As they came into the suburbs proper, he found himself looking all around, noting changes to storefronts. Neighborhoods. He recognized new styles of cars. Billboards. Plantings on the medians and--
"Oh, my God, they got rid of the White Castle."
"What you say?"
He pointed to a perfectly anonymous new building that housed a bank. "There used to be a White Castle right there. Forever. I went there when I was young on my bike. I'd save up my allowance and buy sliders for my brothers and me. I had to sneak them into the house because I never wanted Miss Aurora to feel like we didn't love her food. Which we did. But I enjoyed, you know, getting them something that made 'em happy. Gin never ate even one of them. She started worrying about getting fat when she was three."
Edward kept quiet about the fact that the trips usually came after their father had gotten the belt out. Nine times out of ten, Max was the one who got that ball rolling, whether it was setting fireworks off from the roof of the garage, or riding a horse in through Easterly's front door, or taking one of the family cars and going four-by-fouring in the cornfields down below the hill.
He smiled a little to himself. Certainly, in other households, that last one might not have been that big a deal. Rolls-Royces, however, though superior automobiles all the way around, were engineered to go to opera openings and polo matches. Not to try to harvest August corn.
God, he could still picture that brand-new 1995 Corniche IV with a snaggle-toothed grille full of husks and stalks. William Baldwine had been far less than amused to find his new toy ruined--and Max hadn't been able to sit down for a week afterward.
To clear that part of the memory out of the way, he said, "I was pretty impressed with what you did last night."
Shelby looked over. Looked away. "Neb's not so bad. He wants to be in charge and he'll prove it if he has to. Your best bet is to work with him, not to try to get him to do what you want."
Edward laughed--and Shelby's head snapped back around. As she just stared at him, he said, "What?"
"I've never heard you . . . well, anyway."
"Laugh? Yes, you're probably right. But tonight is different. I feel like a weight is off my shoulders."
"Because Neb's going to be okay? Those were just superficial cuts, and them front legs'll be all right. It could've been worse."
"Thanks to you."
"Don't mean nothing."
"You know . . . I love that stallion. I can remember when I bought him. It was right after I got out of the rehab hospital here. I was in so much pain." Edward stopped at a light by a big white church with a brass steeple. "My right leg felt like it was breaking over and over again, every time I put weight on it. And I'd been on so many opiates, my digestive tract had completely shut down." As things went green, he hit the gas and glanced over. "TMI, but opiate-induced constipation is nearly as bad as whatever you're taking the drugs for. God, I had never before appreciated basic bodily functions. No one does. You walk around in these bags of flesh that are vehicles for our gray matter, taking it all for granted when nothing is wrong, bitching about work and how hard it is, or--"
Edward did a double take on his passenger: Shelby was still staring across the seat at him, and so help her God, her jaw was totally lax.
She'd looked less surprised when she'd been dealing with that stallion.
"What?" he asked.
"Are you drunk? Should you be driving?"
"No. Last drink I had was . . . last night? Or before that. I've lost track. Why?"
"You're talkin' a spell."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No, not at all. It's just . . . a nice change."
Edward came up to an intersection. And had to reach deep to remember which way to go. "I think it's down here on the left."
They went by a strip mall with a jeweler's, a hair salon, a Pilates studio and a lamp store in it. And then there was a stretch of apartment buildings that were three stories high and made of brick, with fleets of cars parked in slots by the doorways.
So much life, he thought. Teeming on the planet.
Funny, when his sole way of relating to the world had been from his lofty Bradford status, he had ignored all these people who were busy living their lives. It wasn't that he had outwardly disdained or disrespected them, but he had certainly felt so much more important because of the number of zeros to the left of his decimal points.
Pain and his various physical issues had sure cured him of that arrogance.
"Here it is," he said with triumph. "I knew it was here."
Parallel parking across from the low-slung, homey little restaurant, he tried to get around to get Shelby's door, but with his ankle and his bad leg, there was no moving fast enough--and she didn't wait for him, disembarking on her own. Together, they paused for a break in traffic and then they were crossing over and he was holding the way inside open for her.
As he took a deep breath of the spices and the hot chicken, his stomach let out a roar.
"I learned about this place," he said as he surveyed the crowded interior, "from Moe. He started talking it up a couple of years ago and finally he brought takeout home with him. It was before I . . . it was before South America."
They were shown over to a table in the back, which suited him fine. He looked a lot different and he wasn't from this neighborhood, but he didn't want any attention. Tonight? He just wanted to be as everyone else in the place was: part of humanity, no better, no worse, no richer, no poorer.
Popping open the menu, he was so ready for half the things on it.
"How long have you and Moe known each other?" Shelby asked over the din of other customers.
"Years. He started working at the Red & Black when he was fourteen or fifteen, hauling hay and cleaning stalls. He's a smart guy."
"He speaks about you with a lotta respect."
Edward folded his menu back up. "The feeling is entirely mutual. Moe's like a brother in a lot of ways. And Joey, his son? Known the kid his whole life."
In fact, Joey was the reason they were here.
