PRODIGAL SON
I pick through the clothes in my suitcase and find a country club kind of dress that works for the wedding date with this Ma Maison client but would also fit in with Dylan’s poker game.
I put on makeup in front of a mirror hanging over a hewn wooden desk in the living room and watch him out of the corner of my eye as he gets dressed, pulling on his pants, shrugging on a light cotton shirt. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how handsome he is. My phone pings with an incoming text. Amelia messaged me right at the time we agreed on.
Amelia: I’m fake texting you at the time you told me. Good luck.
I read her text, sigh theatrically, and frown. “Dang.”
“Something wrong?” Dylan asks.
“My mom needs me.” My nose is growing.
“She okay?”
“I think so.” I walk up to him and button his shirt, making my way up his hard abdomen and sculpted chest. Deceit is not something I’m comfortable with. It’s a shitty feeling and I promise to avoid it from here on out. “I’ve got a situation. I can meet you at the game later, but first I need to spend some quality time with Mom.” God, I sound like a phony asshole.
“I thought your mom was in Wisconsin.”
“She is. But she’s wound up and I need to calm her down. Have a heart-to-heart. Facetime for a few hours. I’m going to go to a mall, grab something to eat. Go somewhere I can have private time.”
“Malls aren’t all that private.”
“Malls are malls are malls. Generic. Mom doesn’t know I’m on the road. She might have more anxiety if she knew I wasn’t in Chicago.”
“Okay, Lucky Charm,” he says, and kisses me on the lips. “Do you want me to drop you somewhere?”
“Nah, I’ll order a ride.”
“I’ll text you the address for the game. We can meet up later.”
“Fair warning,” I say. “Mom can talk for hours.”
“No rush.” He opens the door of the cottage and walks out, but pauses. “Baby?”
“Yes?”
“You’re amazing. You heal me. Thank you.”
I watch him leave and I blink back tears.
And so, at the end of the day, it’s not a mission of endurance as much as one of cutting the cord. The cord of guilt. Dylan doesn’t belong in Texas anymore. Maybe at some point when he was a child, being molded by his parents, he belonged here. To a life of service. Duty to an institution. But Dylan’s life veered left while his family’s lives marched forward. Their separate paths didn’t make them less of a family. It just made them diverse.
Dylan McAlister needs to play the game and he needs to do that well. He needs to travel from state to state. City to city. Stay up all night. Sleep all day when he needs or wants. Just because he’s different from his family doesn’t mean he’s worth less. Dylan’s worthy of love just like everyone else.
My driver messages that he’ll be arriving in five minutes. As I head to the front door I see Dylan sitting in the kitchen with his mom. She’s wearing a cotton shift with “Winter is coming and I can’t wait!” on it. A globe lamp is glowing overhead, a moth beating against the kitchen screen.
“You always were my favorite, you know,” his mom says, and shuffles a deck of cards on the table.
“No, I wasn’t,” he says. “Patrick was.”
“Patrick likes to say he was. But you’ve always been my favorite, Dylan.”
“Mom.”
“I’m so glad you came home, honey.” She pats the back of his hand. “But if you stay, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Really?”
“Really. You don’t belong here anymore. I know it. You know it.”
“What about…”
“Yeah, the cancer,” Rosemary says. “Now that the ice is broken, you’ll come back more often. We’ll see each other more. And we’ll figure that part out, moment by moment. Step by step.”
“Okay.” He sighs and shuffles the deck.
“I like Evie a lot,” his mom says. “Do you think you found the right girl?”
Woah.
“Not for you to worry about, Mom.” He cuts the stack. “High card wins.”
“What are we betting on?” she asks.
“You decide.”
“I win, Dylan, you go for broke on Evie. Don’t play half-assed for her. Play smart. When the time is right, put all your money on the table. Don’t lose her.” She grabs his hand, squeezing it.
“I will, Mom. I will once you are squared away.”
God, I hope she’s squared away soon. Wait-wait – does this mean Dylan and I have a future together?
“I win, you don’t wait for me.” she says. “Dreams have a way of getting away from you if you let them sit by themselves for too long. People do that too.”
The tears are coming and I can’t screw up my wedding date by showing up with smeared makeup. I walk quietly past the kitchen, open the front door, and see my driver already waiting at the end of the long driveway.
The driver drops me just inside the gates at Sycamore Springs Country Club. It’s a three story L-shaped red brick building surrounded by sweeping manicured green lawns. A brook winds around the grounds, with small, picturesque walking bridges spanning its width.
