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"Oh, they'll find me," I said, sucking in a deep breath. "But let's get a drink before they do," I added, pulling him over toward a bar under a dogwood that had long since dropped her white flowers. "Yep," I said, grabbing a set of the flutes set up there, "that'll do," I agreed, taking them.
"Are we supposed to tip?" Huck asked as I led him away, handing him a champagne flute.
"My grandmother would make sure they could never work in this town again if they accepted a tip from a guest."
"That's cold."
"You have no idea," I agreed, throwing back half my champagne in one sip.
Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I used to dream of a day when I could grow up and sip champagne like one of the elegant men and women around me.
Little did I know that the adult version of me would chug it like water in the hopes of making these dreadful events more tolerable.
"Oh, that was fast," I said, seeing my grandmother standing a few paces off, her hand resting on my grandfather's shoulder.
"That's your grandparents," Huck guessed.
"Yeah."
"What's wrong with your grandfather?"
"Stroke," I said, seeing the frozen half of his face, the wheelchair he'd been stuck in since I was twelve. "He's still alright in the head," I told Huck. "But he's trapped in a body that only half works."
"Let me guess," Huck said, seeming to start catching on. "That makes him mean."
"Yes, it does."
"What about your grandmother? What's her problem?"
I threw back the rest of my champagne, reaching to place it on a tray of a server as they passed. "They blame me for the stroke," I told him, yanking him forward with me, making a beeline for my family, wanting to get the most uncomfortable part over with.
"Harmon, so nice of you to make it," my grandmother said, standing there with her perfectly coiffed white-blond hair and understated makeup that never seemed to slip into the fine lines and wrinkles next to her eyes and lips. There was a familiar tight smile on her lips. "And who is this?" she asked, her gaze moving over Huck, likely trying to figure out what kind of suit he was wearing, what it cost, what that said about what he did for a living.
I knew a thing or two about suits, and while nothing about the Huck I knew suggested he gave a crap about things like labels, I knew the one he was wearing was quality.
"Grandmother, Grandfather. This is Huck. Huck, this is Colette and Johnathan Tillman."
"Huck," my grandmother repeated, rolling his name round, chewing it like she was trying to decide if it was the kind of quirky that came with money or not. "Have you been seeing our Harmon long?"
"A couple weeks," he said, not seeming the least bit tense even though the air around us was thick enough to start slicing with a knife.
"And what is it that you do, Huck?" she asked.
Once upon a time, I found the way my grandmother repeated names as elegant. Now, it just pissed me off. It almost always sounded condescending to my more mature ears.
"I'm in imports," he said, the words sliding off his tongue with all the airs of someone who belonged in this sort of place with these sorts of people. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh, or be in awe of his ability to tell a half-truth without a hint of the lie beneath.
"Oh, wonderful," my grandmother said, torn. Because she was buying his lie, and she wanted to be impressed with him. But that would mean, by extension, she would need to feel a bit of pride toward me as well. "And Harmon, are you still doing your little vid—" she started, only to have a smooth as hell Huck interrupt her.
"Excuse me, Colette," he said, pressing a hand into my lower back. "I see an old friend of mine," he went on.
"Oh, of course. Of course. It was lovely meeting you. I hope to get some more time to talk with you later."
"That was slick," I hissed into his ear as he led me away, unable to stop the smile pulling at my lips. "How do you lie that well? Is it a criminal thing?" I asked, feeling a little giddy, never having gotten through a conversation—however casual—with my grandmother without feeling flayed open.
"Close. I actually wasn't lying," he told me, giving me a warm smile before nodding his head toward a corner where I finally saw what he was looking at. Who he was looking at.
The man I'd seen first when I'd brought Remy's dog back that first night.
The little person with the harem of women. And that absurd hat.
Teddy.
"What is he doing here?" I asked as we made our slow approach.
"Didn't anyone tell you? Teddy is fucking loaded. Theodore Kane, the Third. Old money too."
