Chapter 10
Pete
I’m dreading the meal today. Church isn’t quite over, but I left a little early so I could make it on time. My church gets out half an hour after Zoe’s church, and maybe I was kind of hoping to see her, but their parking lot was pretty much deserted by the time I stepped out.
That is just as well. I have that dinner to attend with my new charge. I know they called it casual, but they want me to have dinner with their family so I can be introduced to everyone. When I start guarding this girl, Baxley, I think her name is, I’ll know who everyone is.
Like I said, I’m not looking forward to it, but it’s part of my job, and I get in my car and punch the address in the GPS on my phone.
It’s fifteen minutes away, and my GPS is right on.
There are a whole bunch of cars outside, at least four. How many relatives does this kid have?
It seems like she has a ton, but maybe they just have a lot of vehicles. They’re rich, and I don’t know what else they might spend their money on.
I parked my truck, which looks a little out of place next to the two BMWs. One is an SUV. I didn’t even know BMW made SUVs.
Shows what I know.
I’m not sure what door to go to. The front? No one ever uses the front door. That’s where guests go. I guess I’m a guest, though, so that’s where I head, even though there really isn’t a walk from the driveway, where I parked outside the garage, to the front door. It’s one of those front doors that I’m pretty sure are just for show.
Regardless, I would feel awkward going to the back door, so I ring the doorbell and wait. My hands sweat and I shift from side to side.
An older lady answers the door; she has on a black dress with a white collar. Is she the hired help? I guess I’m not used to going to rich people’s homes, because I kinda think she might be.
“Mr. Pete McKinley?” she says.
“Yes,” I say, because it appeared to be a question.
“We’re expecting you. Come on in.”
We. Does that mean she’s part of the family? Or is she saying we, as in the people I work for?
“Follow me,” she says, leading me through a living room, and then through another room, and down the hall, until I finally get to what must be the formal dining room. I feel like I need a map of the place, because I’m already a little bit dizzy and lost. How am I ever going to keep track of a kid in here, when I can’t keep track of where I am myself? If the house caught on fire and I had to get out fast, I think I’d break a window, because I am not sure I could take all the turns to get back out.
“Mrs. Unger, Mr. McKinley,” the lady says, does a little curtsy type thing, and then leaves. Definitely hired help. Well, now I know. Except, I don’t know her name. And it seems to me that I would be more on her level than I am on the level of the people who sit around the table and stare at me.
They haven’t started to eat yet, so they must have been waiting on me? Either that or I have impeccable timing.
I think it’s probably the first. I’ve never been known for my impeccable timing.
“Mr. McKinley,” an older lady says.
“Call me Pete,” I say. I do not want to be called Mr. McKinley for the next month. I get Officer Pete, and sometimes I get Policeman Pete, and once in a while someone will get really fancy and call me Peter, but I never get Mr. McKinley, although some of the officers do go by their last name. Pretty much everyone in town grew up with me, and it would just be weird for say, my kindergarten teacher, to call me Officer McKinley.
I don’t know who would be more embarrassed about that. Me or her.
“I’m Bara Fowels,” the older lady says, as she stands up from her chair. “And this is my daughter, Kylie Unger.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. I’m still standing at the doorway, because no one has told me I could come in. This seems like the kind of house where you need to be invited. As I think that, my gaze skims around the table, and I almost lose my cool. Sitting at the table is none other than Zoe.
Lord, again?
What is this like the fifth time this week?
I keep running into her, in the oddest places. Places I would never have expected to see her before.
Well, I’m going to have to talk to the Lord about this later, because Mrs. Fowels is speaking again.
“She’s the one who is hiring you and paying for you.” She looked around the table. “This is my husband, Barry Fletcher. He’s a lawyer in Mistletoe Meadows. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
“I have. Your office is right on Main Street,” I say. Recognizing that his name is different from hers. Did she not take his name? Or is she not his wife?
There are so many reasons why her name might be different, that I quit trying to think about it. Instead I try to remember his name.
“Good to meet you, Pete. I’m glad that you agreed to this. We want our little Baxley to be safe, and I know that you have a reputation for excellence.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say. My eyes go to the only child at the table. Baxley. My heart hurts a little for her, and I know the feeling that constricts my chest is pity. Pity for this girl who is at this solemn table with all of these adults.
