Chapter 16
Jesse
I’m fixing a broken gate latch when I see Callie’s truck heading toward town, driving with the determination of someone on a mission.
Not a grocery store mission. Not a feed store mission.
More like an “I’m about to do something rash and illegal” mission.
I recognize it because I’ve driven that way myself, usually on the way to someplace I shouldn’t be going.
“Where’s she headed?” Boone asks, appearing at my shoulder because he has a sixth sense for when I’m thinking about Callie.
“How would I know?”
“You’re watching her with binoculars.”
“These are for checking fence lines.”
“The fence is right there. You can see it without binoculars. Hell, you could touch it without moving.”
“I’m checking distant fence lines.”
“In the direction of Callie’s truck?”
“Pure coincidence.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. You just know me too well.”
Twenty minutes later, Wyatt gets a text from one of his buddies, Joe.
Joe: Callie Thompson’s in the storage room going through old files. Looks possessed. I’m scared.
“Why would she be—” I start, then stop. “The feud records.”
Every incident between our families for thirty years is documented somewhere.
The church keeps copies because half the fights happened at church functions and the church insists on documentation for insurance purposes.
The library has newspaper clippings because the librarian is a hoarder with organizational skills.
The town hall has official complaints because bureaucracy feeds on paperwork.
If Callie’s digging through history, she’s looking for something specific.
“We should go see what she’s doing,” Boone suggests.
“We should respect her privacy,” Wyatt says.
“We should definitely not respect her privacy,” I decide. “Come on.”
“This is stalking,” Wyatt points out as we pile into the truck.
“It’s not stalking, it’s... interest.”
“That’s the definition of stalking.”
“It’s romantic stalking. There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?”
We drive to the church because we’re mature adults who definitely don’t spy on ex-whatever-we-weres. The parking lot is empty except for Callie’s truck and the church secretary’s sedan, which means gossip will be spreading within the hour, possibly faster.
Through the basement window, we can see Callie surrounded by boxes and files, papers scattered everywhere. She’s got that manic energy people get when they’re about to crack a conspiracy. Or have a breakdown. With Callie, it could go either way.
“What’s she reading?” Boone whispers.
I squint through the dirty window. “Looks like the original chili competition records.”
“From thirty years ago?”
“The sacred texts,” Wyatt smirks. “The original sin of Cedar Ridge.”
We watch as she pulls out paper after paper, reading with increasing intensity. Her face goes through a journey of confusion, disbelief, shock, and then something that might be enlightenment. Or a breakdown.
Then she finds something that makes her stop entirely. She holds up what looks to be an old scorecard, stares at it, then starts laughing. Not happy laughing. The kind of laughing that happens when you realize the universe is playing a joke and you’re the punchline. “Is she okay?” Boone asks.
“She’s having a moment,” I say.
“A moment or a breakdown?”
“Yes.”
“Should we—”
“Shhh, she’s moving.”
Callie’s now at another box, pulling out more old records. She finds something, reads it, and the laughing turns into something between crying and cackling. It’s the sound of someone whose worldview is crumbling and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Rita, who was in the church the whole time because of course she was, trots over and tries to eat whatever Callie’s holding.
“No, Rita, this is evidence,” we hear Callie say through the window. “Evidence that our families are idiots. Thirty years of idiocy over expired mayo and a counting error. EXPIRED MAYO, RITA. Can you believe it?”
“Expired mayo?” Boone whispers.
“A counting error?” Wyatt adds.
“Our entire feud is based on expired mayo and bad math?” I process this information. “That’s the most Cedar Ridge thing I’ve ever heard.”
Callie’s still talking to Rita, who’s chewing what looks an old receipt.
“The bull that destroyed your grandfather’s fence?
Sick from bad feed. Not sabotage. Just sick.
The mayo? Past date by three months. Not poison.
Just disgusting. The score that started it all?
Someone counted wrong. SOMEONE COUNTED WRONG, RITA. ”
Rita bleats and continues eating paper.
“We’ve been fighting for thirty years over a MATHEMATICAL ERROR AND FOOD POISONING,” Callie shouts at the ceiling. “Our families have based their entire identities on someone’s inability to add and someone else’s inability to check expiration dates!”
The church secretary appears in the doorway. “Everything alright, dear?”
