Chapter 5 #3
“Okay, I’ll go, but no omelet. I couldn’t do it justice.” She frowned, still not seeing anyone else in the house. “Where are Chelsea and Garrett?”
“Went for an early morning trail-ride,” Cat Shaw said. “Conveniently,” and then she winked. “They’re pretty obviously tryin’ to play matchmaker with your dad and me.”
“Very transparent, aren’t they?” Hyram said. “To be honest, I’m flattered anyone would think a pretty lady like you would be interested in a washed-up old chef like me.”
“Huh. And here I was, flattered they’d think an accomplished, talented, handsome man like you would be interested in a busy-body small-town real-estate lady like me,” she replied. And the two of them smiled at each other as if nobody else was in the room.
“Welp, that shower awaits,” Lily said, and headed up the stairs at the same pace she’d walked over from the bunkhouse.
Once she’d closed the bathroom door behind her, she called her brother.
Harrison picked up with a sleepy, “Hello?”
“I think something’s going on between Dad and that realtor lady, Cat Shaw!”
“Good morning to you, too,” Harrison replied. “She’s the one who helped Maria and me buy our house, right?”
“Yes,” Lily said in a stage-whisper. “They’re downstairs in their bathrobes making eyes at each other over breakfast.”
“Aww.” He sounded like he’d spotted a puppy.
“What do I do, Harrison? He made her an omelet !”
Her brother took a deep breath. “I think it’s sweet, Lil. I do. You said you were worried about him, that he seemed depressed, that you think he’s lonely. Maybe Cat Shaw’s good for him. Maybe…it’s time.”
“Oh, God,” she said. It was a cross between a whine and a moan. She leaned back against the wall and slid slowly to the floor until she was sitting on a fluffy shower rug. “It can’t be time.”
“Mom would want him to be happy.”
“Mom was a saint . I don’t want him to be happy. I want him to keep grieving her forever.”
“No, you don’t,” Harrison said. “I know you better than that.”
“No, I don’t,” she admitted. She took a deep breath and lowered her chin to her chest. Then from somewhere beyond her brother, she heard Maria shout, “Oh no, this is awful !”
“What’s wrong?” Lily asked. “Is Maria okay?”
“Hang on, she’s showing me something…oh, hell. This is bad. I’m forwarding a link. Where’s Ethan right now?”
“Out at the bunkhouse, last I saw him,” she said. “Why?” Her phone signaled, and she clicked the link her brother had sent. Her eyes rounded, and her jaw dropped. “Holy fu–dgesicles.”
And like a bolt from the blue, she understood where her sainted mother’s favorite exclamation had come from. She’d used it to keep herself from dropping f-bombs.
That was almost as big a revelation as the gossip site’s sensationalistic hit piece about Ethan Brand’s drug-lord father having murdered his birth mother.
When Ethan had looked at his phone, he hadn’t been able to believe his eyes. There was an image of him on stage, head back, guitar high, wailing, with backlighting that cast everything in red. Underneath the image there was a caption: “Ethan Brand’s Wholesome Image Hides a Violent Past.”
And then he saw the little inset with de Lorean’s face-front mugshot, and the caption, “Brand’s father—drug dealer and cold-blooded killer.”
He swore softly and tapped the link. It took him to an article in one of the celebrity gossip sheets, claiming he’d just inherited a fortune from the same man who’d killed his own mother, a crime lord worth millions. It made him sound like a greedy, grasping fraud.
“While his music praises his small-town home and family values, it appears Ethan Brand is actually sole heir to the fortune of a murderous organized-crime boss, earned by smuggling cocaine and fentanyl into the country.”
The article made it sound as if the idyllic upbringing he’d talked about in every interview and written about in most of his songs had been made up out of whole cloth.
“Hell and damnation.” He pushed a hand through his hair. That was the point where he’d looked up to find Lily on her way out the door.
His phone stopped buzzing and started ringing. Angelo Barrone was on the screen. His manager. He had to answer. He had no choice but to let Lily run off angry. He could make things right later. Or…not. He was leaving. What difference did it make? It might even be easier to let her stay mad.
He answered the phone. “Hey, Angelo.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ethan!”
He sighed and said, “Look, I was adopted as a baby by the Brands of Quinn, Texas. Everything I’ve ever said or sung about my childhood is the truth. It’s verifiable. My birth father’s behavior isn’t my fault.”
“No shit. It’s all true then?”
“Yeah.”
“He killed your mother?”
Ethan sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
“Jeeze, kid, that’s rough. I’m sorry, man.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what about this inheritance they’re talking about?”
“I’m disclaimin’ it. Meetin’ with a lawyer today.”
“But…? It sounds like there’s a but.”
“There’s a but,” Ethan admitted. “He put a local cantina in my name before he died. And the previous owner had a heart attack and wants me to take it over. He’s countin’ on it, in fact. And it’s in my hometown, well, hometown adjacent. They count on the place, too.”
“Ah-huh.” Angelo said. “Lemme think, lemme think.”
Ethan could picture him, pacing his cheesy little office in Dallas, rubbing his bald head, and pressing his lips.
He’d emigrated from Brooklyn and never lost the accent.
