The governor shot Declan a look, threw his napkin on the table, and stormed off.
Declan looked at Quinn. “I understand you’re upset, Quinn, but insulting the governor isn’t going to help your cause.”
9:15 P.M. EST
THE CHARLESTON EXECUTIVE AIRPORT
SIMON PRENTICE WAS used to cold weather, living in Philadelphia for twenty-plus years. Before that, he’d spent time in Chicago and Minneapolis—each of which was colder than hell. But the brutal winds that ripped at Simon’s face caught him off guard.
“If I had any idea the weather would be this bad, I’d have worn a parka,” Simon said as he led Dr. Gerylyn Stoller across the tarmac toward the airport building. The only downside to flying in a private jet was not having the Jetway.
It was cold for Charleston, Gerylyn thought.
Unusually cold.
Simon pulled the door open and guided Gerylyn into the warmth of the airport building and looked around. There was a handsome young man in a tuxedo sitting alone in the waiting area, looking at his cell phone.
There he is, Simon thought.
9:24 P.M. EST
INSIDE THE MULVANEY BALLROOM
STAN LEE WAITED until the main course—a red wine-lacquered turkey with sriracha-infused butter glaze, along with a Greek acorn squash stuffed with diced leeks, honey-roasted sweet potatoes, and chipotle-roasted baby carrots—had been delivered to the last table before stepping behind the podium.
“Hello, belles and gents, it’s me again, your master of ceremonies—the Southern Gentleman.”
Stan Lee waited until he had the room’s attention before he continued. “One of the things I admire about Southerners is our ability to accept the truth about things. Like the truth about who won the Civil War. We did. And the truth that all foods are better after a few minutes in a deep fryer. They are. And the truth that we talk slower than Northerners—but its only to give them time to keep up.”
Stan Lee waited for the laughter to come and then pass before continuing.
“The funny thing, though, is our unwillingness to face the truth when it comes to how much we weigh. There, we seem to run from the truth. For example, the truth is that most of us had to go on a diet so we could fit ourselves into our tuxedos and gowns for this evening. In my case, I went on the three-day tailor diet—I took my suit to the tailor and, three days later, it fit like a glove. Fortunately, obesity doesn’t run in my family—come to think of it, no one runs in my family.”
The room quickly filled with laughter.
“So, ladies and gents, if you find yourselves bustin’ at the seams this evening from eating too much of the fine Southern cuisine you’ve been served, keep these wonderful truths in mind:
First, you’re not getting fatter—you’re simply getting easier to see. Second, being a bit plump has traditionally been a sign of wealth throughout the ages. And, finally, the more you weigh, the harder it is for you to be kidnapped.”
The laughter in the room grew to a peak now, along with the clinking of knives and forks against china plates as people dug into their food.
“With that said, it is my pleasure to introduce Ms. Chloe Archer, master winemaker and owner of Krissy Vineyards, located in a magical place called Napa Valley where they produce not only wine, but also Sommeliers who come to teach us silly Southerners about how to drink it. What Ms. Archer doesn’t know is that down here, south of the Mason-Dixon, we don’t need a vintage chart to drink wine—all we need is a corkscrew. Heck, if the wine is new enough, we don’t even need that.”
Stan Lee waited for the laughs to die down and then went for the big finish:
“Perhaps Ms. Archer will provide us with a few tips on storing wine while she’s here, though they say that if you store your wine properly, it improves with age. Well, I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t improve with age—I improve with alcohol—which is where Ms. Archer comes in. Ms. Archer?”
9:24 P.M. EST
THE MULVANEY BALLROOM
CHLOE ARCHER ROSE from her seat next to Bruce, climbed the steps of the stage to a smattering of applause, and placed herself behind the podium. “Well, aren’t you the charmer? Nothing says welcome more than an old white man dressed like a plantation owner.”
