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Streetlamps nestled between tall oaks guided Beau to his parents’ gate. A crisp fall breeze whipped his hair as the tall, arched gates of black wrought iron with romantic swirls loomed ahead.
He hated those gates. To the outside world, they marked the entrance to the Devereaux Plantation, but to him they represented prison.
At the gate, he pushed his security code into the keypad. The lights of the brewery in the distance lured him away from his doldrums.
The evening shift would be in full swing, and after them, the minimal night crew would check in. He couldn’t remember a day when the brewery hadn’t crept into his life. He’d worked every shift, in every building and after years of attending benefits, holiday parties for the employees, and sometimes traveling with his father to promote their brand, he hated the brewery almost as much as his home.
After the gates slowly swung open, Beau maneuvered his car along the long cement drive to the front of the prized three-story home. Built when the nation had been on the brink of the Civil War, the house had the customary sweeping galleries and temple-fronted facade attributed to the Greek Revival movement that was popular at the time. With four Corinthian columns, and painted white to resemble marble, the home boasted balconies trimmed in the same fancy wrought iron design as the arched gate, and a porch decorated with rocking chairs. His mother had insisted the chairs gave the house a homey feel.
Homey, my ass.
When he passed the cover of oak trees along the driveway, the light from the french windows and double front doors doused him with warm yellow light. It reached into the darkness around his car and created sinewy shadows in the Spanish moss-covered oaks and flowerbeds of gardenias. Beau used to believe ghosts haunted the trees when he was little because of the strange way the lights would make the moss undulate.
His father had insisted on the light display and made sure it burned until dawn. He even had the lights in the round cupola located atop the red-slated roof turned on. Beau thought the whole thing a waste of electricity and swore he would stop the silly tradition when he inherited the place.
Hate the house as he did, it had been in his family for ten generations, and he could not fathom giving it up completely. Ever since the Frellson family had purchased the land, a male heir had lived under its roof. The acreage had begun as a cotton farm and by the time electricity became available, turned to farmland. By then, the name had changed to Devereaux—for reasons still unclear to Beau—and the family fortune had expanded to gold, railroads, and banking. The brewery had been his great-grandfather’s hobby and had eventually grown into a lucrative source of income. But it was his grandfather, an infamous state senator, who had given the family their political clout in the state. Beau hoped to follow in Edward Devereaux’s footsteps, but only after his career in the NFL had ended.
After passing the edge of the porch, the drive followed the side of the home to the five-car garage at the rear.
Once safely inside the mudroom door, he passed through a set of etched glass french doors decorated with peacocks to a tile floor that traveled to the rear of the kitchen. Along the walls were framed magazine covers featuring his family home. There were six in all, and none captured the feel of the house. He figured no amount of rocking chairs would change that.
In the kitchen, the green digital lights from the numerous appliances cluttering the countertop cast an eerie glow. There were an array of cookers and coffeemakers his father had given his mother with the hope she’d take an interest in something other than drinking and shopping.
He yanked open the door of the onyx built-in refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of apple juice. He perused the containers of freshly prepared meals arranged neatly on the shelves by Leah—the only person in the house who seemed to care what he ate. Turned off by the selection, he closed the door and opted for a bowl of microwavable mac and cheese.
Study material in hand, he repositioned his book bag over his shoulder and took the short cut to the staircase through the cypress-paneled dining room, wanting to avoid his father’s study door.
The dining room had numerous painted portraits of former Devereaux men. Arranged according to the years they lived in the home, the portraits started at the entrance off the main hall with the builder of the plantation, Gerard Frellson. The most recent addition, his father’s painting, hung toward the back entrance by the kitchen. Beau felt the likeness exactly like Gage Devereaux—cold, ruthless, and lifeless. An empty spot sat on the wall for his portrait.
Yeah, that’s another tradition I’m getting rid of.
He walked across the room and swore the eyes of each family member followed him, criticizing his choices. For years, he’d refused to go to the kitchen at night by himself, no matter how hungry he was, for fear the pictures would come to life. Now they meant nothing, but he was thankful for the discipline his fear had taught him.
