Crazy Love (20 page)

But I could
not
live with having to protect my child from her own father. I believe with all my heart that Reg would have rather have chopped off his right hand than harm a hair on Maisie’s head, but oftentimes Reg wasn’t the one flying the plane. More often than not, Johnny Walker had the controls, or at least was acting as his co-pilot.

So when Sam hauled him away to rehab for the second time, I contacted my lawyer. Night after night, I cried myself to sleep and every time Maisie asked where her daddy was, I had to have the nanny read her a story while I hid in my room and privately broke down.

So it was fate’s cruel joke that he arrived at the gala looking so together and at peace while I clung tenaciously to my dignity. After all, I had divorced him. And with damn good reason. And yet I was miserable on a level that was positively indescribable.

Dash planted a kiss on my cheek that was a little too hard and entirely too wet. “We’re gonna go see if Hank won the trip to Bermuda that he bid on.”

I simply nodded and produced a polite smile. As I watched them stumble away I scanned the crowd, searching for Sam. I had to talk to someone. Sam would listen, and he would get it. He always did.

I saw no sign of him, but I did see Reg. He had his jacket flung carelessly over his shoulder, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his black silk shirt. He was devastatingly handsome as always, but it was the sorrow in his eyes that had my undivided attention. I felt my pulse quicken when I watched him stalk diagonally across the ballroom. I couldn’t quite tell if he was angry or sad, but his gait was rapid and purposeful.

And he was hurrying in the direction of the bar.

That tiresome slut Marybeth Dutton tried to place herself in his path, but he completely ignored her as if she were some sort of specter. Just three feet short of his destination, he came to an abrupt halt and dramatically spun on his heel. For a full minute he stood in what appeared to be silent contemplation, as if weighing the pros and cons of launching into a stupendous bender.

I fought hard to stay planted in my seat, but I just couldn’t resist the pull of him. As I drifted in his direction I felt like my limbs were no longer under my control. In moments I was at his side. I placed my hand on his arm. His skin felt almost feverish, and he jumped at my touch.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” As soon as it came out of my mouth I wanted to die.

Baby?

Dammit, Violet. Pull yourself together.

Fortunately, whatever had upset Reg also seemed to have affected his hearing. He said nothing at first, and I watched as he lifted his gaze to the stars shining down on us through the glass ceiling. And when his hand covered mine, I couldn’t pull away. I mutely stared at his familiar features and when his gaze shifted to me, I searched his red rimmed eyes. They felt as if they were caressing me.

“I’m sorry, Vi. For all of it. All I ever wanted was to give you the world. And I just kept failing you. I understand that you can’t forgive me. I’ll never be able to forgive myself. I just needed you to hear me say the words.”

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the agony on his face. I was terrified to the core that he’d see mine reflected back at him and know just how much power he still had over me. My lungs seemed to be failing me, along with my voice. I felt his finger tip trail down the nape of my neck and my eyelids felt weighty as I reluctantly opened them.

“I’ve made so many stupid mistakes, Violet. But none of ‘em as big as lettin’ you go.”

My lips parted and I finally inhaled as if to speak, but I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to hit him, to cry, to throw myself into his arms and kiss him until our lips were bruised. But I just stood there like a damned ice sculpture, unable to move, but slowly melting into nothingness.

Reg nodded as if understanding my silence. With one last resigned look, he touched my cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

As I wandered down River Street in a shocked haze, I was vaguely aware that Annabelle trailed behind me, but it didn’t slow me down. I had to put space between myself and my family before I did or said something stupid and made a jacked-up situation worse. And I wanted to get wasted. Not at the first bar I stumbled upon, though. Trip always used to say “never just wander into the first bar you see, Sammie.
Always
hold out for the second one. Trust me; the girls are
always
prettier and the liquor is
always
less watered down.” He was the resident expert, so I planned to take his advice. Truth is, I really didn’t care where the hell I drank, but I wasn’t about to get plowed at the hotel where Mama and her lover toasted Savannah’s upper crust. And if anyone deserved to get plowed, it was me.

Annie called my name. I didn’t look back at her. Embarrassed and angry, I willed her to just go away. When I didn’t respond to her a second time, I heard her swear under her breath. For some reason I welcomed the sound of her heels which clicked rapidly on the aged cobblestones. Moments after I passed the first bar, I heard her exclaim “fuck it,” and the sound of the heels disappeared. I assumed she’d abandoned her quest for a front row seat at my breakdown. It turns out I was wrong about that; she’d just given up on her shoes.

Trip’s “second bar rule” happened to work out well this time around. As I pushed the door open, the table of hotties right inside all looked up at the sound of the bell jingling. All three smiled at me and whispered fervently amongst themselves. Yep. Black tux— works every time.

Bernie’s was a cool little joint housed in a converted warehouse. Darkly lit, the exposed brick walls were peppered with beer signs. There was enough of a clientele that my tux didn’t draw too much attention, but not enough that I couldn’t find a seat. Perfect. I owed Trip a shot for his expertise. Or not.

I snagged a quiet booth near the back, and in moments a waitress appeared at my side.

“What can I get ya, hon?” Her eyes briefly surveyed my tux with an amused smile that made it pretty clear I’d been pegged as a ‘big tipper.’ Normally it bugged me when strangers called me by a term of endearment, but tonight it was oddly comforting. It probably helped that she was so easy on the eyes.

“We’ll have two pints of Shock Top and two dozen medium wings.” Annie interjected as she tossed her shoes and her sparkly purse onto the seat of opposite me. The waitress dropped the grin. She nodded and zipped away before I had a chance to object. Beer wasn’t going to be strong enough to dull my racing mind.

