“Want to stop?” asked Osborne. “Make one more try?”
“That’s what you said last week,” said Ledwig, but already he was slowing and looking for somewhere to park.
The Trading Post was a blatant eyesore that sold fast food and tacky souvenirs. Like a slovenly old moonshiner who sits around in his dirty overalls and dribbles chewing tobacco on his yuppie daughter’s white carpet, the place was an embarrassment to the little town’s carefully cultivated image of taste and beauty, yet there was seldom an empty parking space around it. As if to mock him, a red Mercedes pulled out from the curb. Ledwig slammed on the brakes and immediately put on his turn signal to claim the spot. It took a little hauling and backing, but he eventually wedged his SUV into the tight slot.
“Remind me what our last offer was,” Osborne said as they stepped aside for a knot of tourists munching on hot dogs.
“A million-three,” said Ledwig.
“You game for a million-four?”
“Hell, we’re neither of us getting any younger. Try a million-five and let’s lean on him, tell him what we did to Sam Tysinger.”
For a moment, Osborne’s mind blanked, then he grinned. He’d always had an infectious smile and several of the tourists smiled back.
They found the elderly proprietor at the back of the store shelving plastic souvenir moonshiner jugs filled with honey from local bees. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt, bib overalls, and clodhopper shoes, in a deliberate parody of a flatlander’s conception of a mountain hillbilly. As they tendered their newest offer, he continued to shelve the honey with unconcealed impatience until Ledwig made a less than subtle reference to the planning board.
“You threatening me?” he snarled then.
“Not threatening, Simon,” said Dr. Ledwig. “Just pointing out that the town commissioners are not going to let this situation go on forever.”
“I was grandfathered in,” Simon Proffitt said, swatting the air as if shooing pesky dogflies. “I’ve got the right setbacks. I ain’t encroaching on nobody’s property. Hell, I even took down ol’ Cherokee Charlie and he were a historical landmark, so you two can go screw each other ’cause you ain’t screwing me over another inch.”
“Think about it, Simon,” said Ledwig in his most persuasive voice. “You’re pushing eighty, you have no children. What’re you hanging on like this for? You don’t have to work this hard. You could take the money, go trout fishing every day, sit on the porch with your banjo, enjoy life.”
“I am enjoying life.” He turned to them with an evil grin. “Twisting you’uns’s tails gives me more pure pleasure than your million dollars.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” said Osborne, dark menace in his tone.
“I surely do intend to.” The old man opened his office door, reached inside, and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun. “Wouldn’t advise either of you’uns to come back here again. Ol’ Jessie here’s got something the matter with one of her triggers.”
The gun fell from his gnarled hands. It hit the floor and one of the barrels exploded, sending birdshot skittering across the floorboards into his office. One pellet ricocheted back out into the store and pinged off Ledwig’s shoe.
“Jesus, Simon!” he yelled.
Excited babble broke out at the front of the store, but the voice of a crotchety woman clerk cut across the exclamations. “Dammit all, Simon! You drop that thing one more time and I’m gonna wrap it around your neck ’fore you kill somebody.”
“Ain’t nothing but birdshot,” Proffitt called down to her. “Ever pick birdshot out of a man’s shin, Doc?”
But he was speaking to their backs.
“You’re just lucky it landed like it did,” his clerk scolded, coming with broom and dustpan. “You could’ve hurt somebody.”
Simon Proffitt just grinned. Luck had nothing to do with the way he’d dropped the gun. He took the broom the old woman shoved at him. Worth sweeping a little birdshot out of his office if it finally made them two think twice about pestering him to sell again.
Sunny waited for him on the large shaded porch with the makings of his favorite drink near the lounge chairs. Her eyes questioned him as he came up the steps and paused to give Ledwig a parting salute before turning back to her.
“Well?” she asked.
They had been married for more than twenty-five years, so Norman Osborne did not need to speak. She read the answer in his face.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, fear tightening around her heart.
“It’s gonna be okay, darlin’,” he promised, opening his arms to her. He held her close and breathed in the sweet fragrance of her hair. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll call Bobby and Joyce tomorrow. Tell ’em I’m ready to deal.”
“What about Carlyle? Will he—?”
“Ol’ Carlyle doesn’t have to know a thing. Who’s gonna tell him? Not me. Not you. The Ashes’ll keep quiet till it’s a done deal, and after that—?” He shrugged. “After that it won’t much matter, will it? And if anybody ever asks, you didn’t know a thing. You got that?”
She nodded, trying to hold back the terror she felt, but tears streaked down her cheeks. “I only wish …”
Again he put his arms around her. “I know, darlin’. Me, too. But from here on, we suck it up and play all the cards we still got, okay?”
“Okay.”
“No more crying?”
“No more crying.”
“That’s my girl. Now let’s have that drink.”
CHAPTER 1
OCTOBER
The trouble with making a public announcement is that the public—in this case, my family—feels entitled to respond. Not only to respond, but to exclaim, to criticize, and, above all, to offer comments and advice. The tom-toms, the grapevine, and yes, the Internet, too, were all working overtime.
From my four brothers who live out of state, to the other seven and their spouses still here in eastern North Carolina—not to mention a slew of aunts, uncles, and cousins all up and down the Atlantic seaboard—half the country seemed to be showering advice on my head.
Real showers, as well.
Bridal showers.
It was early October, three days after I’d begun wearing the ring that once belonged to Dwight Bryant’s grandmother; two days after we’d told a couple of friends and both our families that we were planning a Christmas wedding.
I’m a district court judge here in Colleton County. Dwight is Sheriff Bo Poole’s right hand and head of Bo’s detective division, someone who’s known me since the day Daddy piled all the boys who happened to be in the yard at the time into the back of his pickup and hauled them over to the hospital to meet their new sister. Dwight’s always thought that gave him the right to act like one of my brothers, too. One of my bossy brothers.
We’ve both been married and divorced and—
Well, his marriage ended in divorce. Mine was merely annulled. (It was years before I learned that Daddy could have saved on lawyer’s fees since I’d inadvertently married a hound dog who was already legally married at the time.) Dwight has a little boy up in Virginia; I sublimate with a bunch of nieces and nephews.
I had sworn off men at the beginning of summer, and after yet another relationship went sour on him, too, Dwight proposed that we quit looking for nonexistent soul mates and turn our solid friendship into marriage. That was less than two weeks ago and it seemed like a good idea at first, especially since it turned out that we were surprisingly solid in bed.
With all the hoopla after we announced it, though, I was starting to have second thoughts.
My family’s so crazy about Dwight that you’d have thought someone had handed me a cool ten million and it was their duty to help me invest it before I threw it all on the nearest bonfire.
Take Aunt Sister, who about hugged the breath out of me the first time she saw me after hearing the news. “Thank God in glory! I thought you won’t never going to settle down before I died.” She looked at me dubiously. “You do aim to settle down, don’t you?”, which I think is a little sanctimonious for a woman who spends four months a year on the road in a Winnebago now that Uncle Rufus is retired.