They played chess after dinner. Well, most of the guests did, because it was apparently a Christmas tradition. The Darlings would set up multiple boards in the living room and the guests would sit two by two, playing chess as they sipped from champagne flutes, brandy glasses, or Scotch drams.
Aberlour had kindly refused the offer to participate. He’d never learned to play chess. He was better at darts or pool, but neither of those games had been offered. So, he accepted a dram of Scotch, the expensive liquor that tasted of burnt caramel and oak, then wandered through some of the rooms on the 1st floor.
Oliver had told him that most of the 1st floor was designed with entertainment and relaxation in mind. There was a music room with a beautiful grand piano, the walls lined with glass front cabinets containing guitars, trumpets, flutes, and a golden harp. Next to the music room was an impressive library, the walls lined with bookcases floor to ceiling. It was every bookworm’s fantasy. The shelves were filled with massive volumes, old enough that he probably couldn’t understand the Old and Middle English they were written in. The next room was a Cigar Hall, which Aberlour had never heard of. It was an indoor veranda where gentlemen—because Oliver’s parents enjoyed traditions from the 1950’s, and women weren’t supposed to enjoy cigars—could gather to enjoy a fineCuban and bitch about whatever the hell wealthy men bitched about. He hesitated at the threshold, wondering what it would smell like. Built like a courtyard, it had an open ceiling with latticework so smokers could enjoy the night air while allowing the cigar smoke to escape. He wondered if the walls would have retained the smell after all those years, but just as he touched the door handle to enter, he heard Mrs. Darling’s voice rise in anger, drowning out the laughter and conversations of those playing chess.
Aberlour hadn’t seen where Oliver had gone right after dinner. He just remembered turning around and finding Oliver had vanished, along with his mother. He hadn’t bothered to go in search of them. Oliver was a grown man. Surely, he could handle a discussion with his own mother without Aberlour being present.
Maybe he’d been wrong about that.
“I’ve had enough of this!” Mrs. Darling yelled in obvious outrage.
Whatever Oliver said in response had been too low for Aberlour to hear. He’d have bet anything that Oliver was staring at the floor, silently counting from 1 to 20 to contain his temper, and fighting the urge to either storm out or punch her.
“Your father and I let you—we let you go off and find yourself, or whatever, but now we’ve had enough. You’ve proven your point, now it’s time to come home before you get yourself blown up like some—” she suddenly broke off, not finishing her thought. It was probably better that way. Aberlour doubted she would have said anything nice.
“I’m not proving anything,” Oliver retorted, not trying to convince or persuade her of anything, but simply being factual.
“Good, then you’ll stop acting like an idiot, you’ll listen to Mr. Hoffman, and you’ll go out with Ms. Dudson,” she said, like it was a done deal. There was a loud sigh, which Aberlour knewcame from Oliver. It might have been funny if the sigh hadn’t sounded so—broken and defeated.
“I’ll think about it,” Oliver said.
Aberlour rolled his eyes. A lie, obviously. Oliver would never leave the Marines, and Aberlour knew perfectly well how Oliver felt about women.
Mrs. Darling could just dream the fuck on.
More words were exchanged, but as Aberlour heard Mrs. Darling walk down the hall, her tone indicated that she was pleased.
Aberlour didn’t move, waiting for Oliver to appear. After a few minutes, he began to worry Oliver might have jumped out the window and left him on his own to face the chess players.
Aberlour walked towards the study quietly, thinking his glass of Scotch would make a perfect Christmas offering. He felt almost giddy about the exchange he’d overheard. It pleased him to think of Oli—beautiful, perfect Oliver Darling—disappointing his mother, and standing his ground, but as he turned the corner, his giddiness faded.
Oliver Darling looked—not young. Young was what Oliver had looked like on the bus to bootcamp. Now he looked—frayed, fragile, miserable.
Aberlour had intended to surprise him, but at the pitiful expression on his face, he thought better of it. He knocked on the door frame and waited for Oliver to look up.
“Liquor?” he asked, extending the glass of Scotch in his direction.
Oliver blinked questioningly at him as if he was in a fog.
“I’m sorry I left you on your own.”
Aberlour shrugged and leaned against the doorframe.
Oliver frowned and looked down at the floor.
Aberlour wasn’t sure what to do then. He’d never seen the man in such a mood before. Was Aberlour supposed to hug him?Or kick his ass? Or maybe throw his ass in the truck and drive back to base?
“Your mother’s kind of a cunt,” he remarked with a derisive snort.
Oliver burst out laughing. When he stopped, he looked at Aberlour with a strangely haunted look.
“Mine was much nicer than yours.” Aberlour found Oliver’s silence very awkward, especially when Oliver was staring at him like he might never see him again.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, with an achingly sweet smile. “For everything.”
Aberlour didn’t understand what would inspire Oliver to say such a thing.
Not for many years to come.
