CHAPTER 23 #2
She passed the shampoo and hair aisle as she headed toward the pharmacy for Advil, and immediately a woman from Giveaway Night with an eighties-style pink fluffy scrunchie in her ponytail came to mind.
Someone’s discarded hand basket rested nearby, and she piled her items into the basket, then snagged several packs of more modern-looking elastic bands, bobby pins, metal barrettes, and a few trendier headbands and headwraps—some sporty, some hippie—and popped them in the basket, too.
On a whim, she grabbed a few mini hairsprays and multi-packs of plastic combs in shades of pink, pale green, purple, and blue.
Basic black did the trick, sure, but these were women, and no matter whether they lived in a car or some warehouse by the river, they had to appreciate a few feminine touches.
Some lip balm and body sprays went in the basket, too, which was now so heavy she had to grab it with two hands as she headed toward checkout.
“Hey, Becks!” The voice came from behind her, and she set her basket on the checkout counter and turned to find Josh Jamison pushing a piled-high grocery cart her way.
“Hey, Josh,” she said, then looked around for JJ. “Your son’s not with you today?”
“Ever try to bring a ten-year-old with you to the grocery store?” Josh made a face, and Rebecca laughed. “Nah, he’s with his Aunt Lissa and cousins. She keeps him in the summer for me.”
“That’s nice of her,” Rebecca said as she unpacked her items, set them on the belt.
“You and your Granny doing some sort of girls’ hairdo night?” Josh looked quizzically at all the combs and hair accessories as they went one by one down the belt toward the register.
She giggled. “No, these are for the Friday thing,” she waved her hand, suddenly shy about mentioning it.
Just because you’ve helped once doesn’t mean you’re a ministry volunteer, Rebecca.
You don’t want to go sounding like you’re some actual do-gooder.
He’ll see right through it, or worse, start badgering you to do more.
“Cool,” Josh said simply, pushed his cart closer.
She inspected the contents furtively, noting mostly healthy stuff: several packs of meat and chicken, some vegetables, various boxes of rice and pasta and other things, with a pack of Hostess cupcakes perched neatly on top.
He followed her gaze to the cupcakes and laughed. “Still got a weakness for ’em, though now not every day.” He patted his waistline, which to her looked trim and athletic.
She made a face. “I used to love those things. I haven’t had one in years, literally.” She looked at him, realizing how much time had passed. “Maybe since that last summer here.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me. How could you not have had a Hostess cupcake since you were, like, seventeen?”
She shrugged. After high school, there was college in a new city filled with all sorts of eclectic tastes and cultures, followed by grad school and a series of internships, one in Paris.
Why have a processed cupcake when she could have an éclair or cheesecake?
It was like having your fill of Gruyere or baked brie, then going home to slug some Cheez Whiz from the fridge.
But Josh wouldn’t let it go. “Seriously, Becks. These things are like the fruit of life. Right, Bobby?” Josh said to the checkout kid, who nodded.
“I like ’em,” Bobby the clerk muttered, and Rebecca laughed and shook her head, pulled out her wallet, and paid.
“Don’t leave yet. There’s something I need to show you in my truck,” Josh said, and it was Rebecca’s turn to peer at Josh quizzically.
She waited and walked out with him, and he piled all his bags in the flatbed, then lowered the truck’s tailgate and climbed up.
“Hop on,” he motioned, a wide grin on his face, and she shrugged and followed suit, her own two grocery bags and leather purse going on the flatbed, too.
It felt silly but rather fun to sit there, swinging her legs in her wrap dress and heels, as customers walking into the store gave them odd looks.
“Okay, close your eyes and hold out your hands,” he said, and she complied, listening to the sound of a box opening and plastic crumpling before something was set in her hands.
She opened her eyes to see a Hostess cupcake, glistening with sugar and cream and fakey chocolaty goodness, in her palm. Another was in his own hand.
“Cheers, old friend who’s now back,” Josh said in a mock serious tone and held up the cupcake in salute.
“Cheers.” She giggled and took a bite.
