34. If I Had a $1,000,000
If I Had a $1,000,000
Arden
May 9, 1999
R eese pulls onto the rutted dirt lane that leads to the Miller farm. “We scoped it out yesterday and Brock is already on site.”
“Charlotte’s parents aren’t a security risk,” I say.
Reese sucks on his eyetooth. “Is she meeting you here?”
I shake my head. “Her father would like a ‘private word.’”
Reese gives me an irritated glance. “You didn’t tell me this was a confrontation, not a nice meet-and-greet with the family.”
“Come on. I eat guys like Bob Miller for breakfast.”
Reese nods in acknowledgment. I’m not being arrogant, it’s simply the truth.
“Besides, I didn’t come all this way to provoke the man. The last thing I want is for Charlotte’s parents to have a problem with us,” I say.
“It’s more likely he’ll ask for money.”
“And I’ll give it to him.”
A rank smell reaches my nostrils, and I grimace at Reese in disgust.
“It’s not me,” he says in an offended tone.
Reese comes to a stop, and I wait for him to open the door. When I step outside into the sunshine, Mrs. Miller, wearing jeans and a pale blue T-shirt, rushes across her porch, a dish towel in her hands.
She bounds down the steps and throws herself at me, bracing her hands on my biceps, damp dish towel included. A smile wreaths her face. “Oh, it is nice to meet you, Arden. I’m Maggie. You can call me Mom.”
For the space of a heartbeat, I freeze. Charlotte’s mother doesn’t appear to have noticed that Reese pulled his sidearm. I narrow my eyes at him, and he slides it back into his shoulder holster, then proceeds to don a face of innocence.
I smile. “It would be an honor to call you Mom.”
This is already going better than expected. Of course they’ll ask for money, which I’ll give them. Then they’ll tell Charlotte what a nice man she’s found. I’ll have family politics in hand within the half hour. After I introduce Reese, she turns to me.
Maggie Miller . . . Mom . . . leans back on her heels. “I gotta admit you’re a bit longer in the tooth than I expected.”
I found a single gray hair today. One. I’m not doddering .
She pats my shoulder. “Not that I’m complaining. It takes boys longer to mature.”
“I see where Charlotte gets her sass,” I say with a smile.
She slaps my arm with the towel. “All right, silver tongue.”
Mom points to the left of the farmhouse. “Bob and Max are out back. You’re going around the house, past the pole barn and coop.”
She glances at my Ferragamo loafers and cringes before giving me another smile. “The chickens are free range. Mind the rooster. He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch.”
With that, she turns on her heel and walks back up onto the porch. I straighten the cuffs on my Armani suit.
The walk around the side of the house is uneventful, if less than pleasant. A warm spring breeze burns a hole in my sinuses. The grass is damp and slick underfoot. Reese walks beside me, both of us audibly squelching as we go.
I lift a fist to my nose. “I thought the country was supposed to smell good. Give me exhaust fumes over this.”
Reese grunts. “Manure. They put it on the fields as fertilizer.”
We pass the pole barn with a big green tractor parked inside. Then we approach a mucky section with what looks like a kids’ playhouse on stilts. The ground surrounding the area is nothing but churned up mud. At least twenty brown chickens stop what they’re doing and eye Reese and me like we’re invaders.
“Keep walking. They’re just big pigeons,” I say.
Reese nods, and we continue. En masse, they bob over to investigate.
“They probably think we have food. They’re kind of cute, aren’t they?” I ask.
I bend and pet one on its silky back feathers.
A hoarse, screeching bellow emanates from the side of the coop. Reese and I turn our heads in unison. Time slows as the most evil-looking bird I’ve ever seen charges straight for me. Pits of hell burn inside the thing’s eyes. I’ve seen serial killers with less evident psychopathy than this vicious creature. Long, sharp talons churn the mud as he gains on me, his beak a flashing scythe. A red flag of fury waves above his head. Huge crimson flaps of flesh sway side to side with every step. For the first time, I truly understand the direct line of descent from dinosaur to bird.
Time speeds back up. Reese and I scatter like the chickens around us, dodging the fucking thing as it chases us. I slip and slide as I go, jumping over a fat hen when she doesn’t move out of the way fast enough, and stomping over the boards of the ramp that leads to their little house. A cacophony of angry poultry squawk and squall.
When I get a few feet between me and the rooster, the giant bird pauses, apparently debating whether he wants me or Reese for lunch first. I crouch, hands spread. “Don’t test me, fucker.”
He crows, stomps his foot and lowers his head.
“Walk away, asshole.” I don’t want to hurt Charlotte’s father’s bird.
He comes at me, and I pivot. I have an eighth-degree black belt in jiu-jitsu. I can handle a chicken that doesn’t reach my knees. He flaps his wings enough to gain a few inches of height. My thousand-dollar shoes prove useless in rucked-up mud and chicken shit. Arms windmilling, my feet skid out from under me. I land flat on my back in the mud with the breath knocked from my lungs. I roll away before its beak strikes the ramp near my head.
