Monday morning he slept in, getting a late start on several days of business calls ahead. Driving north and east along an open highway, his mind drifted to the day before. They stayed until after eleven; reluctant to part, the family drawing out good byes. Rob and Charlie volunteered to tote “the loot” up to their apartment one evening during the week. Jenny said her mom could help her “integrate” the gifts with what they had.

From safe keeping, Caroline brought out the money box, handing it to Austin. “All yours,” she said, glad to be relieved of the responsibility. He turned the box over and back, remarking that he’d need an armed guard on the way home. Someone suggested Charlie could “ride shotgun.” Not a serious suggestion; he and Jenny made the trip alone.

That morning while she was at work, he stripped the cards of checks and cash, left her a note and made a deposit at the bank before he headed out of town. By the time he got back, Lita would have returned to San Diego. Troubling, the affect she’d had on him.

Jenny and her mother shared a natural sensuality. Lita was worldly, independent—steely inside. She’d rather starve than work for the Japanese. She was wary of him; he wasn’t comfortable with her. Ever though he’d seen her soft side, the way she was with family—especially Boyce. Jenny had that same warm way with family.

The party had taken him back to gatherings at the farm, when Grandma Kora’s people, “plain county folks”—their words—held reunions. His mother had been out of place with them. She’d done her best to mix; the way he’d made a real effort to mix with Jenny’s folks. Not that the Hamlins were plain country, more down to earth.

Since he’d left the farm, most parties he’d attended had been formal, catered affairs: in boarding school, high teas and socials; with Pam, theme bashes in the city or the Hamptons—party givers striving to outdo the one before. Back in Welborne, Aunt Audra’s annual New Year’s Day Bloody Mary Brunch—ice sculptures, champagne from a fountain served in crystal flutes, paid staff from Welborne House passing silver trays piled high with finger food. By contrast, the Hamlin’s party had been a hayride. Jenny’s family had accepted him; except for Charlie, and maybe Lita. Donnelly, Jenny’s self-appointed guardian had been openly hostile. As for the clan, they’d keep their distance; so would he.

As long as he and Jenny lived in Welborne, she’d have contact with the reservation. He had to find a way to keep her from the trouble brewing there. An opportunity, a step up in the company, they’d leave Welborne.

Was he expecting boy meets girl, and happily ever after? Yeah, he was. Grow up Man.

The week after Lita left, they had their first fight over money. With her salary increase, Jenny’s bank account was growing. She suggested she would pay some bills, or make payments on the furniture they’d bought.

It was a warn night; he was restless, and edgy. “No way,” he said, to her suggestions. End of discussion. But it wasn’t the end. Keeping their salaries in separate accounts didn’t make sense. She wanted to contribute.

He flared, asserting that he could support them, or he wouldn’t have gotten married. They went around and around. He couldn’t tell her, he didn’t want them dependent on her income. He wanted her to quit the firm, stay away from Donnelly and the reservation. It wasn‘t mean; it wasn’t going anywhere. So he walked out.

He drove around a while keeping speed limits, flipping back and forth between exasperation and regret. He could pay the bills. In the way she’d pressed her points, he could hear the steely Lita. On the other hand, he wasn’t being honest. That made it tough to face her.

Before he headed home, he stopped off for a nightcap at the Tap Room in Welborne House where he fell into conversation with a salesman for a mega corporation with customers in town—common occurrence when he traveled to a strange town.

George summed up his work life in three short phrases: Thirty years on the road; married as long; two corporations, two wives—not at the same time.

Austin admitted he’d recently “taken the plunge” for the first, and only time. One thing led to another. With a second rye and water, he let it all hang out. He and his bride had had a disagreement over money.

“Ahhhhh, ha! Root of all evil,” George observed. The very evil that destroyed his marriage to wife number one. In the time it took to nurse a drink, a pointed tale about a couple in a no-win situation unfolded. For George, the epiphany came too late: Money equals commitment.

Austin didn’t see how George’s trials related to his situation.

“Money equals commitment,” George insisted. His sermon garbled in alcohol.

Bar talk, Austin thought, dismissing the equation. A man takes care of his own. That’s commitment. He left a twenty on the bar, wished George a good visit, and a good night.

