by Ava Miles
“Caitlyn, dear, everything is so tasty. I especially love the bread. It’s with olives, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s called fougasse, Aunt.”
Ibrahim—what a fascinating man—smiled thinly across the table from her and Arthur. “Caitlyn, do I remember you telling me this morning that it’s the Provençal version of focaccia? You asked Katrine to make it special, isn’t that right?”
Beau seemed to sit up straighter in his seat, Clara noted. Why? Oh, this dinner was filled with enough subtext to tantalize a diplomat. It felt like an undertow threatening to drag them all under after tossing them around some.
“Yes, Ibrahim, that’s right.” Caitlyn forced a smile—a brittle look that didn’t suit her—and lifted her glass of sparkling rosé, taking two healthy swallows.
The perfumer lifted a slice of the bread and sniffed. “Funny how my mind wants to tell me there’s rosemary in this bread. Beau mentioned the other day how the scent of rosemary makes him think about focaccia bread and Italian grandmothers.”
“You Italian, Beau?” Arthur asked. “You certainly have the olive skin, but Masters doesn’t strike me as Italian. Your mother’s side, perhaps?”
The young man visibly paled under that golden skin. “Not Italian… At least not that I know of, sir.” He looked down at his plate but not before Clara noted the tension in his face. His jaw had locked down like a security gate in a bank robbery.
Arthur slapped an inch of butter on his bread, something the French just didn’t do. But would he know that? No. Would he care? Definitely not. And she wasn’t going to tell him.
“Masters,” Arthur said. “It’s a good name. Anglo-Scottish origin, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” The young man kept his head down, his words barely intelligible between his Southern drawl and soft tone.
Clara had been surprised to see he hadn’t changed for dinner. The rip in his dirty white T-shirt looked shadowed in the low light of the dining room chandelier. Clara had thought it best to eat inside since Arthur was a bit punchy from travel.
“Masters is actually of Italian origin, I believe,” Ibrahim said. “From the Latin, magister, meaning one who is in charge. I imagine it was usually applied to a trade, but I like to think it also means a man who is in charge of himself, his life.”
Beau’s head shot up at that, and his blue eyes seemed to glitter. Then his mouth twisted, and he reached a hand out for his wine glass. He hadn’t drunk any so far, and they were halfway through the meal.
Caitlyn gripped the edge of the table with her right hand, Clara saw, from her seat next to her. “Beau?” her niece called.
“To all the Masters,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.
His voice was as rough as jagged fingernails. Not a happy toast then. But Clara and the others raised their glasses with him. All except for Caitlyn. She kept her green eyes on him, staring at him with what Clara could only term unflinching compassion.
His throat moved as he drank. One gulp. Two. At the third, Caitlyn stopped breathing. Clara reached for her left hand under the table, and the young woman clenched it.
“Always liked the pink stuff,” Arthur said, his brows smashed together. “What about you, Beau?”
“It’s…good,” his gravelly voice said.
“You know, pink champagne cocktails were all the rage in the late 1950s, right, Clara? After that nauseating Cary Grant movie came out.”
She knew he was hoping for a diversion, so she played along. “An Affair to Remember was a beautiful love story, you old poop.”
He winked. “Caitlyn, which chick flicks make your generation go all crazy?”
“What?” she asked.
She tore her eyes from Beau for a moment, until the man surged to his feet. “You’ll have to excuse me. I think I got too much sun today.”
His chair scraped on the floor, and they all watched him walk out of the dining room. Caitlyn stood up, her eyes trailing him out of the room.
“I’d leave him be, Caitlyn,” Ibrahim said quietly.
“I hate waiting, especially after…” She sat down heavily. “I’m sorry, Aunt Clara. Uncle Arthur. I should have told you.”
“Told us what, dear?” she asked. “That your man is going through some crisis? Like his torn-up clothes didn’t advertise that.”
“At least he left his cowboy hat off at the dinner table,” Arthur said. “Shows he hasn’t lost all civility.”
