Reparation(22)

“Any chance of you dumping her? Preferably in some horrific, public manner?” she asked. He smiled at her.

“Is that what you really want? I'll do it, if that's what you really want,” he replied in a soft voice.

“Ang,” she sighed.

“Hmmm?”

“Why didn't we fall in love?”

“Great mysery of life. I tried my hardest, but couldn't seal the deal. I was never mean enough for you,” he teased. She laughed.

“No, I guess you weren't. Don't dump Ellie. Do whatever you want, have weird, pregnant sex. Whatever. God. I just ..., well ..., don't fuck anyone else I hate,” she snapped, pulling her hands away to wipe at her eyes.

“Deal. And next time you're this upset with me – upset enough to try to use me in some horrible plan to ruin both the relationships we're in – just talk to me, you silly cunt.”

“Deal.”



*



Tate walked across the driveway, feeling lighter than she had in a while. Since Paris. It felt good to get it all out with Ang, better than she would have thought possible. She didn't know why she always went against Sanders' advice; it was always right.

That's why when she got out of the car, she hightailed it to the guest house. The back of it faced the main house, so she had to practically beat her way through hedges and bushes. By the time she got to the front door, Sanders was standing on the porch.

“There is a path,” he pointed out. Tate kicked her way through a rhododendron bush and took the hand he offered. He pulled her up the side of the stairs.

“Too easy. How are you?” she asked, brushing her hair out of her face as she walked through his door.

“I am well. How was dinner with Mr. Hollingsworth?” he asked, reaching to take her jacket. She slid it off and he hung it on a coat rack.

“Good. Great. I finally did what you said, I talked to somebody. I told Ang I didn't want him dating Ellie. I told him that I had basically been plotting their deaths this whole time,” she said quickly. Sanders raised his eyebrows, but that was it.

“And how did he respond?” he asked, leading her into his living room.

“He was angry. Called me a crazy fucking bitch. We yelled at each other. Then we laughed, and we forgave each other, and I told him he could do whatever he wants with her,” Tate replied.

“Good. Do you feel better?” Sanders asked.

She leaned into him then, wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. He stiffened up and hesitated for a second, but then she felt his hands clasp her wrists. Give her a squeeze. She pressed her cheek to his shoulders.

“Yes. Thank you,” she whispered. He squeezed her again, then let her go.

“Good. I'm glad. I told you, communication is key,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked around to stand in front of him.

“I know, I know. I shall always listen to you, from this day forth,” she prattled on, then looked around the large room. “What's going on in here?”

Much like in the main house, the living room of the guest house had a bar built into it, though much smaller. More of a group of cupboards against a back wall. All of them were open, and the counter tops were filled with all different kinds of liquor and spirits and mixers. Sanders cleared his throat.

“The last person to stay in this house was a business associate of Jameson's. He had me fully stock the bar. I have been organizing what's left, alphabetically, and marking on the bottles were the liquid levels are,” he explained. She laughed.

“Afraid someone's gonna sneak your booze?” she questioned, walking forward and looking through the alcohol.

“No. It just makes me feel better to know,” he replied. She nodded.

“Understandable. This is impressive, Sandy, he doesn't have this much stuff in his bar. Angosturas? Lillet? You guys don't mess around when you stock up,” she commented. She heard him fidget from behind her.

“I was actually thinking about that. I wondered if you would do something for me,” he said. She turned around, surprised.

“Of course, anything. Shoot,” she told him.

“I wondered if you would make me a drink.”

Tate was shocked. Sanders didn't drink. As far as she knew, he had never drank. Along side Jameson, he had been to world famous night clubs and top-of-the-line bars and the best wineries in Europe, but he didn't drink.

“Why?” she asked. He shrugged, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I have never done it. I have been curious about it for a long time. There is no one else I would trust enough to do it with,” he replied in a bored voice. She felt all warm inside. Her? Not Jameson?

Take that, Satan.

“Sandy, you're so sweet to me. Alright! What'll it be? You are dealing with South Boston's best bartender!” she said, clapping her hands together.