Page 28 of The Party Plot

He couldn’t. But he didn’t say that. He just put an arm around her shoulder, and pulled up another movie.

9.

He had no desire to be at Wayon Bonard’s campaign fundraiser, but he found himself there nevertheless, swept along in a kind of helpless lassitude. Laurel’s insides felt all jumbled up, his thoughts still raw. He made nice and shook hands through clenched teeth, hoping nothing showed on his face. A panoply of society folks passed by, squeezing his sweaty palm and clapping him on the shoulder. His mom was there, and her friend Meredith, not quite included in everything but lurking on the periphery. There were former classmates and team members with insincere promises to catch up. There was the congressional candidate himself, a stout man with veiny jowls and a nose like an overripe strawberry, who pumped Laurel’s hand with unnecessary vigor and said he hoped he could count on his vote. (He very much could not.) There was Howie Bonard, working his way through the crowd with his salesman’s smile. Laurel had managed for most of the night to be everywhere that he wasn’t. He couldn’t stand to speak to him tonight, or ever. There was the matriarch of the family, Lavinia Bonard, and the church ladies, Sarah Ann Copeland, Mary Devereux, and Birdie Callaway, all fussing over him, asking if they could expect him next Sunday and regaling him with stories of how adorable he had been as a child. Laurel didn’t really remember that version of himself; he remembered performing, remembered jumping through hoops and checking boxes. A trained dog, a dressage horse, executing a routine, while inside his head, he was miles away.

He was miles away now, wandering through the room in a fog. In addition to their country estate, the Bonards had multiple properties in town. This was one of them, an Italianate villa on the corner of Third and Main, one of the largest antebellum buildings still standing in downtown Bonard, with a spiral staircase, an elaborate garden, and a fully staged carriage house in back. It was on the national register of historic places, and tours were given every weekend. Laurel’s sixth-grade class had been subjected to several field trips here as part of an American History unit, hearing what he would learn later was a very skewed version of events. Of course, now it was considered a little more gauche toopenlycelebrate one’s racist ancestors, but the Bonards had kept up all the family portraits and Civil War memorabilia. Unlike Denise’s house, which hammered visitors over the head with a confusing collection of beauty pageant paraphernalia and dubious antiques, the Bonard House whispered silkily of money and power. People whose names should probably be scrubbed from the history books stared down from the walls. Sofas that had seated presidents and dignitaries were laid out as casually as if they’d been from Walmart. All of the wood paneling in the main ballroom, Laurel knew (again, from the sixth-grade field trips), was from a forest that no longer existed, and was irreplaceable.

Someone had given him a cup of sherry punch, but he’d hardly touched it. The liquid was warm, the cut-glass vessel digging into his skin. Laurel knew if he allowed himself to drink tonight, it would be a disaster, because he could feel a familiar restlessness in his head, a sort of panic at the back of his brain. It had been stupid to come. Chip wasn’t here, quietly refusing to show his support, and neither was Melody, for obvious reasons. There were dozens of people who wanted to talk to him, but no one Laurel wanted to talk to.

No one, that was, except Casey, who Denise had brought along as her date. It had only been a few days since the trip to Abernathy farms, and they hadn’t spoken. Laurel wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, just that he wanted—craved—Casey’s attention. But Casey, across the room, seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

He looked immaculate, as always, in a pastel suit and a shirt that had some kind of pattern on it, subtle enough to be fun but not tacky. Laurel wondered how long Casey spent putting together his outfits. (Let’s talk about what costumesyou’rewearing, Laurel.) There was something a little bit otherworldly about him, something that drew one’s gaze, and Laurel didn’t seem to be the only one who thought so. The church ladies had descended upon Casey, evidently finding him to be a source of fascination, or else trying to save his soul. Birdie Callaway was squeezing his arm, her cheeks rosy, an expression of dire importance on her face.

Of course, it was all an act. The colorful suits, the bowtie, the hair. The indulgent smile as he pretended to listen to what Birdie was saying. Whatever thoughts were actually going on behind Casey’s eyes were his alone.

Laurel turned away, looking for some fresh air.

