Edgar Brailsford leaned toward his daughter, showing Bud his back, and placed his hand over hers. Carolina leaned toward him and they huddled close, their gazes locked.
“Do you love him, baby?”
“I do, Daddy. With all my heart.”
Resignation flooded Brailsford’s features as his shoulders lowered. Gently patting Carolina’s hand, he said softly, “You know I just want you to be happy.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Then he turned toward Bud. His face was inscrutable. “Bud, is it?”
“It’s short for William,” Allison interjected.
“It’s a damnable thing to learn the name of your future son-in-law the night you meet him.”
“Daddy, that’s no one’s fault but your own. I’ve been in McClellanville for six months and you haven’t been to visit once.” Carolina’s tone was gently scolding. Bud could see she had her father wrapped around her finger.
Brailsford put out his hand. “Congratulations.”
Bud took the hand and once again felt a firm warning in the grip. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of her.”
“You’d better.”
Champagne was poured, and the rest of the meal was an exercise in submission and respect. Carolina gave a colorful description of how she and Bud had met and fallen in love, and Allison was clearly swept up in the romance of her only daughter’s joy.
Edgar Brailsford, however, took every opportunity to let Bud know that this was Brailsford’s club, his people, his wife, his daughter. He made sure Bud clearly understood that this was the lifestyle that he’d provided for his family and to which his daughter was accustomed. He set aside the menu and announced that they’d all be having the prime rib because it was the best in town. While ordering the wine, he took pains to educate Bud as to the grape and the vineyard, making certain he slipped in the price of the bottle, and then ordered two.
While the two women huddled on the other side of the table in a giddy conversation about wedding plans, Brailsford grilled Bud on his livelihood, all the while liberally filling his wineglass. Bud took only polite tastes of the wine. He drank water copiously. Sweat soaked his shirt, and no matter how he adjusted his seat, he couldn’t escape the heat.
“You know, I believe I knew your father, Oz,” Brailsford said.
“Is that so? I’ll be sure to tell him.”
“How’s that rascal doing?”
“He’s doing good. The usual complaints.”
“You’re a shrimper, too, that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I did some shrimping in my day. You know, my family came from McClellanville.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We weren’t shrimpers. My family was in the mercantile business, and we moved to Mount Pleasant before I was born. Only one of us left in town is my aunt Lucille. You know her, of course.”
“Everybody in McClellanville knows Miss Lucille.”
A swift smile crossed Brailsford’s face. “My aunt Lucille is a great lady. She and my late uncle Archie never had children, but they’ve taken a shine to our Carolina. Who wouldn’t, eh?” he said, casting a doting glance at his daughter. Hearing her name, Carolina turned her head and smiled.
“You said you did some shrimping?” Bud asked, trying to maintain the conversation.
“That’s right. When I was in college, I worked on the boats for a couple summers. I don’t mind telling you I made some pretty good money.”
“Yes, sir. We’re having some good years now, too.”
“Do you own your own boat?”
“I captain one of my father’s boats. The Miss Ann. She’s a fine sixty-footer, named after my mother.”
“I was sorry to hear she passed.”
“Thank you. My father hasn’t taken the Miss Ann out since she died.”
“So she’s an old boat?”
A smile played at Bud’s lips. “Yes, she is. But I’m good with my hands and I manage to keep her going.”
“How’s your crew?”
“The best. My brother and my cousin.”
“Did you go to college?”
The hair at the back of his neck felt sticky and wet. Bud resisted the urge to take off his jacket. He didn’t want Brailsford to see him sweat.
“I started, but quit after the first year. The money shrimping was too good and I couldn’t see putting it off. It’s what I wanted to do.”
Edgar looked at Bud and seemed to be making a judgment. Then he picked up his tableware and dove into his beef. “So, Bud,” he asked after a couple bites, “what do you do for a good time?”
“Sorry?”
“Do you golf? This is a great club. You can’t see it now, but outside that window is one of America’s top one hundred courses. It was designed by Robert Trent Jones. I could take you out, if you like.”
“I don’t play golf. If I have free time, I tend to go back out to the water. Carolina and I like to take the jon boat out for some creek fishing. She’s pretty good, you know. If I get the chance, though, I do some deep-sea fishing.” He cracked a smile. It was his turn to boast. “My pal Trey and I caught a bluefin tuna weighing seven hundred forty pounds. Caught that monster about a hundred twenty miles offshore.”
Brailsford’s eyes glittered as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re quite the fisherman, aren’t you, Bud?”
“Yes, sir, I am. When I see a fish I want, I catch it.”
Their eyes met and held. Then Brailsford turned his head to the women on the other side of the table. “Well, ladies, that was a fine meal. Now Bud and I are going to the Pub for a smoke.”
The two women turned their heads, surprised. Carolina’s questioning gaze met Bud’s. He shrugged.
Edgar stood and set his napkin on the table. Bud followed suit and stretched his shoulders, glad to be away from the fire.
“Do you want us to wait for you?” asked Allison, her blue eyes wide. “Or if you like, Carolina and I can head back to the house. We have two cars.”
“We’ll wait,” Carolina answered her mother. She rose and said with a smile, “Don’t make it too long, Daddy. I’m tired.”
