Page 50 of Secondhand Smoke

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m Greg. Greg Harris, from high school. I sat behind you in chem.”

It clicked into place. “Greg! Yeah, hi. We made cheese together that time,” she said with a laugh.

“In the beakers.” He shuddered. “It didn’t taste right.”

“Well, Miss Prussell probably cleaned the sulfuric acid out of them first.”

They chuckled over the memory, and then the normal silence of two long-separated acquaintances lapped around them.

Greg spoke first. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be off living in Paris or something, writing books for the snobs over there.” He grinned, but it was a question, asking what had happened to her.

She winced. “I’m a professor, actually. The farthest I ever made it away from home was Nashville, and that was just for my graduation trip.” She shrugged. “And I kinda hated it because I’m not into country music.”

His smile turned almost sympathetic.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’ve you been up to?”

He made a vague gesture. “You know. Little of everything. I’ve actually got a new job,” he said, brightening, “working here in town, so that’s cool.”

“Yeah. What do you do?”

“Sales. I’m a salesman.”

“That’s great,” she said, meaning it. She knew firsthand how crushing it was to get out of school and realize all those bright shiny dreams your elders had alluded to were just that: dreams.

He nodded. “Hey, do you ever still talk to Aidan Teague?”

It shouldn’t have, but the question touched her pulse, sent it kicking. She shrugged. “I didn’t ever talk to him back in school. But I do now sometimes, yeah. Are you trying to get in touch with him?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I was just curious.” He grinned. “It was great seeing you, Sam, but I gotta run.”

“Oh, okay. Take care.”

“See ya.”

She watched him walk away, feeling a rush of empathy. They were alike, the two of them – two lonely kids who’d wanted nothing more than to be in Aidan Teague’s shadow, all grown up and not quite able to let go.

Ten

“Fancy,” Ava remarked, leaning forward to glance up at the wrought iron gate through the windshield.

“Hmm,” Maggie agreed from behind the wheel, buzzing down her window just as the intercom beside them crackled to life. “Poor Aidan. The first time in his life that he’s on the other side of taking advantage. He didn’t stand a chance.”

No, he hadn’t, Ava thought, staring at the house that lay before them. On the other side of the gate, the house unfurled across a golf course-worthy lawn, stone chimneys and spires thrusting skyward, windows glimmering in the bright autumn sunshine. It was a masterwork of stone, with arched doorways, slate driveway, and artfully planted trees.

“Can I help you?”an officious male voice said through the intercom, and Maggie smiled a small, private smile just for the two of them.

“Yes, we’re here to see Tonya.”

“May I ask for your names?”

“Maggie Teague and her daughter, Ava. We’re Aidan’s people – tell her that. And tell her there’s no use turning us away; we can either talk here, or I can stalk her to pilates and accost her on the street. Either way.”

A long pause. Then:“Please come in,”and the huge gates swung inward without a sound.

Maggie touched the gas and the Caddie rolled forward up the drive, coasting to a stop in the circular turnaround that looped a massive multi-tiered fountain. The front stoop loomed like church stairs ahead of them, leading up to double doors that were also, appropriately, monastic in looks.

Ava felt a clean, divisive line slide through her conscience. The literature buff in her loved the slightly Gothic ambiance of the place. It was classic, tasteful, and expensive, all of it screaming for a cravat-wearing lord to go striding up the front steps, hunting hounds in tow, groom leading away the master’s horse.

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