Ibrahim raised his napkin, but not before Clara caught his smile.
“Civility, Arthur?” Clara could have poked him. “Sometimes you are too pompous for words.”
He laughed. “My dear, to the Beau Masters you showed me in those darn videos, civility is important. Wouldn’t you agree, Ibrahim?”
He’d only just met the man, and here he was, already cultivating allies. The legendary Arthur Hale at work.
“Absolutely,” Ibrahim said. “Shall we continue dinner or call it a night? I know you must be tired from your travels. You needn’t stand on any ceremony for me. I won’t speak for Caitlyn.”
Her niece’s mind wasn’t with them. Clara wasn’t sure she’d heard a word they’d said. But if they adjourned now, all Caitlyn would do was fret. Maybe she’d even be tempted to go after Beau. Ibrahim had been here longer, so she’d honor his advice. If he thought Beau needed to be left alone, then she’d do her best to help that happen.
She glanced at Arthur and raised her left brow a half-inch, their silent way of communicating concurrence. He raised his in return. She nodded. My, how she loved the nonverbal communication between husband and wife.
“We’re staying,” she said. “The dinner is delicious, and the company quite fascinating. So, Ibrahim, please tell me more about how you became a master of perfume.”
As he told her, she kept one eye on her niece, who pushed around her food in utter dejection.
She and Arthur were going to have their hands full with this matchmaking.
Chapter 14
The nearly half-moon cast an almost snowy glow over the fields as Beau stormed toward what he now called his sitting spot.
He had such a spot at his home in Dare River outside Nashville, under a gnarly oak tree. The one here was on a small rise in what seemed the middle of the lavender. It always calmed him, the spicy scent seeming to seep through the very pores of his over-sensitized skin. When he arrived at his spot, he discovered Chou-Chou snoring softly on the ground. Did the animal have no home to go to itself, being orphaned? He sat down next to the baby goat, who stirred and nuzzled closer. His mama had died giving life to him, but where in the hell was his father? Did papa goats care nothing for their sons?
“We aren’t too different, are we, Chou-Chou?” He rubbed the goat under his soft ears, staring out at the farmhouse nestled across the fields. Only one light was on, and it was Caitlyn’s.
He’d been a complete jerk, excusing himself from the middle of dinner. Part of him had also cheered his audacity. Before, he’d never had the courage—no, the infernal gall—to contemplate such a breach in etiquette. But Caitlyn had ignored his attempt to be the gentleman and seat her, and then there’d been all that talk about his last name.
Truth was he was too binged up for polite company, and his toast to all the Masters had tasted like acid in his mouth. Except, miracle of miracles, that girly pink champagne—what was it called? Rosé—had turned from acid to sweet ambrosia. He’d liked it, and that had scared him. If he liked it, he might keep drinking it, might become an alcoholic like his…
That man wasn’t his daddy anymore. Never had been. Beau wasn’t destined to become an alcoholic. Of course, maybe his real father was an alcoholic too.
Maybe he was even worse than Walt Masters.
The thought brought chill bumps to his skin, and he dug his boots in the soft earth to ground himself. Like Caitlyn, the land brought him a sense of peace. Always had. Wasn’t that why he’d bought a large place in the country instead of moving to Belle Meade nex
t to his mama? She’d wanted to keep him close so she could look after him, she’d said. At least he’d had the sense to set some boundaries.
God, the apron strings now seemed like those of a puppet.
The sounds of a lonely harmonica filtered into his mind, followed by his voice singing those apron strings didn’t look like puppet strings, but now they must be cut. Then the guitar kicked in, adding to the sadness of the song. She wants me close, but right now I can’t let her.
Mama has to go.
The mama I knew is gone.
His eyes welled with tears, and he wanted to blame them on the spice in the night air, a blatant lie. He was ashamed to realize he was capable of lying, what with all his talk of honesty. Perhaps he and Mama were alike, after all.
