Robert B. Parker's Buzzkill by Alison Gaylin

Author:Alison Gaylin [Gaylin, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2024-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Five

In addition to their many other properties on the East Coast and around the world, Bill and Lydia Welch owned a renovated brownstone on Beacon Hill that dated back to the Colonial era. This was where they typically spent November and December. It was where they held the annual holiday party that had always made the society pages, back when there were society pages. And it was where our luncheon was to be held.

Lucky for me, the Welch brownstone had been photographed for Architectural Digest a little over a year ago, so I had been able to look it up online and gawk at the pictures before I was scheduled to arrive. As a result, when I did show up, I was suitably blasé about my surroundings. (Or, at the very least, I wasn’t tempted to beg for a tour.) Their home was truly beautiful—a marvel of polished mahogany, creamy crown moldings, and immaculate, multi-paned windows of antique leaded glass that made the snow-dusted street below look like a Victorian Christmas card. The thing that impressed me most, though, was how much care and effort had gone into restoring the space to its original beauty. It was as though before embarking on the renovation, Bill and Lydia had looked at their failure of a son and decided that this time, they were going to get things right.

A tuxedoed butler greeted me at the door and took my coat. His close-cropped silver hair shimmered in the soft lighting. “You must be Ms. Randall,” the butler said to me. He spoke in a refined British accent, and he carried a silver tray with a single tall glass of iced tea placed atop it. It was all so what-you-would-expect-from-old-Boston-money, it almost felt like cosplay. The butler introduced himself as Balthazar and handed me the iced tea. He was wearing white gloves. “Jasmine and mint,” he said.

“That sounds delicious,” I said. I took a sip. It was.

“May I take your phone?” he said.

“Pardon?”

“The Welches have a strict no-phone policy during their luncheons,” he said. He slipped two iPhones out of his jacket pocket. “As you can see, I have theirs as well.”

I thought it was an annoyingly presumptuous request—as though no one could be trusted to stay off their phone for an hour, and so they had to be treated like junior high school kids. But it wasn’t a hill I was willing to die on. I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to him.

I followed Balthazar through the large foyer, past an enormous Christmas tree, and up to a grand mahogany staircase, which we climbed together. Perhaps it was because of all the wine I’d consumed the night before or simply the lack of a chance to get to a gym the past several mornings, but I found myself taking the stairs a little slower than usual. At one point, I stopped and sipped some iced tea to fortify myself and almost ran into a man in a suit who was hurrying down the stairs, his head lowered.

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