Even though night had fallen, walking out onto the veranda felt like being submerged, the hot air enfolding him in a blanket of lethargy. The garden stretched out before him, brick-lined paths illuminated by in-ground lights, the vague suggestion of orderly lines and boxy shrubs competing with palmettos and flowering vines. By day, Laurel knew (again, from the field trips), it was a tame, manicured, English-style garden, with stone benches and mossy cherubs and a three-tiered marble fountain. In the dark, it seemed wilder and more lush, its shapes less distinct. Out in the distance, he saw lighting bugs, little lighter-flicks above the hedgerows. The night was busy with the sound of insects and trickling water, and the smell of jasmine was heavy on the air, along with other plants that Casey probably would have known the name of.

He had hoped that no one else would brave the heat, and he’d be alone, but the sound of the door opening and closing at his back made Laurel’s shoulders tense up. Praying that it was just someone else who wanted some privacy, he didn’t turn, but the voice, when it came, made his stomach flush with cold andhis jaw clench, molars grinding together.

“Well, well, the prodigal son returns.Le baronet,bonjour.” Laurel turned to see Howie Bonard standing behind him, a glass in his hand, his full head of dark hair shining under the porch lights. Fifty-something and he still hadn’t been struck by male pattern baldness, or even many grays. There was truly no justice in his world. His All-American boyish good looks hadn’t faded, though his skin was leathery from years of sun. He’d gotten new veneers at some point, and Laurel noticed with a twinge of pleasure that they were too large for his mouth. “I heard you were back in town. I was hoping we’d run into each other.”

I wasn’t. Laurel didn’t know if he could do it. In his head he saw Melody lying on the floor, face puffy from crying. Why had he come here? Because his mom had told him to? Why had he even come home in the first place? He had the absurd urge to run off into the garden, hide behind a hedgerow. Climb a magnolia tree.

Instead, helplessly, he let his hand be shaken by Howie Bonard, stomach simmering.

“How was Europe?” Howie’s smile was sharp, his pupils ringed in white. He’d been drinking. Or something else.

“Wonderful,” Laurel muttered.

“I’ll bet. Girls, galas, and fox hunting? Discotheques?” Howie Bonard’s arm was around his shoulder before Laurel could react, enfolding him in a bubble of mint and bourbon and overly-strong cologne. “Red Light districts? What did you get up to over there?”

Laurel held himself perfectly still. The hairs on his arms and legs were standing up. “Not much. Drinking port with my dad. Enjoying the weather.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you have any fun? Nofemmes dangereuses? It’s a lawless land over there, I’ll tell you.” Howie Bonard poked him in the chest with one finger, the liquid in his glass nearly spilling. “A man can find all sorts of entertainment.”

“I really didn’t get up to much.”

“So modest. With a pedigree like yours, I’m sure you were drowning in European pussy.”

Laurel felt disgust rise in the back of his throat. “And what about you? How have you been?” he asked, trying to free himself. Bonard’s arm felt heavy and boneless around his shoulders, and the back of his neck was getting clammy.

“It has beentrying, my boy. Absolutely trying.” Bonard poked him in the chest again. “With the campaign and all, I have to be on my best behavior. Not that I’m ever not,” he added, with a sloppy wink. “You know that little trouble I had with the law was bullshit. I mean, I don’t even like cocaine. I’m just partial to the smell of it.”

He laughed. God, those teeth were like fence slats.

Laurel creased his face into what he thought was a smile. “Sure. Of course.”

“But you know what they say. You are the company you keep. So I have to be a good boy until Wayon gets elected. Speaking of the company you keep…” Howie grinned even wider, his face a carnival mask in the darkness. “I heard you’ve been spending time with Melody again. Heard she showed up uninvited to a party, made a big scene. What is it about these crazy women, Laurel? They get their talons into us and just don’t let go.”

Laurel had the vague sensation of needing to throw up, just like he had every time his mom had made him sing in front of an audience. He could feel the pulse fluttering in his temple like a moth, an ache starting up behind his eyes. “She’s my friend,” he said weakly. “She’s only ever been my friend.” And Howie was the one texting her. Tormenting her. Not letting her go after all these years.

“Oh, come on. No one’s ever just friends with a girl like that. You and that Mexican lawyer kid have been panting after her for years.”

Chip’s family was Colombian-American, but Howie Bonard had apparently never met a microaggression he didn’t like. “I need—” Some air. A drink. To scream. Something red-hot and unformed was scrabbling its way up his throat, and Laurel was worried he was about to do something stupid.

“Unless you’ve switched teams,” Howie said slyly. “I heard you were hanging out with that party planner, too.”

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