Free The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko Page A

of us have use for these kinds of things. They were always his affair.”
    â€œ
He
cannot direct a burgeoning agribusiness from his grave, dear. And if you want this grain elevator expansion project of yours to succeed in Treade, you must woo the investors. If you didn’t already know, our money is really theirs.”
    Reclaiming his tie, he eases his hand onto a coffee table covered in fresh gardenias behind him. They were no Broadway Florists’ work, but as he fidgets with the petals, she sees none of it really matters anyway. He has been sulky since she declared his twentieth to be marked by such an elaborate occasion, and that his taking the mantle of Jovan Grain, his father’s jilted legacy, was something to celebrate. Tonight it would be official, but he had been holding back from it. And she had known why. But she had not wanted to test the waters of it.
    â€œI know you didn’t want this. I know but . . . believe me, you
will
show all of those empty-headed socialites that their trust in you is not in vain.” She takes his hand in her opera-gloved one. “I know you can do this. You have his charm, Nel. And his strength. Even though you did not see much of those traits by the end of it, they were there.”
    â€œThat’s enough,” he forces through a smile. “Let’s not talk about that. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration.”
    She steps back. Inspecting her reflection in the golden drink at hand, she snorts. “I believe that is my line.”
    Before she can register, he has taken the glass from her and downed the contents.
    â€œPlease don’t,” she grimaces.
    A waiter has somehow found them, and he is already gone to fetch back a whisky. “Liquid courage,” he shrugs.
    Her eyes narrow. “I said channel his charm, not
become
him.”
    But that breaks him.
    â€œI said
that’s enough
!” The champagne flute shatters on the marble tile, and she recoils, speechless and shaking.
    He is still, covering his mouth with a palm, before trying to smooth back his usually unruly hair, tidied tonight by enough pomade to sink a ship. His eyes soften immediately as she turns away, hand clutching the silk organza at her frail chest. She is bundled into his arms, and she does not fight as he leads her to a chaise, kneeling and taking her small hands in his. Acknowledging this weakness makes her even sicker than she already is.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mama, I’m sorry,” he whispers as he strokes her fine hair, hair that barely remembers what colour it may have been when she had been a girl, easily seduced by the uptown galas and the chance to swan endlessly around in a sea of champagne and frivolous lives. The cold, endless prairie may not have been Toronto or New York, but it offered delicate dreams in a harsh landscape. And she has smothered them all.
    He looks at her earnestly. “I don’t want his charm or his strength,” he says. “They failed him when it was most important. I don’t want any of him. Please. All we need is each other and this beloved town, not this business, this curse. Let us be rid of it. Let it be someone else’s burden.”
    There it is, the dark thing that has hung between them since they arrived, and maybe even through all the years she had urged him through a business degree in preparation for this day. But without the business, there would be nothing for him once she was gone. Their name, their very claim to the upper society that had wrecked them, would fade in the annals of an already subpar province. She wanted it all; the magic that this town had worked on their ruined family, and the tremendous boons that marrying an alcoholic agribusiness monarch had given them. But her son has never wanted that. He yearns for the simple life that this farm town has offered, for the solitude of his books, for the peace that grounds him firmly in place. But with Jovan Grain, they could have every