Ambrose hadn’t seen the Van Alstynes since that night in Mandalay when he’d sat next to them on the riverfront, drinking champagne. Calvin Van Alstyne had since bought a thousand acres of land next to Ethan’s farm. May was the reason the area was becoming fashionable.
Ambrose didn’t miss the implication in his brother’s comment—get your own place. “Where?” he asked.
“Next to the duck pond. Good for shooting. Know how you love it.”
Ambrose could think of few things more dreary than shooting harmless mallards on a tiny pond next to his brother for the rest of his life. His enjoyment of the hunt, of almost anything really, was related to the dangerousness of the quarry. The desire to leave rose up in him again. Maybe Loulou was right. Maybe he should leave. He willed himself into silence, to wait for Ethan to get to the point. Perhaps Ethan had noticed something, perhaps he had accusations. Well, if he wanted a confrontation, Ambrose found he had a few accusations of his own.
He was sure now that May still loved him, had never stopped, and had only married Ethan out of duty and pity. And Ethan had calculated on that pity when he’d asked her to marry him. Ambrose wondered, for the first time since he’d seen them dance together at his party those years ago, if Ethan loved her or if he merely wanted what Ambrose had. Ethan never could resist besting him. He’d done it in business, by emulating their father, and now by stealing May. If Ethan wanted to address any of this, Ambrose was ready. Was looking forward to it, actually.
“Father’s been called to testify about the fire,” Ethan said.
Ambrose slumped back into his bed, felled by the unexpected. “Columbus?” He realized then that the telephone had been ringing in the background all morning. He’d thought that’d been typical.
“Washington. We’re taking the train this afternoon.”
Ambrose pushed himself up on his elbows, lodging three pillows behind his head.
And in that moment he felt an inkling of that long-lost affection for his brother. A kinship that he hadn’t felt since before he’d left. The command that Ambrose help work through a crisis—how could Ambrose say no? Though he’d be working for his father.
“I’ll get up.” A wave of nausea crashed over him. He lay back in bed, knowing another hour or two of sleep would cure him.
His brother tapped the shoehorn on the nearly empty decanter from last night, ringing the crystal. “I just spoke with Father and he asked . . . well, we agreed . . . you need to look after things from here.” At Ambrose’s face he added, “In town.”
When the light stopped pulsing behind his eyes, Ambrose said, “I’ll feel better after a bath, just give me a minute.”
“There are going to be decisions. We need someone here. We need someone downtown at the offices.” His brother’s saying “we” rang in Ambrose’s head. Ethan was hiding behind “we” all the time now.
Ethan was scratching his scarred, lifeless hand with the edge of the shoehorn. “Father’s been patient. And generous, too. What do you plan to do here if you’re not interested in making a contribution?”
“Right,” Ambrose said, sitting up. “That’s why I should go with you.”
“You need to do what’s asked of you. I know . . .” And here he looked off, something catching his eye at the window. “I know that’s not your strong suit.”
Ambrose felt the indignity rising in him. He felt sure his brother was referring to May, to her request those years ago that he stay. And he saw again the shifting of alliances, a glimpse of the close familiarities between husband and wife.
“I want to help,” Ambrose said. But the rest of his brother’s statement lay unanswered between them.
It had become a rare thing in his life now to feel guilt. Yet since he’d been home, he was presented with it nearly constantly—a feeling almost as sickening as his hangover.
In the silence, Ethan stood and walked to the window overlooking the driveway. He deftly drew up the sash one-handed, letting in the clean morning air and a cacophony of birdcalls. A breeze moved over the sheets, a reprieve from the close smell of the room. Ambrose sat up, scrubbing his face.
His brother seemed distracted, watching something in the front. And then he angled his face toward the sunlight, warming himself like a cat.
“Why don’t I come with you to the train station? We can go into town and talk about who’ll go on,” Ambrose said, finding his clothes in the bureau next to the bed and taking them into the bathroom with shaking hands. “Father has plenty of people who can stay behind,” he called. After quickly shaving and dressing, he lit a cigarette and emerged a few minutes later to find the room empty, his brother gone.
When he went downstairs, the maid told him that his brother had just left in Mr. O’Brennan’s car. Mr. O’Brennan had arrived about five minutes ago and hadn’t even gotten out of his car before Mr. Ethan joined him and they drove off, she said.
THE CARRIER PIGEONS
To: Cornelia Q. Merrihew, Esq.
From: Louis S. Morrell
Re: Notice of Letter
Ms. Merrihew:
I’m in receipt of a letter from your cousin putting me (and you) on notice that she intends to pursue claims concerning your bequest. I am copied on the original and I would like to confirm your receipt of same.
Additionally, you left your underwear in my bed. Shall I FedEx it to you, care of your office?
He’s been sending her emails all week. They’ve been falling off her screen amid an avalanche of work, but she can’t avoid this one.
To: Louis S. Morrell
From: Cornelia Q. Merrihew Re: re: Notice of Letter Mr. Morrell—You are mistaken. I am in possession of all my undergarments. Perhaps you should query your other bedmates. And in the future, please contact me via private text to discuss personal matters.
This email acknowledges that I am in receipt of my cousin’s letter.
She’s not surprised when her phone pings almost immediately.
Louis: Bedmates! You didn’t leave anything, as you rightly point out, but I had to say something to get your attention. You’ve been ignoring my emails. I’m not the greatest at being ignored.
As if anyone could ignore him. That night of the speakeasy, under the pretense of a tour of his house, he’d shown her almost directly to his bedroom. Before she’d had a chance to take in the particulars, he’d already started unbuttoning his shirt. She’s getting used to Mr. No Pretense now, but that night she couldn’t help but stare at his chest, a leaned-out flex of muscle from neck to wrist, from shoulder to belt buckle. A spare body with a honed mind to match; “gristly,” you might call it at his age. “Oh, but it looks good on you, Mr. Morrell,” she’d wanted to say.
“My eyes are up here,” he’d said, tipping her chin up toward him.
“That’s usually my line,” she’d said.
“Should I ask what color they are?”
She’d snapped her eyes shut. “Blue. Mine?”
When he’d paused too long, she’d opened them.
“Green. I always hate that game.”
“Always, huh?”