Edward had been thinking about that expression the guy had had as he'd watched Shelby handle Neb's little freak out.
Ordinarily, Edward wouldn't be meddling in other people's business like this. But he found himself wanting to do right by Shelby.
Before things changed.
Their waitress came by, and after they ordered, he sipped his water. "So about Joey."
"Yes?" Shelby's eyes were open and guileless. "What?"
Edward played with his fork. "What do you think about him?"
"I think he's real good with the horses. He never loses his temper. He gets it."
"Do you think he's . . ."
"You're not gonna fire him for what happened last night, are ya? It wasn't his fault. That weren't nobody's fault and--"
"What? God, no." Edward shook his head. "Joey's a good boy. I was just wondering what you thought of him, you know."
Shelby shrugged. "He's a good man. But if you're asking me whether I'm fixin' to get with him, the answer would be no."
When she fell silent, Edward thought . . . of course, you're not interested in him. He's not a hot mess of self-destruction.
"Shelby, I need to 'fess up to something."
"What's that?"
He took a deep breath. "You're right. I am in love with someone."
FORTY-ONE
The Charlemont Presbyterian Theological Seminary took up about forty manicured acres right next to one of Olmstead's gorgeous city parks. With distinguished brick buildings and lamp posts that glowed orange in the gathering darkness, Gin imagined the picturesque campus as a place where no one drank, safe sex was not an issue because everyone was still a virgin, and the closest thing there was to a fraternity party was the raucous chess club, which was known to serve the occasional Red Bull.
It was therefore rather ironic to her that she was pulling into its entrance . . . considering who she had come to meet.
The students had
all been flushed out for the summer, no doubt finding worthwhile internships for the warm months doing Good Work. Likewise, there were no administrators and no academicians strolling around, either. The lovely, winding lanes, which reminded her of the kind one saw in a cemetery, were, like the dorms and the classrooms, empty.
Pulling the Drophead into a parking space, she got out and smelled freshly cut grass. With a shove, she closed the heavy door and checked what she looked like in the window's reflection. Then she locked the car and watched the Spirit of Ecstasy sink into its little safe haven inside the front grille.
The seminary's reflecting garden was a well-photographed and quite famous Charlemont institution, and although it wasn't exactly open to the public, it was not exactly private, either. With one gate on each of its four sides, it was the centerpiece of the school, the place where commencements and convocations were staged and alumni were sometimes married and people went to . . . well, reflect.
Her palms were sweating as she proceeded over to one of its round-topped, Hobbit-ish entries, and when she toggled the old-fashioned latch and pushed her way inside, she felt light-headed.
For a moment, the beauty and the tranquillity were so resplendent, she actually took a deep breath. Even though it was only May, there were blooming flowers everywhere, and verdant leaves, and brick walkways that all led to the square of lawn in the middle. Fountains along the ivy-covered brick walls offered a symphony of calming sounds, and as the last of the light drained from the sky, peach-colored sodium lanterns on tall wrought-iron stands made everything seem like Victorian London.
Without Jack the Ripper.
"Over here."
At the sound of the male voice, she looked to the right.
Samuel T. was sitting on one of the stone benches, and he was staring off at the lawn, his elbows on his knees, his face as serious as she had ever seen it.
In her stilettos, she had to be careful over the brick walkway or risk shucking the silk covering of her heels--or, worse, tripping, falling, and making an ass of herself.
As she approached him, he got to his feet because he was first and foremost a gentleman, and it would be unthinkable for a man not to greet a lady properly.
After a quick, stiff embrace, he indicated the vacant space beside where he had been. "Please."
"So formal."
But her voice lacked the normal venom. And as she lowered herself onto the cool stone, she felt compelled to pull her skirt down to her knees and sit properly with her legs tucked under and her ankles crossed.
He was quiet for a while. So was she.
Together, they stared off at the ghostly shadows thrown by the flowers. The breeze was as soft as a caress and fragrant as bathwater.
"Did you do it?" he asked without looking at her. "Did you marry him?"
"Yes."
"Congratulations."
In any other circumstance, she would have offered a snappy comeback, but his tone was so grave, it provided no target to trigger any aggression on her part.
In the silence that followed, Gin fingered both her engagement ring and the thin band of platinum that had been added beneath it.
"God, why did you do it, Gin?" Samuel T. rubbed his face. "You don't love him."
Even though she had the sense he was speaking to himself, she whispered, "If love were a requirement for marriage, the human race would have no need for the institution."
After another long period of quiet, he muttered, "Well, I have something to say to you."
"Yes, I gather," she intoned.
"And I don't anticipate this going over well."
"So why bother."
"Because you, my darling, are like poison ivy to me. Even though I know that it will only make things worse, I can't help but scratch."
"Oh, the compliments." She smiled sadly. "You are as debonair as always."
When he fell silent once again, she swung her eyes around to him and studied his profile. He really was a beautiful man, all the angles of his face straight and even, his lips full, his jaw prominent without being heavy. His hair was thick and parted on the side. With his aviators hooked on the V made by his fine, handmade and initialed button-down shirt, he looked like a polo player, a yachtsman, an old soul in a young body.
