“That’s not enough beer.”
“What the fuck, man? What happened? And what do you mean Lia called it off? Like the whole wedding?” Spencer sat down too and reached for a beer.
“No, only the ceremony and the reception and the bit where they throw the bouquet,” Mason retorted sarcastically. He was in a seriously black mood, and the long, lonely drive back hadn’t exactly helped. “Of course the whole wedding.”
“But why?”
“Because her fiancé is a piece of shit.”
“So you and Daisy came back early? Isn’t there a lot of crap to take care of? I would have expected Daisy to want to stay and help with that.”
Mason grabbed one of the beers and popped the tab. He took a long, thirsty drink before feeling ready to answer his brother’s question.
Daisy.
He was furious with her, but beneath the fury was an underlying feeling of hurt and betrayal. Yes, she had hurt his feelings, and he felt like a pussy for even admitting it to himself. He was pissed off that she’d had so little faith in him, and right now he couldn’t even think about her without wanting to break something. He drained the rest of the beer and then crumpled the can in his fist, before thumping it onto the coffee table and reaching for another.
“Whoa, easy on the beers, Mase,” Spencer cautioned, still working on his first can. Mason ignored him and had half of his second beer consumed before talking again.
“Daisy didn’t come back with me. She told me to leave.”
“Oh.” There was a wealth of confusion in the sound. “And you’re angry about that?”
“She thinks I told Shar about our . . . arrangement.”
“Did you?”
“Fuck off, Spence.”
“So you didn’t?”
“Of course I didn’t. But apparently Shar knows, and the only other people who knew about the whole stupid scheme were you and Daff.”
“I don’t talk to Shar,” Spencer hastened to assure him. “Or rather, Shar doesn’t talk to me. Ever. I’m not classy enough for her.”
“And I can’t imagine Daffodil McGregor telling anybody, so I have no clue how Shar managed to find out about it. Did you speak to anybody else?”
“No. Of course not.”
Mason moved on to his third can of beer, his mind in turmoil. He wasn’t sure how he felt any more; all he knew was that he would miss that crazy armful of neurotic femininity more than he cared to admit. She was funny, intelligent, insanely sexy, and sweeter than any other woman he had ever met, and he felt like he’d lost something unique and special. Hard as it was to admit, no amount of beer would fill the hole she had left in his heart.
“Daddy, have you ever seen that car before?” Daisy asked one Saturday afternoon on the way back from their clinic day.
“What car, sweetheart?” her father asked absently, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Behind us.” She had her eyes on the rearview mirror, checking out the dark sedan with its tinted windows directly behind them. “I’ve seen the same car on our last three visits to Inkululeko.”
“That’s nothing to worry about,” her father said with a smile. “They’ve been escorting us to and from the clinic every week for the last month.”
“What?” The word was a whisper, and she doubted that her father even heard it.
“Mason insisted. It was part of his donation to the clinic.” Mason had made an outrageously generous donation to the clinic, enough for them to buy new equipment and a bigger mobile clinic. He had also sponsored a full scholarship for Thandiwe’s current and future studies. The girl was ecstatic and enthusiastic about the future. “In addition to the money, he insisted on providing security for as long as we needed it.”
“We don’t need security,” Daisy insisted, feeling a little lightheaded that he had actually gone ahead and done this. It was more than a month since the wedding and at least six weeks after he had first brought up the need for security.
“I feel better knowing that they’re there. They’re very discreet. You haven’t even noticed them until recently, and they’ve been escorting us on our last eight visits.”
“Why would he do this?” Her father’s eyes flicked from the road to her face and back again.
“He’s a good man. And he cares about what happens to you.”
“You once thought Clayton was a good man too,” she pointed out. It was a low blow and she knew it, but her father took the hit with nothing more than a smile.
“I never thought Clayton was a good man, but I had hope that Dahlia saw something in him that I didn’t. I trusted her good judgment, and in the end my trust was warranted.”
“I suppose it was nice of Mason to arrange this,” she said quietly.
“More than nice, I think.”
“Maybe.”
“Daisy, I don’t know what happened between the two of you . . .”