times better, and she’ll be the luckiest girl in Georgia. The boys are in the cigar room.”
“When did you start calling Mr. Pelham a boy?”
“Ten seconds ago.”
“The other day he told me to call him Arthur.”
“I’m supposed to do the same thing, but it’s kind of weird. I mean, my dad still has to call him Mr. Pelham at work.”
Tiffany stopped in front of a formal oil portrait of Arthur, Rick, Tiffany, and Arthur’s much younger second wife, the dark-haired Larina.
“What do you think?” Tiffany asked.
“Very well done. You could almost be Larina’s daughter.”
“Shut up. She’s only eight years older than I am.” Tiffany touched the bottom of the painting. “Rick went nuts having to get all dressed up for the sitting. He’s only happy when he’s hanging out with his friends downstairs, hunting with the dogs, and chewing tobacco.”
“Rick is dipping?”
Tiffany lowered her voice. “Not really. Hal Millsap got him to try it, but it made Rick sick, and he promised me he wouldn’t get used to it. I saw enough of that stuff from my uncles when I was growing up. The cigars are okay. I’ve smoked a few myself.”
Tom couldn’t tell if Tiffany was joking or not. They reached the cigar room, a small rectangular area adjacent to the main-floor den. Tiffany flung open the door. Whiffs of white smoke curled out.
“Someone called the fire department,” she announced. “And look who they sent!”
Arthur and Rick Pelham were sitting across from each other in red leather chairs. Rick jumped up and gave Tom a hug. Arthur carefully put his cigar in a crystal ashtray and rose more slowly. Taller and thinner than his robust son, Arthur Pelham had neatly trimmed gray hair and intense dark eyes. He shook Tom’s hand.
“Hello, Tom. Remember what I told you,” the older man said.
“Hello, Arthur .” Tom forced his lips to form the word. “Good to see you.”
“Excellent,” Arthur replied, patting Tom on the shoulder. “That makes me feel ten years younger.”
“Can I call you Arthur?” Rick asked.
“No, that would make me think you’re not going to obey me.”
“That’s certainly not an option,” Rick replied, rolling his eyes at Tom.
Rick took a long puff on his cigar and put it out in an ashtray.
“I thought cigars were for after supper,” Tom said.
“This is warm-up. It depends on the leaf,” Rick replied.
“Don’t get them started on that,” Tiffany cut in. “The poor little tobacco plants in Cuba have no idea all the arguments they’re going to start about when, where, and how they should be burned up.”
Tiffany led the way down a hallway. They passed the formal dining room. Unlike the kitchen table at Elias’s house, the table in Tiffany’s dining room shone with unblemished beauty. When they entered the kitchen, Arthur’s cell phone rang. He slipped it from the pocket of his shirt and answered it.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving the others forward. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
“Since it’s just the four of us, I thought we could eat on the veranda,” Tiffany said.
A door at one end of the long kitchen opened to a veranda built onto the rear of the house. The glass walls of the veranda could be opened during warm weather to catch the breeze that often blew across the top of the hill, then closed during the winter when a garden fireplace in the middle of the room provided extra heat. The weather was mild, and the windows were cracked open. From the veranda Tom could see the horse barn. Beyond the barn was an outdoor riding ring.
“Did you ride today?” he asked her.
“Every day. The barn is my happy place.”
“My four-wheeler is my happy place,” Rick said.
Tiffany stepped back into the kitchen. “Mary, we’ll eat here.”
“You have a cook?” Tom asked.
“And a full-time maid, plus a groom at the barn, and a guy who works three days a week on the yard,” Rick responded sheepishly. “I enjoyed cutting the grass with my
“When did you start calling Mr. Pelham a boy?”
“Ten seconds ago.”
“The other day he told me to call him Arthur.”
“I’m supposed to do the same thing, but it’s kind of weird. I mean, my dad still has to call him Mr. Pelham at work.”
Tiffany stopped in front of a formal oil portrait of Arthur, Rick, Tiffany, and Arthur’s much younger second wife, the dark-haired Larina.
“What do you think?” Tiffany asked.
“Very well done. You could almost be Larina’s daughter.”
“Shut up. She’s only eight years older than I am.” Tiffany touched the bottom of the painting. “Rick went nuts having to get all dressed up for the sitting. He’s only happy when he’s hanging out with his friends downstairs, hunting with the dogs, and chewing tobacco.”
“Rick is dipping?”
Tiffany lowered her voice. “Not really. Hal Millsap got him to try it, but it made Rick sick, and he promised me he wouldn’t get used to it. I saw enough of that stuff from my uncles when I was growing up. The cigars are okay. I’ve smoked a few myself.”
Tom couldn’t tell if Tiffany was joking or not. They reached the cigar room, a small rectangular area adjacent to the main-floor den. Tiffany flung open the door. Whiffs of white smoke curled out.
“Someone called the fire department,” she announced. “And look who they sent!”
Arthur and Rick Pelham were sitting across from each other in red leather chairs. Rick jumped up and gave Tom a hug. Arthur carefully put his cigar in a crystal ashtray and rose more slowly. Taller and thinner than his robust son, Arthur Pelham had neatly trimmed gray hair and intense dark eyes. He shook Tom’s hand.
“Hello, Tom. Remember what I told you,” the older man said.
“Hello, Arthur .” Tom forced his lips to form the word. “Good to see you.”
“Excellent,” Arthur replied, patting Tom on the shoulder. “That makes me feel ten years younger.”
“Can I call you Arthur?” Rick asked.
“No, that would make me think you’re not going to obey me.”
“That’s certainly not an option,” Rick replied, rolling his eyes at Tom.
Rick took a long puff on his cigar and put it out in an ashtray.
“I thought cigars were for after supper,” Tom said.
“This is warm-up. It depends on the leaf,” Rick replied.
“Don’t get them started on that,” Tiffany cut in. “The poor little tobacco plants in Cuba have no idea all the arguments they’re going to start about when, where, and how they should be burned up.”
Tiffany led the way down a hallway. They passed the formal dining room. Unlike the kitchen table at Elias’s house, the table in Tiffany’s dining room shone with unblemished beauty. When they entered the kitchen, Arthur’s cell phone rang. He slipped it from the pocket of his shirt and answered it.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving the others forward. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
“Since it’s just the four of us, I thought we could eat on the veranda,” Tiffany said.
A door at one end of the long kitchen opened to a veranda built onto the rear of the house. The glass walls of the veranda could be opened during warm weather to catch the breeze that often blew across the top of the hill, then closed during the winter when a garden fireplace in the middle of the room provided extra heat. The weather was mild, and the windows were cracked open. From the veranda Tom could see the horse barn. Beyond the barn was an outdoor riding ring.
“Did you ride today?” he asked her.
“Every day. The barn is my happy place.”
“My four-wheeler is my happy place,” Rick said.
Tiffany stepped back into the kitchen. “Mary, we’ll eat here.”
“You have a cook?” Tom asked.
“And a full-time maid, plus a groom at the barn, and a guy who works three days a week on the yard,” Rick responded sheepishly. “I enjoyed cutting the grass with my
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