Lynnette Kent - The Last Honest Man

Smooth as silk, a long sip of Maker’s Mark went down Adam’s throat. He lifted the glass in a belated toast. “Here’s t-to architects who ch-change their m-m-minds h-halfway through a p-p-project and then w-want to argue about who…who p-pays the c-cost of st-st-starting over.”

Tim returned the salute with his martini. “And to physicians who believe practicing medicine is a nine-to-five career, making life hell for the rest of us who know the truth.”

They stood with their backs against the wall, nursing their drinks until Tim spoke up again. “I heard on the news that LaRue won the housing project bid. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam shrugged. “He c-can’t w-win all the t-time.” And he won’t, once I get to be mayor.

His brother eyed him sharply, but took Adam’s unspoken hint and changed the subject. “Trust Mother to turn her sixtieth birthday party into a royal reception.” He brushed a hand through his sandy hair, always worn a little long because he forgot to take time off work for a haircut. “You’d think she was the queen of England. Somebody needs to remind her about that little disagreement we had, back in 1776.”

“Sh-she l-looks the p-part.” Tall and graceful, with thick silver hair in waves around her face, Cynthia DeVries had been beautiful all her life, but never more so than tonight. “And she d-does l-love the sp-spotlight. N-n-not to m-mention the g-glory, admiration and p-p-power that g-go w-with it.”

“Hence her involvement in every volunteer organization the town offers since as far back as I can remember. How many hot dog suppers did we eat as kids because dad was at the hospital and mom had a meeting?” Tim drained his drink. “She’s been president so often, she should run for political office. We could be talking about Senator DeVries. Or, hell, even President DeVries.”

Their sister joined them. “I’m afraid I must decline the nomination, being too young—thank God—to accept the office under current constitutional standards.” Theresa clinked her glass against Adam’s. “Good evening, boys. Are we having fun yet?”

“Aren’t we always?” Adam took another sustaining swallow of bourbon as he looked his sister over, from the top of her short, stylish dark hair to the red high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. “You l-look g-great tonight. As always.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You sure do know the right thing to say.” She kissed his cheek, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume, then moved to stand on his right, surveying the candlelit tables and chattering guests. “I am happy to celebrate Mother’s birthday. And a free meal at the town’s best restaurant is an opportunity not to be missed. Your guys did a superior job on the renovation.”

“We d-do our b-best.”

“You would have done a great job with the public housing project, too. I’m sorry to see LaRue get his way again.” Theresa shook her head in disgust. “Makes me ashamed to work for the city, watching people cave in to his bribes and threats.”

“Th-there’s an election c-coming up. M-Maybe th-things will change.” He had yet to tell his family about the campaign. Until his meeting with Phoebe Moss yesterday, he hadn’t known if he could actually go through with therapy. Even though Phoebe hadn’t promised success, she’d made him feel hopeful. The commitment to meet at her home was such a remarkable gesture, Adam felt certain she believed they would succeed.

“Maybe.” Theresa drew a deep breath. “There sure are a lot of people to smile at and talk nonsense with.” Straightening to her full height, as impressive as their mother’s, she tossed back the last of her wine and handed Tim the glass. “I guess I’ll get to work. I just might want these votes one day, when I run for district attorney.”

Tim put her glass next to his own on a nearby tray, then turned back to Adam, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wall. While Adam and Theresa resembled their mother and each other, Tim was the spitting image of their dad, right down to his lazy posture, sleepy gaze and slow, genial smile. “Fortunately, I don’t have to solicit votes for my job. When you’re having a heart attack, the cardiologist’s opinions, political or otherwise, don’t matter a damn. Want another drink?”

Before he could accept the offer, the clink of silverware on crystal heralded his dad’s suggestion that everyone find their seats for dinner. Adam checked the seating chart and winced when he found himself trapped between his aunt Diana, who always talked to him with a raised voice as if he couldn’t hear, and his dad. Not the recipe for a relaxing meal.

“I heard on the radio that you lost that public housing contract to LaRue Construction,” Preston DeVries said as their salads arrived. “Couldn’t expect much else, I suppose.”

Adam concentrated all his will on the one word. “No.”

Aunt Diana put a hand on his arm. “Will losing this project ruin your business, dear?” Conversation around the room ebbed as everyone waited for the answer to the question they’d all heard. From a distant table, Theresa sent him a sympathetic frown, but there wasn’t much she could do to help.

Again, Adam made the supreme effort. “Not at all. I’ve g-got p-plenty of work to d-do.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his dad’s grimace. The slightest hesitation in his speech, the smallest repetition or block, was always noticed. And regretted.

Talk resumed in a buzz, but Adam put his fork on the edge of the plate and pushed his salad away. Aunt Diana turned to talk with the person on her right, which was a relief, but when Preston directed all of his attention to the teenage cousin on his other side, Adam understood quite clearly that he’d failed. Again. The folks on the opposite side of the table gently ignored him, no doubt thinking to spare him the shame of having to stutter across the flower arrangement. Some kind of chicken dish arrived, but he barely touched the food. Knowing that he was a disappointment to his father destroyed what little appetite he’d arrived with. The party bubbled around him, but he might as well have been marooned on a desert island. Hell, he might as well not have come to the party at all.

Finally, the tables were cleared for dessert. Getting to his feet, Preston motioned for the cake to be brought in. “Cynthia, honey, happy birthday!” Then he looked at Adam. “Son?”

Adam had been hoping to avoid this particular tradition tonight, with so many people listening. No such luck. But this, at least, he could do right.

He drew a deep breath. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang to his mother, aware of every face in the room turned his way. The words were perfect, the pitch true. The words he couldn’t speak, he could sing. So he sent birthday wishes to his mother in a song.

He’d sung solos in church choir since the age of five, and stuttered since he was eight, but that talent had never influenced his speech, no matter how many years of choral practices he endured. He only hoped Phoebe could change the pattern. In less than three months.

When the verse ended, Preston gestured to the crowd and they all sang another round as Cynthia DeVries smiled and delicately wiped tears from her eyes. More champagne circulated with the servings of cake.

Since his chair faced the doorway, Adam had a chance to watch the arrivals and departures of other diners in the restaurant. About nine-thirty, he looked up from the cake he was moving around his plate to check out the commotion going on in the entry area…and then wished he hadn’t.

L. T. LaRue had come to the Vineyard for dinner. The mayor stood next to him, with an arm around LaRue’s shoulders, every few seconds patting him on the back. They’d come in through the bar in the back of the house, because they already had drinks in their hands. The hostess approached and led them to their seats—not in the rear parlor, of course, but in the front room directly across the hall from the banquet room where Adam sat.