Page 5 of Poolside

Another tap and once again ringing filled the car.

He worked his way through each of his branch managers, calling them one by one and checking in on how the day had gone. Randy, one of the drivers at the Avondale office, was planning on retiring after years with Venture, and Tommy wanted to make sure that they did something nice for him. He’d put together a retirement party for him in the next few weeks.

When he’d finished his check-ins, he called Chuck.

“Hey,” his warm voice said, answering after one ring.

Tommy felt his shoulders loosen. “Hi.”

“You want to come over for dinner?” He heard the clanging of dishes. “I was going to chill and watch something.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“You’re making your pasta salad, though.”

Tommy smiled. “Deal. See you soon.”

“Uh, T?” Chuck was quiet for a moment. “What do you know about raccoons?”

“Raccoons?”

“Yeah. Raccoons.”

Tommy frowned. “Do I want to know?”

Chuck snorted a laugh. “I’ll tell you when you get here. Drive safe, T.”

* * *

Eight minutes later Tommy was pulling into Chuck’s driveway, his SUV sliding up next to Chuck’s sedan.

He knew the front door would be open and walked right in, dropping down onto one of the couches to unlace his shoes before stashing them on the rack next to the door. Next he shrugged off his jacket and undid his tie, hanging both up on a waiting hanger in the coat closet.

He was much more comfortable now in just his unbuttoned shirt and slacks. Honestly, he was always comfortable in Chuck’s house. Maybe it was the soft, neutral-colored rugs on the floors, or the furniture that was stylish without sacrificing comfort, or the leftovers carefully stacked in the fridge. Or maybe it was that Chuck always looked happy to see him.

He could hear Chuck in the kitchen, humming some song that Tommy didn’t recognize.

Tommy started lumbering down the hall, but paused when he saw a flash of gray and white fur out of the corner of his eye. He pounced, scooping up a yowling, writhing cat and cradling him in his arms. He made quiet cooing sounds as he scratched the glowering cat between the ears. “Looking mangy as always, Bones.”

Bones, or, as Chuck liked to remind him,SkinnyBones, let out a forlorn yowl as he blinked up at Tommy with round green eyes.

“Be nice to Skinny Bones!” Chuck called out from the kitchen.

Tommy rounded the corner, finding Chuck in his usual home attire—loose athletic shorts and a faded t-shirt. Wild red waves circled his head, and freckles covered every inch of his face and arms. Chuck was tall and lean; even years after competing, he had maintained a powerfully-built upper body. Tommy had no idea why he hid all of that hard-earned muscle under baggy shirts.

Placing the cat gently down on the floor, Tommy made a lame effort to brush the cat hair from his shirt and slacks as the animal scampered away to hide. “He loves me,” he argued.

Chuck let out a huff without turning around. “The pasta’s already five minutes in, and everything else is in the fridge.”

Tommy got right to work, familiar with Chuck’s kitchen after many nights spent there in the wake of his divorce. He’d found a comfort in Chuck’s solitude he hadn’t been able to find with anyone else.

There were a whole crew of them who had stayed close after graduating from Southeastern University together. Darius and Keaton were both in Charleston, but when Tommy’s marriage had ended, Darius was happily living with his wife and Keaton had been staying at his family’s estate out of town while his place was getting remodeled. Their other friend, David Hughes, hadn’t moved back to town yet.

So, when his life had fallen apart, he’d gone to Chuck’s house. Chuck was always ready with a warm smile. He had a sixth sense for when to stay quiet and when to ask questions. He’d welcomed Tommy, and no matter how many times Tommy asked, had never complained about him being there.

Even now Tommy had a duffel of spare clothes in the guest room and an extra suit hanging in the closet.

“How was your day?” he asked when he’d gotten the rest of the ingredients for his Grandma Marge’s pasta salad out of the fridge. He was a good Minnesota boy with at least fifteen family recipes for cold salads and casseroles stashed in one of those old library card boxes in his kitchen.

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