Chapter 1
Tank
“In summation,” Wolf Waters says, forcefully tapping his finger on the wrought iron patio table for emphasis, “that’s why I’m running for mayor and why I hope I’ll have your support.
As owner of Sheet Cake proper and a generally well-respected man about town, having your backing would be tantamount to my success. ”
I get the feeling Wolf memorized this little speech. And maybe that he agreed to help the boys and me on this final move-out day at my Austin house so he could deliver it.
As he leans back in one of my patio chairs, looking pleased, I tilt my head, studying the man who suddenly looks a little different to me.
Is it the facial hair? When I first met Wolf a little over a year ago, he had a scruffy beard, which aged him.
I think I placed him in his early- to mid-thirties.
But once he shaved it in favor of a mustache he curls up at the ends, I was shocked by how much younger he looked.
He’s probably somewhere in the neighborhood most of my kids are in, mid-to-late twenties.
Other than James, who already turned thirty.
Wolf’s brown hair is a little too messy to be fashionable.
It appears more like he’s due for a trim.
His jeans and cowboy boots are worn, possibly to the point of needing to be replaced.
His T-shirt is damp with sweat, which I can’t fault him for since the Texas weather has decided that ninety-two is a perfectly acceptable temperature.
Wolf is also sporting half a dozen brightly colored friendship bracelets (courtesy of my granddaughter, Jo), which add to the overall effect of looking unserious.
But his demeanor is as intense and serious as I’ve ever seen it. He’s not joking about running for mayor. Honestly, I’m impressed and wondering if maybe I misjudged Wolf’s character the same way I did his age.
But I don’t let on what I’m thinking. He doesn’t need to know he already had my support before this conversation.
“Pops—sorry to interrupt. Keep or donate?” My youngest son, Patrick, has stepped out onto the back patio where Wolf and I are sitting. Pat holds a tall wooden coatrack in one hand and an office chair in the other.
We’re clearing out the last dregs of the house—mostly things that aren’t important and I’d happily toss in a backyard bonfire to make the process easier.
Every so often in the process of packing, we run across something I missed, something precious I want to keep, so I couldn’t rush the process or hire a company.
Still—I’m grateful that today is the official last day.
I’m also slightly heartbroken in a way I can’t admit to anyone. Especially not to my kids.
They’ve all been here in pieces through the moving process.
Pat least of all—understandable considering he just welcomed his new daughter into the world five weeks ago.
On a day he was here helping me, actually.
He wasn’t supposed to be here today, but Lindy insisted he come to say a final goodbye to the house.
Harper, as though sensing how difficult packing up the house would be for me, was here from day one, working quietly beside me with her calm, steady presence.
Occasionally, she would offer up a smile or give me a pat on the back or a squeeze on the shoulder.
Knowing she isn’t big on physical contact, each of those touches meant a lot.
Though we occasionally talked about memories as we sifted through the items, mostly we worked in a companionable quiet that helped ease the tight band of tension wrapped around my torso.
And when Harper offered to pack up my bedroom closet, I agreed, even though I knew she would likely take this opportunity to toss out any clothes she and her brothers don’t like.
I suspect I might need to supplement my wardrobe.
But I can do that when I make my final move from my Sheet Cake loft to the fixer-upper I bought on the outskirts of town.
Which might be a while—I bought the place sight unseen, against the protests of my children, and figured it would be a good next project to keep me occupied.
New-to-me house, new-to-me clothes. Seems only fitting.
As long as I don’t think too hard about all the old I’m shedding, which fits like a shirt that’s grown so soft and comfortable it’s wearing thin.
“Tank?” Pat says, shaking the office chair so the wheels rattle. “What’s the verdict?”
I give the items one more look, suddenly remembering exactly how Michelle’s blue corduroy jacket looked hanging on the coatrack.
“Donate,” I say, managing to swallow down the catch in my throat.
“Got it,” Pat says. “And for what it’s worth, you’ve got my vote, Wolf.”
“Thank you, my good sir.”
Wolf tips an invisible hat as Pat heads across the patio with the chair and coatrack.
Halfway to the gate, he stops, climbs up on the rolling chair and begins using the coatrack as a paddle to propel him.
Like an office chair gondola taking a scenic tour.