“Everything’s perfect. I’ve just discovered my entire family’s identity is based on a lie, expired condiments, and bad arithmetic. My life is a joke and the punchline is mayo. How’s your day going?”
The woman retreats, disturbed. And probably planning to lock her office door.
Callie goes back to the files, pulling out more papers, each one possibly confirming that our families’ blood feud is less Shakespearean tragedy and more administrative fuck-up.
“Thirty years,” she mutters, reading another paper. “Thirty years of hate over someone mixing up twenty-seven and twenty-nine. THE WINNER WON BECAUSE NOBODY COULD COUNT.”
“We should go in,” I say.
“She needs space to process,” Wyatt argues.
“She needs to know we know,” I counter. “That we’re witnessing this revelation too.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s all bullshit. That it’s always been bullshit. That we’ve been letting grade-school math errors and expired dairy products keep our families feuding.”
Before we can decide, Callie starts packing up the papers, shoving them into a folder with the determination of someone who’s made a decision. She turns to leave and freezes, seeing us in the window.
Busted.
For a moment, nobody moves. We’re three grown men crouched outside a church window, and she’s a grown woman clutching evidence that our family feud is based on lies.
Then she flips us off, but she’s almost smiling while doing it, which feels like progress. Or at least not retreat.
We scramble back to the truck and follow Callie to the library as if we each didn’t know the other was there.
She emerges twenty minutes later with another box.
Through my binoculars, I can see it’s labeled “Thompson Family Archives” in what looks like is typical mom handwriting. Her mom’s handwriting?
She sits in her truck going through the box, and we watch from across the street. From what we can see, she pulls out a stack of photos first, flipping through them slowly. Her shoulders are shaking now.
Then she sets on the dashboard what appears to be a recipe box, the old flip-top kind people used before the internet. She’s rifling through the cards one by one. Some make her smile and shake her head, like she’s remembering.
She pulls out one that makes her stop entirely. She reads it, reads it again, then holds it up to the light. We can see her mouth drop open.
The card has something written on the back because she flips it over, reads it, then presses it to her chest.
Then she pulls something else from the box, a small paper receipt, the kind dry cleaners use. She stares at it, confused. Then her confusion turns to recognition, then to absolute shock. She pulls out her phone, does some rapid searching, comparing the tag to something on her screen.
She’s staring at the tag now, then looking at the recipe card, then back at the tag. She’s piecing something together, and whatever it is has blown her mind.
She pulls out her phone and texts someone. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Callie: The feud is bullshit. Mayo and math errors.
Then another text:
Callie: Going to get answers. Stop following me.
Fat chance of that.
Calli: I know you’re across the street. Your truck isn’t subtle.
Before I can respond, another text:
Calli: My mom had secrets. Big ones. This is about to get worse before it gets better.
“What does that mean?” Boone asks, reading over my shoulder.
“No idea, but she’s moving.”
Callie’s truck starts moving and so do we. She drives straight to Mrs. Delaney’s house, parks, and marches to the door with the dry cleaning tag in her hand.
Mrs. Delaney answers, and even from the street, we can see her expression shift from surprise to resignation when she sees what Callie’s holding.
We get out of the truck to join them because why not? Our cover was blown back at the church.
Mrs. Delaney looks past Callie. “Hello, boys,” she calls with a nod, surprisingly unsurprised.
Callie turns and frowns at us, then shrugs like she knows we’re not leaving.
“Mrs. Delaney, this was in my mom’s recipe box,” Callie says, holding up the tag. “From your husband’s dry cleaning shop. With YOUR phone number written on the back. In my mom’s handwriting.”
Mrs. Delaney’s shoulders drop. “Okay.”
“You knew my mom.”
“Of course I did. Everyone in town knew your mom. Cedar Ridge is a small place.”
“But you were friends. Not just acquaintances. Friends. This tag is from two years before she died. You were friends while you were spreading gossip about our family. While you were turning our feud into entertainment.”
Mrs. Delaney invites us all in, but Callie stays on the porch, so we do too.
“Your mother was my best friend,” Mrs. Delaney finally admits. “For ten years. We met at the dry cleaners, bonded over our ridiculous husbands and their ridiculous feud.”
“Best friend? BEST FRIEND? You posted fifty-seven photos of our chili disaster! You started a Facebook group called ‘Thompson-McCoy Watch’!”