Self-control is everything.
He passed through the peach-painted parlor, turning up his nose at the pastel sofa and matching wingback chairs. Heavy curtains with peach accents pooled on the hardwood floor in front of the windows, a nod to the “Southern tradition” of excess material in curtains representing wealth and not taste. The furniture was oak and dainty matching the feminine feel of the room. His mother preferred the parlor, but tonight she wasn’t in her favorite wingback chair with her whiskey. Beau figured she’d moved her drinking to her bedroom—the one she slept in down the hall from his father’s room.
That other parents shared a bedroom had been a shock at the tender age of six. He thought all parents slept apart and rarely spoke. Sleeping over at friends’ houses had shown him his family wasn’t the norm; they were the exception.
He was about to step into the central hallway, close to the curved staircase, when a shadow of movement came from his father’s study.
Beau tiptoed across the floorboards, keeping to the red and gold runner down the center, hoping it would mask his steps. He was just about to pass a gold and marble french side table when the damned floor gave him away. The groan echoed throughout the hall and he cringed, sure his father heard it.
“Beau, come in here.”
Convinced he was in trouble for something—usually not living up to Gage Devereaux’s excessive standards—he stiffened and gripped his meal to his chest, prepared to get it over with so he could get to his homework.
He pushed the heavy cypress door open, and the warm light from the room engulfed him.
With burgundy leather furniture, ash paneling, and an Oriental rug covering the old hardwood, the room was distinctively male. Even down to the wide walnut desk his father sat behind, the space reeked of authority.
“Where have you been?”
Relaxed in his red leather office chair, a thick folder opened on his desk, Gage frowned as his son approached.
Here comes another lecture.
With Gage Devereaux, it was always about talking, never about being heard.
“I had to stay late for a student council meeting after practice.”
Gage pushed a small pile of papers off to the side. “And what about schoolwork?”
“I’ve got it covered.”
The scowl on his father’s lips summed up a lifetime of memories. Never a smile, never a kind word, only work harder, do more.
“You only think you do. That’s your problem. You don’t study hard enough.”
Beau’s stomach rumbled.
“You need to do more if you want to get into Tulane. Your ACT scores weren’t exactly impressive. Neither are your grades.”
Beau took a step forward, feeling brave. “I’ve got other skills the admission committee will look at.”
“Are we talking football?” Gage sat back, clasping his hands. “That’s not enough.”
Beau gave an upbeat grin. “But it will help. Colleges look at sports stars before regular students.”
“Being good at football isn’t going to help you run this business. A degree is. You’re also going to have to set more of an example in this town. I’ve been hearing some talk about you, your friends, and the river.” Gage stood and came around to the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Is there anything I should worry about?”
“No. Nothing.” Beau nervously shuffled his feet.
Gage sat on the edge of his desk, eyeing his son. “You’re going to be running the family business one day. What this community thinks of you now will influence how you do business in the future. I’ve had to fight to uphold our family name. It’s why I’ve pushed you so hard to not make my mistakes and earn the respect you will need to carry on the business.”
“But people do respect me.” His voice notched upward, reflecting his frustration. “I work my ass off. I attend all the benefits put on by the brewery. I’m captain of the football team, president of the student council, and I do the volunteer work at the local family clinic. What more do you want me to do?”
“And what about the anger? Your mother told me what you did with the computer. Are we going to have issues again?”
His father’s hard tone directed his gaze to the rug. “No. I got it under control, sir.”
“I don’t think you do. There are those in this town who’ll be watching your every move because they know eventually, I’ll be passing the reins of everything I own—the brewery, the town, the businesses, and the investments to you. Remember that. The image your project, the deeds you do, that’s what you’re known for. Don’t let them see who you really are.”
“I know.” Beau raised his head, giving him a confident smile. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Gage crinkled his brow and then glanced back to the pile of papers on his desk. “Go eat your dinner and leave me to my monthly invoices.”
Anxious to get out from under his father’s scrutiny, Beau hustled for the door. His father’s voice rambled around in his head, giving him a headache.