That damned phrase—money equals commitment—stuck in his head. He wouldn’t let a stupid disagreement grow into a reason for a split. He’d handle this his way.

Back at the apartment, cooler now by twenty degrees, the scent from her bath drifted on the currents from the open windows. He couldn’t name the fragrance; it never failed to turn him on.

“I’m back,” he called out passing the bathroom door on his way to the bedroom. She didn’t respond. Okay, so maybe he deserved the silent treatment. In darkness, he undressed. Bath water sloshed, drained from the tub; a hair dryer whirred. Bedtime sounds he’d become accustomed to. He got into bed, propped his pillow, pulled the sheet around.

Bare shoulders and feet, a see-through pink nightgown, she padded into the bedroom. A wary look, otherwise—enveloped in that warm scent—she glowed.

“We need to get some fans,” he began matter-of-factly. “Summer will be brutal.”

She turned toward him. Still the wary look.

“I’ve been thinking.” He stretched out, smoothing her side of the bed.

She got the message. Perching on her knees, she faced him.

“Suppose,” he hesitated, modifying what he’d planned to say. “Suppose we use your money for a cushion.”

“Cushion?” she repeated, expecting he’d say more.

“Yeah. A nest-egg, ya know, like insurance. Something to fall back on if we run short.”

Thoughtful, she focused away from his face.

Not the best idea. Compromise or perish. “Or,” he moved on, “we could use your account to buy a new car, or a house.”

“A house.”

That idea she liked. Encouraged, he forged ahead. “I should have told you this. I used the money from the box. The furniture is free and clear.”

“I wondered.”

“Yeah.” Money equals commitment. That drunken sermon stuck. “Thoughtless on my part not to tell you. Throwback to the days when I was single.” He might as well go all the way. “And I’m sorry I took off the way I did.”

Acceptance crept across her beautiful face.

He had her, and he knew it. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He placed a wet kiss on her thigh.

She laughed. A bubbling sound that went straight to his head. “Show me.”

Obliging her request, pure pleasure.

At the close of business, his next trip to Charlestown, he had a letter of intent. Damned stoked, on his way through Pittsburgh, he stopped long enough for Robin to meet him at Joseph Horne. Together, they bought an outfit for Jenny. Nothing fussy—chic—in the shell pink color that accented her eyes and skin, and slender form.

She wore the outfit that Friday night when he took her out for dinner at the country club. Word had circulated in the offices, shops and homes throughout the town, champagne sent to their table; local business leaders came by to shake his hand, “Well done!” Proud to introduce her as his wife, she knew that order was essential to the company and the town.

A combo played romantic tunes. All eyes followed them across the dance floor. In sync, they didn’t miss a step. After dark, they took their flutes to the terrace. Warm night, light breeze, the lights of Welborne spread out at their feet; a first for Jenny. She said she had so many new experiences with him.

He looped his arm around her. “Are we talking star-studded?”

Light-headed from the bubbly, she laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. She meant the evening and the view.

He brought her into his arms, confident their life would turn out as he planned. “Stick with me wife, I’m on my way up. You’re going with me.”

She came up on her toes, whispered, sweet breath on his cheek. “I’ll settle for our island.”

“Yeah. No place I’d rather be.”

Precious hours, rare and perfect, capping off a-once-in-a-lifetime week.

Pumped, all through the weekend and into the next week, he was on a high when John blew into town. They’d made plans to meet at Welborne House for dinner; Jenny came along. John turned on the charm. She was friendly, though reserved and tense. About nine-thirty, Austin drove her back to the apartment. He was meeting John at Pines’ Woods—“boys’ night out.”

She yawned, saying she was tired. “Have fun.”

On a barstool, he found John holding court with the usual late-night crowd: first family progeny, upper tier execs. As the evening wore on, one by one the barstools emptied, leaving them to their chosen vices.

“Austin.” John lifted his glass, a toast. “Great girl you married, fascinating. I’m impressed!” He took a swallow, no eye contact. “I like her.”

Austin played along. “Thought the two of you would hit it off.” He sipped bourbon.

John laid it on thick. “Easy to see she’s mad about you.”

