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“Excuse me, why are you even talking to me?” Tiff snaps at Liz, turning physically so that her back is to us. The Dog Women move to comfort her, throwing disapproving glances at Liz and me.
Liz and I exchange a look.
“Time for that pool?” Liz says under her breath.
I’ve never wanted to say yes to anything more in my life. But then I glance at the door Bill just stormed through. I remember how sad he’d been in the hotel bar, how regretful he’d been when talking about his ruined marriage. He’s not getting any support from this crowd.
“I’ll meet you up there,” I say. “I think I’m going to see if Bill needs anything.”
Liz nods and kisses me on the cheek. We stand and I head toward the door Bill disappeared through.
Paul stops me before I can reach it. “Waste of time, kiddo,” he says.
I ignore the jab. “Not sure what you’re talking about,” I say.
“I have a contract with Bill. So you might be able to get your meathooks into Marie, but Bill’s account is mine.”
I scowl at him. “Do you ever think about anything other than money?” I ask, pushing past him.
If he answers, I don’t wait around to hear it.
It takes me a minute to even find Bill. The house is massive and I wander about for a bit before just shouting his name.
“Bill?!”
I feel a little stupid, but then I hear the sound of a door opening and Bill sticks his head out into the hall. His eyes look rather hollow, but he smiles at the sight of me.
“Rhett,” he says. “Need help with something?”
“Thought you might like a listening ear,” I offer.
He hesitates, but then he steps back into the room, leaving the door open for me to follow.
I walk into his office. It’s stark and sterile like the rest of the house. A framed photo of Bill and Marie unsmiling and in dress clothes hangs on the wall. Beside it is a photo of Bill shaking hands with a former president. There are no other decorations.
“Nice office,” I lie.
Bill smirks. “Bullshit.”
“Could use a bit of personality,” I admit.
He grunts and walks over to his bar. As he pours two Scotches, he says, “Personality is bad for business.”
After handing me the glass, he raises his own. “To never falling in love,” he says.
He drinks. I don’t.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, but it’s the only one I feel comfortable asking.
Bill shrugs. “I’ve only lost the love of my life,” he says. “There are worse crosses to bear.”
“Are there?” I ask.
He only shrugs again and takes a longer drink.
“What happened to the two of you?” I ask.
“Money,” he says. “Or maybe that’s the easy excuse. Maybe we were more different than I wanted to admit.”
