Chapter 11 #2
The exam is quick, thanks to Dr. Meyer. Rita’s fine, the gum and wrappers will pass, and that’ll be three hundred dollars please. The usual Tuesday afternoon goat-related robbery.
I emerge to find the brothers waiting by the door, trying to look casual and failing. They look like kids waiting to ask if their friend can come out to play.
“So,” Jesse says with that grin that promises trouble, “we’re having steaks tonight. You should come.”
“All of us,” Boone adds quickly. “Together. At the same place. Eating meat. Like humans do.”
“That’s usually how dinner works,” I say. “Unless you’ve been doing it wrong this whole time.”
“Seven o’clock?” Wyatt asks, and there’s something hopeful in his expression that makes my chest do that tight thing again.
“Yeah, okay. But Rita stays home. She’s had enough adventure for one day, and I can’t afford another vet visit this month.”
As I’m loading Rita into my truck, she goes willingly, probably exhausted from her reign of terror, I catch them doing that thing where they silently communicate with looks.
Jesse raises an eyebrow, Boone nods, and Wyatt.
.. Wyatt’s watching me with an intensity that makes me very aware of my heartbeat.
This is good. We’re good. Everything’s good.
So why do I have this weird feeling in my stomach like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall?
I get home to find Dad’s truck in the driveway, which is weird because he said he’d be in town until late filing something or other with the county.
It’s only four p.m., and Hank Thompson has never left paperwork unfinished in his life.
The man treats documentation like a religious calling.
He once stayed up until two a.m. to properly file fence repair receipts from 1987.
Inside, he’s in the kitchen making coffee.
Something’s... different. His shirt’s tucked in properly for once, not the half-assed job he usually does where one side’s in and the other’s flapping in the wind.
His hair looks like it’s seen an actual comb instead of just fingers.
And is that... cologne? My father is wearing actual cologne?
“You’re home early,” I say, unleashing Rita into the backyard.
“Finished up quicker than expected.” He doesn’t look at me, which is suspicious.
Dad’s got three modes of eye contact: angry eye contact (most common), disappointed eye contact (runner-up), and what he thinks is friendly eye contact but actually looks like he’s trying to set things on fire with his mind (rare but memorable).
“Right. Because paperwork’s known for wrapping itself up ahead of schedule. Very cooperative, those forms,” I say.
He pours his coffee and I catch him humming. Humming. Hank Thompson is humming something that sounds suspiciously like Elvis. Not even angry Elvis. Happy Elvis. Love song Elvis. Young Elvis.
“Okay, Dad, who is she?” I ask point-blank, because subtlety is for people who didn’t grow up with my dad’s skill at hiding his feelings.
He freezes mid-pour, coffee overflowing his mug. “Huh?”
“The woman you’re obviously seeing. And don’t say you’re not because you smell like cologne that probably has a French name, you’re humming Elvis, and your shirt’s tucked in like you care about your appearance.
Either you’re dating someone or having a midlife crisis, and frankly, I prefer the dating option because I know you won’t do therapy. ”
He sets down his coffee with more force than necessary. “Drop it, Callie.”
But as he’s turning to leave to escape my interrogation, something falls out of his pocket. A movie ticket stub. He scrambles for it like it’s a grenade, but not before I see the title, Romance in Paris.
“Romance in Paris?” I raise an eyebrow so high it hurts. “That’s your paperwork? Very administrative. I’m sure the tax forms loved the subplot about the baker and the tourist.”
“It’s research.”
“Research for what? Your doctoral thesis on French cinema? Your secret life as a film critic?”
“Callie—”
“Dad, this is great! You’re dating someone!”
The words come out more enthusiastic than I expect, but it’s true. Mom made me promise before she died. I was sixteen and trying not to sob as she held my hand with what little strength she had left.
“Don’t let your father become a hermit,” she’d said, her voice barely a whisper. “He’ll try. He’ll say he’s had his one great love and that’s enough. But nobody should be alone, Callie. Make sure he doesn’t end up alone. Promise me.”
I’d promised, choking on tears, and I’ve kept that promise.
For twelve years, I’ve been dropping hints, suggesting he try online dating, pointing out available women at church, accidentally leaving the newspaper open to singles events.
Nothing. He always said the same thing: “I had my one true love. Besides, I know everyone in this town already. Dating someone in Cedar Ridge would be… weird.”
