“Sure. You know a place?”
“I do. If it’s still there.” I nod up the street, and she falls in step with me. I move to her other side, edging her away from the curb.
“What are you doing?” She gives me a frown.
“Manners. Ma always told me a gentleman walks on the street side of the lady. You’ve never heard that?”
“No.”
“I take it my brother didn’t do it.”
“So, you’re a gentleman, then?” Her gaze sweeps over me, like that’s a joke.
“Don’t let the leather fool you. I can be a decent guy.”
“That remains to be seen.”
We pass a five-and-dime store that’s been here since I was little. “We once shot bottle rockets into that store. David was mainly the one who did it, but he left me holding the bag, and I’m the one who took all the blame. You’d think the oldest would get the blame, but not in our fucked-up family. One was born an angel, and one was born with crooked wings. At least, that’s what my mom always told me.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrow, and I have to wonder if this is the first time she’s ever heard a story where her husband wasn’t the glowing angel my parents always made him out to be. I can only imagine the one-sided perception she’s been exposed to all these years.
The restaurant is only half a block away, and I hold the door for her. A hostess greets us and leads us to a table halfway toward the kitchen in the narrow space. I sit with facing the street, so I can keep an eye on the door. I never turn my back to an entrance. It’s an old habit that’s saved my life more than once.
The hostess leaves us with menus, and Rebecca dips her head to study hers. I already know what I want and leave mineon the table, shoving the sleeves of my thermal shirt up my forearms and crossing my arms to lean on the tablecloth.
That draws her attention, and her gaze sweeps over the ink I exposed.
“Do you have any?” I ask.
“Any what?”
“Ink. Tattoos.”
She drops her gaze to the menu and nervously tucks her hair behind her ears. “Of course not.”
I think she’s lying. I bet there’s a butterfly somewhere. Her hip maybe? A souvenir from some spring break in Daytona, perhaps. I grin, and I can tell by the look she darts me, she knows I’m on to her, but I let it slide.
I doubt I’ll be around long enough to find out the answer to that question, anyway.
The waitress comes and takes our order and retrieves the menus.
“So, guess we’re stuck with the place for a year. That sucks,” I say.
“Stuck with the place? How can you say that? Your grandfather loved that tree farm.”
“Yeah, he did. And he should have left it to my mom.”
“If you feel that way, then why don’t you sign your part over to her?”
“Not a chance.”
“You don’t want it. That’s obvious.”
“What the hell would I do with it? I don’t even live in this state.”
She cocks her head. “Alabama, right?”
“Birmingham. That’s where my clubhouse is located.”
