Legacy (15 page)

“I want you to have a good time and be okay...” he started. “But I’m worried about my parents.”

Corinne’s hazel eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Why?”

Wes eyed the brimming shot glass in one hand and ran his fingers through his hair with another.

“They can be...a horror show sometimes.”

Her expression didn’t change, and Wes began to regret saying anything.

“I’ve met them a couple of times. They seemed pretty normal,” she said, shrugging.

Wes laughed, mirthlessly.

“They’re anything but normal, but sometimes they can keep it together.”

Wes thought about the two times Corinne had encountered his parents. The first time was at the pool party almost two years ago. Michael knew well enough how to read the Clarksons, and he’d made introductions before Gloria could get sauced and before Harold could get ugly. Then Michael and Corinne had pretty much stayed in the pool with the younger crowd for the rest of the afternoon. As for the second time—at Michael’s funeral—Corinne couldn’t be expected to notice how his mother teetered at the gravesite or hear the hissed argument between his parents on their way back to the car.

He pushed thoughts of his mother and father from his mind.

“Now you. What are you nervous about?”

Corinne bit her lip and looked up at him.

“Losing my shit in front of everybody,” she said in a near whisper. “Crying. Or worse—freezing or panicking like you’ve seen me do more than once.”

After almost two weeks of going with him to the gym, Corinne looked so much healthier. He knew it was the time in the sun and the use of her body that showed most, but she’d sketched every day, and she’d gone to her sister’s to see the new baby a few times, and these things lifted her up as well. Still, crying spells happened almost daily. Wes knew it was normal and that it was a sign that she was dealing with her grief, and he agreed there was a chance that she would break down at the party.

“I’ll be there with you,” he promised. “And if you need to leave or just get away for a few minutes, say the word.”

“What word should I say?” Wes could tell by the look in her eyes that she wanted to sound light and funny, but that she needed a real answer—one she could use in front of other people—to make her feel safe.

“Ask me about Buck. If I fed him or let him out or whatever. And I’ll know.” It was the perfect code word. Buck was someone they shared but who’d belonged to Michael, and Buck was also a protector and friend. Invoking him would communicate both the distress and the promise of security.

Corinne’s eyes welled, but she managed to smile and nod.

“Will do,” she said.

She was being so strong. Wes looked at her and felt so proud of the steps she had taken in just a few short days. He raised his shot glass to her.

“To facing our fears,” he said.

Corinne rolled her eyes and released a breath.

“Kamikazes, indeed,” she said, clinking her shot glass against his.

Wes threw back his shot and watched Corinne’s face screw up as she did the same. He laughed and shook his head; Corinne had never been much of a drinker.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she sighed.

Shelly Drive was choked with the parked cars of Lafayette’s influential and elite. As soon as they’d turned onto the riverfront road, Corinne had stilled beside him, her eyes going wide.

“That’s a lot of people,” she whispered.

Wes reached across the seat of his truck and grabbed her hand.

“The more, the better,” he said, trying to reassure her. “We’ll just blend in.”

She nodded nervously.

“Okay.”

Wes parked his truck several houses from his parents’, and he jogged around the cab to help her down. He took hold of her hand again, and when she squeezed back, half of his tension evaporated. Wes promised himself that he wouldn’t let go until she did.

“I forgot how big this place is,” Corinne said as they turned up the walk toward the sprawling, two-story stucco.

“Yep,” Wes agreed, grimly.

“And you’re an only child?” she asked.

“Yeah. One son. Six bedrooms and a pool house with two more,” he said, shrugging. “I never understood that math.”

Of course, he did understand why his parents never had more children. It may have been the most humanitarian decision of their lives.

Wes pushed open the heavy oak door, and the din of conversation and laughter rolled over them. Corinne tensed, and he squeezed her hand in response.

“C’mon. You got this,” he said, leading her into the marbled foyer. The great room at the center of the house was full of people, many he recognized, but some he didn’t. Wes smiled and waved to a few but kept making steady progress toward the back of the house, knowing that the outdoors would be the least oppressive place for Corinne. “I just want to let my mother know we are here, and then we can get a drink and find somewhere to sit outside.”

Corinne nodded. As he expected, Wes found Gloria Clarkson just outside the French doors, holding her black Ego-T e-cigarette in one hand and her ever-present Derby in another, talking with a group of women who couldn’t have resembled her more.

“Hello, mother,” Wes said, pressing a dry kiss to her cheek and inadvertently smelling the sting of bourbon and the cloying, brown-sugar scent of vaping. “You remember Corinne, don’t you?”

If Wes’s mother was picturing the disrupted furniture arrangement in her pool house, she didn’t show it.

“Corinne!” she sang, leaning in and giving Corinne and airy embrace. “Marjorie, Delia, this is Wes’s friend Corinne...Corinne...”

“Granger,” Wes supplied, feeling his collar heat with embarrassment, but Corinne only smiled politely and shook hands with the other ladies.

“Corinne Granger? Not the portrait artist?” the one standing closest to his mother asked.

Corinne’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes, actually, that’s me,” she said, looking a little mystified.

“I’m Marjorie Jamison. You did a series of portraits for my sister, Allison Knight.”