Jenny had a natural way of showing affection. John noticed the contrast. Meridith showed more affection for her lap dog than she’d ever shown for John. Vindicated, Austin chuckled. “She’s a keeper.”

“I’ll say.” Again, John raised his glass. “California girl—urbane.” Muting his tone, he leaned in, “good in bed?’

Not an unusual question between two men who’d shared a bachelor pad. Back then, John had given him the needle. Now he jabbed. “Still in training.”

John did a double-take. “Man! You bagged a virgin?”

“No comment.”

“Never had ... I mean ...” He shrugged. “That’s different.”

Austin chuckled. Let him stew. He’d best his cousin any way he could.

John ordered another round; the bartender left the bottle. “You know,” he went on, “Mother had you paired with the Caldwell girl after you and Pam split”

“Is that right?” He’d been aware of Aunt Audra’s intentions—the Caldwells local aristocracy.

“Damned let down when the two of you didn’t work out.”

He’d taken Natalie out—no chemistry. With the Welbornes, bloodlines were key; chemistry was not. John didn’t mention Jenny’s bloodlines, nor did he bring up Pam again.

They moved on to other subjects: golf, the business, the state of the country and the world; God-awful mess, but what could one man do. The after-hours crowd came in for poker and bar dice. They joined in; one toxic drink or game of chance leading to another. No man leaves a barroom choked with smoke and male egos without being noticed. John had let him know he’d expect a ride to the company plane for a flight back to Manhattan as soon as the sun came up. Volunteering for that mission, proved he wasn’t on a leash.

Before he crept up the back stairs, he took off his shoes. In stocking feet, he padded past the bathroom where water was running. In the bedroom, he peeled off clothes reeking of smoke, sweat and alcohol, stuffed them in the hamper.

Too much nightlife, too little sleep, naked, he leaned against the wall; trapped there when Jenny came into the room, a towel wrapped around her torso. Her back was to him. Stepping from the closet, he looped his arm around her middle. She gasped. A well-aimed elbow landing square in his mid-section.

“Owwww!!!” he howled in shock and pain. His arms dropped away as he crumpled like a lifeless bag of laundry.

She turned on him, fire in her eyes. “Austin! What are you doing here?” she demanded, gripping the towel to her breasts.

He coughed, struggling to recover his breath, sputtered, “I live here.”

She stepped over him into the closet. “You didn’t come home last night.”

When he looked up, she held a work dress on a hanger, underwear over her arm, sandals dangling from her fingers. “It’s Saturday,” he protested, struggling to a sitting position.

“I have to work a half-day.”

That was all. Out the door she went. On all fours, he crawled over to the bed, hoisted up, sprawling face first. Lights out.

The room like an oven when his eyelids eased open; parched throat, inflamed sinus, breathing hurt. Rolling over too much effort, he lay still, gripping the sheets. His ears picked up the most annoying sounds: ticking clocks, water dripping; the refrigerator shuddered.

“WHOOOOOOOOOP!!!!” Noon whistle—sharp, unexpected—from the fire hall down the block set his teeth on edge, flipping his brain to backtrack: John, the bar, boys’ night out, toxic smoke and booze. He moaned. “Yuuuuck!” Hangover, an affliction no man affirms or talks about; suffering richly deserved.

In the drawer beside the bed, eyewash, nasal spray, he reached, lifting his shoulders from the bed, “Ouch!” Sharp twinges of pain gripped the base of his rib cage. Supporting his chest, he swung his feet to the floor. “Man!” he said aloud, “She packs one-hell-of-a-wallop.” A wave of nausea hit. She’d gone to Corkran’s office—half-day. And when she left she wasn’t happy with him. He didn’t want her finding him like this.

Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, barroom breath, blood-shot eyes, draining sinuses treated. Wearing fresh shorts and a T-shirt; he was almost a new man. Belly growling, he strode into the kitchen. The thought of coffee turned his stomach. On the window sill, a ripe, beefsteak tomato from the Hamlins’ garden. He tossed it straight up, caught it on the drop. From the fridge, he took a quart of milk, a loaf of bread, roast beef, juggling his finds to the counter.