That’s mostly why I still live here in Dad’s house, honestly. Someone needs to make sure he eats vegetables occasionally and doesn’t wear the same shirt four days in a row and remembers that life exists outside of ranch work and old grudges.
“Mom would be happy,” I say.
His expression shifts, something flickering across his face like a deer caught in unfamiliar emotional headlights. “You think?”
“I know. She told me to make sure you didn’t end up alone. She’d probably be thrilled you’re finally listening to her, even if it took you twelve years. She was patient, but not that patient. If she were here she’d be saying, ‘’bout damn time, Hank.’”
He’s quiet for a moment, then clears his throat roughly. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Romance in Paris isn’t serious? That movie’s so romantic, people get pregnant just from watching the trailer.”
I snort-laugh. Dad avoids my gaze.
“It’s just... I’m just... getting out a little. Seeing what’s out there. Testing the waters. Dipping a toe in. Ya know. All the water metaphors.”
“Getting out with who?”
“Nobody you need to worry about.”
Which is the most suspicious answer possible.
In Cedar Ridge, “nobody you need to worry about” could mean anything from the librarian to someone’s recently divorced sister to.
.. oh God, what if it’s someone truly scandalous?
What if it’s a McCoy? What if he’s dating Jesse’s aunt or something?
No, that’s not possible. Dad would never.
Although... the cologne, the secrecy, the guilty expression like he’s been caught with his hand in the relationship cookie jar. ..
“Is she married?” I ask, horrified at the possibility.
“What? No! Jesus, Callie. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“A secretive one. Very mysterious. Very 007 if James Bond was a rancher with questionable fashion sense.”
“Nothing to see here, Callie,” Dad says, attempting to end the conversation.
But I’m not giving up. “Then why the secrecy?”
“Because this town treats everyone’s business like a spectator sport, and I’d like to figure this out without commentary from the peanut gallery. Without anyone giving me advice. Without the guys at the hardware store making jokes. Without everyone watching and waiting for me to screw it up.”
He’s not wrong. Privacy in Cedar Ridge is about as nonexistent as Rita’s impulse control.
He heads out but turns back at the doorway. “And Callie? Don’t go spreading this around.”
“Who would I tell?”
“Those McCoy boys you’ve been spending time with, for starters.”
My face heats up like someone turned on an internal furnace. “I’m not… I don’t… tell them... stuff.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Some things should stay private. Some things are just for us to know.”
After he’s gone, I stand in the kitchen processing it all. Dad’s dating someone. Secretly. Someone who makes him comb his hair and tuck in his shirt and watch romantic movies. Oh, and hum Elvis like a lovesick teenager.
“This town’s turning into a soap opera,” I tell Rita through the window. She’s standing on top of the chicken coop, surveying her domain like a small, determined queen. The chickens are circling below, ignoring her.
My question is, who’s Dad dating, and why does it need to be such a secret? This is Cedar Ridge. The only secrets that get kept this carefully are affairs, crimes, and Mrs. Patterson’s barbeque recipe.
If Dad’s going to keep secrets, I suppose I can, too.
The next morning at the diner, I’m nursing my second cup of coffee and trying to wrap my head around Dad’s secret romance when Mrs. Delaney appears at my booth as if summoned by the mere thought of gossip.
It’s like she can smell it. Uninvited, she slides in across from me with the determination of someone who messes with lives for entertainment.
“Callie, dear! Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“It’s raining, Mrs. Delaney. It’s been raining for three hours.”
“Rain is lovely. Very romantic. Makes people seek shelter in... intimate places.” There’s something about the way she says “intimate” that makes me look at her more closely.
She’s a little more dolled up than usual.
Not to the extreme, but she is wearing lipstick, not the usual tinted chapstick she claims is for medical purposes.
And her hair’s been recently styled, not her usual “I stuck my finger in a socket and made it work” approach.
“Speaking of intimate places,” she continues, leaning forward conspiratorially, “did you know your father’s truck was behind the pharmacy after hours last night?”
I nearly spit coffee across the table but manage to turn it into a choking cough instead. “Behind the pharmacy?”
That’s teenage make-out territory. Nobody over twenty goes behind the pharmacy unless they’re up to something they don’t want witnessed.
“Very curious,” Mrs. Delaney says, but there’s something in her expression... is she blushing? Is Mrs. Delaney, queen of destroying other people’s secrets, actually blushing?