“Oh, yes, of her children,” Corinne confirmed, smiling genuinely this time. Wes let out a little sigh of relief that the recognition didn’t seem to bother her.

“Gloria, are you a patron?” Marjorie asked, turning her fawning attention back on his mother, who was completely thrown by this news.

“I...uh...no...not yet...,” she stammered, cutting Wes an accusatory glance as though he’d been hiding Corinne’s talent from her.

“Oh, you must commission her! She’s incredible! You should see those portraits,” Marjorie praised.

The last thing Wes wanted was for Corinne to have to work for his mother.

“She’s pretty busy at the moment,” Wes said, feigning disappointment. Corinne squeezed his hand, and Wes wasn’t sure if she was admonishing his lie or thanking him for it. He didn’t care. Working for Gloria Clarkson wouldn’t do her any favors.

But his mother seemed undeterred.

“When do you think you might be ready to take on new commissions?” Gloria asked, pinning Corinne with her gaze. Wes felt his teeth set on edge. His mother wasn’t asking because she was any great art connoisseur; it was because of her friend’s reaction to Corinne. Corinne was a commodity. Something trendy and expensive. Something that showed her status. The fact that she didn’t know five minutes ago that Corinne Granger had a following didn’t matter at all.

Wes felt a growl of annoyance building in his throat, but Corinne spoke up before he could lay down the boundaries.

“I think it will be several months, but I can certainly call you, Mrs. Clarkson,” she said, vaguely.

“Oh, please, call me Gloria, of course!” Wes’s mother tittered. “Wesley, you must remind this darling girl to contact me when she has an opening.”

Wes clenched his jaw.

“Of course,” he lied. It would be best now to just walk away. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I promised Corinne a drink. Lovely party, mother.”

He pulled Corinne behind him and headed directly towards one of the bars that had been set up near the pool house entrance.

“I’m sorry about that,” he muttered over his shoulder.

“I survived,” Corrine replied.

He glanced back and took her in. She didn’t look any worse off for the encounter, but he wanted to make sure.

“You’re really okay?”

Corinne shrugged.

“Yeah, I mean I’m glad you covered for me, but it was nice to be reminded that there’s still interest in my work.”

Wes felt his eyes bug.

“Of course, there is. Your work is great,” he stressed. “And you’ll be ready one day to do commissions again...Just not for her.”

Corinne glanced back in his mother’s direction just as Gloria Clarkson threw back her head in faked amusement at her friends’ gossip. It was hard stop his lip from curling in disdain.

“Would it really be that bad if I did?” she asked.

Wes felt his expression harden.

“Not that I’m going to,” she quickly added, taking in his disapproval.

“You don’t need to spend any more time with her,” he said, hating the thought of Corinne coming to the house without him.

“Why not?” she asked gently after a moment. There was a look in her eyes that Wes didn’t recognize. It wasn’t mere curiosity; she seemed like she
needed
to hear the answer. Wes was pulled in by the look, and he was answering almost before he knew it.

“She drinks. A lot,” he said, keeping his voice low, but Corinne listened intently, taking in every word. She had a pained look in her eyes. “I used to think she drank because of him. His temper. His women. But now I think she stays with him so she can keep drinking. Like who could blame her...you know?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Nothing about her is real,” he said, shooting a look at his mother. He watched her take a gulp of her Derby and check how much was left in the glass. Gloria never emptied a glass; she always kept her drinks at least half full. Once her Derby dipped below half, she’d have a bartender top it off or trade it in for a fresh one. Gloria Clarkson hadn’t
finished
a drink in 20 years.

“You’d never be able to paint a portrait of her,” Wes said, bringing his eyes back to Corinne. “Well, that’s not so. You’d paint one that told the truth, and she’d have to sue you.”

He gave her a grim smile, but Corinne couldn’t seem to match it. He should have stopped, but something made him keep going.

“And the whole time you were here, she’d be sure to tell you everything wrong about yourself, saying it as if she were doing you a favor. And God help you if you didn’t respond with gratitude,” Wes swallowed and shook his head. “And then there’s my father…”

Wes could feel his own scowl. Corinne, by contrast, looked troubled.

“I don’t want you anywhere near that,” Wes muttered. Corinne bit her lip and frowned.

“Funny. I was going to say those words to you,” she said, softly.

Wes’s breath caught in surprise and a slow smile conquered his scowl. For a moment, he couldn’t think of how to respond, but he became aware that he still held her hand in his.

“Let’s get that drink,” he said, finally. “What would you like?”

She shrugged and followed him to one of the outdoor bars.

“Whatever,” she said, seeming to relax and returning his smile.

“One Abita Purple Haze and one cosmo, please.”

As they waited in silence, Wes squeezed the hand in his and ran his thumb over her knuckles. He told himself that he wanted to soothe her—and he did want to—but he also had to admit that touching her—that being allowed to touch her—soothed him with a rush all its own.

The bartender handed over their drinks, and they walked idly through the yard.

“So...” Corinne started, a question shaping the word, a keen look coming into her eyes. “You still drink...even after growing up in an alcoholic home…Does that ever worry you?”

Wes felt his mouth kick up in a smile. He loved that she didn’t shy away from intense questions. And his answer had just as much to do with her as it did with anyone else.