Stan Lee’s face grew red as the people in the room went wild with laughter. Chloe turned her attention to the audience. “Admittedly, I don’t know much about the South—but I do know wine. And I do know a bit about men. I’ve always found men to be like wine. They start out as grapes, and then it’s up to us women to stomp the hell out of them until they become acceptable dinner companions.”
The women in the room howled with laughter as Stan Lee climbed off the stage and took the empty seat next to Bruce.
“She’s a handful, that one is,” Stan Lee said.
“Tell me about it,” Bruce said.
“Life is too short to drink bad wine. Don’t you agree?” Chloe said from the stage. “The right wine is like bottled poetry. And when paired with the right food, wine is like love and laughter, lipstick and mascara, campfires and marshmallows, football and fall.”
Chloe looked out to the sea of faces and knew she had their attention now.
“The wine you’re drinking tonight is Krissy Vineyard’s 2007 vintage Meritage. I’d originally intended serving a cabernet but changed my mind to something more fruit-forward when I learned that turkey was on the menu. A blend of 70 percent cabernet sauvignon grapes, 15 percent merlot, and 15 percent petit verdot—built around black fruits with hints of toast, oak, spice, sweet tobacco, and dark leather—this reserve wine is light on tannins yet retains a seductively long finish.”
“She’s good,” Stan Lee said to Bruce.
Bruce nodded, his eyes on Chloe—seeing the same thing he’d seen in her when they’d met for the first time on his trip to Napa seventeen years earlier.
“My life is about two things—my daughter and my winery,” Chloe said. “I get up in the morning, kiss my girl, then spend the day in the sun-kissed vineyard where the weather forecast is always 100 percent chance of happiness. And, finally, a quick word about our label. The art was done by my talented artist daughter, Krissy, for whom the winery is named. Krissy, stand up.”
Krissy stood to a round of polite applause.
Stan Lee paid no attention to the girl—who, under normal circumstances, would have been just his type. Instead, he was transfixed by the bottle of wine on the table.
The label featured the silhouette of a scarecrow—with a large black bird sitting on the arm, pecking away at it.
Stan Lee knew exactly how the scarecrow felt.
9:42 P.M. EST
OUTSIDE THE MULVANEY MANSION
STORMY BOYD STEPPED through the front door of the mansion and started down the drive toward the front gate.
Then stopped.
The damn gate.
It was stuck again, only now it was in the open position, which was obvious as there were three security guards busy struggling to pull it closed. “What is that?” Stormy asked as he approached, pointing at a portable propane space heater on the ground next to the base of the gate.
“It’s a space heater,” the female guard replied.
“I can see that,” Stormy said.
“We were thinking the chain might be frozen,” the elderly guard said.
Stormy knew the gate wasn’t sticking because of the temperature. “That’s not the reason. It’s been jamming on and off since the day it was installed.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then why didn’t you call—?” the female guard started.
“We have,” Stormy snapped. “They’ve been out here a dozen times.”
“A dozen times? Then why didn’t you insist they replace the damn thing?” the elderly security guard asked.
It was a good question, Stormy thought. What in the hell had he been thinking?
Stormy felt a shudder go through him, and it wasn’t from the cold. It was the kind of shudder one felt
when they knew something bad was coming but had no idea what it was.
Or how to stop it from happening.
“If fulfilling your mission on earth truly matters, why have you yet to even start? And don’t say it is because you don’t know your mission. You have always known.”
The 31 Immutable Matters
of Life & Death
Episode 26
Dinner Is Served
THE FOLLOWING TAKEs PLACE BETWEEN 10:03 P.M. (EST), DECEMBER 20, 2010
and 1:47 A.M. (EST), DECEMBER 21, 2010
AT THE START OF THE SOLSTICE ECLIPSE.
10:03 P.M. EST
SIMON’S TABLE IN THE BALLROOM
FERNANDO RITCH WAS busy telling his third story in a row when he spotted his publisher, Simon Prentice, coming toward the table—followed by a blind woman who Fernando knew to be Dr. Gerylyn Stoller and a young man he assumed to be Simon’s author du jour.
