ELEVEN
ALEX WALKED BACK into The Seaside from the hotel’s attached garage, a death grip on the box with the replacement swans. Tara had packed them up before they’d arrived at the wedding shop, which he promptly made her unpack so he could examine the goods. She grumbled about it, but he and Theresa had gone to hell and back because of them. There was no way he’d accept a faulty second delivery if he could help it.
Lucky for everyone involved, the swans were in perfect shape.
He walked down the carpeted hallway, Theresa by his side. The Swarovski swans were still in the Porsche and would remain there until Sol or someone on his payroll returned them to the proper jewelry stores. Alex was willing to do a lot for his brother, but not that.
Never that.
I’d rather take a stick in the eye. Or throw the rest of the swans off that bridge back in Lake Charles.
He reached The Seaside’s front foyer and immediately wished he hadn’t; everything was in disarray. Sol barely spared Alex a nod as he paced in front of the glass elevator, a cell phone attached to his ear, his voice rising as he argued with some hapless stranger about a last-minute reception hall reservation. Rain was on the second story of the hotel, and through the glass railing, Alex could see her chasing an escaped corgi puppy. Her annoyed screeches were some parts dying cat, some parts enraged hen, and all parts ear piercing. Cylan appeared to be doing all the actual running of the hotel, including advising Dora that her glower had made a six-foot-tall football player cry and could she try to smile when she checked in their guests.
Her response, of course, was to glower more.
This is madness. How does anything get done around here?
He was suddenly very proud of how smoothly The Diamond ran.
Fingers brushed his elbow. He glanced over and found himself admiring Theresa’s lovely profile with a lovely smile and a lovelier halo of wavy red hair. His breath caught in his throat at the memory of how all that hair looked laid out on the pillow beneath her head, when her body was pressed against his after they . . .
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Just stop.
He ground his jaw, his grip on the box tightening.
“Going up to check on Rain. She sounds like she’s about to go full nuclear,” Theresa said, a tired smile playing around her mouth. “After that, a shower, a change of clothes, and we go collect the ice sculpture?”
“I’ve got it.” His voice was clipped and hard enough that she gave him the side-eye.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve got it. I don’t need you.”
Wait, I didn’t mean . . .
He realized his error too late. She flinched and jerked her gaze away, her smile turning into a strained grimace. “You made that abundantly clear earlier. Excuse me.”
She left his side, her head held high as she climbed the curving stairs to the second floor, looking dignified and aloof and very much like a queen ascending to her throne.
A queen I just pissed off. Which is how heads end up on platters.
“Theresa,” he called at her back, but she didn’t turn around, which he couldn’t blame her for. He’d upset her, again, even if he hadn’t meant to. It was just so damned hard to be normal when she stood close by. Her moans still echoed in his ears. His fingertips remembered the softness of her skin. Hell, he could smell her, and not in the hotel shampoo kind of way, but how she’d smelled when she was hot and wet for him.
I have to apologize. Not now, but later, when she’s less mad and I’m less apt to fuck it up because I’m embarrassed.
He stomped off toward Sol’s office, swans delicately jangling inside their foam peanut prisons with each of his steps. Despite his upset, he was gentle when he placed the box in the corner of the room on top of a filing cabinet. Somehow Sol had made it from the front room where he’d been pacing like a caged lion in pinstripes and into his office without Alex noticing. Alex had been distracted by Theresa, yes, but he hadn’t been that distracted, had he?
And when did Sol start wearing cardigans?
And glasses?
Oh. Wait.
Alex raked his hands through his hair. “Nash. When did you get in?”
Nash smiled, not the big, pearly shark grin of his twin, but something far warmer. “A few hours ago with Mama. How are you, Alex?”
Batshit crazy because of a girl, but thanks for asking.
“Fine,” he said.
Nash and Sol were identical: square jaws, high cheekbones, green eyes, patrician noses, and platinum hair. They had the same height, the same build. Where they differed was in every other possible way. Nash was brilliant but socially inept. Sol wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t Nash-smart by any stretch. He could, however, talk his way out of pretty much any situation without difficulty. Where Nash preferred a quiet life of tea and books, Sol wasn’t happy unless he was mired in chaos. Nash had never had a long-term relationship that Alex could recall, while Sol was rarely, if ever, alone.
Nash was opera and scholarly travel and classical music.
Sol was parties and flashy cars and Fioravanti suits.
And I’m Dockers and protein shakes and teaching Sunday school.
The three of us are so mismatched.
Nash adjusted the spectacles on his nose and pointed at the laptop before him. “I’ve figured it out.”
“What?”
“What you were doing wrong.”
Alex had no idea what he was talking about, so he waited for Nash to fill in the blanks because that’s how Nash operated—you got nonsense to start, but he brought illumination a thought or two later if you were patient enough to wait it out. “You weren’t folding your creases hard enough.”
Folding my cre—
Nash picked up an origami crane from . . . somewhere. The ether. Maybe he had a stash of them behind Sol’s desk. “Here and here. You almost had it. A fold or two more and you would have been spot-on.”
“We’ve moved on from the cranes, Nash. We got glass swans.”
Nash smiled. “Oh well. For next time, then.”
“The next time I have to fold six billion origami cranes for a last-minute wedding frenzy?”
“Yes! Exactly.”
Alex stared at Nash. Nash blinked at him owlishly, his smile never wavering.
“It’s good to see you,” Alex said, tired. “How’s Chicago?”
“Experiencing a cold front at the moment. It’s good to be here. Are you all right?” Nash motioned at Alex’s pants. “There’s lint on your trousers. And you’re wrinkled. You’re never either of those things.”
No, he supposed he wasn’t, and he turned back for the office door. “It was a long night. I need a shower and to change. And then I have to drive off to the sticks to pick up an ice sculpture from some backwoods chain saw artist or the world will end.”
