45. join the club
CHAPTER 45
JOIN THE CLUB
IVY
Kyle gets helped back to the house by Dale’s son (whose name I can’t remember; I’ve been calling Fido because he’s Kyle’s little lap dog), overplaying his injury the entire way. He’ll probably have a lawsuit drawn up before I even make it back inside.
I’m supposed to be here helping Lincoln, and instead, I’m pretty sure I just made shit a whole lot worse.
Beside me, he clearly has no such worries. “Serves him right,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders and checking me over, even though I’m fine. “Are you okay?”
I nod, the adrenaline still pulsating in my veins. It’s not helping that he looks genuinely worried about me, making my weak heart beat double-time.
“Good,” he says, pulling me into his chest. “Fucking Kyle.”
“No, thank you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him and breathing in his sun-kissed heat.
“That was an impressive move.” Reed appears in my periphery. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I answer, stepping back from Lincoln. “Though I think for everyone’s safety, I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”
Reed offers me a kind smile. It’s the same one I’ve gotten from every one of the Reeveses, and I find I like this side of him. Better than the overbearing and judgy brother act. Maybe there is hope for them to work things out, after all.
“How about you?” he asks Lincoln. “Keen for another round? Best of three?”
Lincoln looks to me, a clear question in his eyes. I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Keep playing. I’m going to grab a drink of water and hopefully not send anyone to the ICU on the way.”
He tilts my head up and kisses me gently, the graze of his lips against mine sending a thrill through my entire body. “Be good,” he says softly. “I’ll come find you soon.”
* * *
With nothing but my own curiosity to guide me, I do what any nosy person would do in my position. I wander.
There are tapestries on the walls (multiples, what a life) and— no lie— pillars holding up the ceiling in at least two of the sitting rooms. I mean, they’re probably just decorative, but if the designer’s goal was to intimidate the fuck out of every person who walks in, they’ve hit it out of the park.
I swear, if I find a library with a ladder in it, I’m going pre-makeover Eliza Doolittle on that thing.
The ceilings are about twelve feet high, held aloft by cracked plaster walls and damaged joists. My footsteps echo down the long hallway. I’ve never felt smaller.
Deacon’s affinity for opulence is everywhere, although I’m not sure he’d care for the state of things. Dust clings to the draperies. Gold accents have darkened and dulled. And there’s a cold, empty shadow hovering like a ghost in every room.
All this money, gone to waste. They could donate this building for community events or bulldoze it and use the land for low-income housing. Or anything. That’s the point. There are a million possibilities open with this much money, and the Bradburys have done none of them.
It stings to walk the halls, knowing that a single room is filled with shit that could have covered my college tuition.
The way everyone (including Emma) talks about Deacon, he was a dick of the highest order. But I have to give him the teensiest bit of credit— all the gilding and theatrics make for one hell of a home. Every time I step around a corner, I’m expecting to find his ghost, judging my outfit and complaining that I’m being too loud. It doesn’t take someone with my sister’s intellect to work out why Astrid and her kids distanced themselves from the rest of the family. It also really makes me want to meet Lincoln’s dad someday. I have a strong feeling I’d like him a lot.
Out of nowhere, a hand grabs my arm, pulling me into a room that’s either a large cupboard or a small den.
“Oh, good. Just the person I was looking for,” Judy says. Oh no.
A wall of shelves dominates the room, littered with boxes with their contents spilling out. There’s a heavy wooden table pushed to one side, the pieces of a large puzzle spread out on it, and in the corner closest to the windows is Art, in a bright paisley shirt, stuffed into a worn-out armchair that must be as old as he is.
I think I just found their secret hideout.
“I’ve been hoping to talk to you,” Judy says, pulling out the seat beside her at the table. Scattered on its surface are a sea of blue and white pieces surrounding a half-finished recreation of a cloudy sky over water. She probably looked for the most difficult one in the store.
I sit beside her and attempt a friendly smile, but really, my heart is thumping in my chest. Every time she sets her steely eyes on me, I feel like fish food.
“How are you liking it here so far?” she asks. It feels like a test.
“It’s lovely,” I lie.
Judy snorts a low laugh and turns around. “Did you hear that, Art? It’s been lovely.”
“About as lovely as a root canal,” he deadpans while trying to hide a smile.