I jump to my feet just as Reese fires a shot in the air. All it does is cause the spawn of Satan to turn on Reese, rather than me.
Bob Miller, wearing denim overalls and a John Deere hat, jogs into the fray, bends over, and picks the demon up by its neck. Straightening, he holds the rooster at arm’s length and gives it a little shake. “Mind your manners, Reginald. He’s not interested in your ladies.”
The bird’s eyes roll, but he doesn’t fight. Bob sets him on the ground, then chases Reginald up the ramp and into the coop, yelling, “Go on. Git.”
When Bob returns, he plants his hands on his hips. Gaze starting at the mud in my hair and traveling down the length of my body, he comes to rest on what’s left of my shoes. He grunts and looks into my eyes. “Welp,” he says slowly in what I’ve learned is the local dialect in Blackwater. “Best head on up the house and ask Maggie to get you a change of clothes.” He frowns, then lifts his chin. “Hose off outside first. She’ll read you the riot act if you track up her floors.”
A brown glop falls from my sleeve and lands at my feet. I give Charlotte’s father a slow blink and consider getting back in my car. “Yes, sir.”
W hen the last fence post is in place, I straighten and try not to let on how grateful I am to be done. I’m gym fit, but I’ve been using different muscles today. I’ll go to my grave before I let on to Bob or Max that my back is screaming. Charlotte’s dad is at least twenty years older than I am. I have to keep up with the man or face even greater disgrace than the Reginald Debacle.
He claps me on my flannel-covered shoulder. “You’re all right, Arden, I don’t care what Max says about you.”
I turn to look at Max, and both men snort.
“It’s a joke,” Max says.
It seems odd, but, apparently, it’s a compliment.
“You should come back at the end of the month,” Max says with a grin. “It’s hay baling season.”
I’ve been here all day. We took a break for lunch and another for dinner, but we haven’t discussed anything I’d consider serious. When I tried to bring up my relationship with Charlotte, Bob lifted a hand and said, “We’ll get to that.”
Instead, we talked about my boys, all the grandkids, including Max’s son Jack, our favorite kind of pie, the weather, animals, soybeans, and the fact that it doesn’t count as owning a truck if I don’t drive it myself. They did seem impressed that I have my pilot’s license.
I admire the line of the new split-rail fencing, then look at the men. “So, you called me out here for a ‘private word’ because you needed another set of hands.”
Bob shrugs and smiles. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I laugh.
Bob grins, takes off his hat, and mops his brow. After he’s replaced it, he crosses his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, then. Let’s talk.”
I straighten my posture. “As you know, Charlotte and I have developed an affection for each other over the years. We plan to introduce our children this week. I can offer Charlotte and Bronnie not only financial security, but connections that will serve them in their future careers and socially. The blending of our families will be smoother and contribute to Charlotte’s happiness if her family is supportive of our relationship.”
Both men stare at me.
Finally, Max smooths his beard, then slaps his hat against his thigh. “Let’s go. Your guys can follow us.”
“Where?”
“To the Beer Barrel.” Max lifts a hand toward his truck.
I shake my head. “I have to get back on the road.”
Max fishes in his pocket and pulls out a key ring. “It’s my place. I know you need your privacy. We’re closed on Sundays.”
Fifteen minutes later, I lower myself to a red vinyl-covered barstool. The bar itself is a small wooden building butted up against a wooded area.
Bob takes a seat next to me. “Tell me why I should trust you with my girls. Money don’t mean shit except you probably have too much power for your own good.”
“I’m an honorable man. If you need character references, I’m happy to provide them. I’ll remain true to my vows.”
Max lines up a row of tequila shot glasses, dumps a bowl of lime wedges in front of me, then fills the glasses with Jose Cuervo. “I don’t want to hear some speech you memorized. I’ll trust you when you forget what you meant to say. Bottoms up.”
The first shot tastes like battery acid.
Max laughs at my grimace.
The second goes down a little easier.
The third isn’t bad at all.
T wo Hours Later
“How do you explain what love is? She’s the sun and the moon and the clouds and the ground under my feet. I jus’ love her.” I widen my eyes to try to get my point across. “Do you know how much? If Charlotte turned into an otter, I’d turn into one too so I could be with her. An’ I’d never let go of her little otter hand when she was sleeping so she didn’t float away. She’s”—I thump my chest with a fist— “carrying around a piece of my soul. Lotta times, guys think they’re in love, but they’re just hypnotized by pussy. Thass not real. But, Charlotte’s the whole package, and she made me wait.”
I close my eyes and weave on my barstool. Bob props me back into place, and I turn to look him in the eyes. “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”
Bob nods, his lips tipping with amusement. “Sure thing, Arden.”
“As I was saying.” I lift a finger. “Charlotte is the most wunnerful person I’ve ever known. And she made me wait and wait and—I tell you the truth, sometimes I thought I was going to lose my mind with it. But I’d have waited a hunerd years. She does have an incredible pussy too, though—”
“Nope,” Max says. “We heard enough. You’re done.”
Bob reaches for the last shot on the bar. “Welcome to the family, son. Let’s all pretend this conversation never happened.”