Page 13 of The County Fair Queen

Jordan flashed my father a smile. "I hope you come." The second the words were out, his eyes bulged, heat racing across his cheeks. "The day! I meant, I hope that the day eventually comes. Not you." Jordy cocked his head to the side, lost in thought. "Well, I suppose I hope you come as well, because it would be a shame for a man of your stature to never come again." He closed his eyes and cringed with embarrassment. "Someone shoot me, please. Put me out of my self-imposed misery."

"I will kill you," I whisper to him. "I will kill you and everyone you've ever loved if you don't control yourself."

"Well," Preston interrupted, carefully setting his fork down on his plate, his cheeks a bit redder than before. "I wouldn't need to manage anything if we'd all stuck to the plan." Then, for the first time in years, my father stared directly into my eyes. There was a quiet rage in them. An anger that had been stewing for decades. "I wouldn't have to break my back working eighteen goddamn hours a day for damn near twenty years."

"I could have stayed," I agreed. "But last I heard, the role of family martyr was already taken."

"Bernadette is going to be pissed she missed this," Jordan said.

"Who the hell is Bernadette?" I said.

"The lady with the Vicodin dependency."

I scoffed. "Her name is Brenda. Or Carole. Maybe Justin. Honestly, I don't know, and I don't particularly care to find out." I glared at Preston, aiming the tines of my fork at him. "You."

"Me?"

"Damn right, you. I offered to help you look for an assistant, but you turned me down."

"I don't need some kid wandering around making decisions on stuff he don't know a thing about. I needed someone who knows the vineyard. Gram-pap died and left us here to pick up the pieces. He gave you a third of it as well, and then you just ran off to prance around on stage like a goddamn ballerina."

"Gram-pap?" Jordy said with hearts in his eyes. "God, your voice is adorable. Say something else."

Preston rolled his eyes, ignoring Jordan.

"Now, Preston," Aunt Lurlene scolded. "We've talked about this. Phillip's a man of the world. You can't expect him to move home at the drop of a hat." She pulled the napkin from her lap and dabbed the corners of her mouth. "He's very busy being busy, you see. With all that talent inside of him—"

Preston guffawed so loudly I could almost feel it in my bones. "Talent?" He banged the side of his fist against his chest as if he was trying to dislodge an imaginary chunk of chicken-fried steak from his throat. "He just stood up there miming into a microphone. You act like we've got Emmylou Harris sitting at the dinner table or something. The kid can't sing to save his life."

I stared down at my plate, unable to respond. How could I? There were no lies in his statement, and everyone at the dinner table knew it.

"That was uncalled for," Aunt Lurlene said. "I'd like for you to apologize, Preston. If you're going to be mean just for meanness' sake, you can take your plate to your room. I'm not having Turnip's first night home ruined."

Preston made a sound similar to a dying brown bear, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at me. He mumbled something under his breath and stared out the dining room window.

"Sorry," she said. "What was that? I've never been good at deciphering the wailings of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum."

"I said, I'm sorry," he grumbled.

Suddenly, I wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. Aunt Lurlene just sighed, and the look she gave me spoke volumes. An endless saga of sympathy designed to lift my spirits, but all it did was make me feel like even less of a man. Like I was reliant on an aging diva to fight my battles.

"I think you've got a beautiful voice, Phillip," she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. She stared at my plate and frowned. "Would you like me to ask Marie to whip you up your usual? I didn't even think to ask what you were in the mood for, did I? She might be getting ready to head home for the night, but I don't think she'd mind staying a little later. I know we have waffle mix in the pantry, and I'm pretty sure we've got honey in the spice cabinet." She gnawed her lip, narrowing her eyes in concentration. After a beat, she said, "I'm not sure if we have any cotton candy on hand, though, baby. Preston, would you mind making a trip down to the Pick-n-Save and grabbing a bag of the ready-made? There's still an hour or so before it closes."

"What is it with you and cotton candy waffles?" Jordan said.

"It was our thing. Every morning at Minnie's before school." I pushed my plate further away and shook my head at Aunt Lurlene.

"His favorite," she agreed.

"It wasn't just y'all's thing," Preston muttered. He was right. It hadn't just been Aunt Lurlene and me sharing waffles at Minnie's Diner. With his quiet disposition, it might as well have been, but he'd always gotten up early to drive us into town as a family.

"You must be exhausted after your trip," Aunt Lurlene said. "Why don't you go on up to bed and get some rest? I can wake you up in the morning, if you'd like. Have a pot of coffee ready for you when you get up."

"Thanks," I said. "We've got the talk show in the morning. Would you mind getting us up at six?"

"I'm always up by three-thirty. This new medication they've got me on for my arthritis has me shooting out of bed like a freight train. You boys go on upstairs. I'll see you both in the morning."

In my bedroom, Jordan headed toward an old bean bag that hadn't been used in decades. A giant blue blob that always reminded me of an overripe blueberry. The second I saw him plop down onto it, my heart raced in my chest. There was something within eyeshot that Jordan would never let me live down if he caught sight of it.

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