Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I’ll see you at 6:30.
I hit send on my text and tried to push the upcoming dinner out of my mind. At the least, I’d get a good meal out of it. My mom was a great cook. I stayed at my desk and handled paperwork until 6 p.m., then swung by the florist for a bouquet of flowers for my mom.
My father met me at the door, a cut crystal glass in his hand, bourbon on his breath.
“Your mother’s back in the kitchen,” he said. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He turned to follow me to the dining room, the table set with fine china and linen napkins, same as it would have been even if dinner had been only the two of them. Once, when I’d asked why go to all the trouble, I’d been informed that standards were what set the Garfields apart. As if eating on fine china somehow made us better than everyone else. If my mother knew how many dinners I ate on the couch, she’d have an old-fashioned attack of the vapors.
“Quiet day around town,” he said, pausing in front of the crackling stone fireplace and raising his glass for a sip of bourbon.
“As quiet as it ever is,” I agreed.
“Any word on who broke into the brewery?” He looked casual, sipping his bourbon in front of the fire, his hair a little mussed and his tie loosened, but his eyes were sharp and his question had the hairs standing up at the nape of my neck.
I couldn’t think of a single reason my father should know about the break-in or be interested enough to ask. “It’s an open investigation, Dad. You know I can’t talk about it.”
My father shook his head. “Always a stickler, son. Things have changed. It’s time for you to loosen up for the good of the family.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d heard a version of this lecture for years. I’d been ignoring it just as long. “Dad, let it go,” I said, “Prentice is gone. Your whole southern gothic ‘we own this town’ bullshit has had its day. I’m sure as hell not going to support it.”
My father clenched his jaw, his eyes hard and cold. “You never did have any goddamn respect.”
“You haven’t done a hell of a lot to earn it,” I said with a shrug, keeping my tone easy and relaxed. I didn’t want my mother to hear us arguing.
He ignored me, turning to the bar in the corner of the dining room. “Bourbon?” he asked, already pouring. Clearly, whatever he was after was going to wait.
I shook my head. “I’m still on call.” I wouldn’t have a drink until 8 p.m., when my second deputy went on shift, and when I could have one, I didn’t want bourbon. At that thought, I could almost taste Avery’s flagship crisp, hoppy IPA. That was what I wanted. Maybe when I escaped our family dinner, I’d stop by Avery’s place and have that beer—a flare of anticipation followed that thought. Sitting at her bar, listening to the hum of conversation as I sipped an IPA was exactly what I needed after a few hours dealing with my father. It didn’t have anything to do with Avery herself.
I turned at the sound of footsteps, handing my mother the bouquet of flowers when she entered. Her eyes lit as she took them, her mouth curving into a genuine smile.
“West, they’re so lovely.” She leaned in to kiss my cheek, enveloping me in the light floral scent of her perfume. “You’re such a good boy, even if you haven’t come to dinner in weeks.”
This time, my eye roll was affectionate, and I hugged her. “Been busy, but it’s always nice to get a hot meal.” It’d be nicer, I added silently, if my dad hadn’t been here, but I couldn’t have everything.
Leaving my father sitting at the head of the table in the dining room, I followed my mother back to the kitchen and started dishing out pot roast, my favorite, while she arranged her flowers in a vase. “West, I can do that,” she chided, glancing at the door to the dining room. “You should go visit with your father.”
“I’ve got it,” I said, ignoring the suggestion to spend more time with my father. The familial harmony my mother wanted was never going to happen. We both knew it, but she’d never stop trying. I grabbed my plate and the basket of freshly baked rolls and followed her to the table.
As soon as we were seated, I asked, “How’s the garden club coming along with decorating the town for Halloween?”
With that one prompt, my mother would dominate the conversation for a solid twenty minutes. It was a bonus that I was actually interested. My father straightened in his seat, scowling down into his bourbon. He wasn’t happy that I’d derailed his agenda for dinner, but for all his other faults, he loved his wife, so he didn’t interrupt as she told me all about the papier-mâché skeletons they’d made in the grade school to decorate windows around town and the deal they’d gotten on pumpkins for the carving party they’d sponsored to raise money for the food pantry.