The Old Deep and Dark (3 page)

“We've had this conversation before. Do you want to live in New York City?”

She scrunched up her nose. “You should move to L.A. It's not so bad.”

“With all the beautiful people? I think not.” He gave her another kiss, then backed up and pointed to the papers. “Burning your X-rated diary?”

“It's his goddamn manuscript.” Her fury seemed to boil up again as she looked back at the house.

When he turned, he saw a dark figure in one of the second-story windows. “Is that Dad?”

“We're being observed,” she said, continuing to ball up pages and slam them into the flames.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Haven't you read it? His novel?”

“Oh, that. Actually, no. It was waiting for me when I got back from Atlanta. I tossed it in my duffel before I left the apartment. Figured I'd read it while I was here.”

“I suggest you read it fast. It's the whole point of this family meeting. I can't believe our parents are such utter douchebag liars. God but I hate them.”

He sat down on the bench, drank what remained of the wine in her glass, then refilled it. “Lies about what?”

“That manuscript is the end of the world. My world.”

This was a little much, even for her.

She began to toss clumps of pages into the fire, as if she couldn't burn them fast enough. She bit down so hard on her lower lip that it began to bleed.

“Could you focus for a second? Give me a few specifics?”

“What I want appears to be of no concern to anybody but me.”

“You'll need to speak less cryptically if you expect me to sympathize.”

“Oh, you'll sympathize all right. This will affect you as much as it does me. Read the goddamn manuscript. Then we'll talk.”

He wanted to press her to explain, but knew it wouldn't do any good. Behind Chloe's sweet face was the most fiercely stubborn human being he'd ever known. Deciding to take another tack, he asked, “Who else is here?”

“Tommy.”

Tommy Prior was their father's manager. He'd started out as a lawyer with a special interest in finance, intellectual property, and entertainment law before branching out and taking Jordan on as a client. He'd become a close friend, almost a member of the family. Booker had many fond memories of the time he'd spent with Tommy as a kid. He'd been a surrogate parent of sorts.

Thomas Cole Prior was a quiet, smart, good-natured man. Sadly, in the last few years, he appeared to have lost his energy for managing the career of a highly acclaimed country music singer. Booker saw Tommy as the kind of guy who would much rather spend his time camping in the woods, where he could do what he loved—hiking, swimming, hunting and fishing—than spend his days in a corporate boardroom. Unlike his parents, Tommy was self-reflective, possibly too much so. His growing addiction to alcohol was hard to watch. He'd used martinis for years to loosen himself up at parties. It seemed to help, though in the end, it was a solution with disastrous consequences.

From what Booker had been able to piece together, Tommy had made a serious business error that had ended up costing his dad a bunch of money. The fact that he was still employed, that they were still friends, highlighted another one of his father's good points. Jordan Deere was loyal to the people he cared about. Perhaps, it might be suggested, loyal to a fault.

“Have you spent any time talking to Tommy?” asked Booker, curious to know how he was doing. His drinking could add another element of rollicking good fun to the weekend.

Chloe stood for a moment staring intently into the fire, then shook herself and pulled out of her trance. “A little.”

“He still on the sauce?”

“Not while I was making him breakfast. But, yeah, I think he's still drinking. He seems depressed. He sat there at the island this morning and tasted the omelet. Said it was wonderful. But then he never took another bite. He eventually drifted off with a cup of coffee heading toward the bar in the family room. I'd say his trip to rehab last winter didn't take.”

“It's a hard demon to fight,” said Booker, taking another few sips of his sister's wine, glad that of all the problems in his life, that wasn't one of them.

“Hey, share,” she said, dumping one last chunk of the manuscript into the fire, then sitting down next to him and lifting the glass out of his hand. Eyeing him briefly, she said, “You look good. Better than you usually do.”

“Gee.”

“I didn't mean it as a slam.”

