“You really know how to spoil a girl,” Winona says drily, shifting impatiently in the back seat of the limo. My driver is idling behind a long line of limousines as we inch our way up to the club entrance. Jewel-clad dowagers glide haughtily up the front steps on the arms of their geriatric husbands.
“I aim to please.”
“Are we still pretending that this kind of thing is actually part of my job description?”
“Well, with Henry being so inconsiderate as to take a sick day, it couldn’t hurt to have an assistant.”
Winona does one of her delicate little snorts. Her nose wrinkles up adorably when she does that.
“Maybe he just wants a day off,” she says. “Seriously. What does the man do when he’s not working? He can’t literally live for Hudson’s every waking minute of the day.”
“Why are you so fixated on what Henry does during his time off? You want to ask him out on a date or something?”
“In other words, you have no idea.”
Our car moves forward; we’re next in line.
“Someone’s a little snippy tonight.”
My tone may be a tad defensive. Henry’s sixty-two, he’s worked for my family for forty years, and I don’t actually have a clue what he does during his time off. Is that so wrong? It’s hardly my fault. When I try to make idle chit chat with him, he responds like the typical, classically trained British butler – and yes, they have schools for that – which is with polite deflection. It’s not like he’s invited me in.
“Someone can think of a few things they’d rather be doing than being forced to mingle with the kind of fancy folk who remind my father to use the service entrance when he comes by their house to deliver their fruits and veg.”
The vehemence in her voice surprises me. “You didn’t seem to have a problem at the charity gala.”
“Yes, but those people were different. They were mostly creatives. Influencers, models, actresses, designers, photographers, fashionistas. They’re weird and crazy, but they’re my kind of crazy.” She sighs, staring out the window. “We have a country club in Peach Pit that’s like a mini version of this place. My Aunt Loretta belongs to it, and she never fails to brag about it at family get-togethers. The members’ children and grandchildren were the ones who made my high school years such a delight.”
She’s mentioned it before, so it must be something that really hurt her, enough to stay with her all these years.
The thought of her being picked on in high school calls up a protective rage that makes my fists clench. I want to grab whoever hurt her and stick their head in a dirty toilet for a nice, long swirly – while simultaneously giving them an atomic wedgie that causes internal ruptures and sends them to the emergency room.
I can see her being the outcast. High school kids are shallow and mean and terrified of looking foolish. She’s goofy and a little awkward, and she’s got an outsized personality and she says exactly what’s on her mind. Her boho mismatched aesthetic is perfect for New York but would have stamped a huge target on her head in a small town like Peach Pit.
I struggle to find the right words, to make it all better, to heal that long-ago hurt. As usual, I fail. “Buckle up, buttercup. Two hours of fake-smiling, and then a ninety-minute ride back to the city, for which you are being well compensated.”
She shakes her head in annoyance. “It would be one thing if you actually needed me here for anything, but you don’t.”
“Who says I don’t need you?” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them, heavy and loaded with emotion. I clear my throat and struggle to swallow the feelings that have been welling up inside me all week long, hunger and loneliness and the ache of desire. She glances at me with surprise, and her gaze softens.
Our limo moves forward. We’re at the head of the line now. I open the door for Winona and hold out my arm. Side by side, we climb the marble steps.
She’s right about tonight. What a waste of a beautiful evening. Who knows, maybe when I’m sixty I’ll enjoy sitting on blue velvet tufted chairs talking about Honma Beres irons. But probably not. I’m not into golf. I like my sports more active and aggressive. Give me a good hour of grunting, lunging, and sweating on a racquetball court any day. And even I know there’s something a little insane about spending sixty thousand dollars for a set of golf clubs, although we do sell them at Hudson’s.
Right now, I’d like to be driving down a country road in a convertible, with Winona by my side and the warm wind rushing through our hair. Lounging on a beach somewhere in the sun, my fingers intertwined with hers. Or tangled up in my silken sheets, my mouth on hers then kissing my way down to the sweet place between her legs.
Hell, sitting on her tiny, lumpy couch, watching TV on her scratched-up screen would be more fun than this. But I am Raymond Hudson’s son, and I do what needs to be done, not what feels good.
Damn. That’s a hell of a life motto.
Resigned, I lead her into the banquet room. The leaf-green wallpaper is splattered with nineteenth-century hunting scenes, and the wall sconces cast a dim light. It’s uneasily reminiscent of the furnishings in my house. I lecture the board members about not clinging to the past, but I’ve been doing the same thing.
“Your uncle’s here,” Winona murmurs.
I look where she’s pointing and spot my uncle standing by the bar across the room. Our eyes meet briefly, and he waves at me to come over. I turn my back on him.
“So he is. I thought I smelled brimstone and hypocrisy.”
“Blake, my boy!” Earl and his wife Maura burst forth from a crowd of geriatrics. “So glad you could make it! You look more and more like your father every day. You’ve brought your lovely friend. Isn’t she lovely, dear?”
“Stunning.” Maura’s plump, round face is wreathed in smiles.
Earl pumps my hand with sweaty enthusiasm. He smiles a little too widely and for a little too long.
Yes, something’s definitely off. I’ve asked him a couple of times recently if everything’s all right, and he’s assured me that it’s fine, couldn’t be better, just great, thanks for asking. In other words, he’s bubbling over with forced joviality.
As soon as Earl and Maura move off, Winona inclines her head. “Alert, alert. This evening’s weather calls for a gust of pompous blowhard with occasional showers of outdated insults.”
I turn just as my uncle reaches us. He looks sad and tired, the lines in his face deepened. He’s clutching a manila envelope. A legal summons? Weapons-grade anthrax?
He holds out his free hand to shake mine. I stand there with one arm around Winona’s waist and the other hanging by my side, pointedly ignoring his hand.