"You're never this quiet," she promoted, even as she began to worry about what he was going to say. "Not for this long."
"That's because . . . shit, I don't know, Gin. I don't know what I'm doing here."
She wasn't sure what made her do it--no, that was a lie: When she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, it was because she recognized that they were both suffering. And she was tired of being so proud. Tired of fighting a battle where neither of them won. Tired . . . of everything.
And instead of pushing her away, either literally or figuratively, Samuel T. turned to her . . . and then she was holding him as he curled in close, all but laying out in her lap.
It felt so good to rub his back in slow circles, comforting herself as she comforted him. And oh, his body. She had been with him many times, in many places, and in many ways, and she knew every square inch of his muscular form.
Yet it felt like forever since they had been together.
"What has gotten you so upset?" she murmured. "Tell me."
Eventually, he straightened, and as he ran his palms over his eyes, she became alarmed. "Samuel T.--what is going on?"
His chest expanded, and as he exhaled, he said, "I need you to just let me get this out, okay? For once in your life--and I'm not fixing to argue here--for once in your life, please just listen. Don't respond off the cuff. In fact, if you don't respond at all, it's probably better. I just . . . I need you to hear what I'm saying, all right?"
He glanced over at her. "Gin, okay?"
Abruptly, she became aware that her heart was beating in a crazy way and her body had broken out in a sweat.
"Gin?"
"Fine." She put her arms around her stomach. "Okay."
He nodded and splayed out his hands. "I think Richard hits you." He put a palm up. "Don't respond, remember. I've already decided he does, and you know me better than anyone. As you've so often told me, once I make up my mind, it takes an act of Congress to get me to change it--so there is nothing you can do to alter this conclusion."
Gin refocused on the beautiful flowers . . . as she tried to ignore the fact that she felt like she couldn't breathe.
"I think those bruises came from him, and that you're wearing scarves to cover them up." His chest rose and fell. "And although I can quite confidently say that you have driven me to the brink of madness many, many times, it never once occurred to me to lay a hand on you. Or any other woman."
She closed her eyes briefly. And then heard herself say bleakly, "You're more of a man than that."
"The thing is, I just . . . I need to tell you that the idea of anyone, and I don't care who the fuck it is, striking you or yanking you or . . . oh, God, I can't bear to think of what else . . ."
She had never heard him trail off before. Never heard this cocksure, maddening, contrary man seem so completely defeated.
Samuel T. cleared his throat. "I know you married him because you think your family's out of money and that scares you. At the end of the day, you don't know how to be anything other than rich. You're not trained to do anything. You almost dropped out of school because of that child you had. You've flitted around creating drama for a living. So yes, the idea of having to rely on yourself, without a safety net of incredible wealth, is going to be really terrifying, to the point where you can't even comprehend it."
She opened her mouth.
And then closed it.
"What I really want to say is two things," he continued. "First, I want you to know you're better than that, and not because you're a Bradford. The truth is, no matter what happens to the money, you're a strong, smart, capable woman, Gin--and up until now you've used those virtues in bad ways, dumb-ass ways, because quite frankly, you haven't had any real ch
allenges put in front of you. You've been a warrior without a field of battle, Gin. A fighter without a foe, and you've been lashing out at everything and everyone around you for years now, trying to burn off the energy." His voice grew unbearably hoarse. "Well, I want you to channel all that in a different way now. I want you to be strong for the right reasons. I want you to take care of yourself now. Protect yourself now. You have people who . . . you have people who love you. Who want to help you. But you're going to need to take the first step."
As he fell silent, Gin found her own eyes pricking with tears, and then her throat began to hurt from her trying to swallow without making a gulping sound.
"You can call me," he said roughly. "Anytime. I know you and I haven't made sense. We're bad for each other in all the ways that count, but you can call me. Day or night. No matter where you are, I'll come for you. I won't ask for any explanations. I won't yell at you or berate you. I won't judge you--and if you insist, I won't tell Lane or anybody else."
Samuel T. moved to the side and took his cell phone out of the pocket of his slacks. "I'm going to start sleeping with this left on from now on. No questions asked, no explanations demanded, no talking during or afterward. You call me, you text me, you say my name in the middle of a party, and I'm there for you. Are we clear?"
As a tear escaped down her cheek, he brushed it away, and his voice cracked. "You're better than this. You deserve better than this. Your family's glorious past is not worth a man hitting you in the present just because you're afraid you won't be anything without the money. You're priceless, Gin, no matter what's in your bank account."
Now he was the one pulling her in and holding her to his chest.
Beneath her ear, the beating of his heart just made her cry more.
"Take care of yourself, Gin. Do whatever you need to do to make yourself safe . . ."
He just kept saying those words in an endless stream, as if he were hoping the repetition might get through to her.
When she finally sat up, he took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and pressed it to her cheeks. And as he stared at her with sad eyes, she found it was hard to believe that after everything they'd been through, he was there for her like this.
Then again, maybe everything they'd been through was the explanation.