“I don’t get lost,” I say pointedly. “And, call me crazy, but why should I go anywhere with a guy who’s at a bar on a weekday, in the middle of the day?” I tip my beer bottle in his direction. “In my experience, there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’re either unemployed, an alcoholic, or on parole.” I tilt my head as if drawing a new conclusion. “Or just an unemployed alcoholic on parole.” This makes him laugh.
“Callmecrazy,” he says, arching an eyebrow, “but you’re here, too.” He mimics my stance, angling his bottle in my direction. “So maybe I’m the one taking a chance onyou.”
Before I can think of a pithy comeback, Rhonda breaks in to hand Lumberjack Guy his food order. He slides off the stool, grabs the bag, then drops a few dollars in the tip jar. He finishes what’s left of his beer in one drink, then sets the bottle down.
“Don’t stay too late,” he says, ready to leave. “You’ll get stuck in that nasty Atlanta traffic.”
I check the time and begrudgingly realize that he is, in fact, correct. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late to my own birthday party.
“All right, I’ll bite.” I testily face him, further aggrieved byhis amused expression and that feral streak behind his eyes. I’m reminded that wolves are known to hold their prey’s gaze as an intimidation tactic. I flaunt my own menacing glare in response. “What gave me away?”
He points toward the parking lot. “The brand-new, hoity-toity SUV,” he says as if the answer should be obvious. “Fulton County plates.” He walks out, leaving me slack-jawed and deeply annoyed. Who the hell is this guy, and where did he come from?
CHAPTER 4Holly
And so, once again, my day off slowly dwindles away, as I battle with a sound system likely purchased around the time I shotgunned my first beer in a sand trap at the Jackson Golf Club—which is to say, a really freaking long time ago.
Good Lord, this club could use some updates. It’s chockablock full of heavy gold-tassel curtains, dark mahogany furniture that looks like it was lifted out of the estate sale of a rich old lady, and audiovisual equipment from somewhere in the mid-twentieth century. Sure, part of the charm of Dogwood Hills is the time-warped nature of the space. Cell phone use is prohibited here, which, in this day and age, feels almost radical. I’m a fan of the “no cell phones” policy, but I simply don’t understand why the club can’t spring for a decent microphone or two.
At least I’m tangled so deep in audio cables that, mercifully, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to dwell on poor Reginald and the scandal I hope he quietly took with him.
“Untangle one mess at a time, Holly,” I whisper to myself, staring forlornly at the nest of black cords in my hand.
Most events at the club—rehearsal dinners, wedding receptions, retirement parties, debutante balls—don’t require much in the way of technology, but this is not a club event. It’s an eventatthe club—the annual Philanthropy Banquet, to which all of Atlanta’s political and economic elite flock to pat themselves on the back for being so very charitable.
I’ve planned every detail of this event with absolute precision, from the arrangement of high-top tables to the fresh mint sprigs in each glass of iced tea. The event staff has been here since beforedawn, steaming tablecloths, polishing forks, assembling the small stage from which awards will be distributed. I refuse to let their enormous effort be overshadowed by a staticky microphone or a buzzing amp.
Fiddling with the knobs on an ancient amplifier, I finally manage to produce clean sound. This is perhaps the one life skill I learned from Aidan’s father. He was a musician—or, more precisely, the swoon-worthy frontman in his church’s praise-and-worship band.
Aidan’s father was anice boy.
We grew up in the same neighborhood, but we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. In high school, while I was sneaking onto the golf course to smoke weed and shotgun beers with the weirdos and skaters from our neighborhood public school, he was strumming a guitar and singing to the glory of God. Some girls at my prep school went to that church for the sole purpose of watching him play. But I had no interest in him, and I’m quite certain he felt the same way about me, if he felt any way about me at all.
We both ended up at Ole Miss—I had barely slid in, with the minimum GPA and SAT scores; he probably could have gone to any school he chose, with his excellent grades and extensive extracurriculars. But—like mine—his was the sort of family that went back for generations at the school, and there was never any question we’d both go there.
Classes hadn’t even begun the first time we stumbled into each other at a frat party and ended up having sex in my dorm room. Over the next couple of months, this happened more times than I could count. Maybe he was clinging (literally) to the familiar, in an overwhelming world of new faces and different rules. After all, we had at least vaguely known each other since we were in diapers. Or maybe he considered our hookups a form of rebellion—doing what many kids from conservative families do when they show up at college.
At colleges like Ole Miss, though, nice Christian boys also got wasted on Saturday nights. Then they woke up on Sunday morning, took a hot shower, chugged a Liquid IV, put on their khakis and button-downs, and played in the praise-and-worship band.I went to see him a few times, feeling very out of place as I watched him croon for Jesus while strumming on an acoustic guitar. Honestly, we had very little in common. I don’t know why he kept finding me at parties. The real question is why I kept letting myself be found.
Looking back, I think the appeal of Aidan’s father was this: If thisnice boyalways came to find me at the end of the night and let me help him pack up amps after Sunday morning worship, what sort of girl did that make me?
A pregnant girl, as it turned out. Pregnant and alone.
I hear a few people gathering early—the ones giving and receiving the awards—to review the run-of-show. Before I even look up from the tangle of wires, I know that Griggs Johnson has entered the Azalea Ballroom. The room shifts with a gravity that pulls the whole world into his orbit. When the man walks into a room, people can’t help but stare. And when he opens his mouth to speak, everyone listens. He is, after all, Atlanta’s Golden Boy.
Griggs pauses after entering the ballroom, perfect smile under piercing green eyes and a thick head of dark brown hair. He’s wearing a slim-cut suit that fits him like a glove, but that appears effortlessly thrown on, with a sky-blue tie and brown loafers that suggest this award is important to him, but not reallythatimportant.
I watch as he and his golf buddies, Jim Wade and Billy Thacker, take their leave of a fourth man I’ve never seen before. Thanks to Janey’s “Daily Dirt Dump,” I know he grew up right here at the club, and he’s solidly a part of their old boy network, but he’s now working for a bank in Panama, of all places. He must be a big deal, if this threesome has deigned to spend time in his presence. Janey reports that he’ll be joining them this weekend for their Sunday morning round of golf—after which, they’ll all head to the Men’s Grill for lunch and bourbon. Yes, the Dogwood Hills Country Club, two decades into the twenty-first century, still manages to have an enormously popular all-male bar and grill on the grounds. There, I presume, they sit around toasting their world domination. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never stepped inside the Men’s Grill. As the name suggests, I’m not allowed.
I turn away from the gathered men and rush toward the equipment closet, crossing my fingers that there’s a microphone in there that actually works.
“Holly,” Griggs Johnson’s voice comes from behind me. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Johnson,” I say, turning to face him, my voice stiff. “Do you need to discuss something with me?”
“You might say that,” he replies, stepping into the narrow service hall so that he’s inches from me. “But I don’t want to talk here.” He pauses, as if considering something important. “Why don’t you meet me for a drink at the Four Seasons tonight after the banquet?”
I flinch, stepping backward. Did he just openly proposition me?
