Chapter 7

Bolton

I took a big chance in inviting Lilly to the farm. While it was all Symington property, my father and I maintained separate estates, his, of course, being the larger. I had preferred to move elsewhere, but he’d convinced me that I should stay close by so when the day came that I inherited his portion, I would already be seamlessly familiar with the farm’s business. I never said it to him, but when that day came, I would hire a farm manager and move into the city where I’d be more comfortable and have closer access to my business. To discuss that with him in advance was asking for yet another argument, and he’d be alerted so he could somehow tie my hands to keep that from happening. He was the consummate manipulator, and there was no reason to think that would end at his grave.

My housekeeper, Mrs. Polk, had prepared a home-cooked dinner with fried chicken and all the trimmings. “In case ye want to venture down by the ponds for a wee picnic,” she pointed out, and I thanked her for her thoughtfulness. She left each day about six to go home to her own family but was back in the early morning. I preferred the house to be mine alone at night.

Pal, my Labrador retriever, was actively trying to interest me in playing fetch. I was watching for Lilly to arrive and threw the Frisbee he brought me to pass the time. It was a beautiful afternoon. The dogwoods were in full bloom, and the countryside was in full splendor as it always was at Derby time. I swung back and whipped the Frisbee as far as I could, and when I turned back, I saw the dreaded black pickup in my drive. My father was just climbing out. He’d blocked the entrance just inside the gate—his normal, inconsiderate self.

“Son,” he began, and I shuddered inside. When he called me that, it meant he needed something from me. He was one of the reasons I was glad my company took me traveling so often.

“Dad,” I acknowledged him as cordially as I could. I still held him responsible for what had happened to my mother, even if he hadn’t been driving the other vehicle.

He ambled past me, headed for the porch shade and the swing. He liked to sit in the middle of it, taking on the illusion of a king on his throne. I followed dutifully, settling into one of the smaller Adirondack chairs. “Son, I’ve come today to talk to you about a serious topic.”

“OK,” I muttered, my eyes darting to the end of the drive, waiting for Lilly to arrive.

“Son, it’s time you settled down. I’m getting on in years now, and I want to see my grandchildren get started before I go.”

I held my breath and counted to ten. We’d had this conversation before—each time he’d picked out a woman from what he considered a suitable family. Each time I’d been put in the awkward position to politely turn a cold shoulder to the girl, leaving her embarrassed and frustrated. Without exception, the girls had always been told by my father that I was looking for a wife and had mentioned their name. They came with expectations and left rejected. I wondered whether he did it on purpose.

“We have discussed this before, Dad. I told you, I will choose my own wife, if and when I decide to marry. This is really not something in which you should be involved.”

“Now I don’t agree,” he growled, settling himself back in the swing so that it moved enough to accommodate his ample posterior. “This here is my land, and I should have a say in who lives here. You’re not much at picking breeding stock.”

“It’s my life, Dad, and I’m not picking out a mare. Just leave it to me, OK?”

“Now son, I don’t want you to overlook the importance of this.”

That was when I saw Lilly’s car, approaching slowly down the drive. She stopped outside the gate, unable to get past Dad’s truck.

“Dad, you’re blocking the driveway,” I pointed.

“Who’s that?”

“She is my guest, and she can’t pull in. Look, can we discuss all this another time?”

“She, eh? You’ve got a woman out here, and I don’t know her? I think I might just stick around and see for myself.”

I groaned inwardly, and I could feel anger at his interference beginning to surface.

“Dad, it’s time for you to leave. I told you, we’ll address this later.”

He gave me a look that said I was a ten-year-old boy again and heaved himself off the swing, ambling toward his truck. He got inside and pulled it off to one side onto the lawn, but he did not leave. I walked out and motioned Lilly to pull up to the house. She emerged from the car, a smile on her face and a basket filled with fresh fruit in her hand. I knew she wanted to make a good impression. She saw me first and then looked past me at the house, and her smile faded and became intimidation. She looked like she was approaching a museum.

To make matters worse, my father decided to emerge from his truck and introduce himself.

“Good evening, young lady. I’m Dallas Symington, Bolt’s father. And you are?”

