Chapter Thirty. Duncan
When Duncan bought his Huntsman suit in New York City on a trip to visit Mal a few years ago, he’d paid in full, and he’d paid in cash. But there was no amount of money, no degree of sartorial craftsmanship, and no measure of relative anonymity that would make him feel like he belonged at the Capewell-Talbot Foundation’s annual fundraising gala that night. But there he was, overlooking a sea of glittering dresses, glittering smiles, and glittering flutes of expensive alcohol.
The event brought together the region’s philanthropists, corporate leaders, and members of the healthcare community to raise money for the Capewell-Talbot Foundation. They chose a new venue each year, and tonight’s gala was in Center City Philadelphia in an event space that had originally been an early-twentieth-century publishing house. Duncan had driven past it a dozen times over the years on his trips into the city, and the opportunity to finally get a look inside was one of the only things that made him able to stomach being there. It was classic Beaux Arts architecture, with liberal use of columns, arches, and elaborately carved moldings. Everything was magnified in size and ornamentation. An unflinching nosedive into grandeur. It wasn’t Duncan’s thing, but he appreciated the artistry of it.
It was the first fundraiser he’d ever been to, but instinct told him this one was impressive. He imagined wealthy folk were much more willing to part with their money when they got to wear fancy clothes and drink themed cocktails while doing it.
Inside the sunken atrium, a soaring dome of glass and steel dripped with crystal chandeliers reminiscent of dandelions gone to seed. Swags of sheer champagne-gold fabric hung between ivory marble pillars along both long walls, creating alcoves behind. Round tables were set with centerpieces of baseball-sized dahlia blooms in smoky pinks and creamy whites.
Duncan had one objective tonight: pay his dues to Corbin Madigan and Laine Talbot-Madigan.
The silent auction was set up along the open mezzanine overlooking the atrium. More tuxedoed butlers per capita roamed the auction area compared to the larger crowd below, passing bougie finger foods like prosciutto-wrapped dates and crab-stuffed shrimp. A bar sat at each end of the auction area—one serving themed cocktails, the other a Bloody Mary station with a truly impressive spread of fresh herbs, celery, citrus, and green olives the size of small plums. The bartender stood by to grate fresh horseradish or blend custom rim salts.
There was a canny intentionality to the way the items for bid were displayed, clearly meant to scratch specific itches in the human brain. Each item was placed far from the others to evoke a sense of exclusivity and scarcity—while still being close enough that everyone could see what everyone else browsed to amplify a sense of competition. Bidding was open for a fixed time frame of only two hours, generating urgency.
Duncan ignored it all, although he was thankful for the auction’s condensed timeline. As soon as his money was locked in, he would get the fuck out of there. Then he could tell Temperance everything.
All things considered, he kept his composure admirably. The only times it slipped a bit were when he saw people who recognized him. Coleman Bello and his wife, Odessa, and Isaac Elias and his husband, Thierry, had come to him for a brief conversation as they browsed the silent auctions. Despite how pleasant and kind they were, he suspected they wondered what the hell he was doing there. When someone knew who you were underneath, it didn’t matter how convincing the costume was.
Duncan hovered around the digital kiosk of the item he’d chosen to dump all his money into: two second-edition Jane Austen novels that were largely being ignored in favor of tropical vacations and ski chalet time-shares. A few people had stopped by to place bids, but they quickly moved on once they were outbid. Still, Duncan stayed close. He wasn’t taking any chances.
There was movement behind him, closer than any other bodies had come to him all evening.
Erik Uttridge appeared like a fart in an elevator—unexpected and entirely unwelcome.
“Declan,” he said in greeting. “How’s it going, my blue-collar brother?”
Uttridge didn’t extend a hand for a shake, and Duncan didn’t offer.
“Oh, you know, man.” Duncan checked his watch and put on a tight-lipped smile, playing the role the other man wanted. “Hangin’ out like a hair in a biscuit.”
“Ever get that scrub sink on seven fixed?” Uttridge flashed his unnaturally white grin, waiting for Duncan to join in on the joke.
He didn’t.
The atrium lights dimmed and brightened a few times, and the crowd below went quiet. From where he stood at the mezzanine, he could see the stage and the oversized digital clock to the rear of it that counted down the amount of time left in the auction.
Twenty-five more minutes.
A spotlight shone on the stage, where a woman in a sequined black dress and a crown of narrow salt-and-pepper braids approached the microphone and spread her arms wide. “Good evening, doctors, esteemed guests, and friends. Thank you all for being here tonight. I’m Dr. Moira Dawson, Domestic Relief and Aid’s medical director, and this year’s gala coordinator. I’m honored and humbled to see the largest crowd we’ve ever had for a Capewell-Talbot fundraising event. Your presence here is a testament to your unwavering commitment to people in need.”
Uniform applause rippled through the atrium. It was a cultured sound, everyone clapping at roughly the same volume and tempo. Duncan wondered what it would sound like once the good doctors put away the thousands of dollars of top-shelf liquor he’d seen at the bars.
Dr. Dawson continued, “I have a few announcements to make before I welcome our fearless leaders to the stage. We’ve entered the final few minutes of the silent auction, so get those bids in now…”
“So are you a fan of Austen?” Uttridge said. “Women love that shit—”
Duncan cut him off. “What do you want?”
