” Austin did his best to change the subject, but the only thing he could think of was the unfortunate topic of Dominic Williams.
Auntie Eudie’s cheeks turned pink with indignation. “It’s perfectly clear to me that the colonel struck down Mr. Williams for sticking his nose where he had no business.”
Austin vaguely remembered her saying something along those lines the last time. “You mean you think some supernatural force killed Mr. Williams?”
Auntie Eudie looked at him over her spectacles. “Ballineen is haunted. Don’t ever doubt that, Mr. Gillespie.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, Mr. Gillespie has a mighty big job ahead of him,” Carson interjected brightly.
“That’s right,” Auntie Eudie said. “You go right ahead and start counting those bottles, Mr. Gillespie, but don’t forget to come upstairs for your meals. We’re having a proper Southern dinner for you today.”
Austin assented, thanked her, and escaped.
“Did you really read Cormac’s stories, Mr. Gillespie?” Carson inquired as they headed down the first flight of stairs to the cellar.
“I did.”
“Well, don’t you worry about telling Cormac the truth. He doesn’t mind what people say about his work, so long as they don’t disrespect Mr. Faulkner.”
By which, Austin was quite sure, she didn’t mean the faithful family retainer. He began to feel increasingly nervous about those stories.
At last they reached the cellar, which was remarkably cool, despite the heat of the day and smelled blessedly free of dead bodies and bug spray both. Austin saw no sign of crime-scene tape or anything to indicate an investigation was still in progress, so perhaps Williams’s death had been an accident.
The card table and chair were back in position beneath the giant spiderweb. Austin set his laptop case down and unzipped it.
“What did you think of Cormac’s stories?” Carson asked with sudden seriousness.
A
ustin glanced around. “I thought they were really well written, but I don’t know a lot about publishing or selling fiction.”
“Oh, Corrie doesn’t care about that. He means for the stories to be published after he’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
She giggled. “Dead, silly.”
“Oh.” Considering that four out of ten protagonists in Cormac’s stories had killed themselves, Austin wondered if departure was imminent. Anything he might have added was forgotten as muffled voices floated down from above.
“One more time and you won’t have to worry about your parole officer. I’ll ring your scrawny neck and feed you to the dogs.”
Parole officer? Austin stared ceilingward. “What’s that?”
Carson widened her eyes and said in a spooky voice, “Why, that’s the colonel, Austin. He doesn’t like people fooling around his wine cellar.”
“Very funny.”
Another voice, lower and indistinct, answered the first. The words weren’t clear, but the defensive tone filtered through the bricks, wood, and termites.
Carson laughed. “Naw, that’s Faulkner. And Tyrone, it sounds like. Tyrone’s Faulkner’s nephew. Great-nephew. As a matter of fact, Tyrone is going to help you out today. We thought it would go faster that way, and you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” As a matter of fact, Austin spent a part of every year backpacking in places like South America and Australia, checking out remote wine-growing areas.
“No, I guess you’re not.” She gave him an oddly shrewd look. “Tyrone is Auntie Eudie’s project. You might have noticed him when you drove up. He’s supposed to be trimming the boxwood, although that’s always a risk because he likes to make the hedges into shapes. Animals and such. What do you call that?
“Topiaries?”