He was surprised that she'd noticed. He'd been working out. He was such a complete nerd that it came as a surprise to him when his body responded to lifting weights. He'd put on twenty pounds in the last year, all muscle. He did look good, which gave him a new sense of confidence. Still, he would never be physically attractive, no matter how hard he tried. He'd grown a beard in his late twenties, which covered up the worst of his acne scars and erased his weak chin. Orthodontia had taken care of his teeth. He might not be the same ninety-pound weakling he'd been in high school, a kid hiding in black clothes, projecting what little menace he could muster, but he'd never fit the heavily advertised Deere model: beautiful Americans living beautiful American lives. Booker had always been a square peg trying to wedge himself into a tight round hole, which meant he understood futility from the inside out. “Since we're commenting on looks,” he said, moving a few feet away and studying her. “You look different.”

“You're such a
guy.
”

“No, tell me. I can't put my finger on it.”

“My hair, dumbass. The bangs. They're trendy.”

“You're such a slave to fashion.”

“Shut up,” she said, a little too forcefully to be playful.

It seemed like it was time to ask how she was, always a touchy subject. After what she'd been through in junior high school, everyone was always looking for the cracks, the clues, the secretive behaviors—for anything that might help them understand where Chloe was at the moment. Living under a microscope was what had driven her out of the house as soon as she turned eighteen. Booker had left for similar reasons, though his problems had been different. He had to come up with an opening, a question that wouldn't seem too direct. “What's up with you these days—other than the mystery of the burning pages?” He hadn't realized how twitchy she'd been acting until the twitching stopped.

Her shoulders still looked tense, but it was an excited kind of tense. “Wondrous and terrible things,” she said, almost, but not quite, smiling.

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Give me some time and I promise, you will know all.”

“You've never been big on clear, easily understood information.”

Her expression turned from excitement to a sulk.

He pushed on. “So,” he said, clasping his hands casually around one knee, “how's the meditation practice going? Last time we talked, you were pretty high on it.”

“Been too busy.”

“You're still working for that foundation, right? Doing fund-raising?”

“Yeah. And I've joined a political campaign,” she said, examining a cut on her index finger. “I'm trying to get this guy elected to the House.”

“In Washington?”

“No, in Moscow.”

“Who is he?”

“Name's Wentworth. When he found out I was Jordan Deere's daughter … well, let's just say, the name occasionally comes in handy.”

“If you ask me, you're amazing all by yourself.”

“Eye rolling,” she called, jabbing a finger at her face.

Since the fire was beginning to burn down, he got up and tossed another log into the pit. It gave him something to do while he figured out what he should say next.

“Mom's flying in tomorrow,” said Chloe. Her way of changing the subject.

He was grateful. “I heard. Will Beverly be with her?”

Chloe flashed an evil grin. “What do you think? Badass Beverly.”

It was what they'd called her when they were kids. Beverly had put in sixteen years as their keeper, the resident adult when their parents were out of town. The problem was, she'd also been put in charge of the ranch outside Nashville, which took most of her time. They both liked Beverly well enough. She was fair and gave them lots of freedom. When they got too old and she wasn't needed anymore, she became their mother's executive assistant.

“When it comes to Mom, she's superglue,” said Chloe.

“Kinda sad.”

Pressing a hand over her mouth, she stifled a giggle. “I still can't believe Mom has no idea.”

“That Beverly's in love with her?”

“It's so obvious.”

“Not to a woman who thinks
everyone's
in love with her, that it's a natural state of being.”

Chloe stood and walked back to the pit, warming her hands over the flames. In an instant, her mood darkened again. “This is all just bullshit, you know that? The harm that book will do? Somebody's got to stop Dad.”

“From what?”

She didn't answer. “I feel like packing up my bags and calling a cab.”

“You can't leave me here alone. With
them.
” He clutched his throat, made a strangling noise.

Returning to the bench, they sat for a few minutes, passing the wine bottle between them.

