Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” she said mulishly. He made an exasperated noise and snapped the keys into her palm. She walked back outside, cast an eye to the heavens—the rain was still holding off—folded the garment bag onto the backseat of the car, and put the duffel in the footwell behind the passenger seat. Then she returned to the lodge through the front door. One of the young women dressed all in black looked at her askance, but Lucy didn’t stop to explain that she was a Crissman and therefore working the room as much as she was.

  * * *

  The place was filling up. Waiters balanced trays as they eased between knots of guests on the main floor. Conversation buzzed, drowning out the notes of a lone cellist. Layla had wandered around aimlessly for what felt like hours but now was back at her chosen station near her painting. Abbott hadn’t called a meeting of all of them. After demanding they all come early, he’d practically ignored her. Probably the same for Lucy, though she’d seen her father in deep conversation with Lyle. Those two were like coconspirators sometimes.

  The main crush of the benefit guests was currently arriving. People were waiting by the front door, standing in groups. She recognized a voice, turned to it, and saw Cathie Hyatt. Neil’s friend.

  Oh . . . shit. Neil wouldn’t be here, would he?

  She eyed the room wildly, heart racing.

  Cathie was chattering, but Layla was deaf to everything but the surf in her ear created by her roaring pulse. She’d never considered she might see Neil at the event. He knew it was her family putting it on.

  Her gaze raked back and forth. There was Lucy in a red dress, just reentering from outside, sweeping up a glass of champagne from a server, then holding it in a death grip. John was saying something to her. They didn’t look happy with each other. There was Lyle, standing by their father, both looking grim with Kate on one side, seeming to try to be listening in. A man Layla didn’t recognize was talking to them, thrusting his champagne glass forward in sharp, staccato motions, making some kind of point. Cathie’s husband, Rand, tried to catch Layla’s eye with a smile, but she was too anxious to acknowledge him. There were several people from the Black Swan Gallery. No one else she recognized. No one. No Neil, as far as she could tell. She blinked, coming back to the present in time to see Cathie approaching, saying something to her ...

  “What?” Layla asked faintly, but Cathie was still talking.

  “. . . your brother looks so much like him, don’t you think? More than your father does.”

  “My brother?” Layla repeated.

  “Lyle’s really the spitting image of Junior at the same age. Rand has a picture of them at a golf tournament. He and Lyle could be twins, except for a few generations.” She smiled, showing off dimples in a face growing full of creases. She and her husband had been friends of Neil’s father before his death but considered Neil a good friend, too.

  “Is Neil . . . coming?”

  “Oh no, dear. I doubt it very much.” She paused, apparently thinking of how to go on, then added, “We heard about your breakup. I’m so sorry.”

  “Ah . . . yes . . . thank you.”

  “Did you ever go see Dallas Denton?”

  Her pulse made another uncomfortable spike. “Sorry?”

  “I thought you were going to meet with him after our talk?”

  Layla cast about wildly and finally remembered her conversation with Cathie. She’d been testing the waters a little bit. She and Neil hadn’t quite fallen apart yet, but she’d sensed something was up. Cathie had been doing the talking, as usual, and mentioned a “good lawyer” one of her friends was using.

  “She got into drug trouble, you know, and the prosecutor wanted to make an example of her,” Cathie had confided. “It was just a prescription she had to refill a few more times, and I don’t know what happened, but she called on Dallas Denton to represent her.”

  “For being overprescribed?” Layla wasn’t tracking.

  “Oh, I think there was a little something more. Maybe she . . . well, let’s be honest. She sold a few pills to some friends. Drug trafficking is very serious, you know, and even though it was small and anyway ... she ended up with community service, and now she talks to other people my age who don’t think it could happen to them.” Now, she eyed Layla consideringly. “I never really thought you had a . . . criminal problem. You just seemed, interested.”

  “Just talking, I guess.” That was a complete lie, but she couldn’t very well turn around now and admit she was suing Neil for joint custody of Eddie, using the very lawyer Cathie had recommended, should Layla ever need a criminal defense lawyer.