“This is my son, Putman, and step-daughter, Zoe. I know that you and Zoe met last year when Zoe was in the unfortunate accident, and you were in charge of making sure that she was safely taken away before anyone got hurt.”
That was the weirdest way anyone had ever described that day. And it took me a little bit to understand that she was talking about the day I arrested Zoe for indecent exposure.
I suppose that if I were Zoe’s mother, I would want to kind of whitewash that day too.
I wonder if that was part of the reason that Zoe had her shirt off, because she has a step-mother like this.
My parents might not have been the best, but my childhood always had fun and laughter in it. I kind of feel like the little girl sitting at the table might not have a whole lot of fun in her life.
But that’s kind of judging, considering that I am meeting them at a Sunday dinner, which is probably the most formal meal of the week. Perhaps they’re not usually this serious looking.
“We have a seat for you. You can come on in and sit down. We wanted you to sit beside Baxley, so that she can get used to you.”
I see the seat. It’s between the little girl and Zoe.
I wonder if Zoe had anything to do with that. I suppose it is wishful thinking on my part, because I want her to want to sit beside me.
Of course, she probably had nothing to do with it. From the way Mrs. Fowler is acting, she’s used to being in charge of everything. And when I say everything, I’m pretty much talking everything. I know her type.
There is an uncomfortable silence as I walk across the room, my cowboy boots clicking on the hardwood floor.
It feels like every eye in the room is following my movements as I walk over to the seat.
Do I talk to the kid? Do I nod at Zoe? I have no clue of what to do in this situation. I am much more comfortable outside, with my uniform on, keeping the peace.
I’m not really a natural conversationalist, unlike Leo, who seems to know what to say to everybody.
“Hey Baxley,” I say, as I grab a hold of my chair. She’s not really looking at me, but it seems appropriate to at least acknowledge her presence.
My words make her look up, but she just stares at me. Not in a bad way, just an almost deer in the headlights look, where she doesn’t know what to say to me. Trust me, I know the feeling.
“She’s not used to talking to people too much,” her mother says. I think her name was Kylie. I am not usually too good with names, and I was a little bit shocked to see Zoe at the table, so I wasn’t paying as much attention as I could have been.
“I’m not much of a talker either, so I suppose we’ll get along just fine, won’t we, Baxley?” I say, and I think she smiles, at least her lips quiver, and her eyes lose their scared look.
I pull my chair out further, and step in.
“Zoe,” I say, nodding at her. Figuring that I’ll let her take the lead in showing how much we should acknowledge that we know each other.
She blinks, almost as though she likes the way I say her name.
That surprises me a little. I must be reading it wrong. Surely that can’t be what makes her blink and blush, a gentle blush, that doesn’t have her face fire engine red, but it’s just a little pink. She looks cute that way. It goes nicely with the green eyes.
“Pete,” she says. “I’m so glad you could make it today. I didn’t realize yesterday that you were going to be the one guarding Baxley. I knew that they wanted you, but I thought you were happy with the force.”
“Oh we gave the force a pretty sizable donation in order to lure him away, and we’re paying him double what he would have made while he was working there.” Mrs. Faust speaks, and she makes it sound like I’m doing this for the money. I don’t want to argue, because what would I say? I would have said no if I would have had a choice? That’s kind of an insult, a bit of a slap in the face for this family. So I don’t say anything. I guess Zoe can believe what she wants to believe, and maybe I’ll get a chance to explain it. Actually, I’m going to see her tomorrow, and that eases the tightness in my chest. I realize that I really don’t want her thinking the worst of me.
“The force has always been rather helpful. Take, for example, when I needed to get the charges dropped against Zoe. We were able to keep it from being on her permanent record. The force was quite willing to negotiate when I waved a little cash in front of them.”
Mr. Barry speaks from the other end of the table. I want to defend the police force. These people don’t understand how tight money is. And yeah, I suppose money talks, especially on a charge like that. One that really wasn’t that big of a deal. She wasn’t doing anything other than being immodest, and while that offended enough people in town, it wasn’t like it was something that she made a habit of. I think most people are willing to forgive and forget. Still, he makes it sound almost tawdry, and I am embarrassed to be associated with it. The line-toeing part of me wants to go back and make sure that she paid the price that she was supposed to, since no one should be above the law, but we all know that’s not true.