“We’re just going for a nightcap. You go on with your mother. Have some cognac by the fire in the lounge.”
“Lord, we drank so much wine already I can barely walk,” said Allison, rising on wobbly legs.
“Then order tea.”
Allison drew herself up. “Come along, Carolina. I need to visit the powder room.”
Edgar Brailsford turned and said brusquely, “Come on, Bud.”
The Pub was a male bastion of dark paneled wood, rich blue carpet, and shining brass. Several men clustered on leather sofas and in bucket chairs, some with heads bent close in discussion, others leaning far back with drinks in their hands, laughing at jokes. Brailsford led Bud to a far corner of the bar where they could talk. The bartender came to them immediately.
“Yes, Mr. Brailsford? What can I get for you?”
“Scotch. Laphroaig. Straight up. And make it a double.”
“And you, sir?” The waiter turned to Bud. Recognition flared in his eyes.
“A beer. Got anything local?”
“The Rainbow Trout Ale is a local favorite.”
Bud nodded his approval, then reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Neither man spoke until the drinks appeared. Bud refused a glass and promptly took a long slug from the bottle. He’d avoided drinking the expensive cabernet during the grueling dinner to keep his wits and was dying for a beer. The ale was cold and crisp on his tongue and slid down his throat like it was quenching a fire. He set the bottle down and, leaning one elbow against the bar, turned to face Brailsford. The ladies were gone. He didn’t feel the need for pretense and polish. Bud was on home turf in a man’s bar.
Brailsford reached into his pocket to pull out two cigars. He handed one to Bud. It was long and fat and smelled great. They went through the male ritual of tipping and lighting the cigar
s. Brailsford tilted back his head to exhale a plume of smoke, then squared off and got the first punch in.
“So, you’re the man who’s going to marry my only daughter?”
Bud puffed out slowly. “I am.”
“Well, son, frankly, I’m worried.”
Bud looked at his cigar but didn’t reply.
“I’m not a rich man,” Brailsford continued, and held out his hands to indicate the comfortable surroundings. “But I do all right. I can provide a nice house in a good neighborhood with good schools. I gave Carolina the pretty things a girl likes to have. She never went without. And my daughter graduated from college.” He paused, marking the distinction between Bud’s and Carolina’s education. He pointed his finger at Bud, the cigar extended like a drawn sword.
“I’m worried that you won’t be able to provide the lifestyle she’s accustomed to. A father worries about such things.”
Bud shrugged. “You should ask your daughter what she wants.”
“What does a girl know about what she wants at this age?”
“How old were you when you married your wife?”
Brailsford seemed irritated by this question and signaled for the bartender to replenish both drinks. He put his elbows on the bar and steepled his fingers, then turned his head toward Bud, his mouth curved downward.
“I’m asking if you can provide for my daughter.”
“If I didn’t believe I could, I wouldn’t have asked her to be my wife.”
“Let me give you a little history. I know how hard the shrimping life is. You work like slaves out there on the boats. It takes raw muscle and grit. I admire that. I do.” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “I knew early on I wasn’t going to be a shrimper. It’s a tough life, for the men and the women. Where are you going to live? Do you even own a house?”
Bud’s eyes flashed. The small wood bungalow he owned by the creek was stable, but barely. He often joked that the only thing keeping it together was the termites holding hands. It suited him as a bachelor, but he hadn’t really given thought to bringing a wife there. His worry must have shown on his face, for Brailsford seized on this.
“Carolina’s not as tough as she lets on. Oh, I know she can be brassy and hold her own. But underneath all that bluster is a gentle woman with a big heart who’d work her fingers to the bone for the man she loved and not complain. She’d figure she’d made her bed and had to sleep in it.”
He took a long drag from his cigar, the ash about to fall.
“And while we’re on the subject…” He pinned Bud with his gaze. “I knew your father, and let me tell you, he was one surly son of a bitch. You could hear his voice booming all the way down the creek. A type A personality, if I ever met one. I’m well aware of his reputation with the ladies, too. How many mistresses did he have? How many wives? That’s not the life I want for my Carolina. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal clear. Now, let me give you a little history. No one knows that Oz Morrison is one mean, swearing, backbreaking, son of a bitch better than me. Who do you think covered for him when he fell asleep at the wheel of the boat? Who do you think stood in front of my mother to take the blows when he came home drunk? After she died, I was glad when he brought a lady home. At least we knew we’d get a home-cooked meal.”
Bud leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “But what you don’t know is that beneath that growling, gruff exterior lives a gentleness that’d surprise you. He was a strong provider, always ready to lend a helping hand. But good and bad, that was him. Not me.”
Bud clenched the brass railing of the bar, aware that their raised voices were attracting attention. He lowered his voice and said in measured tones, “And with all due respect, sir, this is my father you’re speaking about, so I urge you to use caution. I can say what I want about my own father, but nobody else can.”
Brailsford’s lips thinned. “You won’t cheat on my daughter?”
“I give you my solemn word. I won’t cheat on your daughter.”
“I don’t want my daughter heading shrimp or cracking oysters at fifty cents a quart.”
