Page 105 of Calling the Shots

“Gracelyn, it’s me. When you get this message, call me. Please.” My voice is low and desperate, but I can’t help it. Bolting out of here without saying goodbye isn’t Gracelyn’s style. I need to know what happened, who hurt my girl.

Anger surging through me, I charge back to the main house, gravel crunching under my feet. The garden’s empty, Michael Bublé singing only to the decorative hedges. Appetizers are gone, all the dishes cleared away. Cocktail hour’s over.

I square my shoulders and stomp into the main house. Voices carry down the long hallway. My guess is everyone’s gathered in my mother’s favorite sitting room, the one adjacent to the dining room used only on holidays and special occasions. Not to be confused with the regular, everyday dining room.

Blood roaring in my ears, I loosen my shirt collar and head in the direction of the voices. Sure enough, my mother, sister and Tinsley are relaxing on the sofas in the peacock blue sitting room, while my father freshens his drink at the bar cart in the corner.

“What happened?” I growl, not bothering with any niceties. “What did y’all say to Gracelyn?”

“Huh?” Dad blinks at me over the ice bucket. “What are you talking about, son?”

I shove one hand in my pocket, knuckles flexing in the small cotton cave.

“One of you—maybe two of you—” I peer over at Tinsley and Emma Kate, “must have said something to her. Because she’s gone.”

Tinsley gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Like she actually cares Gracelyn left. It was probably her plan all along.

“Really? She justleft?” Emma Kate’s voice tips up in shock. “Before we even had dinner? That’s so rude.”

Anger boils in my veins as I spin to face my little sister. “That’s the rude part? Y’all have been beyond rude and inhospitable to her ever since we got here.”

Emma Kate sits up straight, crossing her feet at her ankles demurely. “That’s not true. I personally made it my mission to talk to her any chance I could.” She presses her manicured nails to her chest and acts affronted. “Not my fault she didn’t have much to say.” Shrugging her shoulders, she feigns innocence.

“Yeah, right. The Gracelyn I know always has a lot to say. What did you talk to her about? Cotillion? Your sorority sisters? Did you ask her anything about her life, her interests? Doubt it.”

“We did, Mack. Swear.” Tinsley backs up Emma Kate, smoothing her hair over her shoulder and fluttering her lashes. “We tried.”

“By talking bad about her behind her back?” I spit out the words, heat creeping up my neck.

“What? No.” Emma Kate shakes her head, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s always been a terrible liar.

“I know you did, Emma Kate. You and Tinsley talked shit about her every chance you got. And guess what? She heard you. So nice job. And she didn’t want me to mention it because she’s mature and wanted to get along with everyone. But the way you treated my girlfriend is wholly unacceptable.”

Emma Kate blushes a bright pink, all the way to the tips of her ears. At least she has the decency to be embarrassed.

Tinsley, not so much.

That bitch sits on the sofa examining her fucking nails and pretending she did absolutely nothing wrong.

“And you, Tinsley.” I level my gaze at my ex. “How dare you say anything bad about Gracelyn and the way she looks? She’s a better person—more beautiful inside and out—than you’ll ever be.”

Tinsley touches her slender throat, her face pale. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I spin to face my mother. “And don’t act all blameless, Mother. You could have embraced Gracelyn, welcomed her with open arms. Instead, you invited my ex for the holiday—” I jerk my head at Tinsley, “then shoved Gracelyn into the guest house, away from the rest of the family. You made jabs about her career—which she’s very good at, by the way—and made her feel less than. If I don’t call or visit enough for your liking, the only person you have to blame is yourself.”

My mother’s lips press into a hard, thin line and she frowns. “Now, Ulysses. That is just not the truth.”

“It is, Mother. It is the truth. Whether you want to admit it or not. The reason I don’t come home is because this isn’t me.” I sweep my arm across the room, gesturing at the expensive paintings, the blown glassware from Milan, the priceless first editions. “All this stuff. It’s too much. I feel trapped, suffocated by this lifestyle. Maybe if y’all were warm and open, it’d be different. But this visit shows me that’s never going to happen.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Ulysses.” My mother’s voice wavers a little and tears shimmer in her eyes, glistening in the glow of the lamp. “We’ve always done the best for you, tried to give you everything. And this is how you repay us? With ingratitude?”

“No, Mother. I’m not ungrateful.”

Raking my fingers through my hair, I take a deep breath and forge ahead. “I appreciate having the means to live how I want, on my own terms. But those terms have never been enough for you.” I glance up and meet her gaze. “And that’s the problem.”

My father stares at me from across the room, nodding his head in agreement. He’s wise enough to stay out of it, for fear of retribution from my mother. I understand his position, but it would be nice to have back-up every once in a while.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find the woman I love.” I take a deep breath, my conviction growing stronger. “The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Because she understands and appreciates me for who I really am, not who she wishes I would be.”

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