  Rand stepped up to them. “Would you like a glass of champagne, Layla?”

  “Oh, no, thanks.” Actually, she would like a glass of champagne. She felt like having a drink, and champagne was always her weakness. But she wanted to separate herself from the Hyatts. Nice people that they were, they were Neil’s friends, and that was enough to put her on edge. They didn’t appear to know about the raging custody battle as yet, and she didn’t want to get in to it. Better just to excuse herself from them.

  It was at that moment that a woman separated herself from the crowd at the door, handing over her black coat to an attendant who was using the closest room to the massive double doors as a coat closet. She turned toward Layla, and Layla was pierced by a serious déjà vu. Who? she thought, before realizing she looked a great deal like an actress in one of those superhero movie franchises. Not as pretty, she saw now, and probably a bit heavier. But her dark hair was the same, and some of her facial bone structure.

  As Layla watched, she looked back to the man handing over his tickets. He was smiling at the young woman taking the tickets. Neil.

  He came forward, and the dark-haired woman linked her arm through his. Layla could scarcely breathe. This was Neil’s new girlfriend? Not only had he shown up, but he’d brought her as a companion?

  Shock swept through her, so intense it left her shaking. She looked around for Lucy and found her sister staring coldly into her husband’s eyes, her mouth grim, and John was glaring back at her as well, his whole posture suggesting he wanted to wring her neck.

  “. . . you okay?”

  Layla realized dully that Cathie Hyatt was still beside her, still chattering. At that very minute, Cathie looked up and said, “Oh, there’s Neil!” and then she sucked in a little breath as she saw Neil’s guest.

  Courtney, Layla remembered. Neil’s girlfriend’s name was Courtney.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Cathie and walked away.

  * * *

  Lucy waited for John to explode. Grab her and shake her. Scream at her. Drag her out by one arm.

  Her transgressions had found her.

  She had watched transfixed, frozen in place, as the white-haired gentleman from the Pembroke Inn worked his way over to her. She’d seen him coming as if from a long way away. Armageddon. End of days. He greeted her with pleasure. “My, my. You look wonderful in that dress, dear. I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you with Mark?”

  John had been turned toward the hors d’oeuvres tray of tiny bruschetta with strawberries atop a thin melt of cheese. Overhearing, he’d looked back quickly at Lucy and then the older man. “Mr. Carlin,” he greeted him. “Do you know my wife?”

  “Your wife?” Mr. Carlin’s snowy brows damn near lifted off his face.

  “Mr. Carlin and I met at the Pembroke,” Lucy told John in a squeaky voice, her breath coming fast. She was hyperventilating. She had to appear normal. Carlin had seen her sneaking around the building to meet Mark. He knew.

  “Oh, that other night?” John bit into the bruschetta, his eyes lasered on Lucy.

  Lucy nodded.

  “Who’s Mark?” John asked, deceptively mild.

  Carlin swept in his crinkled lips as if afraid to speak. It was Lucy who said through a dry throat, “The bartender.”

  “Lucy.”

  Lucy turned like an automaton to see Layla approaching rap
idly, her skin ashen. She’d been standing nearby, then left, but now she was back and paler than ever.

  She really is too thin, Lucy thought. She felt dissociated from the moment.

  John saw Layla and said tightly, “Just a minute.” Then he grabbed Lucy’s arm and pulled her to one side. Lucy was aware of guests turning their way, a kaleidoscope of color in their gowns. She felt dizzy. Like falling through a vortex.

  “The bartender?” he hissed. John was nothing if not perceptive.

  She wanted to lie. To defend herself. To say that Mr. Carlin had gotten it wrong. But Carlin was about twenty feet behind John and she caught eyes with him. He was looking flustered, embarrassed by the scene unfolding before him.

  “Lucy.” John’s grip on her forearm was hard.

  “Ow,” she said.

  “Lucy.” Layla again. Lucy turned to her. Layla looked desperate.

