forty

Jude stands in the hall, looking the other way. I don’t know enough about men’s fashion to say more than that his outfit isn’t a tux, but it’s fancier than guys wear to prom in Reeve’s End. It fits him far better than the stuff he’s been wearing, and I see the boy from those photos—the confident stance and athletic build, the clean-shaven angular jaw, the black curls, tamed and dampened and pushed off his face. He looks more himself, the way I feel less myself.

This is the guy I’m about to walk into a party with. Walk in on his arm. Walk in like I belong with him.

I step back toward the restroom, ready to retreat and say I can’t do it.

Then the still-closing door creaks. He turns and sees me. I move forward, one careful step after another, even the low heels feeling precariously high. In the silence, I manage a nervous smile and say, “Do I clean up okay?”

“I was resisting the urge to say you look nice, which would imply that you didn’t before.”

My smile relaxes. “Okay, then I won’t say it about you, either.”

“On second thought, it’s fine. The alternative implies that we don’t look any better after having clearly taken the effort to do so.”

“True.”

“On that note, while being clear that I thought you looked very nice before, I will say that the dress was an excellent choice and you look awesome. But I’m still not flirting.”

“I know.”

The newspaper articles I read called the Bishop home an “estate.” Given the rural location, I expect that means the stereotypical Kentucky horse ranch—a stately home on acres of rolling bluegrass.

When Jude pulls into a dirt laneway with a gate, I hop off to open it, but he beats me there, pointing to the muddy ground.

I lift the helmet visor.

“A mildly trespassing shortcut?” I say with a smile.

“Nah, we’re here. Just coming in the back way.”

I crane to get a look at the property. It’s what I expected—rolling bluegrass and white fence. The house is obviously beyond those rolling hills.

Jude navigates the bike through the gates and then guns the engine on the short grass. I look over those acres of grass and think, “Who cuts all this?” A gardener, obviously, but I mean what kind of person pays to have acres of grass cut?

Jude revs again as we climb a slope. When we near the crest, I see the top of buildings and then…

The house goes on forever, white buildings stretching across the horizon. In old books, they talk about homes with “wings”—the north wing or the east wing—and I’ve never really been sure what that means. Now I know. The Bishop estate looks like a plantation house from the photos at that Civil War reenactment site. I cannot comprehend this as a single-family home. I just can’t.

I’ve heard the cliché that someone comes from a different universe. Now I see what it means. These aren’t just people who don’t need to hunt and trap for their dinner. That applies to the average person in Reeve’s End, and I’m accustomed to that level of disparity—seeing kids throwing away a sandwich because they hate egg salad and wondering if anyone would notice if I snagged it from the trash bin.

I knew what Jude came from, but it wasn’t obvious. He dresses like me. Rides a beat-up motorcycle. Checks his wallet before ordering dinner. Even Lennon—with his expensive sneakers—didn’t seem more than upper-middle class, like kids I met at science camp.

But I see this house and I realize that what separates those city kids from Jude and Lennon isn’t a few social rungs—it’s a whole ladder. And me? For the first time in my life, I actually feel like a hillbilly. Like someone who doesn’t just live in Reeve’s End but belongs there.

I want to leap off the seat and run. Just run. Get away before I make a fool of myself.

Jude guides the bike toward the house and stops beside what looks like a garage. Through trees and bushes I can see a circular front drive with a steady stream of cars, men in suits and women in dresses getting out as valets rush to drive the vehicles away.

I’ve read about valet parking but never even been to a restaurant that has it. I clutch the seat so hard my fingers ache.

Jude turns off the engine. Then he twists and waits. After a moment, he motions, and I realize he’s waiting for me to remove the helmet and slide off the bike. I dismount and edge closer to the garage wall, where I can’t see that endless line of cars. I run my hands through my hair. Jude moves closer and leans down, his voice lowering.

“We’ll go in the side,” he says.

“No, the front door’s fine. I’m just…a little nervous.”

“We’ll take the side. My mother might complain about that, but she’d also bitch if I came through the front like a guest instead of family. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, so I vote for the side entrance and a bathroom stop to make sure I don’t have bugs in my teeth.”

When I don’t smile at that, he squeezes my elbow. Just a quick squeeze to get my attention.

