Elliott rose to his feet. The expression of happiness drained from his face. It was replaced by one of serious dread.

“Jane. There’s someone I want you to meet.” She didn’t seem the least bit interested, but she humored him. “Jane, this is Bailey.”

I extended my hand to this little quirky-looking woman who was a good deal older than Elliott. She did not extend her hand back to me. But simply nodded and said hello.

“Come on, be nice, Lady Jane.” The look on my face begged the question. Elliott did not make me wait. “Bailey, this is Jane. My wife.”

I don’t remember what niceties were exchanged with that woman. I am sure there was an attempt because, after all, I am Southern. All I know is that I gathered up my things in a most efficient manner, got myself home, and retrieved the nearest bottle of bourbon I could lay claim to. I got a glass and shut the door to my bedroom.

In the whole tenure of our relationship, Elliott had never mentioned a wife. We had talked about so many soul-bearing subjects that you would think he would have at least mentioned that he was married. Did he have children? What did I really know about Elliott? A tsunami of uncomfortable emotions coursed through my body like boiling blood. Anger. Confusion. Stupidity. Betrayal. Sadness. Every uncomfortable emotion crisscrossed feverishly through my body. I hated him. I hated myself. But I really loved the bourbon I was drinking. The phone rang. It was Griffin.

“Hey, Bae. It’s me. Are you ready for your opening next week?” he asked.

I would’ve been ready about two hours ago, I wanted to say. “I guess so. I really wish you were coming.” Right now, I needed Griffin more than my brother.

“I know. But I’ll be there for the grand opening. The big shindig. Henry will be a good eye and audience for you.”

“Yes. But he’s not you.” I sounded like an insecure schoolgirl, and I hated myself anew. There was a long pause between us.

“Hey, are you all right? Has that Englishman done something to hurt you?” I was supposed to be a grown-ass woman, and I needed to handle it myself. Griffin had told me he was out of the caretaking business. I knew that meant me too. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together.

“I’m fine. You know how it is. He has one vision. I have another. You know I nitpick. We just had a last-minute artistic difference of opinion.” An unmentioned wife is a little more than an artistic difference, I kept thinking.

“If you’re sure,” Griffin responded. I gave him the best gift I could give him: ignorance of the situation.

“I am. It will all be ironed out when you get here.”

“Okay. I just wanted to give you a heads up about your brother.”

This scared me. I could tell that Griffin was not going to give me the gift of ignorance. “Oh Jesus. Is he back in rehab? The last few times I’ve seen him he was sober as a judge, what happened?”