“Okay,” I say, taking a gamble. “Maybe lovely is the wrong word. It’s been…”
Judy surprises me by suggesting, “Bleak?” and Art adds, “Vexing?”
Huh. I may have completely misjudged them. They are hiding away here among a life’s worth of odd purchases. Maybe they find this weekend as difficult as Lincoln does. It’s a good cubby too. I’m pretty sure that’s a piano hiding underneath a stack of newspapers.
How would Lincoln phrase it? “An adjustment.”
In a move that surprises me so much I have to hold on to the table so I don’t fall out of my chair, Judy laughs. It’s a short bark that becomes a sigh when she casts a look over at Art.
“This is the last year, Art. I swear it. I’m sick of dragging myself here for their elevator pitch guilt trip. It’s not my problem that they want to live in this hellhole. If they’re struggling for money so badly, just sell the damn place.”
Art hums. He’s hunched over a small red box that’s spilling wires out of its insides, and I can’t tell whether he’s trying to fix it or destroy it. “They wouldn’t be in this mess if they stopped cleaning up that boy’s messes.”
Art, you beautiful man, now you have my attention. “What kind of messes?” I ask. This could be what I need to help Lincoln.
Judy smirks as she scours the table for a puzzle piece, her nails short but perfectly manicured. “Enough to get cut off finally.”
Of course. That’s why he’s so hell-bent on getting Reed’s investment.
Art’s hands are paused mid-task as he stares at Judy with the same gleeful interest that’s bubbling in me. So much for my spy mission. I think I just hit the jackpot without even trying. “They finally grew a pair, huh? About time.”
He picks up a screwdriver and starts twisting something I can’t see. “Bribed that boy’s entire way through schooling, and they expected him to turn out any differently? Deacon would be rolling in his grave if he knew about the ten million Kyle sank last year. And then,” he says, waving the tool in the air, “they have the gall to accuse us of hiding some secret wealth from them and still expect us to play nice this weekend. Joe is livid.”
Wow, so Dick’s a dick. Color me shocked.
“Like father, like son,” Judy says shrewdly. “Dad never listened when I told him Richie learned it from him. Even after he discovered his money had bought them a collegiate wing in exchange for the president ignoring Kyle’s three sexual assault charges, he still refused to accept his part in it.”
Art locks eyes with her, a small smile playing on his lips. “Careful, we’re not supposed to know about that.”
Jesus. I need to find Lincoln.
Judy sets the last piece of the lighthouse in place and lets out a soft laugh. “Just like how I’m pretending not to notice that the Louis Kalff lamp is missing from behind you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says proudly, and it’s so obviously a lie I can’t help but smile.
Art taps on the side of the box with his fist, but there’s nothing but a blank screen. Judy clicks another piece into place. “Art, give it up. You’ve been trying to fix that old thing for twelve years. Put it out of its misery and put the radio on before I start hearing voices.”
He does, and the soft strum of folk music springs forth from a portable radio I hadn’t noticed. Art sinks back into the armchair and picks up a pad and pencil.
Judy looks up from her puzzle. “Has Kyle asked you for a loan yet?”
“Yesterday, in fact,” Art replies, sounding as done with Kyle’s BS as I am. We should start a club. Come to think of it, I might have just been pulled into my first meeting. “Joe’s starting to waver, but I reminded him of exactly how much we’ve given that boy and the precise amount of zero he’s repaid.” There is black coating Art’s fingertips and the edge of his palm. “I overheard him angling Dale for a job.”
Judy’s hand stills, a piece of cloud hanging in the air before she pushes it into place with a soft click. The calculating pinch between her eyes is back. “That’s interesting. He came at me with the same request, albeit clumsily aimed at getting Hayden to add him as coproducer.”
This grabs Art’s attention, his head popping up in a shot, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “For the Timeline reboot?”
Judy nods.
“He asked Reed for a job too,” I add, sensing chum in the water. Screw talking to Richard. It’s clear his whole agenda is covering for his kid, but the rest of the family? The wheels are already turning. Maybe it’s time to give them a little nudge. And, hey, my mouth got me into this mess; I might as well let it have some fun.
“Really?”
