After our short conversations in his truck, I don’t know what to expect of living in my brother’s house, and while I hope for the best, I don’t know if I should be happy or afraid.
Valeria gives me a tight smile. “Try to remember he only wants what’s best for you… for his family.”
“Apparently what he thinks is best is acting like it’s the 1950s.”
She laughs, light filling her eyes. “You two are so much alike. You’re going to be fine.”
My brother takes the suitcase from my hand, inspecting it with a frown. “That’s all you have?” I shrug, and he waves me to the truck. “We’ll take care of this later.”
Whatever Valeria says, I’m not sure this is going to be fine.
3
Deacon
“Seeing you, sitting there… You’re the spitting image of your father.” My aunt Winnie smiles at me from the head of a long, ranch oak table in the dining room of our family mansion.
She’s wearing a sleek, emerald-green dress, and her straight white hair is swept back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She’s a stern old broad, an elegant beauty, but she’s always been sweet to me. Dad would say it’s because I’m her only nephew. I’m the only anything, since she never had any children, and they have no other siblings.
A fire is burning in an oversized hearth behind me. She runs the air conditioner so she can have a fire at dinner. It’s pretty much the height of old Texas overindulgence.
“That’s what everybody says. With my grandmother’s eyes.”
She lifts a glass of red wine. “Your visits give me such joy. I’m sure you’ll never know. I’m so glad you’re finished with school. I hope to see you more.”
That last bit is a passive-aggressive dig, but I let it pass. One of my late father’s last requests was I take care of his sister, so I have dinner with her once a week when I’m in town and do my best to tolerate her outdated notions about life and politics.
I love my aunt, but she’d rather fight than evolve. It’s not how I want our relationship to be—if I can help it.
“I’ll always make time for our weekly dinners.” I return her smile, doing my best to tamp down my frustration over how this day played out.
My plan when I left Harristown this morning was not to be having dinner with my aunt. I drove two and a half hours, straight to La Frida Java, in the hopes of being in Angel’s arms right now.
Then her brother appeared.
Then it all went to hell.
My jaw tightens. I’ve wanted to meet Angel’s family for years. She always said no. She always had a reason we needed to wait. Now I’ve been texting her all day, wanting to see her, and she’s moving to Lakeside? I’m happy, but I’m confused.
“Do you not like your salad?” Winnie eyes me from above the rim of her heavy crystal goblet.
“It’s fine.” I stab at the plate of purple and dark green lettuce in front of me. Yellow beets, pecans, and balls of goat cheese adorn the center. “I like this cheese.”
“Chèvre, Deacon.” She shakes her head as if I should know better. “What would your mother say?”
I have no idea. My mother died before I ever had the chance to know her. Winnie doesn’t allow for follow-up.
“I must know…” She tilts her head to the side. “Why do you insist on having an apartment downtown? Why not move in right here? There’s plenty of room for the two of us.”
I glance around our family’s one-hundred-year-old estate. Ten bedrooms, eight and a half bathrooms, it’s an imposing structure with a grand foyer and a balcony that runs the entire square length. Everything smells of leather and furniture polish and age.
“I’m an adult, Win.”
“So what?” She acts offended. “Many of the old families live together in compounds. The house affords plenty of privacy. Besides, who’ll look after me if I were to fall or become ill?”
“You’re in no danger of that. Even if you were, the butler, the maid—”
“The hired help.” Her expression folds like a deck of cards. “How horrifying.”
She holds up the bell, giving it one ring, and immediately servers appear to remove our salad plates. They’re replaced with dishes of steak and garlic shrimp with potatoes on the side.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my stomach tightens. It takes all my willpower not to check Angel’s text at dinner.
“I know, you young men need your space to sow your wild oats.” She lifts a fresh goblet of dark red Barollo, taking a sip and cutting her eyes at me. “Just remember you can come back home when it’s time to settle down.”
“I’m more interested in living in a house where I’m the head than being a guest in yours.” I’m not going to get into the fact I can’t bring Angel home with my aged aunt lurking around the halls.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Deacon.” She places a slim ivory hand against her chest. “It’s our family home. You’d be the head of your own little group just as I’d be responsible for myself.”
“Is that how it works?” My eyes drift to the life-sized portrait of my father hanging over the oversized mantle, looking down on us both.
He’s standing beside a horse, holding the bridle, but he’s not dressed like a cowboy. He’s dressed like an English lord. A similar painting of my grandfather is in the great hall, only he’s standing in his Texas suit, bolero tie, holding a cowboy hat with oil derricks rising in the background.
“What do you think?” My aunt’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She’s watching me. “Is it time to commission your portrait to hang in these hallowed halls?”
“No!” My answer bursts out on a laugh. The idea is funnier than I expected.
“What?” Her blue eyes narrow. “False modesty aside. You will be added to the gallery at some point. You’re the heir.”
“I think it’s a little premature for painting my portrait.” I lift the heavy crystal goblet and polish off my glass of Barolo. “Who knows what I might do?”
Winnie leans back in her chair, gazing at my father. “I think it’s about time we added a female to the mix. What do you think?”
“You’re having your portrait made?”
“And why not?”
“I was just making sure.” I couldn’t care less about these meaningless traditions. “Go for it. I think it’s a great idea.”
“I think you’re right.” A rare smile curves her lips. “Will you be attending the Cattlemen’s Masque this year? I’d like to tell Haven and Cecilia if so. They’ll be thrilled to have you back.”
Haven Wells is Rich’s mother, and Cecilia Westbrook is one of my aunt’s old friends from school. It gives me an idea—one I like very much the more I think about it.
“Yes.” It’s as good a time as any to introduce them to my girl. “When is it again?”
Winnie laughs, shaking her head. “It’s the same date every year, darling. A month from Friday.” She leans back with a sigh. “Your mother always loved the ball. She was a rancher at heart. Your father took her away from that life.”