She looked at me and I reluctantly nodded. “Oh, hello, Mr. Symington. I’m Lilly Schultz, a friend of your son’s.”

He didn’t hold out his hand or make any gesture of friendliness. He may as well have been inspecting livestock. I walked toward Lilly and put my arm around her. My claim was obvious.

“I don’t believe my son has ever mentioned you before. Schultz, eh? You’re not from around here, are you?” That was my father’s way of acknowledging she wasn’t old money and therefore not worth consideration.

“I grew up in town, sir.”

“Uh, yeah, I see. Yup, it’s growin’ more every day. Nothin’ but outsiders comin’ in here and developing all our beautiful farms. Well, not this one, no sir. This one is going to stay put and will always be a horse farm.”

Bless her heart. Lilly looked around and asked innocently, “Really? Where are they? In barns somewhere?”

I thought my father would spit out his own tongue, but he gave her a look that said she clearly did not belong and without a word of farewell, climbed back into his truck and spun it around on my lawn, tearing up the sod. A hard smash to the gas pedal spun grass and mud over the back of Lilly’s car, and then he was gone.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I told her, hugging her lightly. I was fuming inside and wished I hadn’t invited her. It had been a cruel spectacle.

“It’s not a problem. I suppose every parent thinks they know what’s best for their kids,” she said and then stopped, realizing she was talking about a thirty-year-old man who’d made love to her, not a boy scout. It offered up an awkward moment once again. I had my dad to thank for that.

I took her hand and pulled her toward the house. “Why don’t you come inside and let’s get a cold drink. My housekeeper, Mrs. Polk, has a supper prepared for us already. I hope you like fried chicken?”

“I love it.”

“Good. She seems to think we would do well to take it down by the pond and have a picnic. Does that interest you at all?”

“I would love that. It’s too nice an evening to eat inside.”

I was glad she felt that way. I had a need for some privacy with her. We went inside, and I introduced her to Mrs. Polk, who was easily a hundred times friendlier than my father had been.

“I would love to see your house,” Lilly said timidly. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’ve never been in one of these mansions.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that, but people used to have far larger families years ago and needed more bedrooms. Most of the rooms never even get used, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Polk and I just bump around in the bottom level. But sure, I’d love to show you around.”

The house was a full two stories with an additional basement beneath that walked out to the grounds leading down to the ponds. There were eight bedrooms with baths, and the master was located on the ground level. Several of the bedrooms had separate sitting rooms with a fireplace. The entire house had floor-to-ceiling windows and shutters that closed against the winter storms if so desired. The kitchen was an old farm kitchen with beam ceilings and plenty of workspace. A pantry sat off to one side. There was a breakfast room that overlooked the backyard and a formal dining room that could seat thirty guests comfortably. There was a formal living room that we called the parlor and a more casual family room that held the television and most comfortable furniture. Most of the house was furnished traditionally, all cherry hardwoods with built-ins. My office was next to the master suite, but I kept this door closed. Even Mrs. Polk stayed out of the room. I had the only key to the lock.

We made our way back to the kitchen where Mrs. Polk waited, a blanket and a picnic basket in hand. “Here ye go now. I’ll be goin’ home now. You two have fun.” She gave a swift wave of her hand as she headed out the front door. Mrs. Polk had been with me for several years, and I was quite fond of the older lady. She had patted my shoulder when I sobbed after my mother’s death and she pushed me toward maintaining a relationship with my father. “Ye will never know when ye might need him,” she told me wisely, although I doubted it would ever come true.

Now that we were alone, I pulled Lilly against me and greeted her properly. She responded, her body molding to mine. It was only a matter of minutes before I pulled her onto the sofa, opened her blouse and began sucking her nipple.

“Our dinner is going to get cold,” she teased me.

“I’d rather eat you. Are you available?”

“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

I sat up and slapped her bottom, standing and pulling her up right with me. “You’re right. Let’s go down to the pond and eat.”

“Sometimes I hate it when I’m right,” she commented and took the blanket while I carried the picnic basket.