The harmonica filtered back into his mind, lonely, sad, resolute. Two notes played to convey almost a waa-waaa sound. Despair in a sound. But it worked. Maybe instead of trying so hard to write about roots, he had to write about his despair in discovering he had none. That his entire life was rooted in lies.
Caitlyn’s light was still burning, and inside his heart something new and powerful burned for her. He wanted her like he’d wanted his first guitar: a small-bodied Rogue Starter Acoustic Guitar in midnight blue. His mama had thought it too bold, but he’d stopped by the music shop in their small town and stared at it in the window for six months before getting up the courage to buy it with money he’d earned cutting grass. He’d refused to return it—a singular moment of defiance—and she’d not spoken to him at supper for over a week, one of her tactics for expressing displeasure. He still loved that guitar the best even though it was now the least expensive and tuned in his collection. A lot of hope and dreams had gone into that guitar, and he’d made some pretty good music with it. Perhaps not the most complex or technical—he was a better musician now—but it had been true.
Where was that truth now? What was true now?
He knew one unassailable truth: he wanted that woman in the house. It was late, and there were a million reasons why Old Beau wouldn’t have bothered her tonight, following some line about gentlemanly manners and etiquette, but he was tired of it.
She didn’t want him to be a gentleman. She wanted him to be real with her. To keep her, he’d have to tell her the truth and trust she cared enough about him to want the real man, the one who was struggling right now.
Picking up Chou-Chou, he walked back to the house as Caitlyn’s light went out. The baby goat deserved a better home than the lonely fields, and he was going to see to it. No different than a dog really. He’d make the poor thing a bed under the portico behind the house. The baby goat didn’t stir, and Beau appreciated its trust in him.
After seeing to Chou-Chou, he patted his tiny head again and let himself into the house. Moving quietly, he let his eyes adjust. If Caitlyn didn’t answer his knock, he’d go to bed. Talk to her in the morning. But if she was restless like he was, unable to sleep… They hadn’t taken their usual stroll after dinner.
His knock was quietly percussive, a demanding drumbeat delivered from the pads of his fingers. Silence. Then he made the same sound again, knowing repetition might capture her hearing. No, honey, you aren’t hearing things. Come answer the door.
It swung open, and he could make out the shape of her body from the soft moonlight spilling through the windows in her room and the hallway.
“I’ve been a total ass, and I’m sorry.” Old and New Beau both agreed on that. “I know you just went to bed, but if you’re up for a walk in the fields with me, I’d like to make up for my bad behavior earlier and tell you things you’ve wanted to know.”
Her sigh was all the more audible in the near darkness, his other senses picking up on it in addition to the spicy scent coming off her skin. A little lavender mingled with something Oriental. Myrrh? Yes, it was perfect for a goddess.
“Everything?”
The earlier pique was back in her voice, and he smiled. “I like that you hold my feet to the fire. Maybe I should buy you a matchbook.”
“Or a torch,” she said, followed by a rude sound.
He opened his arms. “Burn me down, honey.” Maybe he’d rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
“You and Ibrahim… I’ve never been around two people who speak in such riddles.”
Riddles, was it? He thought Ibrahim a master of wisdom, but perhaps that was the artist in him talking. “I like how Ibrahim talks.”
“I mostly do too, but both of you know how to tie my mind up into knots. Fine. I’ll take a quick walk with you—not a stroll—but if I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’m leaving you in the fields. Hear me?”
“Clear as crystal, honey,” he said. He liked this other side of her. She was a nice girl, but she had teeth when she needed them. Maybe it’s what he’d needed in a woman all along.
She stepped into the hallway, her silhouette stealing his breath. Her dark robe wafted behind her as she walked ahead of him toward the stairs. In this light, he couldn’t see if her legs were bare. Man, he had a thing for her bare legs. Those cotton dresses and the way they pushed up the slightest trace of her cleavage drove him wild too.
He waited until they’d walked a fair distance from the house to say, “I found Chou-Chou sleeping in our sitting spot in the fields, so I brought him closer to the house so he wouldn’t be alone out there.”