“It’s okay, Winter.”

“I…This isn’t…” I swallow. “I know your family has money, but this…this…”

“It’s not mine.”

I shake my head. “You might have walked away but—”

“The money is not mine. The money is not even theirs. It’s family money. No one here has earned it.”

“But—”

“This isn’t where I come from. I saw you reading the articles. You know…” He rubs his mouth. “I don’t want to sound like a thoughtless jerk, saying hey, we’re from the same place—the same kind of place. Obviously I haven’t lived there since before I can remember. But it’s still…” He looks at the house. “This isn’t mine. I’m very aware of that. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’ve always been aware of that.”

He looks at the house, and I realize I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here. And I realize how much worse it is for him.

What I’m feeling is pride. Pure and simple. The fear that I will embarrass myself. That people at that party will sense where I come from and turn up their noses. That’s it. In Jude’s eyes, I see genuine fear. Coming back here is a move he isn’t ready to make.

Before I can speak, he does, his gaze still on the house. “I had a good childhood. A really, really good one. Money buys you that. But money…” He swallows and I realize he’s no longer seeing the house, no longer seeing anything. “People like this can buy anything they want. Anything.”

“Maybe there’s another way to Lennon’s room,” I say. “We can sneak in.”

The corners of his lips lift. “Believe me, if there was a way to sneak in, Lennon would have found it years ago. I have to do this. But if you don’t want to…”

I square my shoulders. “The only thing I’m going to hurt is my ego. And sometimes I think maybe it could use a little bruising.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t need that at all.” He moves closer and leans down, his voice lowering. “It’s money, Winter. Just money. It doesn’t make them good people. Doesn’t make them bad people either. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel worse about yourself. Don’t give them that power.”

I nod. “I can’t change how others treat me, but I’m responsible for how that makes me feel.”

He moves in front of me, catching my gaze. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course it hurts.”

I know he’s talking about Bert, and I inch back.

“Not the time,” he says. “Yeah. Sorry. Feel free to tell me to shut up when I do that.”

“No, you have good advice.”

He brushes his hair back. “I don’t mean to.” A wry smile. “I mean that I don’t intend to give unsolicited advice, not that I’d rather give bad advice. I’m serious, though—tell me to stuff it when I pry.”

He takes out his phone and calls a number. Someone answers and he says, “Hey, Roscoe. It’s Jude.”

Pause.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure if my mother mentioned I was coming to the party and—”

Pause.

“Anyway, we’re by the boathouse and—”

Now the pause comes with an added eye roll for me.

“Yes, I brought a girl. Just don’t make a big fuss and scare her off. It’s not exactly a done deal and—”

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as I hear someone giving a laughing reply on the other end.

“I don’t mean that way. Just help me look good, okay?”

He listens and then hangs up and says to me, “Roscoe likes to talk. So be warned. I apologize in advance for any off-color comments.”

“Don’t worry. I remember the porn links.”

He snorts a laugh and then leads me between the detached building and the side of the main house.

“So…garage?” I say, gesturing to the smaller structure.

“Nah, boathouse. For all those big bodies of water we have in Kentucky. We call it the boathouse, but it’s mostly a giant shed.”

“Storage for that pool I saw?”

“No, that has a pool house.”

“Of course.”

The side door opens. A man pokes his head out. He’s in his early thirties and looks like a security guard—or a cop or soldier. A big guy, maybe an inch taller than Jude and thirty pounds heavier.

“Hey, Jude,” he says. Then, “Oh, sorry, did that wrong,” and he sings the words, getting a good-natured “Yeah, yeah,” from Jude, who then says, “Roscoe, this is Winter.”

“And the young lady’s surname?” Roscoe says. “Because you know I gotta ask.”

Jude says, “Crane,” and I’m thinking whoa, that is some serious security, when Roscoe bows and says, “Miss Crane, pleased to meet you,” and I realize he didn’t ask so he could run a background check, but because he’s expected to address me that way.

We head down a back hall, past closed doors.

“Have you heard anything from Lennon?” Jude asks.

Roscoe sighs. “You still on about that, bud? I know you worry, but I was hoping maybe a little time apart would be good for both of you. Lennon’s always leaned on you. Relied on you. With you gone, he had to get into the world by himself. Explore his own interests. With you gone, he’s really been coming into his own. Doing his own thing. Cutting those apron strings, which, as we both know, your momma ties damned tight.”