He stood before the curved oak staircase at the end of the hall, unable to understand why his old man was so mistrusting of him. Beau never screwed up, and if he did, he covered his tracks.
At the top of the stairs, he peered down the long burgundy carpet running along the second floor. He saw a light shining beneath his mother’s bedroom door. Gingerly, he walked across the carpet, praying he could get to the safety of his bedroom without encountering Elizabeth. He hated dealing with her late in the evening.
“Beau, is that you?”
He cursed under his breath.
A lock clicked open and then light from her open door beamed into the hallway.
Sighing, he answered, “Yes, it’s me, Mom.”
Elizabeth came into the hallway, wearing her yellow robe.
She examined the apple juice and container of mac and cheese in his hand. “Is that all your eating? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. I was just going to get started on my homework and grab a bite.” He made a move to head down the hall.
“What is it? You don’t want to give your mother a minute of your time?”
He halted, curtailing his desire to tell her what he was thinking. Approaching the open door, he noted its shiny new lock.
“You changed the lock again.” He smirked. “Was that before or after I threw the computer across the kitchen?”
She went to touch him and he backed away. Elizabeth curled her hand into her chest.
“I got scared. The last time you got angry at me, I ended up with twenty-two stiches. I don’t want to go through that again.”
He shook his head, wondering how the cold bitch could even think of calling herself a mother. “I was seven when that happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Beau.” She rolled up the right sleeve on her robe. “You attacked me.”
The shiny thin scar on her forearm brought back memories he had tried day after day to suppress.
The ferocity of his rage at the time came back to him. It had been there all his life, like boiling water beneath the surface of a still lake. His muscles twitched as he pictured taking the butcher knife out of the block in the kitchen and going in search of his mother. She had taken away his favorite toy because he’d bitten a boy at school. He was going to show her.
He had climbed the stairs and crept down the hall to her bedroom door. Beau had turned the handle, being very quiet like in his favorite ninja movies. Her back had been to him as she sat on her big bed, talking on the phone.
The first blow had glanced off her arm, but the second ripped through her flesh, and the blood. He’d loved the metallic smell of it mixing with her floral perfume.
“I’m not that kid anymore.”
Elizabeth rolled down her sleeve. “I hope not. I don’t want to—”
“I said I’m okay!”
His shout echoed throughout the hallway. He hoped his father hadn’t heard. Having his mother on his ass was enough.
She took a step backward. “Go eat your dinner and get to bed early. You know how you get when you don’t sleep.”
He tilted his head in the open door. She had turned down the comforter on her mahogany four-poster bed, but on the nightstand was an empty glass and bottle of whiskey. In the background, the blare of the television mounted on the wall filled an uncomfortable silence.
“How many have you had tonight?”
Elizabeth pulled at the lapels of her robe. “It’s just a nightcap, sweetie, so I can sleep.”
He hated the saccharine voice she used after a couple of drinks. Beau faced his mother, not hiding his tight grimace.
“Is that your excuse for the past ten years?”
The caring glint in Elizabeth’s gray eyes faded. “I don’t like your tone.”
“And I don’t like seeing you drunk, Mom.” He let his anger seep into his voice. “Are you ever going to do something about it?”
“Don’t lecture me.” She shook her head, leaning against the doorframe. “We get enough of that from your father.”
He motioned to the bottle on the nightstand. “Is that his fault or mine?”
Elizabeth pushed off from the doorway. “You already know the answer, Beau.”
He stepped closer, the hate bubbling under his skin. “You bitch.”
She backed into her room, the hall lights accentuating the pallor of her cheeks.
I can smell your fear.
Elizabeth slammed the door in his face and the click of the lock put an end to their conversation.
Satisfied, he strutted down the hall. Nothing like terrorizing his mother to make him feel better.
He clenched the brass handle of his door as he thought of her pouring yet another drink. His anger eased, knowing she would retreat to her bottle to dull her pain. Ever since that night, she had found refuge in her whiskey.
The knot in his chest coiling tighter, Beau shoved his door open. Only a few more months and he would be free. He could put St. Benedict behind him and never come back.
