I was just opening my mouth to throw some witty comeback at him when the front doors of the lodge suddenly burst open with enough force to rattle the windows.
A blast of frigid air swept through the room. Everyone turned toward the entrance where old Phineas Withers stood swaying slightly in the doorway. He was wearing a moth-eaten knit sweater, baggy slacks, and old boots that had seen better decades. His knit cap was perched precariously on his nearly bald head. The old curmudgeon looked half-frozen.
“Turn that damn music down!” he shouted, waving his cane in the general direction of the sound system. “And stop stomping around like a bunch of hooligans who’ve lost their damn minds!”
The cheerful party atmosphere immediately tensed. Phineas continued his tirade, waving his cane dangerously close to a couple who had the misfortune of being near the door.
I didn’t hesitate. However cantankerous and difficult Phineas could be, he was still an elderly member of our community who was clearly in distress. Plus, I didn’t want him taking anyone’s eye out. I hurried over to him, sidestepping his waving cane and ignoring his obvious anger.
“Mr. Withers,” I said gently, taking his arm to guide him toward the fireplace. “You look like icicles are about to form on your eyebrows. Come warm up by the fire. You’ll feel less grumpy.”
He muttered loud enough for me to hear. “I’m not grumpy. I’m right.”
“How did you get here tonight?” I asked as I led him across the room, noting the strong smell of alcohol on his breath.
“How the hell you think I got up here, young lady?” He held his hands out to the fire. “I drove like I always do. Young people these days don’t know a damn thing. Use your brain, girl.”
His harsh words rolled off my back. I had dealt with drunk and difficult people before, and Phineas’s bark had always been worse than his bite. If Phineas was nice, I would be worried. Him being grumpy was a regular state.
“You’ve had quite a bit to drink tonight, Mr. Withers,” I said carefully. “Are you sure you drove yourself here?”
The question seemed to ignite something in him. His eyes flashed with anger as he glared at me, his face flushing red above his gray whiskers.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he demanded, jabbing his finger toward my face. “Is that what you’re doing, you little?—”
And then, just as his finger was inches from my nose and his voice was rising to truly unpleasant levels, Kent appeared beside me. Without a word, he gently but firmly moved me aside and stepped between me and the angry old man, his presence both protective and calming.
CHAPTER 26
KENT
It was pretty obvious what I was dealing with. Old man Withers was shitfaced.
At first, I’d wondered if there might be some kind of dementia or cognitive issue at play. The way he’d burst into the party and the aggressive confusion along with the general disorientation was slightly concerning. But when I got closer and caught the heavy smell of liquor on his breath and saw the telltale haziness in his eyes, I knew the truth of it.
He was drunk. Very drunk. And from the looks of it, this wasn’t an isolated incident. Sylvie acted like this was a normal thing. How the hell did he manage to drive out here? He could barely walk, let alone operate a fucking car.
He was also clearly lonely, which made the whole situation even more depressing.
I stepped forward, keeping my voice calm and nonthreatening. “Mr. Withers, how about I pour you a drink to warm you up properly?”
Phineas blinked up at me, his anger seeming to deflate slightly as he processed my offer.
“Finally,” he said. “Someone with some manners.”
I guided him toward the bar area, one hand lightly on his elbow to keep him steady. I was worried he would fall over. That was not a lawsuit Sylvie needed. And we didn’t need Withers to start squawking again.
As we moved away from the center of the room, I caught the eye of several party guests and nodded toward the dance floor, silently encouraging them to continue with their evening.
The man didn’t need to be stared at. It would only piss him off more. Weirdly enough, I had plenty of experience dealing with drunk people. Rich people liked to drink—a lot. We all knew how to handle the situation with grace. Those of us that didn’t would end up in the tabloids.
The music resumed, and gradually people lost interest in the disruption, returning to their conversations and festivities. Everyone except Sylvie, who hovered nearby with worry written all over her face.
She grabbed my arm. “Kent, maybe we shouldn’t give him more alcohol. He’s clearly had enough already.”
I understood her concern, but I also recognized something in Phineas that she probably hadn’t encountered before. I’d dealt with enough alcoholics in my social circle—not to mention Hudson’s struggles—to know that cutting someone off cold when they were this deep into their cups usually made things worse, not better.
“Trust me,” I told her. “I can handle this.”