Uttridge scanned him with a shrewd once-over, and the jokey lilt in his voice disappeared. “You here with Madigan?”
“She’s not here.”
Twenty more minutes.
Uttridge gave him an odd look. “Yeah, she is.” He went to the railing and pointed straight down. “She’s right there.”
Duncan took the bait, expecting that the man was fucking with him. He tucked his hands in his pockets and peered over the marble rail, and there she was. At the table in the front row closest to the edge of the atrium floor, partially obscured by the overhang of the mezzanine.
He felt like he’d been punched in the neck.
Her hair was up in a tousled braid that twisted around the top of her head. The dark blue dress she wore plunged low at the back, exposing bare skin well below the slope of her shoulder blades. When she moved, the beadwork on the fabric shimmered like a constellation.
In the seat beside her was a man Duncan could see clearly in profile. He’d met the guy once, when Temperance had brought him to the Brady Thanksgiving party years ago. Dr. Bodhi Rao’s deep brown skin was flawless, his jaw angular to a trigonometric degree. During a lull for applause, Rao leaned in to whisper in Temperance’s ear, and she nodded. After the applause, he draped his arm over the back of her chair. She stayed perched forward in her seat instead of leaning back into him, but Duncan would be a liar if he said they didn’t look right together.
Hell. He’d never felt this separate from her. Might as well be a fish in love with the fucking moon.
Uttridge moved in beside him. He leaned forward with forearms on the marble. “Ahh, my condolences, man. I don’t blame you for trying, though. She’s the total package, even if she is frostier than her mom—”
“Walk away.” Duncan straightened to his full height and met the other man’s eyes, unblinking.
Uttridge did a double take. “Hey, man, I was just—”
“Immediately.”
This time, the other man listened.
“… please welcome Dr. Corbin Madigan and Dr. Laine Talbot-Madigan.” On the stage below, Moira Dawson stepped backward from the microphone, clapping.
Duncan had been eighteen when he’d last seen the Madigans. But they both looked identical to how he remembered them. Laine Talbot-Madigan was a weapon personified—reed slim and sharp-shouldered in a silver sheath dress that matched a gleaming updo so blond it looked metallic in the spotlight. Corbin Madigan was the same height as his wife, with an air of old money that had nothing to do with his actual golden appearance, and everything to do with the tilt of his chin as he looked upon the hundreds of people below him. He’d looked at Duncan that same way on the day he’d cornered him in the hospital waiting room, staring down at him even though Duncan had at least eight or nine inches on him. He couldn’t remember much from that day, but the words Corbin Madigan said to him were permanently etched on the inside of his skull.
“What if she gets sick like this again? How will you take care of her?
What she feels for you now—do you actually believe she’ll feel the same after twelve years of school?
What can you offer her that she won’t find better versions of outside this valley?”
There was conspicuous affection in the way the elder Madigans interacted with each other. They launched into a speech about how growing up in the area had shaped their lives and careers, playing off each other with a natural harmony and understated humor that almost seemed choreographed. Somehow that made Duncan dislike them even more.
“… tonight, we’re thrilled to announce the Helen Talbot Community Center,” Laine said. On the screen behind her, a moving 3D rendering of a building appeared with a flourish of cinematic music. “With financial support from the Capewell-Talbot Foundation, and thanks to your generous donations tonight, this new center will fill many of the gaps in Vesper Valley’s community services. There will be recreational and educational youth services, senior programs, nutrition programs, a food pantry, and more.”
Below, Temperance had scooted even further forward to the edge of her seat. Her hands were in her lap, and she was motionless. Now, Bodhi Rao watched her instead of the stage.
Laine continued, “While we won’t offer medical care, we plan to have an experienced staff of social workers and community organizers to connect residents to services and assistance they qualify for.”
She went on about the three-year plan for the organization, but her voice faded to a monotone buzz until Duncan heard her say Temperance’s name into the microphone.
“Many of you met Temperance when she was a teenager at this very gala. We are overjoyed to finally welcome her into the Capewell-Talbot Foundation family. Our Atlanta-headquartered program will be one of the first-ever child-focused initiatives of its kind, designed to address the very unique challenges that pediatric patients and their families face during natural disaster recoveries. With her public health and pediatrics experience, Temperance will bring a fresh perspective to our organization.”
At that, louder applause. Behind Laine on the stage, Corbin pointed at Temperance, then put his hands together in a slow-motion clap that somehow felt patronizing.
“Dr. Madigan, stand up and let everyone see you,” Laine said.
She didn’t budge until the spotlight swung directly to her.
Applause erupted when Temperance slowly stood. She braced herself with fingertips against the white tablecloth, and when she wavered a little on her feet, Bodhi Rao subtly pressed a hand to the bare skin of her back. Duncan’s pulse hammered inside his ears, and his teeth ached from the sustained clench of his jaw. He didn’t need to see her face to know that she was very much not okay in that moment, and despite the sour flood of jealousy in his gut, he was grateful she had someone there to steady her. Even if it couldn’t be him.
Ten more minutes.
Duncan ground his teeth. His relief that the auction would be finished soon was overshadowed by the need to get to Temperance. He’d figure out what the hell he was going to say once he found her.