6

Archibald would never forget the first time he’d met Jordan Deere. It had been a warm September evening in 1980, long before Jordan became famous. Archibald had been standing on Hennepin Avenue after the theater had closed up for the night, waiting for a bus to take him back to his apartment near the university. During the last two years of his undergraduate study, he’d run the Piccolo Theater box office for $4.10 an hour, a buck over minimum wage. He thought it was a perfect part-time job, allowing him a chance to expand his interest in the theater and at the same time assure him that he’d have plenty of free time for his studies. He made a point to get to know Kit, of course. Everybody wanted to meet her. Not only was she glamorous in an old-fashioned Hollywood kind of way, but she was friendly and funny, and occasionally even went out for drinks with the theater staff after the place shut down for the night.

That evening, as Archibald was lighting a cigarette, he saw Kit come around the corner with a guy’s arm around her waist. Kit introduced Archibald to Jordan and then asked if he needed a ride home. Since it was late and he had a test in the morning, he took her up on the offer, which allowed him to study Kit’s newest boyfriend more closely.

Jordan explained that he’d been born in Maryland, raised in Kentucky, and was currently in Minnesota playing guitar and singing at his uncle’s bar in Saint Paul. He wasn’t reticent about the fact that he intended to make a career in country music. With his Irish looks—strong chin, slanting blue eyes, rosy cheeks—he reminded Archibald of a Catholic choirboy: beauty and innocence combined in almost perfect harmony. Kit was clearly smitten. While Archibald hated country music on principle, he liked Jordan. The guy had a Kentucky twang and an easy way about him that made people forget—well, almost forget—how startlingly good-looking he was. Less then two months after that first meeting, Jordan and Kit had been married in a ceremony that seemed as if it included the entire Twin Cities.

Seven months later, Chloe was born. No one commented on the timing. At least, not in front of Kit.

Archibald had been working on his friendship with Kit ever since he’d begun running the box office at the theater, and after the marriage, his friendship with Jordan grew as well. He was touched and deeply honored when they asked him to become their second child’s godfather. Booker Tiberius Deere had been born three years after Chloe. The name Tiberius had actually been Archibald’s suggestion. Archibald had moved on to a doctorate by then. Roman history had always been his primary interest. Booker loved his middle name so much that in his early teens, he’d insisted people call him Tiberius. It hadn’t lasted, which had always made Archibald a little sad. He’d been closer to Chloe than Booker, though he loved them both like a father.

Nobody, in Archibald’s opinion, had ever known what Booker was thinking when he was a kid. He didn’t smile much, kept his head down and his opinions, whatever they were, to himself. Archibald had tried to crack through his defenses by spending time with him, even taking him once on a trip to Italy, mainly to get his mind off the hubbub in the house over his sister. Chloe had always been an emotional handful. Then again, at least you knew where you stood. With Booker, Archibald never felt confident that he’d grasped the boy’s essential nature, and that nagged at him.

Thirty-four years after saying their wedding vows, the Deere family was now standing at a precipice. If Jordan had his way, it wouldn’t be long before everything that Kit and Jordan had built would all come crashing down.

That was why, on this chilly late October morning, Archibald—instead of Jordan—had driven out to Flying Cloud Airport in Eden Prairie, and was waiting for the Deeres’ Learjet to land. Kit and Beverly were flying up from New Orleans, no doubt talking of little else than the meeting Jordan had forced on the family. By this point, everyone knew more than they ever wanted to know about the Deeres’ marriage—and they also understood what was at stake if the union blew apart.

Looking out a broad picture window, Archibald gazed toward the landing strip and then up at a hard gray sky. His plan was to take the women to lunch and eventually deposit them at the lake house. He hoped to add a cheerful note to an otherwise gloomy day.

Hearing a commotion behind him, Archibald turned to find Jordan, his jaw set hard, steaming toward him. His looks had changed subtly over the years. His eyes had grown more hooded and dark, his skin tanned and weathered, and his smile crooked. He was focused on the door out to the landing strip and didn’t seem to notice Archibald until he was almost on top of him.

“Oh,” said Jordan, stopping abruptly. “It’s you.” He removed his sunglasses.

A small crowd had begun to gather behind them.

“Jesus,” said Archibald, stepping back to take in Jordan’s frayed jeans and ratty canvas field jacket. “You need to find yourself a tailor—and a barber.”