“Simon, you finally made it!” Fernando exclaimed.
Zaneta Lawrd, another of Simon’s authors, was sitting to next to Fernando. Every square inch of her was covered by a tattoo of some sort. Neither author wrote under their real names.
Both Zaneta and Fernando had agreed to attend because Simon was footing the bill for the evening. Authors never passed up a free meal, especially when being served in the home of a billionaire real estate tycoon.
“Yes, we were beginning to think you’d been eaten by one of Fernando’s dreadful creatures,” Zaneta said.
“Nothing quite so exciting, I’m afraid,” Gerylyn said as Simon helped seat her. “Just a bit of snow.”
“You know Dr. Stoller, but you’ve yet to meet my latest literary find,” Simon said. “Fernando, Zaneta, this is Noah Ashley.”
“Oh, my, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Simon introduce anyone as a literary find,” Zaneta said. “You must have written something truly special.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Noah said, taking his seat.
“Come now,” Fernando said. “If Simon is salivating over your property, it must be something quite extraordinary.”
“It’s just a ghost story,” Noah said.
The conversation paused as a waiter arrived with three dinner plates and set them on the table. “Dinner is a red wine-lacquered turkey with sriracha-infused butter glaze, accompanied by a trio of sides, including Greek acorn squash stuffed with diced leeks, honey-roasted sweet potatoes, and chipotle-roasted baby carrots,” the waiter said. “May I get you anything to drink from the bar?”
“Absolutely,” Noah said. “I’ll have gin with a splash of tonic.”
“I’ll have the same,” Simon said.
“So, Noah, you’re a drinker?” Zaneta said.
Not really, Noah thought. He rarely drank. But if he was going to get through the night with these two pompous authors, he’d make an exception.
“So, tell us, Noah—who is your protagonist?” Zaneta asked.
“You mean like my main character?”
“Yes, the hero of your story,” Fernando said. “What do they want? Every character in a story must want something, even if it’s as simple as a glass of water.”
“Fernando is quoting Vonnegut,” Zaneta said, taking a sip of her wine. “If you’re going to quote someone, Fernando, you must provide proper attribution—especially Vonnegut.”
“Fernando writes in the style of Vonnegut,” Simon said. “Zaneta’s style is somewhat more trendy—a mixture of Alice Sebold and Tom Wolfe.”
“I don’t write in a style,” Noah said. “Onyx told me the stories, and I wrote them down.”
“Stories? So, it’s a series then?” Zaneta said.
Noah had no answer, so he said nothing.
“Well, you must have a protagonist,” Fernando said. “Certainly, you’ve studied Joseph Campbell and the hero’s journey—no one writes anything these days without running their story through the hero’s journey paradigm.”
“And who is Onyx? A co-author?” Zaneta asked.
“That’s Noah’s hook,” Simon said. “Onyx is a ghost who has been dead for seventy years. She’s the one who tells the stories.”
“Oh, my, how clever,” Zaneta said. “I wish I’d come up with that. Watch out, I might steal it.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Simon said. “I’m taking this one all the way to TV.”
Dessert arrived—a delicious dish of roasted pears with espresso mascarpone cream—and the conversation turned back to writing, which was of no interest to Noah. Story structure, plot points, character development, tone, themes—it not only bored him but also felt manipulative somehow. Their conversation made writing seem dirty. Couldn’t a story simply be a story?
The bigger problem, however, was the growing feeling that he was making a mistake by selling to Simon Prentice. Not that Simon was a bad guy—he wasn’t. And the money being offered was enough to set Noah up for a long, long time.
It was Simon’s plan to turn Onyx’s story into a TV series. Having the story published in a book seemed okay somehow. But for her story to be on television? It seemed far too—public.
Noah suddenly wished he could stand up and leave, regretting that he even came.
“Noah Ashley?”
Noah looked up and saw a woman standing there with a bottle of wine in her hand. “I thought that was you,” Chloe said.