When Jenny came up the back steps, he was in the living room, skimming through the local paper. The town council called a special session to discuss sidewalk repair. A calf escaped a 4H exhibit; yet to be apprehended. Surface, small-town tranquility encouraged a man to avoid the obvious—a world outside on the brink of nuclear holocaust; missiles poised to strike at the push of a button; a race war threatening to spread above the Mason Dickson, Vietnam? A future no man dared imagine, much less, read about.

Following familiar sounds as she put away provisions, he folded the paper under his arm and sauntered to the kitchen doorway. “Hi.”

She folded a paper sack into quarters, avoiding his eyes. “Hi.”

“I called your office. No answer. Thought I’d take you out to lunch.”

“I’ve had lunch.”

Corkran or Donnelly, he wondered, silently suspicious.

“I stopped at Harvey’s for a sandwich on my way to the market.”

“Ahhhh.” Not a date. He whacked the door frame with the folded paper. They stood apart, the width of the kitchen; tensions like a rubber band about to snap. “You’re mad,” he observed.

For the first time, she looked into his face, her eyes serious, darkly steady. “You were drunk this morning when you grabbed me.”

“I drove John to the airport at the crack of dawn. I wasn’t drunk.”

“I don’t like the drinking.”

“That’s what guys do,” he countered. “Harmless recreation.”

“It gets out of control.” She turned away, stowing the sack under the sink.

The pass he’d made at her this morning had been crude. He couldn’t promise “boys night out” wouldn’t happen again, but he could give a little. “Okay, I admit, grabbing you was stu—” dumb, he thought, said “impulsive.” The paper traveled to ribs where her elbow had landed.

She shot him a look. “I can defend myself, Austin.”

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “I’ve got the bruises to prove it.” Before he could ask where she’d learned that could-be-lethal move, she told him.

“Mom and I took self-defense at the San Diego Y.”

The steely Lita, her influence on Jenny. “I bet you have other skills I don’t know about.”

She was leaning on the counter, her arms folded over her waist. “I can change a tire.”

“Good.” On the road, he’d stopped to help women stranded. A man takes chances playing Good Samaritan: could be a robbery set up. He told Jenny his experience, aware that he was babbling.

She listened, didn’t respond.

They were at an impasse. He wouldn’t let that stand. Change course, he decided. “Are we okay?” Now he was serious, and sober.

Slowly, her expression softened. For the first time that day, she faced him, open and accepting. “We’re ... okay.”

Careful not to touch her yet, he moved closer. “More than okay?”

She smiled, the darkness gone, the light back in her eyes. “More than.”

Success. He wiped beads of sweat on the sleeve of his T-shirt. The dress she wore had buttons down the front. “It’s hot. Aren’t you over-dressed?”

Her hand ran down the row of buttons. She kicked off her sandals. “I’ll go and change.” She passed him in the doorway.

“Wait.” He reached for her. She didn’t pull away. One button at a time, the dress came open, slipped from her shoulders. He pulled his shirt over his head. More clothing added to a heap on the kitchen floor. On the edge; no turning back. Not here, he thought. “Put your legs around me.” She complied. Their island, where he wanted them to be, an easy reach.

A matinee, a nap, a lazy afternoon, tensions melted. Chinese take-out from the Dragon.

Sunday morning, Austin played a round of golf. They took a ride out in the country, enjoyed a quiet dinner at a country inn they found; living in the moment. The following weekend, he got tickets for a Pirates’ double header. They drove to Pittsburgh, spent the night, the Marriott—living out his fantasy, and hers.

The next week he was on the road, returning to his office Friday. Flipping through a stack of messages, one name stood out. Mr. Corkran called: a personal matter. He will call you back. Curious, but unconcerned, he dropped the message in the basket, put through a call to Crescent Oil and Gas. His day moved on from there.

Saturday, just after noon, he’d all but forgotten the call from Cork, until he was leaving Pines’ Woods after his morning round. Walking through the lot a Lincoln rag-top, midnight blue, pulled up. The driver’s window rolled down; Cork at the wheel. Austin gave a high sign.

“Have a moment?” Cork asked, his usually robust manner subdued, “It’s personal.”