Jordan hung his glasses on his shirt, then sunk his hands into his pockets. “I was going to call you later today. Did you—”

“I read it, yes. Last week.”

“You’re coming to the house tomorrow, right?”

“I am.”

“So? Give me a preview? What did you think?”

“It’s a compelling story.”

He seemed relieved. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

“But it will never be published.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re not that stupid.”

“Look, I’m not going to publish it under my own name, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Doesn’t matter. People will find out. They always do. There’s no way you, Jordan Deere, can publish that novel anonymously. I can’t believe you’re even considering it.”

“All I know is that I’ve spent the last two years working on it, and every day this summer finishing it.”

“Who else has a copy?”

Jordan seemed surprised by the question. “I sent one to everybody in the family.”

“Lord. Your kids deserve better than that. Don’t you think you should have spoken to them personally before they read the book?”

“What are you saying?”

“That you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he said, walking past Archibald up to the window.

“Fine. But if you gave me that manuscript thinking I could help you find a publisher, I can’t help you.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Okay, won’t. I refuse to do anything that would hurt Kit and the kids.”

“Like they say, the truth hurts. But sometimes it’s also necessary.”

“Truth is profoundly overrated,” said Archibald, disgusted by Jordan’s use of such a self-serving cliché.

A small jet dropped out of the low gray clouds. The sound didn’t hit for another few seconds.

“That’s our plane,” said Jordan, watching it descend toward the runway.

“Are you planning to take Kit and Beverly home with you?” asked Archibald, annoyed that he driven all this way for nothing.

“I’m not sure,” said Jordan, unhooking his sunglasses and slipping them back on. “Give me a second, okay?” He rapped Archibald on the shoulder, then pushed out the door.

As the plane came to a stop, Jordan moved beyond the chain-link fence and waited for the top section of the hatch to come up and the stairs to come down. And then he disappeared inside.

Archibald scowled at his watch. He found a chair and sat down, rattling through the morning paper, feeling as if he’d just had a conversation with a brick wall.

*   *   *

Inside the cabin, Kit stared out the window, fingering a gold chain necklace and watching her husband make his way across the blacktop. “Figured he might show,” she said, turning to look at Beverly, who’d taken off her seat belt and was stuffing a Sudoku puzzle magazine into a leather bag.

Kit hated to say it, but because of the miracle of modern cosmetic surgery, she looked a good ten years younger than Beverly even though they were the same age. She’d encouraged her friend to get some surgery done herself, but Beverly wanted no part of it. She would point to her helmet of short, blunt-cut gray hair, to the crow’s-feet at the edges of her eyes, and she’d laugh, saying she’d earned them, like they were merit badges.

Kit, of course, didn’t view wrinkles that way. Still, she knew enough about Beverly and her ways to stop pushing. Trying to make Beverly Elliot into something she didn’t want to be had always been a losing proposition. Like the time Kit had wanted Beverly to attend a cocktail party with her at the governor’s mansion in Nashville. Jordan had planned to attend but at the last minute he had been called away. Kit didn’t want Beverly to feel out of place, so she offered to take her shopping, buy her something dressy, something fun and fabulous. Beverly wouldn’t hear of it. She maintained that she felt uncomfortable in fancy clothes. She liked plain styles, mostly slacks and sweaters in the winter, and cargo shorts and T-shirts in the summer. Like a lot of Minnesotans, she was terminally casual. Well, so be it, thought Kit. Beverly was who she was, and Kit admired her conviction and self-confidence, if not her crow’s-feet.

“I thought Archibald was picking us up,” said Beverly, her restless eyes darting around the cabin. “I’m sure Jordan’s here because he wants to test the waters. See what you thought of the book. He’s never been big on patience. If he wants something, he wants it now.”

That wasn’t entirely fair, thought Kit. But then Beverly and Jordan had never really gotten along. There were good reasons, of course, and yet Kit had always wished it had been different. Kit loved both of them without reservation. They were, in the deepest sense, her soul mates. Sure, she was furious with Jordan at the moment and intended to make his life a living hell for as long as it took to get him to change his mind. In the end, she knew he would. He wasn’t reckless. She simply had to make him see he was about to jump off a cliff and drag the rest of family over the jagged rocks with him.

After the hatch opened, Jordan jumped up the steps. In an instant, he was in the cabin, his height and size dwarfing everything around him. He took Kit in, smiling a sheepish smile as he moved toward her.

