Seizure(33)

Bates prided himself on his ability to sniff out money. To know when there was coin to be made. He was feeling that itch now. Full tilt.

He’d screwed up, but wouldn’t just roll over. Not in this lifetime.

Bates reached for his cordless phone. Fat fingers punched the keys.

Two rings, then a groggy voice answered.

“Wake up, slack ass! It’s your pops. Got a job for you boys.”





THE PLACEMATS WERE neatly pressed.

Linen napkins. China plates. A full battery of utensils. Crystal stemware.

The table was set for three. Kit. Me. And the Blonde Bimbo.

Picnic lunch. No possibility of escape.

Whitney had selected the roof deck for a surprise meal. The weather was her accomplice, with low humidity and cloudy skies keeping the mercury down.

Whitney arranged her bounty with precision, everything just so. She’d made potato salad, cornbread, fish tacos, and wild rice. Her culinary skill was perhaps her only saving grace.

Coop sat to one side, eyes and ears alert. Any scraps would have a short stay on the tiles.

Throughout the meal, Kit oohed and ahhed like a bumpkin, praising everything from the salad to dessert.

Blech.

I ate in silence, bored silly, counting the minutes.

When Coop nudged my knee, I absently scratched his ears.

“Shoo!” Whitney flicked her napkin at the wolfdog. “Get back!”

“Tory, don’t feed Coop at the table,” Kit said. “Whitney worked hard to make us a nice lunch.”


“He’s not bothering anyone.” I gently pushed away his snout.

Coop whined and backed up a step, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Can we please put the animal inside?” Whitney never referred to Coop by name. It was always, “that beast,” “the animal,” or “that mongrel.” Drove me bonkers.

Did she not understand that her attitude bothered me? Or did she just not care?

Kit looked uncomfortable, stuck in his usual spot between daughter and ditz. Sometimes I really did pity him.

“If we put Cooper inside, he’ll just whimper at the door,” I said. “He’ll be fine. So will you.”

Whitney bristled but let it go. Lunch proceeded in silence.

“How was the yacht club?” Whitney asked. “Did you have the best time? I know you looked adorable in that dress! Celia says that style is très popular this season.” The attempt at French was jarring in her thicker-than-Dixie drawl.

“It was fine.”

The idiot woman was born without tact. Like I wanted to discuss the merits of my borrowed dress.

“Did you meet that friend of yours?” Kit thought a moment. “Jason? Jackson?”

“Jason Taylor?” Whitney beamed. “Oh my! That boy is from a fine family. I’m well acquainted with his mother. And such a handsome young man!”

Gross. Whitney knowing my friends made me ill. Completely unfair, but this was a strike against Jason.

And I did not want to discuss the party.

“We talked a bit. The whole thing was a bore.”

“Well, darlin’, that won’t be true of the debutante ball. A young lady in Charleston cannot find a better time.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Whitney smiled, surprised. Sarcasm was not her strong suit.

Kit caught it, however.

“Tory, clean your plate,” he ordered, drilling me with eye contact. “Now.”

I downed the last of my taco.

Whitney began collecting dirty dishes in a way-too-cute wicker basket. Realizing it was crunch time, Coop inched close. Unaware, Whitney grazed his tail.

Coop growled.

Whitney gasped and skittered backward, nearly dropping the basket.

“Cooper!” Kit clapped twice. “No!”

Coop scampered to the corner, tail tucked.

“He tried to bite me!” Whitney wailed.

“No he didn’t!” I snapped. “You startled him. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Put Coop inside,” Kit ordered. “He’s lost his deck privileges for the day.”

Jaws clamped, I complied. Coop scooted out of sight down the stairs.

“I swear.” Whitney’s hand fluttered to her chest. “That dog hates me.”

“Try being nicer to him. Canines are very perceptive.”

Kit tried to change the subject. “You mentioned dessert?”

“Well, of course!” Whitney’s beaming smile returned. “Would I do otherwise?”

The blueberry pie was still warm from the oven. Fantastic. I was finishing my second slice when Kit casually dropped the bomb.

“Whitney, we need to talk.” I could hear dread in his voice.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Eyelashes fluttering.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about CU’s money problems. The budget shortfalls.”

Flutter flutter flutter.

“The cuts are going to hit hard.” Kit swallowed. “LIRI may not survive.”

The lashes froze. “What does that mean?”

“It means I need to find a new job. Tory and I may have to move.”

For several seconds, nothing. Then the floodgates opened.

“Move?” Tears moistened the Chanel mascara, creating black trails across her face. “You’re—” choked sob, “—leaving me?”