“That was nice of you,” she said, stopping between rows of lavender. “But I didn’t come out here to talk about your confidant, Chou-Chou.”
He tipped his head back at the midnight sky. Cloudless and filled with moonlight, it made him more aware of the murky feeling that had engulfed him these last few days. He could envy that sky. He would get this out.
“This turning thirty business had me thinking about roots, like I’ve told you. I decided to do one of those genetic tests. I’d always worried I would end up being like my father, that I’d inherited his bad genes, so to speak. It’s why I never drank before. It’s why I always tried so hard to be a good man. Turns out…Walt Masters isn’t my father.”
Her mouth parted, and her face seemed to crumple. “Oh, Beau.”
He cleared his voice. “All those years I struggled not to become like my father, the bad boy who’d died drunk and wrapped himself around a tree on a country road. The man who lied, cheated, and betrayed my mama, or so she told me. Instead, it looks like my mama and Walt were suited. She broke their marriage vows, and she lied to me about that man being my father this whole time. When I think about that, I start to see red.”
“No one can blame you for being angry,” she said, taking his hand. “No wonder you needed to get out of town. Beau, I’m so sorry I gave you a hard time. This is a very personal matter, and we’ve just met…”
“And yet we were kindred spirits from that first moment,” he said. “Don’t give it another thought. Caitlyn, truth is, I feel torn up inside. My mama was always telling me not to be like my daddy. It’s formed the framework of my whole damn life. Only that man wasn’t my daddy, and when I asked her who was, she wouldn’t tell me. That’s when I called you and asked to come here. I…couldn’t stand to be near her another moment, listening to her lies and filth. Because Caitlyn, I’m beginning to wonder if she even knows who my daddy really is.”
She flinched, and a jolt ran up his arms and traveled straight to his heart.
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me, and do you know what that makes her? God, that’s harsh, but I can’t help but think it after everything. My whole life has been a lie. God, I didn’t want to dump all this on you. I wanted to be a better version of myself for you.”
“Hey, we’re kindred spirits, remember?” she said softly. “I’m glad you finally trusted me. I can’t imagine how awful you feel right now, but you’re not a lie. You are a good man, Beau Masters, and you got there on your own. Do you understand? You made yourself.”
“No, I was so afraid of my daddy’s shadow growing up that I let my mama form me to be his opposite. Ma
ybe if I hadn’t hit so big so young, it would have turned out different. I used to think it was a blessing I had her around to guide me and make sure I didn’t get into trouble like many young singers do.”
“I can’t imagine that,” she said. “The bottom line is your mom tried to make you into something you weren’t. Someone tried to do that to me recently. It was awful.”
He nodded. “She did everything in reaction to him. His presence was so strong, even after he died, that sometimes I felt like he was haunting us.”
“If he was everything you said, I can’t say I blame her for cheating on him,” she said, her voice gentle.
“I told her that when I confronted her. Said I wouldn’t judge her. And she gave me nothing, honey. Nothing. Since then, I’ve felt uprooted. I’m not Walt Masters’ son. I don’t ever have to fear I’ll turn out like him if I drink or cuss or act a little wild with a woman. Like I’d like to do with you.” Something eased in his heart as he thought about laying her down in the lavender and filling her, hearing her sigh and quake under him. “I’ve walked a fine line my whole life. Denied myself things I wanted. I’m done with that.”
“Hence these new changes,” she said, her thumbs stroking the backs of his hands. “I understand now.”
“I’m tired of everyone looking to me to be the good guy, Caitlyn. I realize I’ve acted a little strange these last few days, but I need to find out what I’m like when I’m not doing what other people expect of me.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” she said, squeezing his hand. “According to Ibrahim, we’re all on a journey of discovery. Even me.”
That he knew. She was growing more powerful among the lavender. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Felt the shaky earth inside him settle.
“So far, you’re the best part of this journey. From the moment I saw you, I wanted to kiss those rosy lips of yours. Run my hands through your dark hair. Feel it against my bare chest.”