  John leaned close. “If I learn you’ve fucked him, I’ll kill you.”

  She shook herself free. Instead of scaring her, he’d filled her with outrage. “When did you get so dramatic? You’re usually a block of ice.” She turned and stalked away, aware of eyes following her as she moved blindly through the crowd, seeking an exit.

  She glanced back. Layla was still standing by John. She gazed after Lucy, then looked to a woman in a black dress who was clutched onto a man in a suit with a Rolex watch and a black cowboy hat before turning her eyes soulfully back to Lucy.

  Neil Grassley. Had to be.

  Lucy felt a pang for her but couldn’t stop. She pushed through the crowd and a back door and hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she was gulping fresh air.

  * * *

  September held her champagne glass and listened with half an ear to Jake and William Ogden discussing investments, specifically some of the better buys Ogden had made in the stock market. The man was puffed up with a certain amount of self-importance, though he did credit Jake with guiding him in the right direction. Ogden had called out to two other couples already, whom he’d then introduced to Jake, singing Jake’s praises like a proud father. September had done her duty, smiling, shaking hands, making small talk. She’d caught her husband giving her a sideways smile. He knew she detested this networking and appreciated her cooperation.

  She took a sip of champagne and caught a tense confrontation out of the corner of her eye. A guy in a black jacket and jeans was gripping the forearm of a woman in a red dress. September’s attention sharpened. She’d been in law enforcement long enough to have seen a number of those moments. Sometimes they dissolved. Sometimes they turned into an ugly fight.

  But the woman shook him off and stalked away. Another woman in a denim jumpsuit looked for a moment like she was going to go crashing after the first one, but she stood rooted to the spot. An hors d’oeuvres tray came September’s way, and she selected a skewer of prawns that smelled of ginger and honey. She looked up again to see another tray, this one loaded with glasses of champagne, being set on a sideboard by a harried server near the man of the originally fighting couple. The server took several steps away, as if she were planning on grabbing the attention of a blond woman in a black dress, black cowboy boots, and a red neckerchief. The tray of champagne was immediately raided by a number of guests, some taking two or more glasses at a time. The harried server never made contact with the blonde and returned a few moments later ... staring at the tray a moment before making a beeline to the kitchen.

  September considered joining the fray for the champagne. So far, the waiters had been pretty stingy with the bubbly, and with the price of the tickets, it was kind of a low move. She was all for donating but give the people what they asked for.

  The woman in the red dress returned a few moments later and said something to the man who’d held on to her forearm. A note of reconciliation, maybe? He leaned back to the unsupervised tray and grabbed up the last three glasses of champagne, handing them to the woman in red, the woman in the denim jumpsuit, and a female passerby who’d been heading to the tray only to find it empty. The passerby thanked the man profusely but shook her head, refusing the drink. Then she waited near the sideboard, looking expectantly in the direction of the kitchen.

  At least I got one, September thought, draining her glass. She would have liked one of the bruschetta, but she could never quite get her hand on those trays as they squeezed by, though the man who’d held on to the woman’s forearm seemed never to miss. She watched him snag what looked like a mushroom cap enveloped in cheese and wondered if she could excuse herself and track down one of those trays herself.

  * * *

  Kate surveyed the guests grabbing their own glasses of champagne and trailed after the too-few servers with their large faux silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. She had a mind to have a word with Jean-Luc. Crissman & Wolfe was paying a handsome price for this event—it wasn’t entirely subsidized by the patrons—and the guests deserved bountiful plates of all kinds of goodies. Yes, the main course was the star of the evening, and yes, that’s what everyone expected, but this would not do. Just would not do.

  “Where are you going?” Lyle demanded as she moved off.

  “To push the chef.”

  “For what?”

  “The hors d’oeuvres. Honestly, Lyle. Open your eyes!”

  He jerked back at her tone. Kate shot a glance to Abbott to see if he was witnessing their argument, but he was staring across the room with laser intensity. Kate immediately followed his gaze and drew in a harsh breath.