Jude nods, but he doesn’t say, That’s good. In general, yes, independence is a fine thing. But from what we suspect, getting into the world and exploring his own interests doesn’t mean Lennon has joined the Peace Corps.

Roscoe must sense Jude’s unease and he says, “It’s been good for him, Jude. It really has.”

“Any idea what he’s been up to lately?” He tries to say it casually, but the guard eases back a step, saying, “Your brother’s business is his own, Jude. I don’t interfere.”

“I don’t mean that. I’ve just been having trouble getting hold of him this week, so I was concerned.”

“As a good big brother should be, and you’re always a good big brother,” Roscoe says with a smile. “I’m not going to say he’s keeping his nose clean, but with you boys, getting into trouble means having a couple of drinks before you’re twenty-one, maybe hooking up with a girl from the wrong zip code, if you know what I mean.”

I tense, but he doesn’t even glance my way, just continues with, “If Lennon’s taken off, he’s just doing something he shouldn’t be. But it’s nothing serious. You boys don’t get in that kind of trouble.”

“Okay,” Jude says. “I was just concerned.”

“You don’t need to be. It’s Lennon. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I might suggest you take a note from his book, Jude, and find a bit of trouble yourself. Young men need to cut loose. You’ll be tied up with responsibilities soon enough—job, kids, wife. Get as much as you can, while you can.” He glances at me and clears his throat. “Trouble, I mean. Get in some trouble, preferably the kind that won’t leave a criminal record.”

Jude nods and says, “I’ll take Winter from here. I’d rather not walk into the party with a security escort.”

Jude lets Roscoe leave and then murmurs, “We’ll go this way,” and leads me through a door into a room. It seems to be a library. There are chairs that look old but not terribly comfortable. And shelves of books—leather-bound first editions. I long to detour over and read those spines, but we’re on the move.

When I tear my gaze away, I see old family portraits. One guy could pass for Lennon in period dress, and I’m about to comment on the resemblance when I remember this isn’t Jude and Lennon’s birth family. I notice the same dark hair and blue eyes and basic facial shape on a few other portraits and I wonder if that’s one reason the Bishops were so quick to adopt the boys—they looked enough like the family that they wouldn’t stand out as clearly adopted.

When Jude opens the door across the room, I hear sounds of the party at last, strains of music and laughter. I glance back, tempted to find some excuse to linger.

“Is this the library?” I ask.

“The small library.”

My brows arch. “There’s a bigger one?”

Spots of color touch his cheeks. “Yeah. You know your house is too big when you have duplicate rooms.”

“Actually, I was drooling at the thought of an even bigger library. With even more books.”

He smiles then. It’s a little uncertain, and it reminds me of taking Lennon to the trailer—the discomfort of bringing people to your home, knowing how they might judge you for it. Given the options between having money or not, there’s really no choice, but either way, there’s a stigma attached. Either you’re poor and worthless or rich and unworthy.

“You know what I’d like best about living here?” I say.

A faint smile. “The books?”

“Close. The best part would be all the places to hide.” As soon as I say that, I realize how it’ll sound, given what he knows of my home life, and I hurry on with, “Places to be alone, you know? Just grab a book and find a quiet spot where no one can track you down. I bet it doesn’t matter how many people are in this house, there’s always a corner to hole up in.”

The smile touches his eyes then. “There is. And I know all of them.” He glances down the hall. “In fact—”

A loud laugh from the party stops him and he says reluctantly, “We should get going. I don’t mean to stall.”

“But I’m not arguing if you do. Were you going to show me one of those hiding spots?”

He hesitates. He’s off-kilter here, a place that’s so familiar and comfortable, yet no longer his home. Having me along doesn’t help. I’m the same—familiar and yet not, someone he’s just getting to know; he’s uncertain whether to let his guard down or stick to the mission. He’s not sure what this is yet—what we are. Personal or just business. I’m not sure either.

“You’re right,” I say. “We need to get to Lennon’s room as soon as we can.”

Jude shakes his head. “We’ll have to circulate at the party first anyway. We’ve got time. Come on.”