She tried not to return the smile, though it was impossible.

“I thought maybe you’d station a guard at the door,” he said. “Not let me in.”

“Bull,” said Kit, nowhere near as refined in real life as her image suggested. “Give me a hug and a kiss.” Across from them, Beverly remained in her seat, glowering.

Turning around so that she wouldn’t have to see Beverly’s puckered face, Kit luxuriated in the feel of Jordan’s strong arms around her. She loved men. Absolutely adored them. Couldn’t ever seem to get enough male attention, even at her age, which had been a periodic problem in her marriage. As she pulled back, she saw Jordan wink at Beverly. He did it to annoy her. It always worked.

“So, what do you think?” asked Jordan, holding Kit at arm’s length.

“About that book?”

“What else?”

“I think you’re out of your freakin’ mind.” She pulled away, needing to put some distance between them. “All I can say is, I’m glad the kids haven’t seen it.”

A muscle in his face twitched. “I sent a copy to everyone. Even Badass Beverly over there.” Another wink.

Kit was almost too stunned to speak. “You’re … a madman. Don’t you think I should have had something to say about that?”

“No. It’s my book. My story.”

“It’s never going to be published. No way in hell.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Archibald. I plan to publish under a pseudonym.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his painful naïveté. “Where is this coming from? This need to air all our dirty laundry. Not only will it hurt our kids, but it will damage our careers. Hell, damage them? We might as well take a sledgehammer to them.”

He glanced over at Beverly, then back to Kit. “Okay, so maybe some stuff does come out. We can manage it.”

“The media will eat us alive. If it’s a slow news week—”

Jordan’s expression hardened. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

“Well, unmake it.”

“That’s why I called this family meeting.”

“I thought it was a reunion.”

“Whatever it is, there will be only one topic under discussion. I was hoping we could talk first. I mean, there are … things … I didn’t address in the book. I thought maybe you’d like to get everything out on the table with the kids.”

“That is never going to happen. Never.”

He held up his hands. “Okay, it was just a thought.”

“You called this meeting so that you could issue an edict.”

He threw his arms in the air. “Why is everyone fighting me?”

“Really? Everyone? Maybe that should tell you something.”

Coming close to Kit’s face, Jordan said, “This isn’t your call. It’s not a business decision. We’re not taking a family vote. This is my life.”

“How can a man who has experienced the world the way you have still remain such a simpleton?” asked Beverly, rousing herself to stand and face him.

“Oh, sit down and shove a sock in it,” he growled, his Kentucky accent more pronounced when he was mad.

“You are such a pathetic little boy,” she continued. “Throwing tantrums when you don’t get what you want. Well, suck it up. Nobody gets everything in this life.”

“That right, Beverly? And what is it that you want?”

“One day you’ll go too far.” She shoved a finger in his face. “One day.”

“And then what? More truth will come out? We couldn’t have that.”

“Stop picking at each other,” demanded Kit. “Beverly has nothing to do with this. We need to stay on point. And the point is,” she added, sitting down and looking around for her overnight case, “I’m not on board with what you’re proposing. You fight me on this and you’ll lose. We made a deal. Long time ago. We both have to agree. I don’t. There will be no book. End of discussion.”

Jordan gazed down at her, said nothing for several seconds, then moved back to the hatch. Hesitating, as if he wasn’t sure what his next move should be, he gave himself a few seconds. Finally, his eyes hardened into a decision. “There’s one more thing I came to say.”

“Then you better say it,” said Kit, bending down to look under the seat. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over. There would be no family horror show.

“I want a divorce.”

Her head snapped up.

“Our marriage,” he said. “It’s over. But don’t worry. You and the kids will be well taken care of. I’m not vindictive. I still love you, Kit. Always will. I hope we can end this amicably.”

Dazed, Kit stood, arms at her sides. “A divorce?” she repeated. He hadn’t laid a finger on her, and yet she saw stars, specks of bright light swimming in the air around her. “You can’t be serious.”

“If you want to talk some more, I’ll be around the house all afternoon. And look, I’m sorry, Kit. I really am. But this is for the best.”

As he disappeared out the hatch, Kit dug out her cell phone. She did want to talk, but not to him. She searched her address book until she found the name she was looking for. Come on, Cordelia. Pick up the damn phone.