That prickly lump that’s been lodged in my throat flares with the thought.
Silas reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, a deep frown furrowing his brow. It’s the one I confiscated from her that night. I found it in my room when I came back for clothes the other day. I’m torn between dumping it down the sink and cracking it open. “You should have told me about her drinking sooner. If I’d known, I could have—” He cuts himself off abruptly, his jaw clenching tight. “That came out wrong. This isn’t on you, Noah.”
And yet I feel like it’s all on me. All I want to do is forget everything about that night. Everything she said about Abraham Wilkes. Let it stay buried, six feet under the ground, while she rests in peace, her name untainted.
It’s not that easy, though.
Especially now that I may be one letter away from learning everything she didn’t say.
“Come for supper. We’re having guests tonight. Your aunt’s making her pot roast.”
“Sure. Maybe.”
He levels me with a look. “You’ve been saying that all week.”
“How about tomorrow?” Making conversation with Silas and Judy sounds exhausting, let alone one of Silas’s friends.
Silas grabs his keys from the counter and hooks an arm around my shoulders. “I won’t take no for an answer this time. Judy will have it on the table by seven. We can eat a nice meal together.”
The thing with Silas is he won’t leave until he gets what he wants. Plus, I’ve barely eaten a full meal in a week. My jeans are starting to feel loose.
And my aunt is a fantastic cook.
“She’s going to be so happy to see you.” He gives my back an affectionate pat. “This is just what you need.”
I force a smile.
CHAPTER 6
Noah
I’m catching up on sports highlights in the family room when Judy’s delicate hand settles on my shoulder. “Would you mind helping me with the table, Noah? I’m so terribly behind.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pull myself off the couch. Not that I would ever deny help to anyone, but it’s impossible to refuse Judy’s lilting Southern accent and motherly smile. She may be the sweetest woman alive.
Silas and Judy have lived in this big, old white colonial outside of Austin for as long as I can remember. We’d drive out on weekends when I was young and spend our days hanging out on one of the three covered porches, or running through the sprinklers in the expansive yard. Coming here is like entering a time warp—instead of renovating to modernize, they’ve poured money into the place to hold on to its historical charm, plastering the rooms with busy wallpaper and moldings, refinishing the old plank wood floors until they shine, and hanging antique chandeliers.
As much as I dread the idea of making small talk with strangers, it feels good to be here. Familiar. Plus, dinner with people who don’t know me may be exactly what I need. “Thanks for letting me crash your party,” I tell Judy.
“You know you’re always welcome here, my darling.” She reaches up to give my cheek an affectionate pat. “Silas has an early morning meeting, so our meal will be served shortly after they arrive. I hope you brought your appetite.”
I rub my stomach. “I’m starved.” I’m not, but telling Judy that would only make her worry. “Are we eating in the dining room?”
“Yes, of course. The dishes are stacked on the buffet. We need five settings. Salad forks on the outside.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Everything about my aunt is proper, right down to the table settings when company comes. I’m grossly underdressed in my T-shirt and jeans and she’s the type to gently reprimand me about that, but tonight she hasn’t said a word. I guess I’ve earned a pass.
The doorbell rings as I’m Googling “wineglasses and placement” because I know Judy will come in and quietly fix it all if I don’t do it right. Moments later, Silas’s loud voice carries down the hall. “Retirement’s treating you well, I see.”
A man chuckles. “Can’t complain.”
“And yet he does complain about being bored, daily,” a woman says, earning a round of laughter.
“How was Italy?”
“Just lovely! We’ll be going back, soon.”
“You’ll be going back. This old fart’s had enough of trains and planes. Let me rock in my chair in peace.”
His voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
“You’ll have to tell us about it over supper. Judy’s already pricing out tickets to Tuscany for the fall.”
“She must know that she can’t get you away from your office for more than twenty-four hours?”
“Well, she’s darn determined this time.” The hardwood floors in the hallway creak.
“Thank you for the invitation,” the woman says. “I was in the midst of figuring out what to make for tonight when George mentioned it this morning. Saves me from having to cook!”
I frown. Silas invited this couple over for dinner just this morning? That’s unlike my aunt and uncle. They’re normally reserving space in their calendars two months in advance.
“Come. Let’s have a drink in the parlor.”
I chuckle. My cousin, Emma, would be rolling her eyes if she heard him. Judy is desperate to live in nineteenth-century England, and has decorated their living room with stiff furniture and china figurines and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that house leather-bound volumes. It’s one of those rooms that’s used only when company comes and is not at all comfortable.
I finish setting the table and then wander in, to find Silas mid-pour from a crystal decanter. His idea of a pre-supper cocktail is Kentucky bourbon. “There you are! Noah, do you remember George?”
“Hi.” I offer my hand in greeting, but can’t help the frown as I study the portly man with the gray beard because he does look familiar. I just can’t place where I’ve seen him.
“Well, look at you!” He seizes my hand in a firm grasp. “To think I last saw you when you were a gangly boy.”
“And if we don’t get food into him soon, he’s going to turn into one again,” Silas mutters, passing a drink to the man.
The way they’re talking, I feel like an ass for not knowing who this guy is. “It’s been a while,” I say casually.
George’s round belly jiggles with his laughter. “You don’t have the first damn clue who I am, do you, son?”
“George, really!” his wife, a petite brunette with a round face, a glass of sweet tea already in hand, scolds.
“No offense taken. You probably only saw me in uniform and it has been a while. I’m George Canning. I was chief for some time.”
“For twenty years,” Silas pipes in, clinking glasses with him in a toast. “And he was so dang good at it, he’s getting his own life-sized monument downtown this June.”
“Yes, hopefully a trimmer version.” He emphasizes the word with a pat against his gut.
Silas adds, “Your mother knew George well.”
George clears his throat and with the act, all amusement vanishes. “Dolores and I were on our way to Italy for a wedding when we heard the news. It was a shock to all of us.”
I simply nod, not trusting my voice with this prickly ball sitting inside my throat. So much for mindless conversation with people who don’t know anything about me.
* * *
“Noah!” Silas nods his head toward his office entrance.
“I should get going home.” Two hours of listening to the women babble about Italian food and grandchildren, and the men debate about Republicans and Democrats, is my limit. Thankfully, the one thing everyone stayed far away from during supper was talk of Jackie Marshall.
“Nonsense.” He hooks an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into the traditional man cave of dark leather, mahogany furniture, and heavy drapery. George has already found his spot in a chair in front of the wide-open French doors, a lighter held against the cigar in his mouth.
Silas sees my brows pop and laughs. “Your aunt may reign over the roost, but I get the final say in my little coop.” He thrusts a glass of amber liquid into my hand. “Join us.”