“We're in for some major family drama these next few days,” said Chloe, her eyes scanning the house. “I can't be the only one who thinks that novel is the end of the freakin' world. When Mom get's here, trust me. It will be all-out thermonuclear war.”

He gazed into the dying fire, feeling a chill breeze roll off the lake. October was almost over. November was just around the corner. All he wanted was to crawl under a warm blanket and go to sleep, but he figured he'd better put in some time with that manuscript tonight.

“I suggest we watch each other's backs,” said Chloe.

“Deal,” he said, holding up his hand.

Instead of slapping it, she handed him the empty wine bottle. “I'd make a toast if there was anything left.”

“And what would the toast be?”

She considered it. “To our beloved Deere family values. Let's hope we're not all dead by the end of the weekend.”

 

4

Just after midnight, Booker set the half-finished manuscript next to him on the bed and groaned. Chloe hadn't exaggerated about the contents, although his reaction wasn't the same as hers. He found the situation almost, but not quite, hilarious. Some of the narrative details had obviously been changed. Still, if the essential story was true, the ground he'd been walking on his entire life had just shifted. After rolling out of bed, he threw on his bathrobe, opened the door and looked out into the darkened hallway, listening for signs of life. He'd purposefully taken the small bedroom at the far end of the second floor hallway, sacrificing space for privacy. Once everyone arrived, it would be a valuable commodity.

As he tiptoed toward the back stairs, he became aware of the soft growl of a conversation coming from his father's study. Listening at doors was a venerated Deere family sport. Seeing a partially open doorway was an invitation to pull up a chair and get comfortable.

Easing down on the top step, leaning his back against the wood railing, Booker closed his eyes to concentrate. His dad appeared to be in a quiet yet heated conversation with Tommy.

“Why don't ya just shoot yourself in the balls,” said Tommy, his voice gravelly and slurred. He would never have used those words if he'd been sober.

Tommy was a Minnesotan by birth, pronounced his Os a bit too broadly, his As a bit too flat, but when he'd had a few too many, he tended to assume Jordan's Kentucky drawl.

“Save all of us a whole buncha grief,” he continued. “Your wife. Your kids. Your fans. Your label. We should be planning your next tour, not spending our time on that goddamned manuscript.”

“I don't know why I even talk to you when you're like this,” said Jordan.

“You know I'm right. This is career suicide. I've worked my whole life to getcha where you are.”

“Sounds like I didn't have much to do with it. That right, Tommy? It was all your doing? My talent, my hard work—”

“You
know
what I think. How I feel. And come on. I've put in my time with you. Put up with the crap in
your
life. Now I need a little puttin' up with.”

Booker heard the clinking of ice against glass.

“Pour yourself another one, buddy,” said Jordan. “It's on the house.”

“Asshole,” came Tommy's angry response.

“So,” said Jordan, his voice oozing impatience. “I asked you a direct question and I want an answer.”

“Ask again. I promise, I'll listen this time.”

“Do you know anything about those notes I've been receiving? Yesterday it was ‘J.O.R.' Day before it was: ‘J.O.R.D.' Day before that it was—”

“It's nonsense. Somebody's playing a joke.”

“Today's was simply ‘J.O.' And there's always this … thing … at the bottom. Look at it. You tell me what you think it is.”

Booker could hear a paper rattling.

“It's just a smudge of ink,” said Tommy.

“No it's not. It's a crow. You know how I feel about crows.”

“Forget it.”

“Is it your kind of joke, Tommy? Your little way of telling me something?”

“I love you, man. You know that.”

Jordan didn't respond.

“That's why I'm trying to get you to see reason. The big picture.”

Patiently, Jordan replied, “I see the big picture. More clearly than I ever have in my entire life. That's why I came to Minnesota for the summer.”

“Right. To work on your writing career.” He snarled the last word. “You wanna commit suicide, okay. Go for it. Just leave the rest of us out of it.” When he spoke again, his voice sounded thick, quivery, as if he was holding back tears. “So where does that leave me?”