I tore my eyes from hers and she cleared her throat. “D-do you have a suitcase? Oh, how long are you planning on staying?”
“My suitcase is in the car. How long I stay is dependent on a few things.” How I was received being at the top of that list. If my father told me to get the fuck out, I wasn’t going to try to change his mind. I would like to get a look at that old bourbon distillery, though. I supposed I could drive there on my way out, see what was what.
She looked momentarily worried but didn’t ask what those things might be. When she turned again, I followed her—though not as closely this time—to the back of the house. She pushed a door open, standing back so I could enter the room. She took her lip between her teeth again when I brushed past her into the plain but comfortable-looking guest bedroom. “This used to be my mother’s sewing room,” I told her, looking around, a dull ache taking up residence in my chest. She’d loved it here. I remembered it being one of the few places she’d ever looked at peace, ever focused on anything for more than an hour . . . but I pushed that thought away. I recalled the loud, steady hum of the machine, her soft, melodic singing as she worked. Country music. She’d loved country music. Of course, what good Kentucky son or daughter didn’t? My stomach twisted. I hadn’t expected this to hurt.
“Oh.” She glanced around the room then back at me, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well, hopefully it brings up good memories. I can have someone bring your suitcase in if—”
“No, thank you. I’m capable of bringing my own bag into the house.”
Our eyes locked, and she gave me an appraising look. It surprised me when something soft appeared in her gaze instead of the offense I’d expected. I’d been rude, and I suddenly felt guilty. “I’ll tell Mr. Talbot you’re here as soon as he wakes up. And then I’ll come get you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She nodded. “See you soon.” She closed the door quickly as if she were making a getaway, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, releasing a sigh.
I looked at the quilt folded at the end of the bed, one my mother had made. There were all different stitch types, some on the same square, and each one was an entirely different fabric, as if she hadn’t been able to settle on one pattern so had used them all. It was both slightly disturbing and oddly beautiful . . .
Dropping the edge of the quilt I’d picked up, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting the feel of being in this house again wash through me. I’d grown up here, run through the halls, slid down the bannister, stolen cookies from the cookie jar, and dreamed the big, uninhibited dreams of a boy who’d known little heartache. Until . . .
Yes, until. What a big word that could be.
Turning my head, I looked out the window, the green pastures of Graystone Hill rising and falling in the distance. How had I forgotten how beautiful this land was? How had I forgotten the peaceful quiet and calming stillness? How had I forgotten the way it made my heart clench with pride? And why did I still feel that way if it wasn’t mine anymore? I no longer belonged to this land. I belonged to high-rises and sleek metal structures, to rooftop parties and thrumming crowds. Dissonant sounds. Noise that filled your head and helped you forget the things you no longer chose to remember. That’s what I loved now. Wasn’t it?
The buzzing of my cell phone brought me from my reverie, and I shook my head free of the disquieting thoughts. It was only natural that I’d feel like a boy again for a couple of hours while here. Something about homecoming that happened to everyone, I was sure.
I looked at the incoming number on my phone.
“Hey, Derek.”
“Brant. How was the trip? You in Kentucky now?”
“Yeah, it was fine. I got here about an hour ago.”
“Ah. Good. Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I just heard from Edwin Bruce, and he’s ready to talk. Which means,” he dragged out the word, “we got him.”
I sat up, surprised. Edwin Bruce was the owner of The Mustang Room, one of the most popular clubs in New York City since the eighties. Or it had been, until recently when a competing bar, owned by two Hollywood celebrities, moved in down the street and quickly had lines of young, hip partygoers that went on for blocks. It was really a combination of the new high-style competition, and the fact that The Mustang Room hadn’t changed with the times, relying on its once iconic status rather than working to stay fresh. Current. Nightlife in New York was a risky business, club goers were fickle, and what was hot yesterday could be as cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra the next.
Edwin Bruce was as iconic as the establishment he ran, and I liked him as a person, but business was business, and if I could take over that space, refresh the image, rebrand The Mustang Room, it could be my biggest success yet.
“Set it up for as soon as possible, Derek.”
“Will do. I’ll email the specifics.”
We said our goodbyes and I hung up, tossing my phone on the nightstand. I felt more myself already. I’d tie up whatever loose ends needed tying up here, look in the old man’s eyes one final time, and say goodbye to this place, and Kentucky, forever.
I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. I needed a shower, but I needed my suitcase first. The house was quiet when I stepped from my room, heading toward the front door. I paused when I passed the main staircase, curiosity causing me to turn and head up. Several of the rooms have been repurposed, she’d said. I’d noted a few changes, seen the updates to the kitchen. I wondered if the upstairs still looked the same. I was sure Isabelle would give me a tour if I asked, but that seemed ridiculous. A stranger showing me around what had once been my own home? I didn’t want that. I wanted to look around myself, to explore the things that interested me, to pause at the places that brought back one memory or another. Many of those good . . . until they weren’t. Until that awful day.
Funny how after all this time, I still remembered where those old stairs creaked. I stepped around the noisy spots and into the upstairs hall, peeking into the doors that stood ajar. Sitting room, linen closet, hall bath. I paused outside the door, listening to the sounds of the shower running and female humming. Was that my father’s secretary in there? Naked under a spray of water?
An angry sound of fru
stration came up my throat. Jesus. What was it about that damn woman?
“Who’s there?” a male voice demanded.
I halted, a shiver of surprise running through me. That voice. Fuck. I hadn’t heard that voice for well over a decade, and yet it was as if I’d just heard it yesterday.
“I can hear you out there. Belle, is that you?”