Last Light over Carolina (7 page)

“Your table is ready, Mr. Brailsford.”

“Shall we?” Edgar Brailsford said. He placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and guided her toward the dining room.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Bud said, excusing himself.

While the Brailsfords walked toward their table, Bud hastily retreated to the Pub down the hall, rubbing the pale finger imprint on his hand. He went straight to the bar, lifted his hand to draw the bartender, and ordered bourbon, neat.

“Are you a member, sir?”

“No. I’m with the Brailsfords.”

“I can put it on his account.”

“My cash isn’t good here?”

“I’m afraid not. I can put it on the Brailsford account,” he repeated.

Bud was tempted. “No, I’m good,” he said, pocketing his wallet. He walked back to the dining room, cursing the system that wouldn’t let a man buy a drink with good, hard cash
when he needed one. He didn’t like feeling obliged, but that was just what Brailsford had intended, Bud realized.

The large dining room was dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier. Beneath it were dozens of round tables draped in white linen and adorned with flickering votive candles. The low buzz of conversation was spiked with occasional bursts of laughter. Bud spotted the Brailsfords at a prime table in front of a wall of windows draped in pale blue floral chintz. The shadowy outline of the golf course spread out beyond them.

Bud straightened his tie and wound his way through the room, unaware of how many women cast furtive glances at the strikingly handsome, deeply tanned man in a crisp white shirt and dark blazer.

Brailsford stood when he reached the table and pulled out a chair for Bud beside him and opposite Carolina, closest to the impressive stone fireplace in which burning logs crackled. Within minutes of being seated, Bud could feel the heat seeping through his wool jacket.

Edgar Brailsford brought his hands together in a soft clap. “We’re all here now,” he said jovially, then turned to Bud. “What will you drink?”

“Do you have anything on tap?” Bud asked the waitress.

“Wait, Daddy,” Carolina said, placing one hand on her father’s sleeve. “Let’s order champagne.”

Brailsford’s gaze shot to his wife. He quickly collected himself. “Are we celebrating tonight?”

Carolina was smiling, but her eyes were blazing, imploring her father not to embarrass her. This wasn’t the way Bud had
wanted to lay out his hand tonight, but these were Carolina’s parents and it was her play.

“Well, I wanted to do this with a champagne toast, but why wait? Bud and I have some wonderful news.” She stuck out her hand, revealing a modest diamond. “We’re getting married!”

There was an awkward pause while Brailsford sat immobile and his smile hardened on his face. Beside him, Bud could have sworn he heard Allison Brailsford’s sharp intake of breath. She released a soft, “Oh, my….”

Bud felt the heat of the fire on his back and looked to Carolina for his cue. She looked momentarily lost.

Bud cleared his throat. “We’d like your blessing, sir.”

Brailsford leaned back in his chair. He clearly was not a man who appreciated surprises. He turned to face Bud. “Well, sir, in my day we asked the father for his permission before his blessing.”

“I understand that, sir. But the lady already said yes.”

“Daddy, don’t be old-fashioned,” Carolina quickly interjected, striving for levity. “Bud and I love each other and are getting married. That’s all there is to it.”

“Then my blessing isn’t really necessary, is it? Not if you’re going to do it whether I approve or not.”

“Oh, Edgar, be happy for them. Our baby is getting married!” Allison Brailsford exclaimed. Her icy composure had melted like a spring thaw at the prospect of a wedding. Bud saw that Carolina got her dreamy, idealistic side from her mother.

Edgar Brailsford leaned toward his daughter, showing Bud his back, and placed his hand over hers. Carolina leaned toward him and they huddled close, their gazes locked.

“Do you love him, baby?”

“I do, Daddy. With all my heart.”

Resignation flooded Brailsford’s features as his shoulders lowered. Gently patting Carolina’s hand, he said softly, “You know I just want you to be happy.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Then he turned toward Bud. His face was inscrutable. “Bud, is it?”

“It’s short for William,” Allison interjected.

“It’s a damnable thing to learn the name of your future son-in-law the night you meet him.”

“Daddy, that’s no one’s fault but your own. I’ve been in McClellanville for six months and you haven’t been to visit once.” Carolina’s tone was gently scolding. Bud could see she had her father wrapped around her finger.

