click.
‘‘Wilson . . .’’
‘‘Go away.’’ And she heard the splash as he hit the water in the tub.
• • •
DOWNSTAIRS, SHE GOT AN ICE COMPRESS FROM THE freezer and put it against her head: she’d have a bruise. Goddamn him. They had to talk about Kresge: this was their big move, their main chance. This was what they’d worked for. And he was drunk.
The thought of the bottle sent her to the cupboard under the sink, to a built-in lazy Susan. She turned it halfway around, got the vodka bottle, poured four inches of vodka over two ice cubes, and drank it down.
Poured another two ounces to sip.
Audrey McDonald wasn’t a big woman, and alcohol hit quickly. The two martinis she’d had at lunch, plus the pitcher of Bloody Marys at the club, had laid a base for the vodka. Her rage at Wilson began to shift. Not to disappear, but to shift in the maze of calculations that were spinning through her head.
Bone and O’Dell would try to steal this from them.
She sipped vodka, pressed the ice compress against her head, thought about Bone and O’Dell. Bone was Harvard and Chicago; O’Dell was Smith and Wharton. O’Dell had a degree in history and finance; Bone had two degrees in economics.
Wilson had a B.A. from the University of Minnesota in business administration and a law degree from the same place. Okay, but not in the same class with O’Dell or Bone. On the other hand, his grandfather had been one of the founders of Polaris. And Wilson knew everyone in town and was a member of the Woodland Golf and Cricket Club. The vice chairman of Polaris, a jumped-up German sausage-maker who never in a million years could have gotten into the club on his own, was now at Woodland, courtesy of Wilson McDonald. So Wilson wasn’t weaponless . . .
SHE HEARD HIM THUMPINGDOWNTHE STAIRS AMINUTE later. He stalked into the kitchen, still nude, jiggling, dripping wet. ‘‘What ya drinking?’’ he asked.
‘‘Soda water,’’ she said.
‘‘Soda water my ass,’’ he snarled. Then his eyes, which had been wandering, focused on the cold compress she held to her head. ‘‘What the fuck were you taking my scotch for?’’
‘‘Because we’ve got things to think about,’’ she said. ‘‘We don’t have time for you to get drunk. We have to figure out what to do with Kresge dead.’’
‘‘I already got his job,’’ he said, with unconcealed satisfaction.
‘‘What?’’ She was astonished. Was he that drunk?
‘‘O’Dell and Bone agreed I could have it,’’ he said.
‘‘You mean . . . you’re the CEO?’’
‘‘Well . . . the board has to meet,’’ he said, his voice slurring. ‘‘But I’ve already been dealing with the PR people, putting out press releases . . .’’
She rolled her eyes. ‘‘You mean they let you fill in until the board meets.’’
‘‘Well, I think that positions me . . .’’
‘‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Wilson, grow up,’’ she said. ‘‘And go put some pants on. You look like a pig.’’
‘‘You shut the fuck—’’
He came at her again and she pitched the vodka at his eyes. As he flinched, she turned and ran back into the living room, looked around, spotted a crystal paperweight on the piano, picked it up. Wilson had gotten the paperweight at a Senior Tour pro-am. When he came through the doorway after her, she lifted it and said, ‘‘You try to hit me again and I swear to God I’ll brain you with this thing.’’
He stopped. He looked at her, and at the paperweight, then stepped closer; she backed up a step and said, ‘‘ Wilson.’’
‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t want to fight. And we gotta talk.’’
He looked in the corner, at the liquor cabinet, started that way.
‘‘You can’t have any more . . .’’
She started past him and he moved, quickly, grabbed her hand with the paperweight, bent it, and she screamed, ‘‘Don’t. Wilson, don’t.’’
‘‘Drop it, drop it . . .’’ He was a grade school
‘‘Wilson . . .’’
‘‘Go away.’’ And she heard the splash as he hit the water in the tub.
• • •
DOWNSTAIRS, SHE GOT AN ICE COMPRESS FROM THE freezer and put it against her head: she’d have a bruise. Goddamn him. They had to talk about Kresge: this was their big move, their main chance. This was what they’d worked for. And he was drunk.
The thought of the bottle sent her to the cupboard under the sink, to a built-in lazy Susan. She turned it halfway around, got the vodka bottle, poured four inches of vodka over two ice cubes, and drank it down.
Poured another two ounces to sip.
Audrey McDonald wasn’t a big woman, and alcohol hit quickly. The two martinis she’d had at lunch, plus the pitcher of Bloody Marys at the club, had laid a base for the vodka. Her rage at Wilson began to shift. Not to disappear, but to shift in the maze of calculations that were spinning through her head.
Bone and O’Dell would try to steal this from them.
She sipped vodka, pressed the ice compress against her head, thought about Bone and O’Dell. Bone was Harvard and Chicago; O’Dell was Smith and Wharton. O’Dell had a degree in history and finance; Bone had two degrees in economics.
Wilson had a B.A. from the University of Minnesota in business administration and a law degree from the same place. Okay, but not in the same class with O’Dell or Bone. On the other hand, his grandfather had been one of the founders of Polaris. And Wilson knew everyone in town and was a member of the Woodland Golf and Cricket Club. The vice chairman of Polaris, a jumped-up German sausage-maker who never in a million years could have gotten into the club on his own, was now at Woodland, courtesy of Wilson McDonald. So Wilson wasn’t weaponless . . .
SHE HEARD HIM THUMPINGDOWNTHE STAIRS AMINUTE later. He stalked into the kitchen, still nude, jiggling, dripping wet. ‘‘What ya drinking?’’ he asked.
‘‘Soda water,’’ she said.
‘‘Soda water my ass,’’ he snarled. Then his eyes, which had been wandering, focused on the cold compress she held to her head. ‘‘What the fuck were you taking my scotch for?’’
‘‘Because we’ve got things to think about,’’ she said. ‘‘We don’t have time for you to get drunk. We have to figure out what to do with Kresge dead.’’
‘‘I already got his job,’’ he said, with unconcealed satisfaction.
‘‘What?’’ She was astonished. Was he that drunk?
‘‘O’Dell and Bone agreed I could have it,’’ he said.
‘‘You mean . . . you’re the CEO?’’
‘‘Well . . . the board has to meet,’’ he said, his voice slurring. ‘‘But I’ve already been dealing with the PR people, putting out press releases . . .’’
She rolled her eyes. ‘‘You mean they let you fill in until the board meets.’’
‘‘Well, I think that positions me . . .’’
‘‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Wilson, grow up,’’ she said. ‘‘And go put some pants on. You look like a pig.’’
‘‘You shut the fuck—’’
He came at her again and she pitched the vodka at his eyes. As he flinched, she turned and ran back into the living room, looked around, spotted a crystal paperweight on the piano, picked it up. Wilson had gotten the paperweight at a Senior Tour pro-am. When he came through the doorway after her, she lifted it and said, ‘‘You try to hit me again and I swear to God I’ll brain you with this thing.’’
He stopped. He looked at her, and at the paperweight, then stepped closer; she backed up a step and said, ‘‘ Wilson.’’
‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t want to fight. And we gotta talk.’’
He looked in the corner, at the liquor cabinet, started that way.
‘‘You can’t have any more . . .’’
She started past him and he moved, quickly, grabbed her hand with the paperweight, bent it, and she screamed, ‘‘Don’t. Wilson, don’t.’’
‘‘Drop it, drop it . . .’’ He was a grade school
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