While those outlooks on life were difficult to understand, Gone with the Wind taught her about the historical and cultural perspective. It’d brought the history alive for her, made her care about the situation.
As her father was fond of saying, “if one doesn’t want to repeat history, one should learn from it.” She and Jed had long talks after viewing the film, discussing the Civil War and Reconstruction afterward as well as the socio-cultural ramifications. Jed never passed up the opportunity to play law professor, and he’d discussed the legal issues stemming from it, namely the unconstitutional Jim Crow laws.
While Jane had appreciated the history lesson, she’d still had a crush on Rhett Butler as a teen. She’d even read the book, eagerly hanging on every single word about him.
Yet, she didn’t think Byron Beauregard would be a fan.
“You like Gone with the Wind?”
“It’s one of my favorites, darlin’. If you haven’t noticed, the manor looks a bit like Tara.”
“I have.” She refused to elaborate on how charming she found it.
“Come on then. What do you say we take our minds off this mess with some alcohol and a guilty pleasure?”
A guilty pleasure—it summed up Byron nicely, although he’d meant the film.
Jane loathed losing control, but she’d been in a free-fall the past couple of days anyway. Maybe the alcohol and the movie would take the edge off.
“Okay, why not?”
At least it wouldn’t make things any worse.
He poured them each a shot into two small Mason jars he pulled from his pocket and then handed her one. She sniffed the drink—it smelled caustic, like rubbing alcohol.
“Let’s have a toast.” Byron lifted his glass, and she reluctantly raised hers.
“What are we drinking to?”
“Here's to the roses and lilies in bloom.” His lips curved. “You in my arms and I in your room. A door that is locked, a key which is lost. A bird, and a bottle, and a bed badly tossed. And a night that is fifty years long.”
How…salacious. “Did you write that?”
“Nope, an old-time-y journalist named Herb Caen did.” Byron clinked his glass against hers and then tossed back the shot.
She didn’t follow suit.
“I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”
“Never say n-”
“Never.”
“Damnation, but you’re quarrelsome. Fine, we won’t be sleepin’ together tonight, now drink up.”
The moonshine burned a hot, wet path down her throat. Coughing, she set the glass down.
“It’s nasty.”
“Only because you ain’t used to it. The first one smarts a bit, but it’ll come easier. The night is young, and we got a whole bottle to split between us.” Byron promptly filled her glass again and started the movie.
Two and a half hours later, midway through the five-hour film, Jane felt like she was floating, sprawling on a fluffy cloud, untethered by her problems. Technically, she was lying on a bed, but it felt lighter, almost feathery, tonight. She couldn’t remember lying down, but Byron was right beside her. Jane knew she should be upset, but she was too comfortable to move.
Mansfield lay on the edge of the bed, curled up in a ball, purring as though he was perfectly at home here.
Furry turncoat.
Byron must have a high tolerance level because he was relaxed but not loopy. And she had to admit, she was enjoying his company. He kept her glass full, and he was fifty percent less annoying than usual.
The moonshine must be magic.
Or maybe her barriers were down—she felt exposed, defenseless, but somehow it didn’t bother her so much.
“Ashley Wilkes is boring.” Jane followed up this assertion with a hiccup.
“Damn straight.”
There was something carnal in his hooded eyes, the way his lips kept parting. Everything about tonight was scandalous. She never imagined her life would lead here— flirting and drinking with a mobster, plotting a crime.
Suddenly, she came to a stark sort of realization. Byron was a lot like Rhett Butler; to put it in Gone with the Wind terms, he was a scalawag.
Jane hiccupped. “Why do you really like the movie? It isn’t Tara.”
“Scarlett’s my kind of woman—beautiful, feisty, resourceful, and she holds her own with Rhett.” He licked his lips. “She hated him in the beginnin’ too.”
Something about the way he was looking at her unnerved Jane.
“They don’t end up together.”
“Yeah, but it don’t mean they didn’t have fun while it lasted. Like the one scene when they first meet at Twelve Oaks. I know he ain’t a gentleman, but I disagree with the other bit—she’s most definitely a lady and so are you.” Byron was referring to Scarlett and Rhett’s first heated exchange when she insulted him by saying he wasn’t a gentleman, to which Rhett replied she wasn’t a lady—which he considered a compliment.