LIVING IN A city like Nashville my whole life, I’d seen plenty of impressive homes, and I knew by the Brownings’ Belle Meade address that their house was going to be very nice. But I was still blown away when I pulled down their long driveway, past the tall hedges, and got a load of that brick and stone English Tudor mansion in a downright fairy-tale setting. I’m a big fan of older homes, and I couldn’t help but admire the architectural details of this one. The steeply pitched slate roof with cross-gables. The half-timbered exposed framing. The tall, narrow windows, stained and leaded. I got out of my car, closed the door, and walked toward the mammoth double front doors, made of mahogany, elaborately carved, and flanked by flickering lanterns. I shuddered to think what their gas bill must be, let alone their mortgage—then reminded myself that people like this probably didn’t have mortgages.
I approached the front porch, trying to pinpoint exactly what I was feeling. I was still just as pissed as I’d been on the drive over, but now I was feeling something else, too. Was I intimidated? No. Was I jealous? Not at all. Did I begrudge them their fortune? I really didn’t think so. My problem, I decided as I eyed the doorbell, was that it was just so predictable that the rich boy did the shitty thing to the poor girl, and I hated being part of that cliché. Frankly, I was also extra angered by his asshole father’s staggering lack of self-awareness. Who but a total clueless idiot would ask a stranger to meet at his own home if it looked like this, especially if his jackass kid was in the wrong? Had he done any research on Lyla or me whatsoever? Did he have any idea that she was one of the few kids at Windsor on financial aid? It would have taken him about ten seconds on Google to discover that I was a carpenter (the kind he’d probably hire, then nickel-and-dime to death)—which meant either he hadn’t bothered or he had looked me up and didn’t give a shit what I’d be feeling. I wasn’t sure which was worse, but I hated him more by the second.
With a heavy chip weighing down my shoulder, I pushed the doorbell, listening to the formal chime echo inside. At least thirty seconds passed, during which I reminded myself that all these people had on us was money. I had all the moral high ground, and the leverage that came with it.
Finally, the door opened, and there stood an older Latina woman, who told me to please come in, she’d get Mr. Browning. The whole scene was so classic—especially when “Mr. Browning” immediately materialized behind her. Clearly he could have gotten to his own door first, but he wanted his brown housekeeper to open it for him. Look important at any and all costs was, I’m sure, one of his rules to live by.
Then, without thanking her or introducing her, he sort of pushed past her and filled the doorway. I hated everything about his appearance. His ruddy complexion—like he’d just been drinking on a golf course. His gelled hair, too dark to be his real color. His pink linen shirt, unbuttoned two buttons too low.
“Hi there, Tom,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand, his booming frat-boy voice matching his foolishly firm grip. “Kirk Browning. Please come in.”
I nodded, then forced myself to say hello as he stepped inside to let me in. I glanced around the foyer, surprised by the cool contemporary décor. A gigantic pale-blue abstract painting hung over a black lacquered chest. It wasn’t my usual taste, but I had to admit it was pretty stunning.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Kirk said, downright beaming. “Shall we go chat in my office?”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He nodded, leading me through a formal living room, down a wide corridor, and into a dark, wood-paneled office decorated with mounted deer and fowl—yet another radical design departure.
“Welcome to my man cave,” he said with a chuckle.
I gave him a tight-lipped smile as he gestured toward a fully stocked bar cart.
“Too early in the day for scotch? It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “But you go right ahead.”
He hesitated, as if seriously contemplating a solo drink, but decided against it. He then gestured toward a couple of armchairs floating in the middle of the room. I had the feeling they were freshly staged, and it gave me the creeps. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I chose the chair with a view toward the doorway, my back to the gas fireplace. Of course the pussy wasn’t going to burn real logs, I thought, as he sat down, planting his feet perfectly parallel to each other. His pant legs came up enough to reveal bare ankles. No socks with fancy loafers—typical Belle Meade.