Brailsford put out his hand. “Congratulations.”

Bud took the hand and once again felt a firm warning in the grip. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of her.”

“You’d better.”

Champagne was poured, and the rest of the meal was an exercise in submission and respect. Carolina gave a colorful description of how she and Bud had met and fallen in love, and Allison was clearly swept up in the romance of her only daughter’s joy.

Edgar Brailsford, however, took every opportunity to
let Bud know that this was Brailsford’s club, his people, his wife, his daughter. He made sure Bud clearly understood that this was the lifestyle that he’d provided for his family and to which his daughter was accustomed. He set aside the menu and announced that they’d all be having the prime rib because it was the best in town. While ordering the wine, he took pains to educate Bud as to the grape and the vineyard, making certain he slipped in the price of the bottle, and then ordered two.

While the two women huddled on the other side of the table in a giddy conversation about wedding plans, Brailsford grilled Bud on his livelihood, all the while liberally filling his wineglass. Bud took only polite tastes of the wine. He drank water copiously. Sweat soaked his shirt, and no matter how he adjusted his seat, he couldn’t escape the heat.

“You know, I believe I knew your father, Oz,” Brailsford said.

“Is that so? I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“How’s that rascal doing?”

“He’s doing good. The usual complaints.”

“You’re a shrimper, too, that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I did some shrimping in my day. You know, my family came from McClellanville.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We weren’t shrimpers. My family was in the mercantile business, and we moved to Mount Pleasant before I was born. Only one of us left in town is my aunt Lucille. You know her, of course.”

“Everybody in McClellanville knows Miss Lucille.”

A swift smile crossed Brailsford’s face. “My aunt Lucille is a great lady. She and my late uncle Archie never had children, but they’ve taken a shine to our Carolina. Who wouldn’t, eh?” he said, casting a doting glance at his daughter. Hearing her name, Carolina turned her head and smiled.

“You said you did some shrimping?” Bud asked, trying to maintain the conversation.

“That’s right. When I was in college, I worked on the boats for a couple summers. I don’t mind telling you I made some pretty good money.”

“Yes, sir. We’re having some good years now, too.”

“Do you own your own boat?”

“I captain one of my father’s boats. The
Miss Ann
. She’s a fine sixty-footer, named after my mother.”

“I was sorry to hear she passed.”

“Thank you. My father hasn’t taken the
Miss Ann
out since she died.”

“So she’s an old boat?”

A smile played at Bud’s lips. “Yes, she is. But I’m good with my hands and I manage to keep her going.”

“How’s your crew?”

“The best. My brother and my cousin.”

“Did you go to college?”

The hair at the back of his neck felt sticky and wet. Bud resisted the urge to take off his jacket. He didn’t want Brailsford to see him sweat.

“I started, but quit after the first year. The money shrimping was too good and I couldn’t see putting it off. It’s what I wanted to do.”

Edgar looked at Bud and seemed to be making a judgment. Then he picked up his tableware and dove into his beef. “So, Bud,” he asked after a couple bites, “what do you do for a good time?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you golf? This is a great club. You can’t see it now, but outside that window is one of America’s top one hundred courses. It was designed by Robert Trent Jones. I could take you out, if you like.”

“I don’t play golf. If I have free time, I tend to go back out to the water. Carolina and I like to take the jon boat out for some creek fishing. She’s pretty good, you know. If I get the chance, though, I do some deep-sea fishing.” He cracked a smile. It was his turn to boast. “My pal Trey and I caught a bluefin tuna weighing seven hundred forty pounds. Caught that monster about a hundred twenty miles offshore.”

Brailsford’s eyes glittered as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re quite the fisherman, aren’t you, Bud?”

“Yes, sir, I am. When I see a fish I want, I catch it.”

Their eyes met and held. Then Brailsford turned his head to the women on the other side of the table. “Well, ladies, that was a fine meal. Now Bud and I are going to the Pub for a smoke.”

The two women turned their heads, surprised. Carolina’s questioning gaze met Bud’s. He shrugged.

Edgar stood and set his napkin on the table. Bud followed suit and stretched his shoulders, glad to be away from the fire.

“Do you want us to wait for you?” asked Allison, her blue eyes wide. “Or if you like, Carolina and I can head back to the house. We have two cars.”

