that Hubert would have hated. He wanted the old man hearty and hale, a man who could stalk a bull elk for hours on end, or pull a calf from a cow having trouble birthing. He wanted the hard-as-nails executive who could negotiate stubbornly with the Chinese or Saudis or anyone on God’s green earth—language being no barrier to him getting his way. He wanted the six-foot-four man who would laugh at a ribald joke while having a few beers at the Spot Tavern, or sip cognac while sucking on an expensive cigar in a high-priced New York hotel.
That’s the guy Brady would like to see again.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
So the husk of a human lying in Regal Oaks Care Center with the iron constitution and will to cling to life at any cost, that guy should just give it up.
He unlaced his boots and left them in the expansive mud room, tucked on the tile floor under a bench above, which his jacket and pants were hung and dripping. He wondered if Clementine was in the house, and that pleasant thought teased one corner of his mouth upward.
Clementine DeGrazio, a petite, pretty woman pushing forty who could clean a stove until it sparkled with as much gusto as she would get on her knees for Brady if he asked, which he did each and every time he returned here and had since he was in his mid-twenties. Her touches were everywhere, he thought, as he padded through the kitchen in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered platters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.
Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.
God, he was getting old.
Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue…Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.
“A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last ex-wife, filled the wide expanse.
“A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had complained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.
From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.
What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?
Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the
That’s the guy Brady would like to see again.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
So the husk of a human lying in Regal Oaks Care Center with the iron constitution and will to cling to life at any cost, that guy should just give it up.
He unlaced his boots and left them in the expansive mud room, tucked on the tile floor under a bench above, which his jacket and pants were hung and dripping. He wondered if Clementine was in the house, and that pleasant thought teased one corner of his mouth upward.
Clementine DeGrazio, a petite, pretty woman pushing forty who could clean a stove until it sparkled with as much gusto as she would get on her knees for Brady if he asked, which he did each and every time he returned here and had since he was in his mid-twenties. Her touches were everywhere, he thought, as he padded through the kitchen in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered platters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.
Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.
God, he was getting old.
Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue…Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.
“A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last ex-wife, filled the wide expanse.
“A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had complained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.
From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.
What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?
Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the
Similar Books