Some people are above the law, and it really only matters who you know. Zoe is lucky, since her dad is a lawyer, and knows the right strings to pull.
But I keep my mouth shut. This isn’t the time or place. And I might be dumb, but I’m not that dumb.
After that, Barry says grace, and things aren’t quite as awkward. They start talking about Baxley's schedule, and what they expect of me, which is basically everything that the chief told me. I listen attentively though, because I do want to do this job correctly. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here, but since I am, I’m going to do my very best. That’s just the way I am. I can’t imagine having a job and not doing everything I can to do my best. Plus, as much as I don’t want to admit it, Zoe’s dad has a lot of pull in town, and I don’t want to screw this up. I suppose, money talks to the point that I know if I screw up badly, he can keep me from getting my own job back.
I definitely don’t want that to happen.
I’m also very aware of Zoe beside me. She doesn’t participate a whole lot in the conversation, although she does say more than Baxley, who hasn’t said a word. I’m tempted to ask if she can talk, but I figure I’ll find out soon enough.
“You won’t be responsible for anything like putting her to bed or that type of thing. Mom will take care of all of that. But, we will want you here at six o’clock in the morning, which is about the time she gets up on weekdays. On weekends you can wait until eight to show up. Then, you’ll be expected to be with her all day since there’s no school. Of course.”
“You have to go to our church. We don’t want her to go across the street to yours. No offense, but the small differences in doctrine are enough to brainwash a susceptible child, and we don’t want that to happen to our darling granddaughter,” Barry said from the head of the table.
I feel a little bit like I’m back in the 1950s with that comment. I guess there are a few differences, but I kind of feel like four Sunday mornings in a strange church is not going to ruin a kid. It’s not like we’re teaching that Santa Claus is real or something over on the other side of the street.
But, I don’t argue.
I just nod and say, “Yes sir,”
I’ve been paying so much attention to the conversation, that I barely recognize that the food is actually pretty good.
I see Zoe’s eating, and as I’m noticing that, she catches my eye, and it’s almost like the question that I had asked her last night hovers in the air between us for just a couple of moments.
She nods, indicates her fork, and then puts it in her mouth.
I nod in approval, and she grins.
I like the wordless communication that flows between us. It isn’t much, isn’t but a few seconds, but it makes me feel connected to her and like we share a bond that lies underneath the glitz and glamor and the trappings of riches and wealth.
I can’t wait to get her alone and ask her about all this. Is this the way she grew up? She just doesn’t strike me as someone who grew up with money. I’m also wondering about Baxley’s father. I’m interested in what happened to him.
The meal finally ends. It took about an hour till they brought all the courses out, plus dessert. And, I’ve gotta say, I didn’t skimp on any of it. I thought to ask Zoe that question about how she’d been eating, because there were more than a few times in my own life where Aunt Arley needed money more than I did, and I survived on hotdogs and boxed mac & cheese.
“It would be nice for you and Baxley to head out to the yard, and chat with each other for a little bit. Get to know each other some,” Mrs. Fowler says. Then she looks at Zoe. “Zoe, darling. Would you please go out with them, to break the ice a little bit for Baxley? Kylie has some packing to do before she leaves early tomorrow morning, and I want to give her a hand with that,” she says, looking at Zoe, and then glancing at her nails as though trying to decide whether or not it was time for her to have them redone.
It seems like an odd way to give a command, but that’s what it sounded like.
Zoe murmurs in acquiescence, and she pushes back away from the table. Baxley does as well, and so I follow suit. In my house, we were always responsible for taking our own plates to the kitchen and helping to clear off the table, while whoever’s turn it was to do the dishes got started on them. We all took turns with the work. But, as everyone starts leaving the table, the maid comes back in. That must be what she was. That or housekeeper, whatever the going term was these days, not that I have any clue.
But, I am going to get to leave the stuffy room, where I feel just as trapped as I did when I was in school, like in a jail cell, and go outside. With Zoe. Of course I am not going to turn that down.