“She won’t be.”
Edgar finished his drink and slammed the glass on the bar. “Frankly, I don’t believe you.”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t care what you believe.” Bud set his bottle on the counter and turned to face Brailsford squarely.
“You like to grandstand about how you used to go out on the boats and do some shrimping when you were a kid. You can name a few names, maybe show a scar or two. I’ll bet it makes a nice story while sitting around the bar with your fancy cigars and good scotches, going on and on to men who never so much as picked up a cast net in their lives. Men who probably never even thought about where the shrimp they’re eating came from.
“You don’t know what it feels like to man the winch in foul weather when the rain is pounding your back and the boat is rocking so hard you can barely stand, knowing that if you slip, you could lose your hand, or your leg, or just get sucked in and become mincemeat. You don’t know what it’s like to dangle on the end of an outrigger, dipping into the icy water, hanging on for dear life. Or what it means to go out, day after day, night after night, fighting the sea inch by inch to get her to give up enough of her bounty so you can come back to port and feed your wife and your kids.
“Sure, you had some fun as a kid. Earned some good money. Got a nice tan. That’s nice. I’m glad for you.” Bud jerked his chin, indicating the club. “All this might not be my world, but don’t pretend that my world is yours. Because it’s not. We have an exclusive club of our own. We have our own code.” Bud stubbed out his cigar and rose to his feet. “And you’re not one of us.”
Bud reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet.
“This is a private club. Your money’s no good here,” Brailsford told him.
“Then consider this a tip. Thank you for the dinner and the conversation. It was…enlightening. Good night.”
Bud left a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and headed out, his heels digging half-moons into the deep carpet. He went directly to the pale aqua lounge and found Carolina sitting at a white French bistro table drinking tea with her mother. She looked up; seeing his stormy expression, her face froze. Bud jerked his head, indicating it was time for them to go.
“I’ve got to go, Mama,” she said, rising.
“I—I’ll see you at the house,” Allison replied, flustered at the abruptness.
“I don’t know.”
“Carolina!” Allison’s voice was sharp.
Carolina paused.
Allison put her teacup in the saucer and straightened her shoulders, clenching her hands in her lap. When she spoke, her tone was measured. She didn’t seem to see Bud standing in the doorway. “Carolina, honey. Bud’s a nice fellah. Enjoy his kisses and his protective love. But don’t marry him.”
Carolina looked stunned. “But I thought…”
Allison shook her head with a pained expression, then pinned Carolina with her pale blue gaze. “You can’t bring him home for Easter dinner.”
“I’ve got to go.” Carolina grabbed her purse and hurried after Bud as he strode away.
She caught up with him in the foyer. He took her hand and they walked at a quick pace out of the club. With his left hand Bud ripped the tie from around his neck.
“What happened?” Carolina asked, looking worried.
“Not now.”
Three couples waited in line for their cars. All Bud wanted to do was get in his truck and get the hell out before Carolina’s parents came after them and talked them into staying the night. Bud dug into his wallet and pulled out another twenty. He put the bill in the valet’s hand with his ticket.
“Just give me my keys and tell me where it is.”
The young man pocketed the bill and handed over Bud’s keys, pointing to a nearby lot.
They walked in silence across the parking lot. Her shoes made slapping noises against her heels as she trotted beside him. W
hen they reached the truck, he tore off his jacket, opened the door, and angrily threw it inside. Then he leaned against the frame, feeling the night air cool the sweat on his back.
“Bud, what did my daddy say?”
“What do you think he said?”
“I think he said something about how you’re not worthy of me.”
Bud swung his head around. “Yeah. Something to that effect.”
“Bud, he’s my father. I’m his only daughter. He says that to everyone.”
“I respect him for that.”
“Then what’s got you so riled? Besides having to wear a tie?”
“Carolina…” Bud shook his head, not knowing where to begin. He thrust his arm out, indicating the country club. “I…I can’t give you all that.” He bent his head to collect himself.
A knowing expression passed over her face and she leaned back against the truck. “Ah…so that’s what this is about.”
Bud turned to place his hands on the truck’s roof and lean over Carolina. The overhead parking light performed magic on her skin, making it glow pale and unearthly. In sharp contrast, her hair gleamed like fired brick. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, her full lips turned up in a slightly mocking smile, daring him to go on. Carolina had no guile, no false pretenses. She was completely aware of how staggering her beauty could be, but she didn’t use it as a weapon. At most, her beauty fed her confidence. He loved her. He wanted her. He was afraid to lose her.
“Do you really know me?” he asked in a low voice. “Know what kind of life I can offer you? Do you know your life isn’t going to be country clubs or maids cleaning your house? In fact, if times get real tough, you might be cleaning someone else’s house. My mother did. She did what she had to do when she had to do it. That’s the way it is in our community. We never know from year to year if the shrimp will be good or bad.”
“And you think I’m afraid of that? That I’m too pampered to take it?”
He straightened, dropping his hands to his sides. “I don’t know.” He said the words slowly, afraid they were the truth.
“I don’t know either,” she said honestly. “So tell me, then. What don’t I know about you?”
“Baby, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Last Light over Carolina Page 9