The interstate did run two ways, and he’d never bothered heading in the direction of his father until a week ago. They’d let things fall to nothing, and whether it was the old man’s fault or his didn’t seem to matter anymore.
They’d had a great time fishing together, and Sebastian had felt the first real hint of optimism. Now, if neither of them did anything to mess it up, they might actually have some kind of framework on which to build. Funny that he’d had a fuck-it attitude toward his father only a few short months ago. But that was before he’d stood in a mortuary picking out a casket for his mother. That day, his world shifted, turned him 180 degrees around and changed him, whether he’d wanted it to or not. Now he wanted to know the old man before it was too late. Before he once again had to make a decision on cherrywood or bronze. Crepe or velvet. Cremated or buried.
He polished off the remaining hors d’oeuvre and threw the plate in the trash. Or, given his job, before his father might have to make arrangements for him. He preferred to be burned rather than buried and wanted his ashes dumped rather than kept in a columbarium or on someone’s mantel. During the course of his life, he’d been shot at numerous times, he’d chased stories and been chased, and he didn’t have any illusions about his own mortality.
With that happy reflection, he ordered a scotch on the rocks at the open bar, then made his way to his father. When he’d packed for his impromptu trip to Boise, he’d thrown jeans, a couple pairs of cargo pants, and a week’s worth of T-shirts into the suitcase. It hadn’t occurred to him to pack anything to wear to a party. Earlier that afternoon, his father had brought him a blue and white striped dress shirt and a plain red tie. He’d left the tie sitting on the dresser, but he’d been grateful for the loan of the shirt, whose tails he’d tucked into his newest Levi’s. Every now and again he caught the scent of the old man’s laundry soap and realized it was coming from him-a little disconcerting after all these years, but comfortable.
At Sebastian’s approach, his father made a place for him. “Are you having a good time?” Leo asked.
Good time? No. Good time meant something entirely different in Sebastian’s personal lexicon, and he hadn’t had that kind of good time in months. “Sure. The food is good.” He raised his drink to his mouth. “But pass on the cheese ball with the chunks in it,” he advised from behind his glass.
Leo smiled and asked just above a whisper, “What are the chunks?”
“Nuts.” Sebastian took a drink and his gaze slid to Clare, standing a few feet from his father, chatting it up with a man in green and blue plaid who looked to be in his late twenties. “And some sort of fruit.”
“Ah, Joyce’s ambrosia cheese ball. She makes it every Christmas. Horrible stuff.” The corner of Leo’s smile quivered. “Don’t tell her. She thinks everyone loves it.”
Sebastian chuckled and lowered his glass.
“Excuse me while I go grab some of the Camembert before it’s all gone,” his father said, and made a beeline for the buffet table.
Sebastian watched his father walk away, his gait a little slower than it had been earlier. It was getting close to his bedtime.
“I bet Leo is just thrilled to death to finally have you here,” said Lorna Devers, the neighbor from across the hedgerow.
Sebastian pulled his gaze from his father and looked over his shoulder. “I don’t know if he’s thrilled or not.”
“Of course he is.” Mrs. Devers was in her fifties, although it was hard to tell which end of fifty, given that her face was frozen from Botox. Not that Sebastian had a real opinion one way or the other about plastic surgery. He just thought it shouldn’t be so obvious to the casual observer exactly where a person had gotten herself nipped, tucked, sucked, or injected. Case in point, Lorna’s Pamela-Anderson-sized breasts. Not that he had anything against big, or even fake. Just not that big and that fake on a woman that age.
“I’ve known your father for twen-a few years,” she said, then proceeded to talk about herself and her poodles, Missy and Poppet. As far as Sebastian was concerned, that was strike three and four. He had nothing against poodles, although he couldn’t see himself owning one, but Missy and Poppet? Lord, just the sound of those two names siphoned off a few ounces of testosterone. If he listened much longer, he was afraid he’d grow a vagina. To preserve his sanity and his manhood, Sebastian eavesdropped on the different conversations taking place around him while Lorna rambled on.
“I’ll have to buy one of your books,” the guy next to Clare said. “I might learn a thing or two.” He laughed at his own joke, but didn’t seem to notice that he was the only one laughing.
“Rich, you always say that,” Clare managed as smooth as butter. Light from the torches flickered and seeped through the soft strands of her dark curls, touching the corners of her phony-as-hell smile.
“I’m going to do it this time. I hear they’re real sexy. If you need research, give me a call.”
Somehow, when Rich said it, it sounded sleazy. Not like when Sebastian said it. Or…perhaps it sounded just as sleazy and he didn’t want to think he was as ignorant as Rich.
The corners of Clare’s fake smile went higher, but she didn’t answer.
Standing directly across from Sebastian, Joyce conversed with several women who looked to be about her age. He seriously doubted they were friends of his father’s. They looked too rich and too old-guard Junior League.
“Betty McLeod told me Clare writes romance novels,” one of them said. “I love trashy books. The trashier the better.”
Instead of defending Clare, Joyce asserted in a voice that brooked no disagreement, “No. Claresta writes
“Excuse me, Lorna,” he said, interrupting the woman’s fascinating tales of Missy and Poppet’s love of car rides.
“Don’t stay away so long next time,” she called after him.
He followed Clare and found her looking through a stack of CDs next to the sound system. The light from the torches barely leached through the grasses as she read the titles by the blue LCD light.
“What are you putting on next?” he asked.
“AC/DC.” She glanced up, then returned her gaze to the CD in her hand. “Mother hates ‘racket.’”
Sebastian chuckled and moved behind her. “Shoot To Thrill” would probably spike Joyce’s blood pressure and give her heart failure. While that might be amusing, it would ruin Leo’s party. He looked over Clare’s shoulder at the stack of music. “I haven’t hard Dusty Springfield in years. Why don’t you play that?”
“Fine, party pooper,” Clare said, and picked up Dusty’s CD. “How’d Leo like the fishing pole?”
He’d rather be whipped than admit he hadn’t given it to him yet. “He loved it. Thanks for the wrapping job.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and Sebastian could hear the laughter in her voice as she popped a CD into the stereo. “You two will have to break it in while you’re here.”
“That’ll have to wait. I’m leaving in the morning. Got to get back to work.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.” After he finished the piece on the black fever outbreak in Rajwara, he was headed to the Arizona border with Mexico to do a follow-up piece on illegals entering the country. After that he was off to New Orleans to write an update on conditions and progress in the Big Easy. At some point he still had to deal with his mother’s estate, but he figured that could wait. There was no rush.
“I noticed Leo’s new Lincoln in the driveway. I guess the old one must have turned fifty.”
“It did. He bought the new Town Car today at a dealership in Nampa,” he said as the delicate scent of her perfume surrounded his head and he felt an urge to lower his face to the side of her neck. “You know a lot about my father.”
“Of course.” She shrugged and one thin strap slid down her arm. “I’ve known him most of my life.” She pushed Play and Dusty Springfield’s lush, soulful voice flowed like a sexy whisper from the speakers. She shook her head and her hair brushed her bare shoulders. Sebastian felt a second, stronger urge to raise his hand and reach for a curl resting against her skin. To feel the texture with his fingers. He took a few steps back, retreating deeper into the darkness. Away from the scent of her neck and the inexplicable compulsion to touch her hair.
“For as long as I can recall, he’s lived in my mother’s backyard,” she continued while Dusty sang about getting a little lovin’ in the morning. She turned and looked up at him through the variegated shadow. “In a lot of ways, I know him better than my own father. I’ve certainly spent more time with him.”
He supposed his insides were getting all tied up in hot knots over Clare because he hadn’t been laid in months.