Wait.
Wait a minute.
The lipstick. The new hair. The way she said “intimate” like she had personal experience. The way she’s blushing while talking about my dad’s truck behind the pharmacy...
Oh. My. God.
Before I can process this horrifying possibility, Jesse appears at our table. He must have been in a neighboring booth because I didn’t see him come in, or maybe he teleported, which wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen this week.
“Behind the pharmacy?” He grins at me with unholy glee. “Scandal runs in the family, doesn’t it?”
Mrs. Delaney’s expression shifts from gossipy to stern. “Jesse McCoy, you behave yourself. I could say the same about your father. That incident with the Widow Martinez last spring?”
Jesse’s grin vanishes like it was never there. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. A misunderstanding that required new landscaping, an apology bouquet the size of the state, and three sessions with the Methodist minister. Very expensive misunderstanding.”
She pats my hand with her perfectly manicured fingers, a new manicure, I notice, romantic pink instead of her usual bland beige.
“Remember, dear, there are no secrets in Cedar Ridge. Everyone’s business becomes everyone’s entertainment eventually.
Some of us just... control the narrative better than others. ”
The way she says it, looking directly at me, it’s like she’s trying to tell me something without telling me something.
After she leaves, Jesse slides into her spot, still grinning.
“Your dad and someone doing the pharmacy shuffle?” He’s trying not to laugh, which means he’s definitely about to laugh.
“Sounds like it.” I stare into my coffee. “And I think I just figured out who.”
“Who?”
I nod toward the door where Mrs. Delaney just left. “New lipstick, new manicure, blushing when she talks about the pharmacy...”
Jesse’s eyes widen. “No. No way. Your dad and Mrs. Delaney?”
“Think about it. She knows everything about everyone in this town. She’d know exactly how to keep a secret if she wanted to.”
“But she’s the biggest gossip in Cedar Ridge!”
“Exactly. No one would ever suspect her of keeping her own secret. It’s the perfect cover.”
Jesse reaches over and steals a piece of my toast, because boundaries mean nothing to McCoy boys. “Holy shit. The plot twist of the century.”
“Can you imagine? My dad dating the town gossip? She’ll know everything about us. Every Thompson family secret. What we eat for breakfast. Our bathroom schedules.”
“She probably already knows all that.”
“True.” I take a bite of my eggs, considering. “Actually, this might explain why she hasn’t blown up our situation on Facebook yet.”
“Our situation?” Jesse raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling.
“You know what I mean. Us. The four of us. Whatever this is,” I say, drawing a circle with my hand.
“What is this, exactly?” His tone is playful.
“Fun. Probably going to give me an ulcer from stress eating.”
“Stress eating is better than Rita’s eating.”
We’re laughing when my phone buzzes with a text.
Wyatt: Irrigation inspector coming this week. Your dad needs to join. Try to keep him from committing murder. Details to follow.
I show Jesse the text. “This should be interesting.”
“Our dads in the same place with legal documents? What could possibly go wrong?”
“Right?”
Jesse reaches across the table and takes my hand, right there in the diner where anyone could see. “Well, we’ll figure it out.”
“Even if our dads kill each other?”
“Even then. Though it would make family dinners awkward.”
“More awkward than they’d already be?”
“Good point.” He squeezes my hand. “My brothers and I will present a united front.”
“Good idea. Someone needs to referee.”
As we leave the diner together, I catch several people watching us with interest. The rumor mill is definitely going to be working overtime.
But between my dad’s alleged secret romance with the town gossip and whatever chaos Rita’s planning next, holding hands with a McCoy seems like the least of our problems.
“Will you be at the irrigation meeting?” Jesse asks as we reach our trucks.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Someone needs to keep my dad under control.”
“My money’s on your dad throwing the first punch.”
“My money’s on your dad provoking it.”
“Deal.” He grins and gets in his truck. “Try to keep Rita from eating anything expensive between now and then.”
“No promises.”
As I drive home, I can’t help but think about all the secrets piling up in Cedar Ridge. Dad’s mystery romance, whatever’s happening between me and the McCoy brothers, and who knows what else is brewing beneath the surface of this supposedly simple small town.
One thing’s for sure, when these secrets finally come out, and they always do in Cedar Ridge, the explosion is going to be stunning.