  “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it,” Lyle declared, but she wasn’t hearing him.

  Jerome Wolfe.

  She felt a full-body shiver at the silver fox with the warm smile and charming manner. He had a couple of older women nearly swooning, and there were some younger ones eyeing him with unabashed hunger. The man was gray before his time, but in a way that only made him more appealing. Silver like money. The words ran through her mind before she could stop them.

  But he was a predator. She knew that. He was trying to get Stonehenge—fuck! She never called it that!—for a song. Wolfe Lodge, she reminded herself sternly. It already possessed his name, though no Crissman would ever admit it.

  She wanted to go over to introduce herself, but she felt overcome with a shyness she rarely felt. Get on with it, Kate. For the family. You need to make the introduction.

  But an older man whose own gray hair was getting white around the temples called Jerome over to introduce him to a handsome younger man she felt she should know. The younger man was introducing Jerome to an auburn-haired woman in denim jeans and a black turtleneck. Kate inwardly sniffed. She certainly had taken the Denim and Diamonds theme to its lowest common denominator. Then she saw the rock on her finger and her heart flipped uncomfortably. Nice ring, she thought.

  “. . . do you hear me?” Lyle hissed in her ear.

  “Yes, I hear you,” she answered smartly. “Now, excuse me. I have work to do.”

  “Thought you were going to the kitchen,” he reminded as she headed in Jerome Wolfe’s direction.

  “I am.” She almost reversed herself, but then added, “In a moment.”

  * * *

  Jake was spreading his hands and smiling ruefully at the praise William Ogden was laying on him. It amused September and made her inordinately proud, as if it were her doing instead of his. She was uncomfortable, too. Narcissism at its worst, she supposed, because she couldn’t help thinking about herself, the loss of a job more acute. She shook the latest newcomer’s hand, a good-looking man in his early forties.

  “Jerome Wolfe,” Ogden introduced for September’s benefit.

  “My wife, September Westerly,” Jake told Wolfe, throwing her a warm look.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Thank you. Are you the Wolfe of Crissman and Wolfe?” she asked.

  “The current generation’s latest version,” he agreed. “My father died several years ago, so I’m it. Although my great-grandfather sold his h
alf of the store to the Crissmans before my time.”

  William Ogden’s eyes sparkled with an impish light. “Bad blood for a long time. Glad to see you’ve buried the hatchet with the current Crissmans.”

  “Have I?” Jerome Wolfe drawled, drawing a guffaw from Ogden. He turned to Jake, who was wisely staying far out of that conversation. “William wants me to meet with you to talk over my financial portfolio. I told him I would even before I met you. But I have a question for you first.”

  Jake lifted his brows, waiting. September sensed a certain tension in Wolfe.

  “What do you think of this place as an investment opportunity?”

  “This . . . Wolfe Lodge?” Jake said, sounding a bit surprised.

  “It’s already got my name.”

  “Are the Crissmans selling?” Jake’s glance slid over to where a man in his late fifties with iron-gray hair and an equally austere manner was just coming down the stairs and glaring over at Jerome.

  Lyle Abbott Crissman III or IV, September realized. Jake had given her a short history of the Crissman family, and she knew enough about them from casual conversation from her own father to know of their social standing. “Current patriarch is called Abbott,” Jake had told her. “And his son is Lyle. One of those families that can’t name any firstborn son anything but the same as his father.”

  “Look who you’re talking to about strange naming procedures,” September had reminded him. Her own father, Braden Rafferty, had named his children for the months in which they were born, which included September and her twin brother, August, who’d been born on either side of midnight of August 31. She and Auggie were fourth and fifth in the birth order after their brother March, and their sisters, May, now deceased, and July. To add insult to injury, their stepmother, Rosamund, had named her baby daughter January ... yes, for the month in which she was born. And well, the truth was, July had named her daughter, June, though she’d sworn to high heaven she would never follow that crazy tradition and then had fallen into the same deep, dark pit.