“Annie…I think I just need to be alone.” I started, but she held up her hand.

“You know what I think?” Her retort was swift and pointed.

I folded my hands on the table in front of me. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I think
you
are a dangerous over-thinker.
I
think you have spent too many years wrapped up in your head. I think what you need is to talk this out with someone who isn’t too close to the situation.”

I cocked an eyebrow, though I couldn’t argue with her forensic assessment of me. “You’re dating my brother. You’re hardly a neutral party.”

“Sam…have you
seriously
not figured out that Trip and I are just friends?” My jaw nearly hit the table at her revelation.

“What?”

“He’s crazy in love with Violet. From what I can tell, she loves him, too.” She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward for emphasis. I felt my eyes drawn to her chest-I couldn’t help myself. Her cleavage may as well have had a bull’s eye painted on it. “So go ahead and drink up. But I’m not leaving you to drink alone, so you may as well get used to the idea.”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline, and I gaped at her. The waitress skidded by and shoved two pints onto our table without coming to a complete stop. “But how are you going to drive if you’re drinking too?”

“Please. I could drink you under the table.” She set her beer down and reached into her purse for her buzzing phone. “So talk to me.”

“I’m not sure what you expect me to say.” My palms felt sweaty at the image of laying her back on her bed, and I nearly dropped my beer. I took a long sip of the cold liquid to buy myself time to think. What was there to say? She knew everything about this situation that I did. I had no great insight into the calamity that was my existence, nor was I interested in seeking advice from the amateur Dear Abby across the table. I wasn’t in the mood to psychoanalyze my feelings. I wanted nothing more than to just forget.

Her eyes were soft and full of sympathy I didn’t want. “I don’t expect anything in particular. There are no protocols for this situation, Sam.”

I raked a hand through my hair and stared down at the beer. “Now I get why Trip drank so much.”

“Oh yeah?” she replied, silencing her buzzing phone. She tossed it on the table, her attention firmly fastened on me.

I shrugged and barreled onward. “I feel stir crazy. I have the urge to do…
something
. Right now I could jump out of my skin, but the damage is all already done. There’s nothing I can do to change the outcome. It’s already upon us. I’m literally living proof of it. Maybe keeping a basal rate of alcohol in your system just dulls the feeling of helplessness to a tolerable level.”

“That’s why we have beer, Sam. Enough kick to take the edge off so that you can process all of this but not hard enough for you to forget.”

“It’s probably for the best. Alcoholism doesn’t just run in my family, it carries the Olympic torch.” The moment I’d said it, the fallacy of the statement snapped back and hit me like a rubber band. Did it run in my family? Not on the Moore side. The fact of the matter was that I had no idea what ran in my father’s side of the family. I filed that little kernel away to chew on later.

“You’ve got a lot to take in.” She responded levelly. I’d misjudged Annabelle when I made the snap decision that she had no filter. I’d fallaciously believed she always said what was on her mind. Presently, she could have gone head to head with any Harvard-educated arbitrator.

“It explains why Trip can’t stand to be around Mama. And it explains why he was always their favorite,” I offered as our waitress delivered two baskets of piping hot wings. “Daddy…he must have sensed it…even before…”

I picked up one of the wings and then set it back down on my plate. Then I drank deeply from my pint instead. My stomach already felt like I’d guzzled acid. The trust fund wasn’t even mine. It belonged to Trip…or Maisie. I was never destined to be the savior of the Beaumont business legacy; I wasn’t even a Beaumont. The mansion I grew up in wasn’t half mine; it was one hundred percent Trip’s because I was
illegitimate
. A bastard. ‘Born on the wrong side of the blanket’ as my grandmother used to say. Or was she my grandmother? I felt the blood rush from my face as I continued to fling open closet doors in my mind, and the skeletons just kept coming. I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I held them back.

As if she could read my reeling mind, Annabelle shook her head at me.

“Your father went through a lot of trouble to keep all this from you. To protect you.
Those
are the actions of a dad, Sam. Contributing DNA? That does
not
make someone a parent.” She slid out from her side of the booth, and with a flick of her head, motioning for me to scoot over. She joined me, resting her arm on the booth behind me. “That man you call ‘Daddy’ raised you as his own. He left you your inheritance as if you were his child. Your mother made
her
choices. He made his, too.”

A warm feeling covered me like an electric blanket on a cold northern night. I wondered if this was because I actually believed her soothing words or because I’d just polished off my pint. Perhaps it was because she was inches from me, with her satin covered leg touching mine. For a moment, my mind wandered to what she was wearing under her impressive gown. Lace panties or a thong? Stockings and garter belts or bare legs? I was almost positive that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Clearing her throat, she turned to her beer and twirled a tendril of hair around her finger. The waitress appeared and swapped my empty pint for a full one. Embarrassed, I realized that I’d been staring at Annie again and looked away wondering if her beauty was to me what booze was to Trip. A distraction. A drug to ease my troubled mind. Maybe that was why I was so fixated on her. I tried to focus hard on what she’d just said.

“You’re right. Daddy made a point to take Mama out of his will. It was the perfect time for him to do the same with me, and he didn’t. I’m not sure what to do with that. Or Mama. Or Trip…” The thought of Trip carrying this burden around with him for years suddenly gave me a tremendous feeling of shame.

“You press on. We are who we are
because
of
and
in spite of our families. All we can do is learn from their mistakes. Use the strengths you inherited and overcome the weaknesses.” She said this all as if she was a boxing coach in my corner between rounds, indelicately and with more than a hint of condescension. She must have noticed my incredulous look, because she put down her beer, her eyes darting back and forth as if she were calculating the risk versus rewards of pressing on.