A Rolls Royce is parked at the club’s entrance, where a tuxedoed twenty-something groom is helping the beaming bride out of the back seat. Coiffed women in designer cocktail dresses and suited men make way for the newlyweds. There’s a smattering of applause and a few chants of “Kiss the bride!” The cute couple look at each other, laugh, and oblige their fans.
“Evelyn.” A meaty hand slides down my bare shoulder and I wince when it lands possessively at my elbow. “So glad you could make it.” A shiver runs through me because I know this man’s voice. It’s Glenn, the Fast Food King. Dylan’s poker rival. The portly, sweaty man with the skinny tongue who can’t help but lick his lips when he sees a young, attractive woman. Even worse? He’s doing it now.
It’s all I can do not to make a run for it. I could bolt past the guard at the front gates and squeeze out. Oh man, fuck Madame Marchand for doing this to me. But leaving will just seal my fate. I’ll definitely be out of a job. I won’t be putting a dent in Ruby’s tuition, let alone paying for Mom’s medicals in a month from now. I need to bite the bullet and just get this done. “Glenn,” I say, and force a smile. “What a nice surprise. How do you know the bride and groom?”
“Dallas Historical Society.” He escorts me, one fat hand on the small of my back, inside the richly upholstered lobby. Beet red and gold foiled flecked wallpaper line the lodge; beet red like Glenn’s corpulent cheeks. “I’m on the board with the groom’s parents,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when I contacted Ma Maison and found out you were in town. It almost seems like kismet, Evie.”
“Evelyn,” I say.
“Evie, Evelyn, Whatever. At five K for the evening at least I didn’t call you late for dinner. No wonder McAlister walks around looking like the cat who ate the canary. No puns intended, darling. I’m sure the favor is reciprocal.”
I throw up a little in my mouth as we make our way down the hall to the ballroom. The building’s air conditioned and yet his palm pressed into the small of my back is slick and sweaty, just like his face. Tiny waves of nausea slop around inside me. I remind myself I don’t have to let this guy kiss me, let alone sleep with me.
“What’s my old pal, Dylan McAlister up to lately?” He squeezes my shoulder and slides his hand down my arm, his thick gold pinkie ring scraping my skin. He twines fat fingers between mine and I remind myself that for the five thousand dollars he’s paying Ma Maison for tonight’s date, he’s allowed to hold my hand.
“Don’t know, Glenn. You tell me.” He hired me to be his wedding date. He’s probably expecting more, but he’s not entitled to more, and I will guarantee you he’s not getting it. How bad can this be? How long can a wedding last? How long can I be nauseated and not throw up?
He stops at a small round table in the hallway and peers at the folded cards until he spots the one with his name on it. “Glenn Reynolds & Guest, Table 15. Oh, honey, they must have forgotten to put your name on it.”
Just when I think it can’t get worse it does.
“Amy?”
Aw crap, I remember the last women to call me “Amy.” I turn and see Becky Littlefield, blood red fingernails matching her lips and her cocktail dress. Gold earrings, gold watch, gold bracelets. She matches perfectly with this country club’s décor.
“Hi Becky,” I say cheerfully, well aware Glenn is still clutching my hand.
“Where’s Dylan?” she asks, blinking deer-caught-in-the-headlight eyes.
“Funny, I was just asking Evie the same question,” Glenn says. He slides the table marker into his pants pocket and extends his hand. “Glenn Reynolds. Nice to meet you.”
Becky yanks her hand back, her face turning in on itself like she just stepped into something foul the cat hacked up. “Glenn Reynolds from Dallas North High School?”
He grins. “I think we did go to D North together, darling. But from the looks of tonight, we’ve come a long way since then.”
The reception’s in the ballroom and Historical Society connections or no, I’m thanking God we’re seated at a table on the outskirts because Becky’s on the opposite side of the room. Glenn doesn’t drink when he plays poker but he’s been pounding back the single malt scotch from the cocktail part of the evening to the speeches, which is where we are now.
“Have a little something to drink, sweetheart,” he says, slurring into my ear, running his hand up and down my arm. “You’re so uptight. You never seemed that uptight at the games. Did Church Boy McAlister do anything special to warm you up? I guarantee you I can do better than that loser.” He wiggles his tongue in my ear and I lean away from him and glance at my watch.
Another hour drags by and I’ve successfully made it through the dancing and the bouquet and garter toss without heaving up the salmon salad or even going to the bathroom. I just know Becky will follow me in there and demand some kind of explanation.
