polite smile. “So, you’re the one we’ve been hearing so much about. Bud is a nickname for…?”
“William, ma’am,” he replied, taking her extended hand. “William Morrison III.”
Her hand was limp, her smile weak.
“Where’s Daddy?” asked Carolina.
“Oh, you know your father. He’s got to stop and say hello to everyone he passes.” She looked down the hall. “There he is now, over by the Pub.”
Bud turned his head to see a tall man about the same age as his father. But unlike the barrel-chested Oz, who loved his plaid flannel shirts, this man looked distinguished in his navy blazer with brass buttons, gray pants, and Italian leather shoes. His hair was the color of burnished copper streaked with gray. His deep voice boomed, and Bud overheard scores shared and quick comments that ended with a burst of hearty laughs and pats on the back. Mr. Brailsford caught his wife’s gaze, signaled with his hand that he’d seen them, and broke from his friends.
Carolina trotted forward to be swept into her father’s embrace.
“Carolina adores her father,” Allison Brailsford said, her gaze on the pair. “She’s never done anything to disappoint him.”
Bud heard the velvet warning.
Carolina’s cheeks matched her pink sweater as she brought her father closer. Bud could see where she got her hair color and height. He saw, too, the same imperial radiance.
“Daddy,” she announced as they drew near, “this is my Bud.”
He saw her father’s brows rise slightly at her emphasis on the word my . Bud worried that she was trying too hard.
“Bud, this is the other man in my life, my father, Edgar Brailsford.”
“Mr. Brailsford,” Bud said, extending his hand.
Edgar Brailsford’s eyes were flinty as they inspected Bud, and he let Bud’s hand hang in the air for a second too long.
“Hello, young man.” He grabbed Bud’s hand in his own large paw and delivered a bone-cracking squeeze. In that grip, Bud felt the strength of a man who could deliver a rock-solid punch. No number of years behind a fancy desk in a bank could mask the bully in a man’s handshake.
“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 cashwhen 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
“William, ma’am,” he replied, taking her extended hand. “William Morrison III.”
Her hand was limp, her smile weak.
“Where’s Daddy?” asked Carolina.
“Oh, you know your father. He’s got to stop and say hello to everyone he passes.” She looked down the hall. “There he is now, over by the Pub.”
Bud turned his head to see a tall man about the same age as his father. But unlike the barrel-chested Oz, who loved his plaid flannel shirts, this man looked distinguished in his navy blazer with brass buttons, gray pants, and Italian leather shoes. His hair was the color of burnished copper streaked with gray. His deep voice boomed, and Bud overheard scores shared and quick comments that ended with a burst of hearty laughs and pats on the back. Mr. Brailsford caught his wife’s gaze, signaled with his hand that he’d seen them, and broke from his friends.
Carolina trotted forward to be swept into her father’s embrace.
“Carolina adores her father,” Allison Brailsford said, her gaze on the pair. “She’s never done anything to disappoint him.”
Bud heard the velvet warning.
Carolina’s cheeks matched her pink sweater as she brought her father closer. Bud could see where she got her hair color and height. He saw, too, the same imperial radiance.
“Daddy,” she announced as they drew near, “this is my Bud.”
He saw her father’s brows rise slightly at her emphasis on the word my . Bud worried that she was trying too hard.
“Bud, this is the other man in my life, my father, Edgar Brailsford.”
“Mr. Brailsford,” Bud said, extending his hand.
Edgar Brailsford’s eyes were flinty as they inspected Bud, and he let Bud’s hand hang in the air for a second too long.
“Hello, young man.” He grabbed Bud’s hand in his own large paw and delivered a bone-cracking squeeze. In that grip, Bud felt the strength of a man who could deliver a rock-solid punch. No number of years behind a fancy desk in a bank could mask the bully in a man’s handshake.
“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 cashwhen 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
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