To his surprise, she clung to him like she was on the Titanic and the deck was beginning to tilt. Searching her face for clues, he noticed her jaw was set for battle. Did she expect them to get tossed out? Craig Freiberg’s ass would fry in a pan if that happened.
He glanced up at the front of the two-story building as they neared the front door and noted that, unlike First National, the Bosque Club hadn’t changed in the least. Fluted bas relief columns still rose on either side of the entrance, and two hitching posts were permanently embedded in the sidewalk next to the curb. As a kid, he used to imagine he was a cowboy tying his horse to one of the wrought iron rings before sauntering off to the nearest saloon for a sarsaparilla, which sounded a lot more interesting to a nine-year-old than the beer Growler stocked in the fridge.
Maxie had told him the shotgun-style building started out as a bank and later housed a dry goods store, but stood vacant for several years until the Bosque Club, which had been meeting in its members’ homes, moved in and got it a state historical medallion.
His eyes swept the brass plaque at the entrance. “The Rev. Edward Harlow” was listed as one of the club’s founders, but someone had drawn a line through his name with what looked like red lipstick. Jase frowned in confusion and disapproval.
A tall, thickset black man, dressed in a uniform that reminded Jase of a naval captain’s, stood under the short canopy, guarding the door. Knowing hired muscle when he saw it, Jase produced his guest card. The doorman examined it for several long seconds before looking up at Jase and handing the card back.
“Welcome to the Bosque Club, Mr. Redlander,” he intoned. His face was deadpan. “We hope you enjoy your evening with us. If you have a cell phone, please turn it off it at this time.”
Jase patted his pockets. “No phone. It’s a social evening.”
As he opened the door for them to enter, the doorman’s eyes registered Laurel’s identity and flicked wide for a split second. “Miss Harlow!”
He should have bowed, Jase thought, walking the princess of Bosque Bend through the town’s most sacred secular portals.
*
Entwining his hand with hers, Laurel guided Jase down the hall toward the collection of rooms beyond.
So far, so good. Jasper had recognized her as they came in, of course, but at least he hadn’t barred the door. Maybe Bosque Bend was too engrossed in whatever new scandal had erupted to pay attention to her anymore.
She could feel herself relaxing as they moved into the first room. It was all so familiar—the piano music coming from the dining room beyond, the gold-toned bamboo wallpaper above the dark wainscoting, the squat, deep-cushioned couches and chairs upholstered in bold persimmon and saffron prints, the collection of original oils on the walls—mostly by members of the Bosque Bend Art Guild—all depicting bluebonnets, live oaks, broken-down windmills, or picturesque outhouses.
But if the decor was relaxing, the family throng occupying most of the room rang all her alarm bells—Dave’s two sisters-in-law and their families.
Laurel tugged at Jase’s hand. “It’s so crowded here. Let’s try the next room.”
Persevere, Laurel Elizabeth.
Four middle-aged black men who looked only vaguely familiar were the only people in the next room. Hunched around a coffee table and talking in low, intense voices, they didn’t even look up as she and Jase came in. Probably working out some kind of business deal. A lot of deals went down over drinks and appetizers in the Bosque Club.
Jase sat them down on a comfortable plush couch with a garish hill country landscape of prickly pears and mountain laurels on the wall behind it. A white-haired waiter approached for their drink order. Laurel shook her head in negation.
“Cutty and water for me,” Jase said, producing his guest card. “The lady won’t be having anything.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “No ginger ale, Miss Laurel?”
She couldn’t help but respond to the warmth in his voice. “Thank you, Grover. Ginger ale would be fine.”
Jase took a handful of popcorn from the wooden bowl on the low table in front of him and glanced at the huddle of men across the room. One of them looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Maybe he was an old schoolmate, maybe someone he’d talked to earlier this week.
The drinks arrived. He tasted his whiskey, set it down on the side table, and smiled at Laurel. “As I said, I’m not much of a drinker.”
Laurel nodded and sipped at her ginger ale. “Neither am I. I used to have a Vodka Collins now and then when I was in college, but I’m afraid Grover would have been scandalized if I’d ordered one. Everyone around here thinks I’m still eight years old.”
Jase leaned back into the comfort of the couch and moved his arm around her shoulders, enjoying the touch of her magnolia-soft skin all along the way. “Not everyone, sweetheart, and certainly not when you’re wearing this dress.” He snuggled closer and touched her cheek with his lips.