“Right.” Clearly he’d been looking for Austin. “Come on inside. I’ll buy a drink.”

“Another time.” Cork pulled into the vacant space next to Austin’s Vette, motioning to the passenger seat. “Get in, will you.”

Austin complied, sliding into the seat. “Got your message, haven’t had time—”

“I didn’t try a call back,” Cork interrupted. “Best we keep this between us.”

Cork’s manner put him on alert. “Okay.” He closed the door, extended an arm on the back of the seat. Why was Corkran seeking him out in a clandestine manner? “Uncle Lyme.”

“Ahhhhh, yes.” Cork sneered, his jaw set. “You’ve heard from him.”

“Briefly.” Austin related his confrontation with his uncle, ending with an observation he’d cleaned up for public consumption. “He’s a ... ... raving maniac.”

“Agreed.” Cork’s fist tapped the wheel. “Unstable, I’d say.”

He’d seen Lyman at his worst. Austin’s skin crawled, with a sudden rage. Had his uncle gone to Cork to threaten Jenny?

“Lyman came to see me recently,” Cork began. “He wants the firm to represent him in a case against you.” He turned a wary look on Austin. “I told him to forget it. And he fired me,”

“A case against me?” Austin questioned. Now what did Uncle Lyme have up his sleeve?

“He wants to break Lloyd’s will, and Locke’s.”

The farm. He’d be rid of Austin’s interference if he could break the wills. “I guess I’m not surprised,” Austin said, relieved, for the moment. A threat to Jenny more serious than this. “On what grounds?”

“In my opinion, he doesn’t have a case,” Cork stated with authority. “What he’s claiming ... I thought you should know.”

“What is he claiming?”

Cork didn’t look him in the eye. “He claims you are not a true Burdette. His words I’m saying,” Cork related. “Claims Lloyd was sterile.”

“Sterile?” He smirked, though the word sent an icy chill into his bones.

“A childhood illness, Lyman claims. Lloyd couldn’t have fathered you.”

Austin’s hand ran down his face, dropped into his lap. “I ... I can’t believe this.”

Cork made a dismissive wave. “As you say, the ravings of a maniac.” He continued, turning his eyes to Austin. “I told him, there’s no case. Lloyd accepted you, provided for you. Locke did the same. Legally, no case.”

“Legally? You don’t believe this crap?”

Cork took a moment. “We know why Lyman came up with these allegations.”

Jenny. Neither he nor Cork spoke her name. “What happens now?”

“We hope he drops it.” Cork shifted his weight. “If he brings a suit, it will get ugly.” He’d heard around the court house that Lyman had been shopping for a new attorney. He recommended Austin find one as well.

“Does that mean you don’t want the job?” Austin asked with a lop-sided grin and a sense of rejection. The Burdettes had used the firm for generations.

Cork laughed. “I was fired, remember.”

“Not by me.”

Cork said he no longer represented the farm. Nor did he want to choose sides in this matter.

He wants out of this rotten business for his own reasons, Austin decided.

Prepared, Cork reached into the pocket of his shirt, pulled out a business card.

Austin took the card: Saul Jacobs, a local, he knew by reputation. Cork assured him Saul was a good man and a fine attorney. He wished Austin well, said he was sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Austin thanked him, and they parted.

Too much to absorb, confusion becoming rage, sitting in his Vette, Austin gripped the wheel, turning Cork’s disclosures over in his mind. From the day his uncle had confronted him outside his office, apprehension brewed. Now he knew the worst the man could do. Uncle Lyme could and would play dirty. This story about his dad was just that; a vile, rotten lie, contrived to knock him down, keep him down, and grab the farm away from him.

Burdette men had always been as good as their word. He could hear his dad say, “We don’t air our dirty linen out in public.” Locke would say the same. That’s how he was raised, and Uncle Lyme was raised. His uncle had gone sour.

Jenny? Uncle Lyman wouldn’t dare to harm her physically; there’d be hell to pay. It was his nephew the mad man was after. In case Lyman followed through, he’d set up an appointment with Saul Jacobs. And, he’d tell Jenny just enough to put her on notice, but not scare her. He had some time to think this through while his uncle searched for someone willing to defend an outright lie.