“Good, huh?” he said around a mouthful, and she closed her eyes, nodded blissfully. Whatever had been coiled inside her began to slowly, warmly unravel.
“Insanely good!” It was true—they tasted like childhood and sugar and happy all rolled into one. Who needs Prozac?
“You’re welcome,” Josh said.
He gave her a grin, and she stuck her tongue out at him.
“You better share these with JJ,” she teased.
“If he makes me.”
They sat companionably, the afternoon sun warm on their shoulders. She swung her legs as they ate the last of their cupcakes. She was half-tempted to ask for another, but then she’d be forced to go for a second run tonight.
She looked over at him when they finished. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. On Monday at my office, you seemed like you had some serious issue with that guy. Erik Wennerman.”
Josh shook his head, his face darkening. “Don’t get me started on him.”
She arched a brow. “Why? He seems like a decent enough guy.”
“Well, he’s not. And after what they did to Mom and Dad…”
“They?”
“Wennerman Incorporated.” Josh said the word like it tasted of moldy cheese. “That family’s bad news, Becks. I take it he’s an advertiser? Guess I’ve seen their ads.”
“Yeah. What’d they do to your parents?” She remembered Josh’s mom and dad a little.
She hadn’t known them, really; her friendship with their son had been limited to casting lines on the river, but from Josh’s stories, she knew they were good people, a little older, the kind who’d bring a casserole if someone was sick or spend a Saturday helping a neighbor in need repair their home.
They’d had a small family farm and often sent fresh blueberries with their son to give to Rebecca for her Granny.
His dad was a handyman of sorts, drove a truck that said something like “At your service.” She hadn’t even asked him about them.
“During the recession, Mr. Wennerman, Erik’s dad, made my parents an offer they couldn’t turn down.
Offered to buy the farm, let them stay till they both passed on, but as soon as the ink was dry, the story changed.
There was some loophole, and the attorney didn’t catch it, and before you knew it, they were out on their fannies.
The house was torn down to make room for the big hospital expansion, and Mom and Dad had to move to my Aunt Dell’s place, out toward Aberville. ”
He shook his head, looked away, the cupcake wrapper balled in his hands.
Rebecca wanted to touch his arm. “Your childhood home.”
“I didn’t mind for me, but Mom was real broken up about it, and Dad, well, it killed his spirit.
He went and talked to Mr. Wennerman about it, said the guy laughed and told him that’s just business and he shoulda read the fine print.
” Josh’s lips were tight. “Dad passed on not long after, and Mom a couple years later. They’re in a better place now, but I sure would’ve liked their remaining days to have been smoother. ”
They were quiet a moment. “I’m sorry, Josh.”
He waved a hand like he was clearing away smoke. “Water under the bridge now, and I don’t like to be carrying all that anger inside me. It’s not a Christian way to live. But sometimes a guy can’t help it. Especially when you see the man responsible out and about in your own town.”
“You know, a son’s not necessarily always like a father.”
Josh made a face. “That one is. Known him for years. He’s all smoke, and his brother’s just about rotten.” He eyed her. “You know they buy up little newspapers, too, not only farms. Fold ’em into a chain of generic fish wrappers.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Be careful is all I’m saying.” He shrugged. “If something a Wennerman offers sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”
◆◆◆
She stewed all the way home, stewed up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she pulled out her laptop and typed “Wennerman Incorporated” in the search box once she was nestled in bed.
The Wennerman company website was high on branding and low on content, with slick, professional photography featuring smiling older adults with taglines much like the ad markups Erik had given her Monday.
Retire in style. Enjoy the better things in life.
Sophistication at its finest. You, at your best. The “Partners” page listed a number of hospitals—and, at the bottom, W Media.
Her eyes narrowed.
She did a search for “W Media,” then “W Media South Carolina.” A few clicks later and she struck gold.
By the time she finished reading a handful of news articles, she realized she was gripping her pen so hard her knuckles were white. Scribbled notes covered two full pages of the legal pad at her side. That lousy, lying, no-good son-of-a—
She fumbled in her purse, pulled out her cell phone. And dialed Erik Wennerman.