said.
“Who is that ?”
Patricia Quinlan had slid beside Caren. She was nodding her head at someone across the room. Schuyler was just then getting into the meat of his presentation, the PowerPoint displays of floor plans and computer models and testimonials from residents of Merryvale’s other success stories: Oakwood Village in Dallas; Sweetwater Estates in coastal Virginia; and, of course, the town of Laurel Springs, right here in Louisiana. Caren wasn’t listening closely. She was still trying to find a way to steal upstairs to her office when Ms. Quinlan pointed to a man standing near the hors d’oeuvres table, picking at the displays of food without a napkin or a plate—and, what was likely worse in Ms. Quinlan’s eyes, he wasn’t wearing a name tag. “I don’t believe he’s one of our guests,” she said, glancing down at a tiny clipboard, small enough to fit inside her purse. “We don’t want to be letting just anybody in here,” she added.
“He’s not just anybody,” Caren said, feeling a flush.
Across the crowded dining hall, Bobby Clancy was stuffing his face.
He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his fingertips and took a sip of whatever it was some waiter had put in his hand—in this case a ’96 Burgundy he guzzled unceremoniously—before setting down the empty glass and reaching for another from a passing tray. He was wearing black jeans, faded in places, and an olive-green T-shirt that hung loose on his frame. He was underweight, and his hair had thinned over the years. Drink and time had laid a road map to middle age in the lines of his pale face, but he was a Clancy and therefore slyly handsome still, with black hair and broad shoulders and eyes of a color both blue and gold. He seemed to be enjoying himself royally, dipping into the bounty at the buffet table, and his presence was thoroughly irksome to Ms. Quinlan, no matter his last name. “Why is he here ?”
Caren offered to refill Ms. Quinlan’s glass. She would take care of this, she said.
She crossed the dining hall to greet Bobby, thinking how strangely out of place he looked in the chandeliered hall. In his faded street clothes, he looked for all the world like a man who didn’t belong here, a man who could hardly afford even the most basic of Schuyler’s starter homes, instead of a Clancy, a man whose family had owned Belle Vie for generations. Bobby, she remembered, used to play in this very room.
He was swallowing a buttered roll when she approached.
She set down Ms. Quinlan’s empty glass and handed him a clean saucer.
“Bobby Clancy,” she said. “What’s this? Two times in, what, less than a week?” They had seen each other in town just a few days earlier.
“I’m spoiling you, I know.”
He signaled a waiter for more wine.
Then, turning to Caren, he smiled.
He eyed the getup: the dress and the French braid in her hair.
“I’d better be careful,” he said. “You may start to get the wrong idea here, me coming around again.”
She smiled, despite herself. He still had a sense of humor.
“What are you doing here, Bobby?”
“Checking up on the family business, that’s all,” he said. “Seeing what my brother’s up to.” He looked around the ballroom, the chandeliers and the starched tablecloths, staring at the dozens of strangers standing in what used to be his living room.
“What’s this, a five-, ten-thousand-dollar deal?” he said.
“Something like that.”
Across the room, Ms. Quinlan was staring at them, her lips pursed.
Caren sent a waiter to see about a fresh drink for her.
“I liked it better the way it was, the way it used to be,” Bobby said. “Just family, you know. Daddy and Ray, me and Mother. And all the old-time folks on the place, your mama and her kin, the cutters in the field.” He popped another bun in his mouth, a roll baked around a hash of zucchini and potato, smoked sausage and chives, something Lorraine had thrown together at the last minute.
“Who is that ?”
Patricia Quinlan had slid beside Caren. She was nodding her head at someone across the room. Schuyler was just then getting into the meat of his presentation, the PowerPoint displays of floor plans and computer models and testimonials from residents of Merryvale’s other success stories: Oakwood Village in Dallas; Sweetwater Estates in coastal Virginia; and, of course, the town of Laurel Springs, right here in Louisiana. Caren wasn’t listening closely. She was still trying to find a way to steal upstairs to her office when Ms. Quinlan pointed to a man standing near the hors d’oeuvres table, picking at the displays of food without a napkin or a plate—and, what was likely worse in Ms. Quinlan’s eyes, he wasn’t wearing a name tag. “I don’t believe he’s one of our guests,” she said, glancing down at a tiny clipboard, small enough to fit inside her purse. “We don’t want to be letting just anybody in here,” she added.
“He’s not just anybody,” Caren said, feeling a flush.
Across the crowded dining hall, Bobby Clancy was stuffing his face.
He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his fingertips and took a sip of whatever it was some waiter had put in his hand—in this case a ’96 Burgundy he guzzled unceremoniously—before setting down the empty glass and reaching for another from a passing tray. He was wearing black jeans, faded in places, and an olive-green T-shirt that hung loose on his frame. He was underweight, and his hair had thinned over the years. Drink and time had laid a road map to middle age in the lines of his pale face, but he was a Clancy and therefore slyly handsome still, with black hair and broad shoulders and eyes of a color both blue and gold. He seemed to be enjoying himself royally, dipping into the bounty at the buffet table, and his presence was thoroughly irksome to Ms. Quinlan, no matter his last name. “Why is he here ?”
Caren offered to refill Ms. Quinlan’s glass. She would take care of this, she said.
She crossed the dining hall to greet Bobby, thinking how strangely out of place he looked in the chandeliered hall. In his faded street clothes, he looked for all the world like a man who didn’t belong here, a man who could hardly afford even the most basic of Schuyler’s starter homes, instead of a Clancy, a man whose family had owned Belle Vie for generations. Bobby, she remembered, used to play in this very room.
He was swallowing a buttered roll when she approached.
She set down Ms. Quinlan’s empty glass and handed him a clean saucer.
“Bobby Clancy,” she said. “What’s this? Two times in, what, less than a week?” They had seen each other in town just a few days earlier.
“I’m spoiling you, I know.”
He signaled a waiter for more wine.
Then, turning to Caren, he smiled.
He eyed the getup: the dress and the French braid in her hair.
“I’d better be careful,” he said. “You may start to get the wrong idea here, me coming around again.”
She smiled, despite herself. He still had a sense of humor.
“What are you doing here, Bobby?”
“Checking up on the family business, that’s all,” he said. “Seeing what my brother’s up to.” He looked around the ballroom, the chandeliers and the starched tablecloths, staring at the dozens of strangers standing in what used to be his living room.
“What’s this, a five-, ten-thousand-dollar deal?” he said.
“Something like that.”
Across the room, Ms. Quinlan was staring at them, her lips pursed.
Caren sent a waiter to see about a fresh drink for her.
“I liked it better the way it was, the way it used to be,” Bobby said. “Just family, you know. Daddy and Ray, me and Mother. And all the old-time folks on the place, your mama and her kin, the cutters in the field.” He popped another bun in his mouth, a roll baked around a hash of zucchini and potato, smoked sausage and chives, something Lorraine had thrown together at the last minute.
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