19. Law
19
Law
Dinner Talk
S he’s pushing my buttons with this whole family dinner thing. I bought the wine, but this is a bad idea. I’m only going through with it because I want her to see that I’m not actually a bad person. I just apparently still make mistakes at thirty-two. She won’t let me explain, but if I can show her that I’m better than that . . .
But she needs a bigger reality check where Derringer is concerned. When it comes to him, she’s the one who’s making a mistake.
Opening that notebook was an invasion of her privacy, but she’s invading my professional life here. If she and I were in a different place, I’d tell her how inappropriate this is, but right now, she has fresh ammunition to fire back about my inappropriate behavior.
We’d just end up in a fight, and a fight is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. She wouldn’t believe me about him, anyway. She needs to see for herself.
If sitting down to dinner with Derringer is what it takes to make her happy, I’ll bring the wine and check my professional opinion at the door.
This isn’t a business dinner where I’m trying to get to know a musician better. I know all I need to know about this kid. Greta will know soon enough, but I won’t say I told you so.
I’ll think it, but I won’t say it.
Here goes nothing.
“You’re early,” she says, looking me up and down like she’s weighing whether or not to let me in.
“You said six. It’s five-forty-five. Fifteen minutes early is on time.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re one of those people.”
Let it go, Law. Let it go.
“I brought wine.”
She takes the bottle and walks back toward her kitchen. I step inside, but instead of her laundry detergent or her shampoo or perfume, I smell my mom’s pot roast.
Or Greta’s, apparently.
When she cooked for me, I got grocery store pizza. For Derringer, she makes this?
I’m not complaining about that pizza. The night we ate that pizza is my favorite memory. Everything that came before and after that pizza, I would very much like to experience again. But if I have a shot in hell at maintaining any of that in my life, I’ve got to repair the damage I’ve done.
And her other damaged dinner guest just knocked on the door.
“Can you let him in, please?”
“Sure.”
My pleasure. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now.
He stands on her doorstep, holding two bottles of wine, one white and one red.
“Hey,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if your girlfriend liked red or white, so I brought both. Is that okay? She doesn’t hate wine or anything, does she?”
He’s genuinely nervous. Huh, I didn’t know the cocky little shit had it in him. I don’t correct him on the girlfriend assumption.
“She usually drinks red, but if she doesn’t want the white, maybe you can take it back home to your driver.” I step aside to let him in as the car that dropped him off pulls away. “Is she not joining us?”
“Oh, I didn’t know if I should bring anyone. You didn’t say, and I didn’t want to assume anything.” He shrugs. “She’s going to pick me up in a few hours, unless I need to text her sooner.”
“Is that the same girl who was hanging on your arm when I left you at the bar?”
“Yeah. Whitley. She’s great.”
“Party girls always are. In the beginning.”
“She’s not, though. We only had one drink before we left the bar. That’s not her deal.”
“Roads were dry. Summer, so you can’t blame ice on the road. You expect me to believe you blacked out while sober?”
“No. I was fully awake, just being stupid. Going too fast and not paying attention. My right front tire went off the road. No shoulder and more of a drop-off than I realized. I lost control while I was trying to get back up on the pavement. Rolled it. Twice.”
“Was Whitley in the truck with you?”
He stares at his boots. “Yeah.” Before he looks back up to meet my eyes, he shakes his head hard. “I know we got lucky.”
“That only happens so many times in one life.”
“I know. And I know you probably don’t believe me, but—”
Greta comes bounding over like she’s just realized he was here.
“Derringer, hi. I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thanks for having me.” He holds out the bottles he’s brought. “I-I didn’t know if you preferred red or white.”
“Aw, I was just saying I should’ve thought to get wine. And here you are, being the perfect guest. That’s so sweet. Thank you. Come to the table. Dinner’s ready.”
Excuse me? I brought wine first! And I bet it’s a nicer bottle than either of the ones he just handed you.
Let it go, Law. Let it go.
Her pot roast is fucking amazing. And so are her small talk skills. You’d think I’d be better at that, given my line of work. But I’ve never been much for mindless chit-chat. I’ve been told I can come off abrasive. It’s never my intention.
If the situation is business, I like to get to the point. If it’s personal, I’d rather have a real conversation about something that matters.
She’s got Derringer going on and on about how he got into music. He’s spooling out all his childhood memories for her. Started piano lessons when he was four. Got his first guitar when he was seven. His dad would let him busk downtown in front of the Pecan Tree Café, while he was inside signing real estate contracts and mineral leases.
“He liked to do business in public back then,” Derringer clarifies. “Always liked feeling important. These days, he spends more time on his plane, flying to Fort Worth or Houston nearly every week.”
A kid from the wealthiest family in the area, playing for change on the sidewalk while his dad was in a corner booth, being important. I bet people wagged their tongues plenty about that. The Wells family is still a favorite subject of gossip in this town.
And I can feel for Derringer having to grow up in that spotlight, but he’s grown now, and he contributes his own material.
“Yeah, I heard your family was in the oil business,” Greta says.
“They make sure everyone hears that.”
“You’re not interested in following in their footsteps, I take it.”
“No, ma’am. Not in the least. I know I had a lot of advantages growing up because of oil money, but I know enough about that business to know it’s not for me.”
“Your dad has his own plane? If he flies that often, it seems like it would be easier to move closer to the big cities.”
“The land we live on has been in the Wells family for generations. Plus, if he moved to a bigger city, he might not be so important.”
“Ah, big fish, little pond.”
“Yes, ma’am. This roast is really good.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
I’ve been watching them talk without contributing at all. I’m sure Greta’s making note of that. I better chime in.
“I bet your parents would prefer you to stay out of dancehalls and get back into classrooms.”
He shrugs. “College wasn’t for me. They didn’t want me to go because it would teach me about the family business, anyway. Trust me, they planned on handling that education behind closed doors. The only reason they wanted me to go to college was for appearances. I was supposed to get the degree to hang on the wall, and make all the right connections.”
“You might need connections in the music industry, too.”
“I might like those people a whole lot better.”
Damn. For the first time ever, I hear real conviction in his voice. He knows what he doesn’t want. If he held that much conviction about what he does want, his chances would be a whole lot better.
“I think there might be more similarities in the two businesses than you realize,” I say. “There’s competition. Both can probably feel a little cut-throat at times. Chance plays a bigger role than people like to admit. You can be a big deal one day, and forgotten the next.”
“Yeah, and any industry can have its share of dirty deals being made, too. But until all the deals are dirty in the music business, the similarities are more limited than you know.”
“I’m sure there are good people working in the oil industry.”
“Of course there are. But they might be working for someone less good, whether they know it or not.”
Greta’s looking at me with so much I told you so in her eyes right now, but I don’t know what any of this has to do with Derringer’s lack of commitment. In fact, if he’s that opposed to the family business, you’d think he’d be ten times more serious about developing all that talent he’s wasting. I actually can’t think of anything more motivating than a predetermined life you don’t want. Hell, he should be so desperate to prove his way off that path I’d have to remind him to get out and enjoy his youth before it’s too late.
Nobody has to remind this kid to enjoy a damn thing.
He's enjoying the hell out of this meal.
And Greta is enjoying the speech she’s writing in her head—the one she’s going to unleash on me as soon as he’s gone. I can see the purple glittery pen in her head flying across a page I won’t have to sneak to read. She’s going to be all too eager to share every word of it with me.
I sense a lot of verbal punctuation coming on. And the way she makes her eyes so big when she’s fired up. Hand gestures. She’s never going to leave those out.