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“They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day.” She smiles, looking up at the silver sprinkler, water still dripping from its metal head. “Does this count?”
I fall into a fit of giggles and fresh tears.
CHAPTER 26
Rockwell
I leave the house, making the short trip to the family’s newest business venture by foot instead of taking a car. I use the opportunity to light a cigarette, hoping the scent of tobacco will be aired from me by the time I arrive.
If not, the Cuban cigar I light up will do the job.
I take a long drag, enjoying the feeling of being lost in a sea of people. I get a few nasty looks for the smoke, but I don’t care. The nicotine enters my bloodstream and I’m able to momentarily relax.
God, I fucked up.
And there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Thank God the family event I have to attend today is at a whiskey bar. I’m going to need a few Rip Van Winkles to get through this day. A new speakeasy is being opened by one of the three heads of our family; Bronson, who runs the Hamlet in Connecticut.
We not only have our city escape, the Village, but a private island off the coast of Greece, appropriately named the Parish after being founded with the help of boats purchased from priests, as well as an entire hidden town in Connecticut where most larger families with children live, called the Hamlet.
Bronson’s kids are grown, and he only gets to the city when his wife Paige forces him to leave his suburban haven. Paige is a shopper. I’ve heard the phrase ‘shop till you drop,’ but I’ve never heard of Paige dropping. Bronson, on the other hand, is one of those men you see in the stores stuck in a comfy armchair for sale while scrolling over his phone screen, catching up on sports scores.
Word on the Bachman gossip grapevine is on their last visit to Daughtry’s, Paige asked him to stop tagging along. To find something to do. A hobby for him to enjoy when they make more frequent visits to the city, now that their children are busy with their own lives.
Following his wife’s urges, he wanted somewhere to hang with the brothers, a place to catch up with the crew of male Bachmans still fortunate to live in the city while his cute little wife spends her days with her friends, trying on clothes, loading her bodyguards up with boxes of new shoes, and frequenting the cafés she dines in.
Tonight, he’s having a whiskey tasting at his new speakeasy, a place he’s deemed the perfect place to lounge with a drink and a Cuban cigar as he waits to take Paige out to a show or dinner at the end of her shopping spree.
Dressed to impress, as Bronson’s invitation stated, I wear a three-piece suit, gray pinstripes running down my buttoned vest. I typically wear pants and a nice button-up shirt to catch up with the guys, but I have no issue going the extra mile for Bronson.
I pass Daughtry’s as I make my way up the street to his new bar. My gaze lingers at the shop window, making me think of the excitement in Lily’s eyes as Claudia helped her choose a new wardrobe. And how the two pressured me back at my apartment to try on some foolish-looking younger man’s clothing. Something the two called athleisure wear while falling into fits of giggles from the look on my face.
I push the happy memory from my mind, tugging open the heavy, red-lacquered door under the iron works sign that boasts the clever name Bronson’s Place.
I step inside. It’s dark, quiet. All men.
Beneath the dim, flickering lightbulbs, the room is filled with an aura of intrigue. The scent of the aged whiskey hangs in the air like a cloud, mingling with the rich aroma of the Cuban cigars.
The perfect environment to forget about her. A friend goes to the bar. Scans the menu, pushing a button that lights up a small red light under the bottle of Rip Van Winkle. An old man’s drink for a lonely bachelor who woke up with more silver hair above his ears and who irons a crease in the front of his jeans.
I accept the drink, joining a group at a blood-red cushy leather booth. For the first time in weeks, I begin to feel relaxed, settling into the warm darkness of the place. Listening to the pleasant small talk that surrounds me, I take in the space.
Small wooden crates of cigars for sale are lined up on the bar, the wood stained a dark gleaming brown. The wooden walls are adorned with antique mirrors, reflecting the low, smoky cast of the room as the men gather together, their dark suits and ties making the scene feel like something out of a classic black-and-white film.
Maybe I ought to dress up for the boys more often.
This is pretty cool, the atmosphere, the outfits. The whiskey warming my blood, relaxing me. I take a deep inhale of a cigar that costs more than a bottle of the aged whiskey someone’s placed on the table that we’re now pouring from.
After about an hour of socializing, the new owner joins us.
A hush falls over the room as Bronson enters, the way he carries himself always drawing respect from the men he surrounds. He was the first of the Bachman bloodline to live in the Village, raised by powerful men to become a fearless man himself.
He’s impeccably dressed in a black suit with a gray vest and blue tie, the silk fabric smooth against the lines of his chest. His eyes, dark and mysterious, catch the gaze of several of the younger recruits, ones he’s not yet met but who have heard stories about him as he weaves his way through the crowd, making his way to the bar.
His eyes find mine, nodding for me to join him.
I move from the booth to stand beside him. “Great job with this place, Bronson.”