Still had an office there, and one in Nashville, too, but he spent most of his time in Dallas, his adopted home.
He made good money, lived in a house out of a lifestyle magazine, but you wouldn’t know it by his shabby workspace.
The guy was a genius for most of his clients. Kept saying he hadn’t quite found the key with Ethan yet, but that he knew he would. Talent will tell, he liked to say.
“I’m fixin’ to sell the place as quick as I can,” Ethan told him. “I’m hopin’ to find somebody local. It’s part of the community, you know? I can’t sell to some corporation who’d doze it to make a parkin’ lot.”
“Yeah,” Angelo said. “Yeah, a little cantina. Part of the fabric of that small town of yours. Quale?—”
“Quinn.”
“Quinn, yeah.”
“Only it’s in Mad Bull’s Bend, next town over.”
“You’re kidding. You’re making it up.”
“No, why would I?—”
“This cantina shown up in any of your songs, Ethan?”
He thought about it for a second, then snapped his fingers. “ Gringo in a Sombrero, ” he said. It’s a silly song about the bearded, sombrero-wearing Caucasian who hangs out at Manny’s place, causing all the locals to speculate about him.”
“Yeah? How’s it go?”
He sang into the phone:
“In a small cantina-taco-stand, with the best tacos in all the land, at a table near the soda stand
Gringo-sombrero man.
Brim down low to hide his eyes, bushy beard like a disguise. Doesn’t care to socialize
Gringo-sombrero man.
Watching diners every day, still as if he’s made of clay, prob’ly with the CIA,
Gringo-sombrero man.
Or maybe casing up the joint, to rob it at some future point
Or maybe in the distant past, here’s where he saw his lover last
And now he waits for her return, And until then, his heart will yearn?—”
“I’m not so sure you should sell it,” his manager broke into Ethan’s number just when he was getting to the big finish. “You got another option besides sell it?”
“Well, I mean…my family wants me to stay here and turn it into a honky-tonk, but?—”
“Turn it into a honky-tonk?” Angelo said. “Huh. A honky-tonk.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“Is it big enough to bring in decent acts?”
“It could be,” he said. “If we knocked out a wall, and…But that’s not what I?—”
“This sounds like the perfect thing, Ethan. You realize that? The solution to your problem is right in your hands.”
“No, Ang. It’s not.”
“First things first,” Ang said, brushing off Ethan’s denial like a pesky gnat.
“You need to make a statement for the press to respond to this hit piece. Make a video, okay? Disown your old man, disclaim the inheritance, and talk about your adopted family being the only one you’ve ever known, yada, yada, blah, blah.
You got me? Then say you need to take some down time to process what’s happened. Can you do that for me? On video?”
“I…yeah, I can do that, sure.”
“Good. That’s first. You make that video on your phone or whatever, and you send it to me.
I’ll do the rest. And then you go focus on that honky-tonk of yours.
You want to sell it later, fine. But listen to me, Ethan.
You shouldn’t be on the road for a while, especially not with an album due.
Besides, a person in anguish wouldn’t be out playing gigs, and you gotta show some anguish to overcome the stories already out there. ”
“But they’re lies.”
“First lie to go viral wins. How many times have you heard me say that?”
Ethan sighed and didn’t answer.
“We can overwhelm the bad press with your genuine, down-home wholesomeness. You ain’t faking that. I know fakes, and you’re no fake. I know what I’m talking about. Home is the best place for you right now. And saving that fabric-of-Quale cantina?—”
“Quinn, not Quale, and it’s in Mad Bull’s Bend, not Quinn.”
“—that small-town cantina you’ve written songs about and somehow, through a twist of fate, wound up owning, is the best thing you could be working on.
I couldn’t make up a better project for you.
Saving a beloved small-town business. Helping out an owner who has to retire after a heart attack.
Expanding to employ more locals, boosting the Quale economy. ”
Ethan closed his eyes, lowered his head. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t be expected to know everything, son.
That’s my job. Besides, you just found out the man who killed your mother died in prison.
And he happened to be your father. You most likely do need some down time, whether you even know it or not.
It’d be harder to believe you didn’t. So take it.
Meanwhile, I’ll work on turning this whole situation to our advantage. ”
“How in tarnation are you fixin’ to do that?”
“It’s my job to figure that out. You make me that video. Other than that, you don’t talk to anybody. No interviews. Stay off social media until I tell you otherwise. Focus on that cantina. Bask in that wholesome hometown of yours for a while. Consider it a vacation.”
“How long a vacation?”
“Eight, ten, twelve weeks. You trust me, right?”
He closed his eyes. “I do trust you, Angelo.” With good reason. Ang was an important, successful entertainment manager, and Ethan was lucky to have him.
“Good. Then do what I tell you. It’s for the best. And shoot me that video. Sooner the better but do a good job. And remember, you need private time to process all this. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
His manager disconnected without a goodbye, and Ethan figured he was probably already placing another call. He put his phone down. Great. Now he had to stick around home.
And Lily.
He glanced up toward the still open bunkhouse door and realized he’d pissed her off for nothing. Hell.
The shower shut off, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk, so he headed out. If he was fixin’ to have a meltdown, he’d prefer it be in private.