With fresh gossip on offer, Judy and Art turn to me. I keep my expression clear, even though I’m buzzing inside. “Yeah. Right after he pitched everyone on investing in his buddy’s start-up. Reed shut both down.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, considering the verbal lashing Reed gave all of them at the will reading. Kyle must be getting desperate,” Art says, immediately making him my new favorite person.
“Serves him right after those embezzlement rumors surfaced.” Judy stretches her neck out. She’s in a more casual outfit than I expected— a shift dress that seems at odds with all her right angles. There’s pale pink on her nails and a hint of lip gloss on her thin lips. But she makes it work.
Art brushes excess charcoal off his pad, humming along to the radio. Papa passed when I was still a baby, but Nonna told Ciara and me stories; how he loved to ballroom dance, and would sit outside for hours, listening to birds sing. Wherever he is now, I like to imagine him in a garden, striped shirt and sun hat, a smile on his face.
Art reminds me of him, which I know is ridiculous and not even possible, but he hasn’t stopped smiling since Judy hauled me in here. How does a man so full of life voluntarily stifle himself in this stuffy house every year?
I have to know.
“Art, why do you come here if you hate it so much?”
“Oh, it’s not all bad,” he says. “I never laugh half as hard as the drive home, when Joe is reading everyone for filth.”
“Joe’s funny?” I ask. I honestly can’t picture it.
“Oh, yes,” he says gleefully. “You wouldn’t have recognized him fifty years ago. He was a rogue of the highest order.”
“Like Lincoln,” I say without thinking.
“Indeed,” he replies, his eyes shining with mirth. It doesn’t seem like it should work, Art’s jubilance and Joe’s intensity, but maybe there’s balance in it. Maybe that’s what real love is, falling for every version of your partner as you grow and change together, over and over again.
I wonder who Lincoln will be in fifty years. I want to meet him. To see if his eyes still sparkle with mischief. If he still takes an hour to wake up in the mornings. If he’ll still look at me as though I’m the only one he ever wants to see.
“What are you sketching?” I ask, walking over to him.
He hands the pad to me, and just as I suspected, it’s full of Joe. “He was my first model,” he says. “Stumbled into my studio like a newborn foal one day, and I was smitten.” As I flip through the pages, there are studies on hands, smiles, wrinkles, but even in these disparate parts, there is love in every line. “I never thought he’d be interested in me,” Art says. “With his button-ups and vests, who his family was, it meant hiding a lot. We were "roommates" for a very long time.”
“They’re beautiful.” I hand back the pad.
Art clasps his hand around mine briefly. “There will always be someone to disagree with who you are or how you live, but I can no longer allow the world to tell me who I am is wrong. The older you get, the more you recognize that no amount of ‘comfort’ is worth denying humanity. Let the bigots be uncomfortable.”
“Bold words in this house,” I chance, and Art smiles. “Here I was hoping I could spice things up by mentioning my torrid bisexuality at dinner tonight.”
“Please do. Joe will love it,” he chuckles. “I always knew Lincoln would find a good one.” His scrutiny is gentler than Judy’s, but no less intimidating.
All of a sudden, I don’t want to lie anymore. Not about Lincoln. The way I feel about him is too big, too real.
“He’s the good one, really.” And fuck it, why shouldn’t his family know? “He worked in a kitchen for years after what happened in Brussels, never spending a cent Deacon sent him, and he only ever uses it to help others. He made it affordable to live in my building again, and he wouldn’t admit it, but I know he’s been babysitting for Sheryl’s two boys when she gets called into work.” In fact, everyone who lives there has a story about how he’s helped them, in big and small ways. Turning an empty space in the basement into a free gym, upgrading the laundry, installing shelves in Armando’s kitchen. (Which I’m 90 percent sure was so Armando could stare at his thighs in jeans for an hour, and honestly, I can’t blame him.) “I didn’t know him when he was a kid, but I know the man he’s become, and I’m proud to have him in my life.”
Art and Judy share a look before he places his sketch pad down. I look over to find Judy has abandoned her puzzle.
“This weekend just got a lot more interesting,” Art says, mischief shimmering in his eyes. “How about I break out the secret bottle of red we keep here, and you can tell us some more stories?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “On one condition: you tell me everything you know about Kyle and why he would try to steal from the trust.”
Art’s jaw drops into a laugh. “Ivy, welcome to the family.”