Low Pressure

He could tell she had more to say, although for several seconds a hollow silence was all that came through the line. Then, “We flew down in a private plane.”

That statement, while seemingly innocuous, vibrated with a portentous note. Steven waited.

“Bellamy chartered it. Guess who the pilot was.”

Steven’s gut clenched. “Please tell me you’re not about to say—”

“Denton Carter.”

He placed his elbow on the bar, bent his head toward his hand, and rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers in an attempt to ward off the migraine this information would no doubt bring on.

“I tried to dissuade her,” Olivia continued. “She was determined.”

“For crissake, why?”

“Something about getting closure, mending the past. You know how your stepsister is.”

“Ever the mediator.”

“She wants everything to be… nice.”

“Was he?”

“Nice? No. No happier to see us than we were to see him.”

“Then why did he agree to fly you?”

“That old man who owns the airfield—”

“He’s still alive?”

“He arranged it, apparently without telling Dent who’d booked the charter. When he realized who we were, he was as unpleasant and arrogant as ever. There’s no love lost on either side.”

“Did he know about Bellamy’s book?”

“According to her, no. But he might have been pretending, or being obtuse. Who knows? We have to fly back with him when we’re finished here.” Steven heard a sniff and realized just how upset his mother was. “I never wanted to see that boy again.”

She continued to bemoan what an untenable situation it was. Steven understood how she felt. His emotions ran the gamut from dismay to alarm to anger, as they’d been doing since the day Low Pressure was published. His anxiety had worsened when Bellamy’s identity and the biographical nature of the book became public knowledge.

William Stroud, his business partner, tapped him on the shoulder and signaled that it was time to open. The receptionist had moved into place inside the door. Wait-staff were scattered throughout the dining room, putting finishing touches on the table settings. The sommelier was standing by to answer questions about the extensive wine list.

“Mother,” Steven said, cutting in, “I’m sorry, but I must go. We’re about to open for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I should have realized—”

“No need to apologize. Naturally you’re upset. Bellamy shouldn’t have subjected you to seeing Denton Carter, not on top of everything else.”

“She’s apologized a thousand times, Steven. She never intended for anyone to know that her book was based on… fact.”

“I’m sure her apologies are sincere, but what good are they? She chose to write the book. She risked her identity becoming known. But she also risked exposing the rest of us. That was very unfair.”

“She realizes that now,” Olivia said around a heavy sigh. “But in any case, it’s done.”

“Yes, it’s done. But the last thing you needed was another reminder in the form of Dent Carter. Put it out of your mind and focus on Howard. Don’t forget to give him my regards.”

He hung up before more could be said, then moved to the end of the bar to make room for eager first arrivals. Unobtrusively, he asked one of the bartenders to pour him a vodka on the rocks. He watched the dining room fill, watched the bar become three people deep. After the initial flurry of activity, William joined him and must have discerned from the drink and his broodiness that the recent telephone call had rattled him.

“Your stepfather took a downward turn?”