“Sweetheart,” Glenn says in a sing-song voice. “I didn’t pay Maze-on five thousand for just any old wedding date, you know. I want the Dylan McAlister special. I want you to pull my zipper down, take my cock in your mouth. Make me a happy man, Evelyn. Daddy Glenn is such a good tipper.”
Ugh. I push back from the table, “Excuse me,” I say, smoothing my skirt and grabbing my clutch. “I’ll be right back.” I get all the way to the edge of the ballroom before Becky’s up out of her chair, her round eyes focusing on me, looking like the suburban version of the girl in that spy movie who was dipped in gold. Jesus, how am I going to get through the rest of this evening?
I pick up my pace and exit the ballroom just in time to run right into someone else I don’t want to be seeing tonight, or ever for that matter.
Patrick McAlister glares at me and I can practically see the steam puffing out of his nostrils. “You.” He’s not dressed for a wedding. He’s wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and runners. He’s got a bit of sunburn on his face or he’s just wound up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my heart clattering off my ribs before it drops like a stone to my stomach. I don’t really need to ask because I already know.
“You and I need to have a little talk.” He takes me by the arm and hustles me down the hallway.
We stand outside the club’s front doors. “Of course, Becky Littlefield called me. She of all people knows what’s at stake,” he says.
“You can think whatever you want, Patrick. I hate to be a bitch about this, but you and Becky aren’t my concern. Dylan is.”
“Wow, because you getting pawed in public by creepy Glenn Reynolds just screams how much you like my brother.”
“He was not pawing me.”
He holds out his phone and pulls up the photos. There’s Glenn with his arm draped over my shoulders. There’s Glenn, rubbing his hand up and down my arm. There’s me watching the bride and groom’s first dance while Glenn downs another Scotch and stares pointedly at my boobs, his snake tongue slipping between his thin lips.
“You think the prodigal son can return with his prostitute girlfriend and all will be wonderful?”
“Not a prostitute,” I say. “Escort.”
“Huge difference, Evelyn. You think the church is going to be down with that? We’re such good Christians that we welcome the poor, the tired, the unwashed among us? I. Don’t. Think. So.”
“I don’t care what Lighthouse thinks. I care about Dylan.”
“Then you need to rethink what you’re doing. Dylan’s finally back home. He’s here to see Mom. That’s the story that will play out when people find out about Mom’s cancer surgery. The last thing in the world any of us needs right now is the story about Dylan’s girlfriend ho-ing around with some other guy, especially ho-ing around professionally for money.”
“You’re an asshole.” I blink back tears.
“I’m entitled to be an asshole, Evelyn.” He pulls out his phone. “This is my world. It’s my life, not yours. These aren’t your people. Not your flock. This isn’t your safe haven. You need to let Dylan get his life back together. Because the only thing that you are in his life right now is a big. Fucking. Liability. I’ll be CFO of Lighthouse in a few years. I’ll be shepherding its image. I can’t allow Dylan to fuck things up like the Dixie thing almost fucked it up.”
“You slept with Dixie.”
“She threw herself at me. It was a thing. It wasn’t supposed to get out. Dylan had to pull a hissy fit, leave her, and abandon the whole fucking church. The gossip nearly burned the roof off this parish. I’ll be inheriting the Lighthouse legacy, the empire. Not Dylan. That’s in writing, signed, notarized, and resting in multiple safe deposit boxes at Dad’s lawyer’s offices.”
A man pulls up in Patrick’s cherry red truck, slips the engine in idle, and walks to the passenger side, pretending he’s not paying attention.
“Dylan doesn’t want what you want,” I say, my voice hushed.
“Dylan wants money or he wouldn’t continue to play the game. Do you have any idea how much money is in Lighthouse Cathedral? Do you have any idea how much –” He stops and smacks his head with the heel of his hand. “What am I even asking? Of course you do. I will not have this church brought down by some two-bit whore who spreads her legs for a living. Jesus might have forgiven the sinners but I’m not as nice as Jesus, Evelyn. Compassion isn’t a spoke, let alone a wheel in my wheelhouse right now. Your suitcase is in the truck. Get in.”
He walks to the driver’s side as the guy opens the passenger door for me.
“I can’t just leave Glenn here without telling him…”
“Glenn Reynolds from high school? Loser.” Patrick pulls out his wallet and tosses it to the guy. “Cut him a check for whatever he paid for her.” He points to the passenger seat. “Get in, Evelyn. Or you’ll fuck up the next five years of Dylan’s life. Can you live with that? It hasn’t been all that easy for me.”