“So. Thanks for coming over, Tom,” he said, exaggerating the pronunciation of my name with a low hum.
I nodded but said nothing, determined not to make this easy for him.
“I hope it’s not interrupting your workday too much?”
I shrugged and said, “I’m flexible…self-employed.”
“Ahh,” he said. “And what is it that you do, Tom?”
“I’m a carpenter,” I said.
“Oh. Wow. That’s great,” he said, his voice and expression oozing condescension. “They say the happiest people work with their hands. I wish I were more…handy.” He looked down at his open palms, which were undoubtedly as soft as they were useless. “I have trouble changing lightbulbs!”
I resisted the urge to ask him how many people he had on staff to do that for him, then figured what the hell. “You must have a guy for that?” I asked.
He looked taken aback for a beat but quickly recovered. “Actually my wife, Nina, is good at that stuff. Believe it or not.”
I raised my brow. “At changing lightbulbs?”
“Ha. No…I mean…all sorts of mini home projects….She enjoys them. But yes, for the more complicated ones, we do have a handyman. Great guy. Larry,” he said, as if all of us manual laborers knew one another.
I glanced around the room and said, “So. Where is your wife? Will she be joining us?”
He shook his head and said, “Unfortunately, she had a prior engagement.”
“That is unfortunate,” I deadpanned.
“Yes,” he said, “but I thought it might actually be better if we could talk…you know…man to man.”
“Right. Man to man,” I echoed.
“So, Tom,” he said, after taking a deep breath. “Let me begin by apologizing on behalf of my son. The photo he took of your daughter was absolutely inexcusable.”
I squinted, pretending to be confused, cueing more babble.
“It was terrible….And believe me, Finch understands that now.”
“Now?” I asked. “So he didn’t understand that before? When he posted it?”
“Well,” Kirk said, holding up his hands, now palms out. “To be clear, he didn’t actually post anything—”
“Oh, pardon me,” I said, an expression I never used. “He didn’t understand that it was wrong when he sent the photo to his buddies?”
There was no way he could answer this question in the negative, I thought, but sure enough, he did.
“No,” he said. “Not at first. He wasn’t thinking at all. You know teenage boys….But now he gets it. Now he sees. Completely. And he’s sorry. Very, very sorry.”
“Has he told Lyla that?” I asked, feeling sure I knew the answer.
“Well. Not yet. He wants to…but I told him to wait until I talked to you. I wanted to apologize to you first.”
I cleared my throat and chose my words carefully. “Well, Kirk,” I said. “I appreciate the apology. I do. But unfortunately, it doesn’t undo what your son— I’m sorry, what’s his name again?”
“Finch,” he said, nodding, his chin nearly reaching his chest. “His name is Finch.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. As in…Atticus Finch?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed!” He grinned. “To Kill a Mockingbird is my wife’s favorite book.”
“Huh. Mine, too. Imagine that,” I said, uncrossing my arms before slapping my thigh in a sarcastic way.
“Wow. What a coincidence. I’ll tell her,” he said, smiling. “So. Where were we?”
“We were talking about what your son did to my daughter. Lyla.”
“Yes…and I can’t tell you how sorry Finch is.”
“Try,” I said, forcing a fake smile. “How sorry?”
“Oh, very. He’s very, very sorry. He’s a wreck. He hasn’t been able to eat or sleep—”
I interrupted with a brittle laugh, feeling myself start to lose my composure. “So…wait. Are you…Do you…Am I supposed to feel sorry for your son?”
“No, no. Not at all. I didn’t mean that, Tom. I just meant that he understands that what he did was wrong. And he’s extremely sorry. But he didn’t mean the caption the way it sounded. He just meant it as a…joke.”
“Does your son often make racist jokes?”
“Of course not,” he said, finally starting to squirm. “Is your daughter even…Hispanic?”
“No.”
His face lit up. “I knew it,” he said, as if the case were now closed.