The food Mrs. Polk prepared was delicious as always, and we were relatively silent as we ate, contemplating our situations. I was furious with my father and his callous behavior toward her. There was no call for it. Again, I felt a pang that my mother hadn’t been there. I knew she would have welcomed Lilly with open arms, and the two of them would have become tight sisters of secrets immediately. My mother did that with people—conjured up secrets between just the two so each would feel an obligation toward the other. I had secrets, but I couldn’t share them with Lilly, and that made me angry and sad at the same time. I noticed how quiet she was.

“Is something wrong, Lilly?” I asked, pushing her hair behind one ear so I could see her face.

She sort of screwed up her mouth, as though deciding how to answer. “OK, I’m just going to come out with it.”

“Sure, you should, what is it?”

“I’ve never been anywhere like this and never known anyone like you. Well, not personally, up close. I’ve seen rich kids, of course, but we didn’t run in the same circles. I grew up in roughly the same neighborhood where we picked up Natalie that night. She goes there because it’s familiar and makes her feel like Mom and Dad are just right around the corner in the living room watching television. I know that’s why she does it. She wants to be needy, hoping they will somehow come back and take care of her again.”

“That’s sad, Lilly. I’m sorry you have to deal with all that, and with your own grieving at the same time.”

“You know how it feels too,” she reminded me.

I nodded but didn’t respond to that. “Does being here make you uncomfortable?”

She hesitated and then said softly, “Sort of. It’s just not what I’m used to and I don’t know how to behave. Like… I’ve never had a housekeeper and certainly no one ever packed me picnics. I don’t know what to say or do.”

“Just be yourself. That’s what attracts me to you, don’t you understand that? You’re not superficial, and you’re not interested in what I have. I think you like just me.”

“I do. But what was up with your dad? Could he have simply said I wasn’t up to his standards instead of being all sly and insulting?”

A storm brewed inside me. “If you can, please don’t judge me by him. He’s just an asshole with a lot of money, and nothing more. I wish Leila could have been here. You would have seen the best side of me then.”

“You two were close, weren’t you?”

I nodded but looked out over the pond.

“There’s so much about you that seems secretive, Bolt. Tell me more about your business. That seems so separate from the rest of your life?”

I remained silent. I couldn’t tell her without revealing clues—expressions, vocal preferences, likes, dislikes.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you have other women?”

I felt anger surface at that supposition. “I told you. We agreed to be monogamous.”

“Well, can you tell me why you’re hiding things from me? I mean, do you not trust me? Is that it?”

“It doesn’t affect my relationship with you.”

“Except that you say you will disappear from time to time and I’m not supposed to ask questions like where you’re going or when you’ll be back? What kind of relationship is this supposed to be? I mean, I don’t have anything to hide. You’ve seen the worst sides of me and my life, and we barely know each other. Isn’t it fair that I see something of the darkness that keeps you so closed? Has it occurred to you that just maybe I could be a good listener? Maybe I could help light up some of that darkness?”

I couldn’t respond. They hadn’t prepared us for this in training. There was no class in how to be open and honest with a woman you care about and yet tell her nothing. How did others do it? Lies? Did they have to deal with lies in order to keep peace in their personal lives?

She was watching my face, and then she shut down. She rose to her knees on the blanket and began packing up the remaining food and dishes. “Well,” she said, brushing crumbs off her skirt, “I can see this isn’t going anywhere. I don’t know what you won’t tell me.” She stood up while I still sat, then looked up down and spoke strongly, but not in an angry voice. “There’s something you need to learn about relationships, Bolt. It’s a give and take. One person cannot expose all their faults while the other maintains a façade of perfection. It’s like a teeter-totter. Eventually one person will jump off, and the other will crash to the ground and get the wind knocked out of them. I know a little about this sort of thing, believe me. I don’t want that to happen with you. I want to share with you, equally. So, I’m going to leave now. Maybe your dad upset you or I said something wrong or maybe you changed your mind. Whatever it is, you let me know when you figure it out, OK? You know where to reach me,” she finished and turned, walking up the incline to the house. A few minutes later, I heard the car start, and her headlights went through the gate and down the road. I ran after her, half-heartedly. What could I say if I caught up to her?