“Chloe Archer!” Noah said, pulling himself to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
Chloe held up the bottle of Krissy Vineyards Meritage and smiled.
Noah knew Chloe from the time he’d spent at the Culinary Institute of America in Napa.
“Come to the kitchen with me,” Chloe said. “Let’s talk.”
“What’s it been, seven years?” Chloe asked when they’d gotten to the kitchen.
“Yeah, at least,” Noah said as Chloe grabbed a couple of glasses and poured two inches of wine into each.
“How did you end up connecting with the Mulvaneys?” Noah asked.
“Bruce Mulvaney is my silent partner in the winery,” Chloe said.
“You never told me that,” Noah said.
“Yeah, well, it was pretty much hush-hush back then. The last I heard you were at P.O.S.H. in the Pearl.”
Noah held up his hand, and Chloe saw the scars on his fingers. “It looks worse than it is. Besides, I have my own place now—Noah’s Grille in Crimson Cove.”
“Crimson Cove? Bruce has been looking to buy land up there for years, some lighthouse. Oh, don’t tell me—?”
“Yeah, I’m the guy who helped kill the deal,” Noah said. “I was hoping to get through the night without running into him.”
“Small world,” Bruce said from the doorway.
10:10 P.M. EST
UPSTAIRS BEDROOM AT THE MULVANEY MANSION
JUNIPER STEPPED THROUGH a mirror in a bedroom in the newer portion of the mansion—an area she’d never been in before. The pictures on the wall were of a young Koda and his parents, presumably.
Juniper thought the dark-haired woman looked familiar, but she couldn’t place from where.
Outside the room in the hallway, Juniper saw an elevator door. Elevators were easy and conserved energy, but getting face to face with people in such close quarters was dangerous. Someone could recognize her. It wasn’t likely, of course, but why take the risk?
Juniper took the stairs down to the first floor and immediately encountered a man wearing a tuxedo with a woman in a stunning ball grown on his arm. They were wearing party masks.
That’s right, Juniper thought. It was a masquerade party.
Juniper was already in a dress, which was good. Now she needed a mask.
Juniper worked her way toward the front of the mansion and found two young men standing near the entrance. Each were in tuxedos and, like the couple in the hall, they were wearing masks.
“Excuse me,” Juniper said. “Do you know where I might be able to get a masquerade mask?”
“We had some, but they’re all gone,” t
he first young man said.
Juniper scrunched her face. “I don’t suppose—?”
Before she could finish asking, the second young man had his mask off and held it out. “Here, miss, take mine.”
“Are you sure?” Juniper asked. “You won’t get in any kind of trouble, will you?”
“I’m sure it’s okay,” the young man said. “If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them I was helping a damsel in distress.”
Juniper smiled and dropped her eyes.
Oh, he had no idea.
Juniper didn’t bother asking for directions to the ballroom. All she had to do was follow the noise.
Juniper stood in the back of the room opposite the stage and scanned the room until she spotted Gerylyn Stoller, which—even though she was wearing a mask—wasn’t all that hard.
All she had to do was look for a white-haired woman.
With a cane.
Juniper considered going to the table, but—again—she didn’t want to take the chance that she’d be seen. Especially by Quinn. Later, perhaps. But not yet. Which left two options.
One: Wait for Gerylyn to go to the restroom, which could be minutes or hours away.
Two: Have someone deliver a message for her. And now Juniper knew exactly who she could get to do it.
Even though she’d been blind for her entire adult life, Gerylyn still found it uncomfortable to eat in front of others—more specifically, strangers. Fortunately, Simon understood and took it upon himself to acclimate her to where the food was on her plate.
“Turkey and stuffing is at twelve o’clock, squash at three, sweet potatoes at six, and carrots at nine,” Simon said. “Water is on the top right, and there’s a delicious-looking piece of cornbread on a side plate at two o’clock. Do you want me to cut the turkey?”
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