Outcast

“What about college? She’s already started the fall term at Georgetown.”

“She can still go.”

“Who’s going to take care of the baby?”

“We can get a babysitter.”

“You have any idea how much it costs for child care these days? For diapers and baby food? You have a one-bedroom apartment. You’re going to need a bigger place.”

“We can’t afford a bigger place right now, especially with the doctor’s bills,” Waverly said.

“You’re damned lucky Julia has money of her own.”

“Julia has agreed to live on my income,” Waverly said.

Ben shook his head. “How long do you think that’s going to last?”

“The rest of our lives.”

“Do you really think Julia can live without all the luxuries she’s grown up with? That she’ll want her child to grow up without a bedroom of his or her own? Even if Julia were willing, her parents won’t be.”

“Julia promised me she won’t ask her parents to buy her stuff once we’re married,” Waverly said.

“She won’t need to ask. All she’ll have to do is mention she needs something and Ham or my mother will get it for her. Which is a moot point, because Julia can buy anything she wants for herself in three years, when she turns twenty-one and inherits the fifty-million-dollar trust fund that’s waiting for her.”

“Fifty million?” Waverly blurted.

“I thought you knew.”

“She told me she had a little money coming when she turned twenty-one. I knew your family had money, but … She never said—Damn it all to hell!”

“I wish I’d never introduced the two of you,” Ben muttered.

“Don’t say that. I love her.” Waverly rubbed his palms dry on his tuxedo trousers. “I can’t believe this.” He stared at Ben, his eyes wide, as though they were ten thousand feet in the air and Ben had just told him both engines had flamed out.

“See what I mean?” Ben said. “Right now you’re thinking, ‘Why on earth would you take a regular job when you have that kind of money, Ben?’ Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Waverly said. “Why did you take a regular job with that kind of money?”

“Just stupid, I guess,” Ben said.

After graduation from West Point, Ben had gone into the army. It had seemed romantic and exciting and challenging. It gave him something to do with his life.

Until the day came when he’d realized he couldn’t remain a soldier one more hour. That he had to quit.

But he’d lived as a soldier most of his life, in a family full of soldiers, and he’d felt surprisingly lost after he left the military. He’d needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He’d needed something useful to do with his life.

No one who needed to work simply to put food on the table or clothes on his back or a roof over his head could understand the utter emptiness—the unnecessariness—of a life where all those things were already provided.

Ben had thought about ridding himself of his wealth. But there were problems with that, too.

Ben grimaced when he heard a wailing siren and saw flashing red-and-blue lights in his rearview mirror. He carefully maneuvered his Jag through a slick pile of burnished leaves on the side of the road. They were less than ten miles from Hamilton Farm. “Don’t say it,” he said before Waverly could speak.

The Virginia motorcycle cop had a hand on his Glock as he approached the driver’s-side window. “License and registration,” he said.

Ben handed over his license and registration.

“Show him your badge, Ben,” Waverly said irritably. “You’ll be in trouble with your boss if you end up with a ticket for speeding.”

“What badge is that, sir?” the cop asked.

“Just write the ticket,” Ben said.

“What badge is that, sir?” the cop repeated.

Ben shot Waverly a dark look and pulled out his ICE badge. “You should ask him for his badge, too.”

The cop eyed Waverly, who said, “I’m MPD.”

“The senator’s been looking for you,” the cop said, as he handed back Ben’s license and registration. “I’ll give you an escort to The Farm.”

The cop pulled his Harley-Davidson out in front of Ben’s Jag and turned on his flashing lights and siren.

“Does this happen often?” Waverly asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Ben shot his friend a sardonic look. “Get used to it. Like I said. It isn’t easy being rich.”

He glanced at his friend and saw the dawning realization in Waverly’s eyes that when he married into Julia’s family, his life would take a drastic turn.

“Does Julia have to take the money?” Waverly said. “Can she turn it down?”

“You can’t get rid of my mother’s money. Or the senator’s money. Neither Julia—nor your child—will ever want for anything if they can help it.”

“I intend to support my family myself,” Waverly said through tight jaws.

“Good luck telling Julia’s parents to butt out of your life,” Ben said as they entered the half-mile-long, oak-tree-lined drive along the James River that led to The Farm.

“I plan to do just that,” Waverly said. “Tonight.”

Ben grinned as the elegant Southern mansion came into view. “This I have to see.”

11

“You’re late.”

“Hello, Ham,” Ben said, shaking hands with his mother’s second husband.

Randolph Cornelius Hamilton, III, met them in the wild-rose-wallpapered foyer of The Farm with a bourbon in hand. His glazed eyes and slurred voice suggested he’d already had a few.