Chapter 5. Callan #2
“Ah, shoot,” Dad says, but he reaches over the arm of his chair to ruffle Duke’s graying fur anyway, jingling the collar tags. “Dopey dog,” he says, not without affection.
I bend to collect the bottle and toss it in the large trash container we keep on the deck for recycling.
“What are you looking at there?” Dad asks me, pointing with his stubbled chin at the paper in my other hand.
I hand over the bill, waiting in silence as he reads. It’s nippy out. Our backyard borders the woods, which are dense and teeming with wildlife. Dad likes to sit back here around dusk to watch for deer.
“What is this?” Dad asks finally, like he’s never seen an electricity bill before. When I don’t respond, he twists in his seat to look at me. “You’re opening my mail again. You know that’s a felony in all fifty states.”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my work jacket, a field-green Orvis that’s held up to whatever abuses it’s endured around the farm.
“I’ll quit opening your mail when you learn to pay the bills, Pop.
” I’d love to mind my business, but a medical bill almost went to collections last month.
I can’t sit back and watch my father fall further into debt.
It’s part of the reason I haven’t bought my own place.
I’m at the house helping him out with something almost every day, so there’s really no practical reason to spread my finances any thinner than they need to be.
At least I have my truck—bought with money from working at the hardware store, before Dad’s injury.
He grunts but doesn’t argue the point. “I need you to change out the filter on the window unit, when you get a moment. Damn thing’s clogged again.”
“Will do,” I say.
We lapse into silence, watching a skunk waddle across the grass out near the woods. A low rumble builds in Duke’s throat, his ears perking forward. Dad makes a clicking noise out of the corner of his mouth to tell him no.
“All right, well, I’m going to shower and head back out,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Grabbing a few drinks with the guys.”
I debate telling him that Lenore French is in town, and that I invited her, but decide against it. I don’t imagine he’d have much to offer in the way of sound advice.
My parents divorced when I was eight. Mom remarried a few years later, moved a couple towns over, and for years they split custody where I spent weekdays at school and shadowing Dad around the farm, and weekends with my mom and new stepfather.
It was probably a good thing. Dad’s not the best communicator, and their fights used to devolve into shouting matches pretty fast. Even after they split, I spent years trying to mediate their petty squabbles.
A kid taking on all the responsibility for two childish adults.
I learned at a young age to choke my own wants and needs down, to focus on the hands-on problems, the kind you can solve with some quick troubleshooting, a series of practiced steps.
People, on the other hand, are much harder to figure out.
A neon SAM ADAMS sign glows in the window of the Penalty Box and blaring classic rock music spills out the front door. Corey Henderson holds it open behind him, lifting his chin toward me in greeting, and I jog over, thanking him with a curt nod.
It’s busy tonight. A baseball game flickers above the bar, where every seat is occupied.
I do a quick visual sweep of the room, spotting any number of familiar faces.
It’s impossible to walk two feet in the Penalty Box without bumping into someone I know, but there’s one person missing from the crowd.
I shouldn’t be surprised that Lenore didn’t show.
Honestly, this place is a dive. A watering hole for lifelong locals with nothing better to do, because it’s the only real bar in town.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m as local as they come, but it’s hard to picture her having much interest in hanging around people who sit on the same barstool every evening after work to shout at a television screen.
I make my way over to the corner booth. I slide in beside Dillon, managing a distracted smile when Jesse reaches around to clap me on the back.
“Good of you to finally join us,” he says with a wry smile.
“You missed two innings already,” Simon tells me.
“Damn, I was aiming for three,” I quip, and flag down a waiter.
We order a round of drinks for the table.
Our server returns a moment later with beers, an old-fashioned, a cocktail the exact color of window cleaner, and cardboard coasters that are doomed to fall apart at the first hint of condensation.
I get the oatmeal stout that’s always on tap, the same thing I’ve been ordering since we all came here on my twenty-first birthday. Ordering is the last thing I fully remember from that night.
I’ve been here for maybe twenty minutes, mindlessly staring up at the nearest television screen, when the door swings open. My stomach somersaults like I’ve hit a dip in the road, but it’s only a couple of guys decked out in Red Sox gear. Someone at the bar lifts a glass in greeting.
“You all right, man?”
My gaze cuts to Simon, watching me like a hawk from the other end of the booth.
“You seem kinda on edge tonight,” he says.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m staring into the dregs of my beer as I say it. Time to shake myself out of this funk. There’s no reason I should be hung up on her. She’s not coming.
“You think these assholes are going to hog the table all night,” Dillon asks, nodding at the pair racking their third game of eight ball since I arrived.
The door opens again, and this time it’s a gaggle of the old-timers who play bingo over at the Elks Lodge. A stooped man in a plaid shirt lingers to hold the door open behind him.
That’s when she walks in.
It would’ve been impossible not to notice her, even if I hadn’t been looking. A brown leather jacket hangs loose around her, at least three sizes too big, but what she’s wearing underneath commands the attention of every man in the bar who isn’t already spoken for.
She’s wearing a tight sweater tucked into a fitted plaid skirt, which hugs every curve.
A hint of bare thigh is visible before her legs disappear into tall camel-colored boots with the socks peeking out.
Her hair is loose and disheveled in a way that looks intentional, hitting somewhere around the middle of her back.
She’s more than a little overdressed for a run-down sports bar, but I’m not complaining.
“Are you even listening?” Simon asks, somewhere in the periphery.
Nope. I didn’t hear a word.
Lenore spots our table, her eyes lighting up in recognition.
I lift a hand in tentative greeting, which has everyone in our booth twisting in their seats to see who I’m waving at.
A server crosses her path, balancing a tray laden with heavy mugs of light beer, and they share an awkward little dance as they each try to make their way around the other.
Lenore’s apologetic laugh carries all the way across the bar.
“Is that”—Shelby grips Dillon by the sleeve, not quite believing what she’s seeing—“is that Lenore French?”