“Upstairs. He said he’d traveled most of the night.”
“If your mother gives him anything, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“He comes to me because she won’t.”
“She’d better not. You make sure of it, you hear?” Richard picked up the paper and snapped it open.
Animosity radiated from both men. Dean glanced at me, the lines in his face easing into a forced smile.
“What do you want for breakfast, Liv?”
“Just toast, thanks.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.” Joanna West entered the kitchen, dressed in a straight linen skirt and blue silk blouse, her hair and makeup done perfectly. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day out.”
She paused to kiss Richard’s forehead. He ignored her.
“So much to do before our big dinner.” Joanna went to the coffeepot. “I told Alma to make both pumpkin pie and pecan this year. Oh, and those maple-syrup carrots you like so much, Richard.”
I looked at Dean. He was watching his mother. A sudden pain filled his eyes, one that seemed both ancient and weary. My chest constricted.
Dean lowered his gaze to his cup. In that instant, I saw him as a child reading books about knights and stories of a boy detective who solved mysteries and made things right. I knew that Dean had been trying to do the same thing for years.
But to no avail.
“Oh, it’s lovely, Joanna! So delicious.”
The West home buzzed with women’s melodious voices and men’s liquor-enhanced laughter. A crowd of at least forty people—friends, relatives, neighbors—milled around the house and terrace. An elaborate Thanksgiving buffet stretched across the dining room. Richard West manned the bar, while Joanna fluttered around ensuring everyone had enough to eat and drink.
I made an effort to socialize, watching with amusement as matronly and not-so-matronly women fawned over Dean and batted their eyelashes at him. I caught snippets of conversation about Archer West, faint murmurs of disapproval.
Archer sat out on the terrace, his feet up on a wooden chair, chatting amiably with anyone who stopped to greet him. Paige West, stunning in a clingy, tie-dye print dress and dangly silver earrings, basked in the glow of attention from several young men.
The afternoon sun shone bright and cool, shimmering on the grass. An orange tree swayed in the light wind. Laughter floated. The aromas of herbed turkey, roasted apples, fresh-baked rolls, and pumpkin pie drifted in the air.
Dean maneuvered through the crowd with the ease of a blade cutting through silk. He’d spent the first hour beside me, introducing me to guests and being attentive, until I insisted I’d be fine on my own. Still, his gaze met mine every so often, as if he were keeping an eye on me while he joined conversations and asked if he could get anyone anything.
As an observer, I saw it in full force—the ideal West family with the successful, wealthy parents and attractive children. The flaw of Archer’s rebelliousness marred the perfection just enough to make them even more intriguing.
After most of the food had been devoured, the men gathered in the den to watch football while the women gossiped and fixed coffee.
“You ever been to California before, Olivia?” Archer West pushed a chair away from the patio table and sat down beside me. Too close.
“It’s Liv,” I said, edging away a little. “And yes.”
“Yeah? Where?” His voice was friendly, conversational, unlike the sly tone he’d used earlier that morning.
“LA,” I said. “And Santa Cruz.”
Santa Cruz was just over the mountain, less than forty-five minutes away. My heart clenched at the thought of Twelve Oaks, of North.
Archer lifted a hand to shield the glare of the sun. “Otherwise you’re from Wisconsin?”
I nodded. “Where do you live?”
“Wherever the wind takes me.” He gave me an engaging grin, his teeth flashing white.
“Do you work?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“Wow.” He leaned forward, studying me with a gaze that was unnervingly like Dean’s. “Third degree, huh? You majoring in law?”
“Literature and library sciences.”
Archer laughed. “Good lord. No wonder you like big brother.”
I got the dynamic. Archer was the baby of the family, the messed-up dropout who couldn’t hold a job and tried to mooch money off his mother. And eldest brother Dean was the responsible overachiever who excelled at everything.
“Hell of a starched shirt, though, isn’t he?” Archer continued. “He was like that as a kid. No surprise. Got all his weekend homework done on Friday night. Took AP courses. Was always on time. Class president. Football hero. You name it, big brother succeeded at it. He could do no wrong.” He shook his head. “Jesus, the fawning that went on over him…”
“Resent it much?” I asked, unable to prevent the challenging note in my voice.
“Nah.” He shrugged. “No one has any expectations for the screw-up.”