“Gretchen,” Candace said softly, “you look fine. Don't worry so much about powdering your face. You look pretty.” I wasn't the only one making an effort to be kind.
“Why, thank you, Candace sweetie.” Gretchen smacked her lips together once to even her lipstick. “I know a young lady like you-someone from a more refined background- is going to appreciate the Goertzes.”
I chose not to take that comment as a slam toward me, but as more of Gretchen's interminable butt-kissing. Candace doesn't need to worry about money, so she's higher on the food chain than I can ever hope to evolve. Unless I win the lottery.
Gretchen snapped the mirror back into place with an authoritative air. “Candace, I'm so glad you're here. You can show Jordy the ropes of dealing with quality people.”
I saw Candace tug at her top lip with her pearly front teeth, quelling a rejoinder. I operated under no such restrictions.
“Thank you, Gretchen, but I know which fork to use. I'll manage just fine around people with nicknames like Sass and Mutt.” Not a worthy kindness, but I was on edge and not feeling charitable.
“See that you do, Jordan. I know that Bob Don thinks you poop French vanilla ice cream, but I know how sharp-tongued and boorish you can be. It's not classy, and I don't want you to embarrass him in any way.”
“If he was ashamed of me, Gretchen, he wouldn't have begged me to come.”
“He didn't want your feelings hurt, Jordy. I'm sorry to tell you that, but how would you have felt if you knew he'd gone off to a family reunion and not included you?”
“Just fine,” I retorted, but I didn't elaborate. How would I have reacted? I had been the one keeping Bob Don at an arm's length, not publicly acknowledging him as my father in our hometown, politely accepting his help and his money with my mother's nursing and his business advice with our new horse farm. He'd been longing for decades to be a father to me, loving me from afar, keeping his pride for me locked firmly away in his heart. He'd given me the key and I'd yet to use it.
“Just mind your manners,” Gretchen said.
“I will. And practice what you preach.” My irritation with Gretchen felt nearly physical. What did Bob Don see in this woman? How could he have loved my mother-a kind, funny, intelligent woman-and also love Gretchen, whose bitterness was as palpable as heavily worn perfume?
“Both of you, please behave,” Candace chided.
“She started it,” I announced childishly.
Gretchen didn't have time for a return volley. The door swung open and Bob Don settled his big frame back into the Cadillac's plush leather interior. In the rearview mirror I could see his scowl. I saw a lanky older man head from the cottage toward a marina a half block away.
“Rufus is getting the boat ready,” Bob Don said. “Grab your bags and we'll walk down there.”
“Who's Rufus?” Candace asked.
“He's an old friend of Uncle Mutt's that would probably be a dead wino if it wasn't for Mutt.” Bob Don turned and grinned at us. “He's Uncle Mutt's charity case. I figure Rufus's about seven bricks short of a load, but he's awful loyal to Mutt. Mutt keeps him in food and Mogen David and that makes him happy.”
“Poor Rufus.” Gretchen clucked. “He really needs to address his alcoholism. He has never admitted that he had a problem.”
“He asked how you were, honey,” Bob Don said, the humor out of his voice. “I told him you were sober now and he said he was right disappointed to lose a good drinking buddy.”
It was well-intended, but not the right compliment to offer. I saw a wave of pain crest across Gretchen's face, but she set her lips in a half smile. She worried one comer of her mouth with a lacquered nail, as if to keep her optimistic grin firmly in place. “He'll just have to drink on without me, sweetheart. Those days are behind me forever.”
I coughed, not meaning to, and Candace flashed me a look of complete annoyance. Bob Don and Gretchen chose to ignore my gaffe completely. I ducked down in the seat, embarrassed.
“Of course you are, darlin', and I'm so proud of you.” Bob Don squeezed Gretchen's shoulder with unexpected tenderness. “We all are, aren't we, kids?”
“Yes, of course, Gretchen.” Candace patted the back of Gretchen's shoulder.
“I'm happy for you, Gretchen,” I managed. It was true. I was happier for Bob Don because his life had been an unceasing hell while Gretchen eyed the bottle's bottom. But despite the untenable chasm between her and me, I didn't wish her dependence on anyone. I couldn't imagine what existence would be like for someone continually drunk or continually wanting to drink. Life was made to be lived, not stumbled through.
“Thank you,” Gretchen murmured, her eyes averted from us all. She glanced up through the window. “Oh, there's that Rufus with the boat. I hope there's no wine on his breath this early in the day.” Her voice shook, like the palmetto fronds in the quickening gulf wind.
The fishy, salty smell of Matagorda Bay pervaded not only the little speedboat but Rufus Beaulac as well. He was a leanly tall, grizzle-faced man, with a scarred lip and red-rimmed, muddy hazel eyes. He spoke with the rolling cadence of the Cajuns that live in southwestern Louisiana and far eastern Texas. He helped us with our luggage without comment, eyed Gretchen with suspicion, ogled Candace, and didn't flinch when Bob Don introduced me as his son.
A long gaze went up from my worn loafers, my jeans, the untucked batik print shirt Candace had given me from one of her recent shopping sprees (she's one of those women who like to dress their men), and lingered longest on my blond hair and green eyes. I felt like he was surveying my face for flecks of family.
“For God's sake, Rufus, don't stare at the boy,” Gretchen muttered. “You do have some manners left, don't you?” She worked her hands into fists, a death grip on her purse.
Rufus ignored her. “Mutt said you were bringing your boy. Just surprised to see how much he favors you. I fig-gered that you'd had some kid off n a nigger woman.”
“Rufus!” Gretchen gasped. “What a thing to say!” Bob Don blushed deeply. I was unsure if Gretchen was shocked by Rufus's racial slur or the suggestion that Bob Don would have had a black mistress.
“Well, I couldn't figger why else he ain't owned up to him sooner, Gretch.” I saw her cringe at the diminutive use of her name.
“I don't mean no disrespect to the young feller.” Rufus offered me a grimy hand, which I shook with disguised reluctance. If Rufus portended things to come, the weekend was shaping up to be even more of a trial than I anticipated. I surveyed his face carefully, wondering if he was the letter sender. He didn't seem the type for idle threat or subterfuge; raw physical action would be Rufus's forte.
“It's nice to meet you, Jordan. Look like your daddy when he was the young whip.” His eyes traveled back to Candace and his distorted lip rose in a smile. “And ain't you got a pretty petite here.” He bowed to her with mock solemnity. “Rufus Beaulac at your service, chere.”