All We Ever Wanted(29)
“Yeah. Just text it to me. And this time? Don’t block your number.”
* * *
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LIVING IN A city like Nashville my whole life, I’d seen plenty of impressive homes, and I knew by the Brownings’ Belle Meade address that their house was going to be very nice. But I was still blown away when I pulled down their long driveway, past the tall hedges, and got a load of that brick and stone English Tudor mansion in a downright fairy-tale setting. I’m a big fan of older homes, and I couldn’t help but admire the architectural details of this one. The steeply pitched slate roof with cross-gables. The half-timbered exposed framing. The tall, narrow windows, stained and leaded. I got out of my car, closed the door, and walked toward the mammoth double front doors, made of mahogany, elaborately carved, and flanked by flickering lanterns. I shuddered to think what their gas bill must be, let alone their mortgage—then reminded myself that people like this probably didn’t have mortgages.
I approached the front porch, trying to pinpoint exactly what I was feeling. I was still just as pissed as I’d been on the drive over, but now I was feeling something else, too. Was I intimidated? No. Was I jealous? Not at all. Did I begrudge them their fortune? I really didn’t think so. My problem, I decided as I eyed the doorbell, was that it was just so predictable that the rich boy did the shitty thing to the poor girl, and I hated being part of that cliché. Frankly, I was also extra angered by his asshole father’s staggering lack of self-awareness. Who but a total clueless idiot would ask a stranger to meet at his own home if it looked like this, especially if his jackass kid was in the wrong? Had he done any research on Lyla or me whatsoever? Did he have any idea that she was one of the few kids at Windsor on financial aid? It would have taken him about ten seconds on Google to discover that I was a carpenter (the kind he’d probably hire, then nickel-and-dime to death)—which meant either he hadn’t bothered or he had looked me up and didn’t give a shit what I’d be feeling. I wasn’t sure which was worse, but I hated him more by the second.
With a heavy chip weighing down my shoulder, I pushed the doorbell, listening to the formal chime echo inside. At least thirty seconds passed, during which I reminded myself that all these people had on us was money. I had all the moral high ground, and the leverage that came with it.
Finally, the door opened, and there stood an older Latina woman, who told me to please come in, she’d get Mr. Browning. The whole scene was so classic—especially when “Mr. Browning” immediately materialized behind her. Clearly he could have gotten to his own door first, but he wanted his brown housekeeper to open it for him. Look important at any and all costs was, I’m sure, one of his rules to live by.
Then, without thanking her or introducing her, he sort of pushed past her and filled the doorway. I hated everything about his appearance. His ruddy complexion—like he’d just been drinking on a golf course. His gelled hair, too dark to be his real color. His pink linen shirt, unbuttoned two buttons too low.
“Hi there, Tom,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand, his booming frat-boy voice matching his foolishly firm grip. “Kirk Browning. Please come in.”
I nodded, then forced myself to say hello as he stepped inside to let me in. I glanced around the foyer, surprised by the cool contemporary décor. A gigantic pale-blue abstract painting hung over a black lacquered chest. It wasn’t my usual taste, but I had to admit it was pretty stunning.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Kirk said, downright beaming. “Shall we go chat in my office?”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He nodded, leading me through a formal living room, down a wide corridor, and into a dark, wood-paneled office decorated with mounted deer and fowl—yet another radical design departure.
“Welcome to my man cave,” he said with a chuckle.
I gave him a tight-lipped smile as he gestured toward a fully stocked bar cart.
“Too early in the day for scotch? It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “But you go right ahead.”
He hesitated, as if seriously contemplating a solo drink, but decided against it. He then gestured toward a couple of armchairs floating in the middle of the room. I had the feeling they were freshly staged, and it gave me the creeps. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I chose the chair with a view toward the doorway, my back to the gas fireplace. Of course the pussy wasn’t going to burn real logs, I thought, as he sat down, planting his feet perfectly parallel to each other. His pant legs came up enough to reveal bare ankles. No socks with fancy loafers—typical Belle Meade.
“So. Thanks for coming over, Tom,” he said, exaggerating the pronunciation of my name with a low hum.
I nodded but said nothing, determined not to make this easy for him.
“I hope it’s not interrupting your workday too much?”
I shrugged and said, “I’m flexible…self-employed.”
“Ahh,” he said. “And what is it that you do, Tom?”
“I’m a carpenter,” I said.
“Oh. Wow. That’s great,” he said, his voice and expression oozing condescension. “They say the happiest people work with their hands. I wish I were more…handy.” He looked down at his open palms, which were undoubtedly as soft as they were useless. “I have trouble changing lightbulbs!”