It only takes two pushes before the chair topples over, spilling Pat on the ground.
“Y’okay there, buddy?” Wolf calls.
The chair hides most of Pat from view, one wheel still spinning wildly. But a hand appears, giving a thumbs-up.
“All good,” Pat says, getting to his feet with a groan. A moment later, he limps through the gate glaring at both pieces of furniture like it’s their fault he has a new hole in the knee of his jeans.
Wolf catches my eye and gives his head a little shake. “Don’t know how you did it. All these kids.” He whistles. “They turned into good people. You deserve a medal.”
“There are no medals for parenting,” I tell him with a grin. “You just really hope you do well enough that their therapy bills aren’t too high as they become adults.”
Wolf snorts at this, then stares off past the pool.
I wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut.
Though I don’t know much about what Wolf's upbringing looked like, in general, the rest of his family is the meanest—and richest—in the town of Sheet Cake.
And in this mayoral race, Wolf is running against his older brother, Billy Waters.
I dislike Billy to a point that almost decays into an unhealthy hate. I’ve only met him two or three times, but it takes about thirty seconds to recognize that the man is steeped in pompous self-aggrandizement. His ultimate goals all seem related to a trifecta of power, money, and personal glory.
I wouldn’t want Billy in charge even if I didn’t own the main portion of Sheet Cake.
But because I’ll have to deal with the new mayor regarding everything from parking to permits, Billy wouldn’t get my vote.
Honestly, he’s the kind of man I wouldn’t want manning the counter of a gas station.
Already, as interim mayor, he’s been like a sticker-burr in my boot.
“So—do I have your support?” Wolf is looking at me expectantly.
I lean forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under my chin.
“I’ll be honest, Wolf. You’ve given me a lot of reasons your brother shouldn’t win the election.
And I already had my own reasons there. But almost everything you’ve said about why I should support you is something negative about Billy.
I want to know why you are qualified to run Sheet Cake. ”
Wolf nods, lifting one hand to absently twirl the end of his mustache. “A fair question.”
It really is. Wolf is the outcast of the very wealthy Waters family, who can trace their roots back to the founding of the town.
His notable accomplishment is running Backwoods Bar, an off-the-books dive joint just outside city limits—and thus its official jurisdiction.
Aside from that, Wolf is known for goofy behavior and outlandish dress.
Like the chaps and speedo combo he sported when volunteering at the annual Sheet Cake Festival earlier this year. Or the stilts he donned not long after.
Not a typical mayoral look.
Then again, Sheet Cake, the little Texas town I bought just over a year ago, isn’t typical.
“I’m not sure you want my official resume, but here goes,” Wolf says, clearing his throat.
“I graduated with honors from Sheet Cake High, finished summa cum laude at Texas A&M University”—he pauses here to give an Aggie whoop!
—“with an engineering degree. After that, I enlisted in the Army, deployed to Afghanistan where I learned my mild asthma isn’t so mild in the desert.
I was honorably discharged, and then came home and opened the bar. ”
My jaw is all but hanging off my face when he’s done. Wolf Waters has an engineering degree from A&M? Wolf Waters served in the Army?
“Oh, and I was president of the chess club in high school and played intramural water polo in college, where we won state.” He pauses, scratching his chin. “Not sure how far back you want me to go.”
“That’s plenty of information. Wow.” My brain is still frantically trying to connect the dots from point A&M to point semi-legal bar and chaps-over-speedo fashion choices.
“But,” Collin interjects from where he’s apparently emerged from the house and has been listening from behind us, “do you really have a bunker? That’s what the people really want to know.”
Wolf Waters’s bunker is the Bigfoot of Sheet Cake. There are rumors and speculation of its existence. But there’s more evidence of Bigfoot. No one even has so much as a fuzzy photograph of Wolf’s supposed bunker, despite how much the man talks about it.
“Of course I do,” Wolf says, throwing up his hands. “Why does no one believe me? I’m always asking people to come see it.”
“Women,” Pat clarifies, coming back through the gate. “You’re always asking women to come see your bunker.”
He gives Wolf a look, and I’m reminded that just before Pat and Lindy got back together, she had been one of the women Wolf invited to his bunker. Feels like a lifetime ago.