“We’ll wait,” Carolina answered her mother. She rose and said with a smile, “Don’t make it too long, Daddy. I’m tired.”

“We’re just going for a nightcap. You go on with your mother. Have some cognac by the fire in the lounge.”

“Lord, we drank so much wine already I can barely walk,” said Allison, rising on wobbly legs.

“Then order tea.”

Allison drew herself up. “Come along, Carolina. I need to visit the powder room.”

Edgar Brailsford turned and said brusquely, “Come on, Bud.”

The Pub was a male bastion of dark paneled wood, rich blue carpet, and shining brass. Several men clustered on leather sofas and in bucket chairs, some with heads bent close in discussion, others leaning far back with drinks in their hands, laughing at jokes. Brailsford led Bud to a far corner of the bar where they could talk. The bartender came to them immediately.

“Yes, Mr. Brailsford? What can I get for you?”

“Scotch. Laphroaig. Straight up. And make it a double.”

“And you, sir?” The waiter turned to Bud. Recognition flared in his eyes.

“A beer. Got anything local?”

“The Rainbow Trout Ale is a local favorite.”

Bud nodded his approval, then reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Neither man spoke until the drinks appeared. Bud refused a glass and promptly took a long slug from the bottle. He’d avoided drinking the expensive cabernet during the grueling dinner to keep his wits and was dying for a beer. The ale was cold and crisp on his tongue and slid down his throat like it was quenching a fire. He set the bottle down and, leaning one elbow against the bar, turned to face Brailsford. The ladies were gone. He didn’t feel the need for pretense and polish. Bud was on home turf in a man’s bar.

Brailsford reached into his pocket to pull out two cigars. He handed one to Bud. It was long and fat and smelled great. They went through the male ritual of tipping and lighting the cigars. Brailsford tilted back his head to exhale a plume of smoke, then squared off and got the first punch in.

“So, you’re the man who’s going to marry my only daughter?”

Bud puffed out slowly. “I am.”

“Well, son, frankly, I’m worried.”

Bud looked at his cigar but didn’t reply.

“I’m not a rich man,” Brailsford continued, and held out his hands to indicate the comfortable surroundings. “But I do all right. I can provide a nice house in a good neighborhood with good schools. I gave Carolina the pretty things a girl likes to have. She never went without. And my daughter graduated from college.” He paused, marking the distinction between Bud’s and Carolina’s education. He pointed his finger at Bud, the cigar extended like a drawn sword.

“I’m worried that you won’t be able to provide the lifestyle she’s accustomed to. A father worries about such things.”

Bud shrugged. “You should ask your daughter what she wants.”

“What does a girl know about what she wants at this age?”

“How old were you when you married your wife?”

Brailsford seemed irritated by this question and signaled for the bartender to replenish both drinks. He put his elbows on the bar and steepled his fingers, then turned his head toward Bud, his mouth curved downward.

“I’m asking if you can provide for my daughter.”

“If I didn’t believe I could, I wouldn’t have asked her to be my wife.”

“Let me give you a little history. I know how hard the shrimping life is. You work like slaves out there on the boats. It takes raw muscle and grit. I admire that. I do.” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “I knew early on I wasn’t going to be a shrimper. It’s a tough life, for the men and the women. Where are you going to live? Do you even own a house?”

Bud’s eyes flashed. The small wood bungalow he owned by the creek was stable, but barely. He often joked that the only thing keeping it together was the termites holding hands. It suited him as a bachelor, but he hadn’t really given thought to bringing a wife there. His worry must have shown on his face, for Brailsford seized on this.

“Carolina’s not as tough as she lets on. Oh, I know she can be brassy and hold her own. But underneath all that bluster is a gentle woman with a big heart who’d work her fingers to
the bone for the man she loved and not complain. She’d figure she’d made her bed and had to sleep in it.”

He took a long drag from his cigar, the ash about to fall.

“And while we’re on the subject…” He pinned Bud with his gaze. “I knew your father, and let me tell you, he was one surly son of a bitch. You could hear his voice booming all the way down the creek. A type A personality, if I ever met one. I’m well aware of his reputation with the ladies, too. How many mistresses did he have? How many wives? That’s not the life I want for my Carolina. Am I making myself clear?”