“Fascinating. I wrote a paper on ancient sculpture, you know. Would you like company?”
Nash’s eyebrows sat high on his brow in excitement. He looked so earnest, so eager to accompany him, that Alex shrugged and sighed. “Sure, Nash. Whatever you’d like. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, brother!”
“And what’s fascinating is that Giambologna made more bozzetto—those are the clay proofs before a sculptor works in bronze or marble—than any other sculptor of his day. He was heavily inspired by Michelangelo, and that showed in his Greco-Roman style. His work often captured violent movement, which is interesting considering he became the Medicis’ court sculptor.”
Alex pulled on his sunglasses so he could block out the late-afternoon sun. He was back in the tuna can of a Porsche and on the highway, the Swarovski swans unloaded an hour earlier by a griping, irritated Cylan.
“I’m an accountant, not your errand boy,” he’d shouted at Sol.
“I’ll give you an errand boy bonus next holiday!” Sol jabbed back.
Which is how the first bag of Swarovski swans got dropped in the hall, half of them breaking, and ensuring Sol would lose a few thousand dollars of his money.
Lesson learned: don’t fuck with Cylan.
“We’re picking up an ice truck, Nash, and then we’re picking up a swan from a guy who wants to put dead deer in his freezer,” Alex said to his brother. “I sincerely doubt there was a bozzetto involved. This isn’t exactly fine art.”
“Oh, I disagree. All art is fine art, if the artist is good enough.” Nash tittered and looked out the window, smiling at the passing scenery, his bow tie askew. Alex wanted to reach over and straighten it, but that was patronizing, and Nash was actually a few years his senior. That wasn’t always evident; Nash wasn’t immature, but he was elsewhere a lot of the time, his mind flitting from one subject to another and rarely keeping him tethered to the same plane of existence as everyone else. He managed to hold it together when it came to work, the Chicago hotel flourishing under his hand, but when he didn’t have to be present, he was instead pursuing his bevy of academic interests.
Unfortunately, Alex wasn’t much interested in the history of Bologna the Sculptor—Jean Boulogne—in his current mood.
“You’re upset,” Nash said, not turning his head to look at him. “Can I help?”
“Not really. I don’t think.”
“What’s wrong?”
Had it been Sol asking, Alex would have done anything to avoid talking about Theresa. Sol was too wont to prod and poke and make fun of what he deemed Alex’s stodginess. What Sol didn’t understand—or, more appropriately, didn’t respect—was that Alex’s restraint came from the tenets of his faith, and that wasn’t something he took lightly. Sol’s jokes got under Alex’s skin every time, without exception.
But Nash wasn’t Sol. He was sensitive and he listened.
“There’s a girl,” Alex said, trying to be careful.
“Oh? That’s good. Mama always says you need to settle down.”
“I . . . wait, she does?”
Nash nodded, turning his face just long enough to flash him a smile. “She said you’re a family man, you just haven’t figured it out yet. I agree. You’d do well with a wife and children. You’re very loving, Alex. Loyal. I think you’d make a great husband and father one day.”
Oh.
That’s . . . that’s nice to hear. I would like those things one day.
Alex actually felt his face flush hot, but he kept his eyes pinned on the road before him anyway. “Yes, well, thank you. But my immediate problem is that she’s not a local girl. She travels a lot and I’m afraid if I don’t take advantage now, I may not have the opportunity to get to know her better before she’s gone. She’s the first woman I’ve been interested in for a long time, and I can’t seem to help myself around her. I want to escalate things. Far quicker than I should.”
He wasn’t sure if he was being polite or clever with his generalities, but in either case, it didn’t matter. Nash was too damned smart not to catch on.
Not that this was immediately evident. “Do you vote a Democrat or Republican ticket? Are you registered one party or the other?” he asked.
“Yes, but what does that—”
“Do you agree with everything on your party platform? Every little thing? Or do you allow for differences in opinion on certain issues?”
Alex didn’t immediately answer, but of course he allowed for differences. People often weren’t neatly categorized by party platforms even if they voted one ticket. It was a matter of majority agreement, but there was almost always dissension to some degree.
Nash continued. “The point I’m making is, with politics, with faith—with any foundation based on belief that was penned by anyone other than you—you’re going to have points of contention. Everyone practices faith differently because everyone is different. Your Catholicism is going to have a different set of foci than, say, our great-grandmother’s. Churches are run by men, and men are flawed. How can we be sure that creeds against birth control exist for reasons other than to ensure forever-full pews, for example? Other than the whole infallibility thing, of course. I’m not criticizing the institution, Alex, simply suggesting you are allowed to have your reservations about certain edicts and it doesn’t make you a bad Catholic. It makes you a human being capable of critical thought.”
Alex wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he held his tongue, which gave Nash the opportunity to add, “Sex is a basic biological function for most people. Have sex if it makes you happy. Just respect yourself, your partner, and your body, and I think you’ll be fine. Frankly, if there is a God—and I’m personally still debating his existence—but if there is one, I’d be quite disappointed if he had any interest in our bedroom matters. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. Who’s inserting themselves into other people seems petty when looking at war and misery and environmental catastrophe.”
“Environmental catastrophe,” Alex repeated.
How did we get here from Theresa? Oh right. Because, Nash.
But he has a point, I’ll give him that.
“Thank you,” Alex said. “I think I needed to hear that . . . I think.”
“Of course.” Nash settled into his seat, stretching out his long legs as far as the tiny foot wells would allow. “You know, just last week I was reading an article about the ozone layer. Scientists are speculating it’ll be healed over by 2050. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Yes, marvelous,” Alex said, putting on his signal and peeling off the highway. “You know what else is marvelous?”
“No, what?”
Alex managed a grin. “Ice trucks.”