“Yeah.” Travis scrounged up a bowl, the Cap’n Crunch, milk. Slid slowly into his chair like Frankenstein, all stiff-backed. Yet his knee bounced nonstop under the table and his face looked bright. Alert.
“What’s going on, T? You look like you got big news.”
He grunted. Unintelligible through the munching but clearly in the negative.
“You seeing that girl today?” Emma smiled slyly. “What’s her name again, Bree?”
Travis shrugged and munched. Knee still bouncing, keyed up over some damn thing or other.
She set a glass of orange juice next to his bowl. “Fine. Keep your damn secrets.”
Jim stood in the parlour window mashing his thumb into the keys, unable to dial. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t slept, stewing about Corrigan’s threats until he finally tossed it all up. He got the number pads to work and a woman’s voice answered after one ring. He asked to speak to Perry.
Perry Keller, barrister and solicitor, kept offices in Exford. He’d been Jim’s lawyer forever.
“Jim.” Perry’s voice ringing tinny down the line. “How are you, son?”
“Okay. I guess. You got a minute?”
“Always. What’s on your mind?”
Jim kept it brief, updating Perry about Corrigan and the stink he’d caused since appearing in their lives like a festering tumour. Perry had heard about Mr. Corrigan, even seen him on the news but was surprised to learn the extent of the man’s claims. The brief news report made him sound like a crank.
Jim told him everything, giving him a rapidfire confessional. About breeching the old fence and plowing Corrigan’s property, the handshake agreement he’d made with his new neighbour and now Corrigan’s about face and threatened lawsuits. He caught his breath after the spew. “Can he do that? Steal the farm out from under me?”
Perry sighed. “It’s possible. Do you think he’s serious or was it just bluster?”
“Hard to tell. The man’s unpredictable.”
“Jeez,” the lawyer hummed again. “Trespassing, theft, intent to injure. That’s serious stuff. A legal fight like this would get nasty.”
“And expensive,” Jim added.
“That too. Which is clearly part of his strategy. Is this Corrigan a rich fella?”
“He seems to be. Don’t ask me how.” Noise rustled from the kitchen. Jim clocked a glance at the doorway and lowered his voice. “The son of a bitch wants my land.”
“What does Emma have to say about all this?”
“I haven’t told her yet. Not until—”
“Told me what?”
Jim froze. Emma stood in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. “What haven’t you told me?”
“Hang on.” He crooked the phone to his neck. “What is it, honey?”
She gave him an odd look. “Did you eat?”
“No. I’m not hungry. But thanks.”
Emma lingered, an odd look in her eye like she was waiting for more from him. Her expression shifted from concern to suspicion. He said nothing. She retreated back into the kitchen. There’d be hell to pay later.
“You there?” Perry breaking in.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Listen, call me if anything happens. This guy sounds like a hothead so it’s probably just bluster. But if you get handed the papers, call.”
Jim thanked him and ended the call. Back into the kitchen. Travis slurping the dregs of the bowl. Emma nodded at the phone in his hand. “Was that Perry?”
“Yeah. Uh, he says hello.”
“What did he want?”
The look in her eye meant business and Jim’s guts protested against lying to her but he couldn’t go into it now. “Just some questions I had.”
“Oh?” That awful suspicion flared back into her eyes. “About what?”
More lies, adding to the heap. “Busting the old fence and tilling Corrigan’s property. Wanted to know if I was in any legal jam there.”
“I see.” Her eyes cast away but Jim caught the dismay in them. The catch of a lie. Torture. Lying over an affair would have been easier.
She poured a cup, blew on it. “What did Perry say?”
“He said not to worry about it.”
Her expression softened. His bullshit was close enough to the truth that they could both ease off. Let the lie pass and move on for now. For now.
Travis grabbed the cereal box for a second bowl and Jim saw an opening to change the subject. He snatched the box from his son’s hand. “Put that away. Who wants breakfast in town?”
Emma stopped, the cup halfway to her lips. More weirdness. “What for?”
“Got some business to take care of.” He slid behind her and tapped her ass with a playful slap. “Get your shoes on. I’ll be outside.”
17
EMMA SPOONED SUGAR into her coffee and looked over the faces in the diner. Hitchens and McGrath hunkered down at the counter while John Connelly, Phil Carroll and Pat Ryder sat at a fourtop in the center. A few other faces she knew enough to nod a polite hello to. Tom, slinging hash over the grill.
Travis slumped on the benchseat across the booth from her. Nose buried in a dog-eared graphic novel. He hadn’t said a word since they left the house.
“What’cha reading?”
He held up the book in response. An ominous figure in a skull T-shirt, automatic pistols filling both hands. The Punisher.
“Mmm,” she said. “Is it good?”
Travis shrugged and kept reading. The mysterious bruise on his cheek had lost some of its purpling. He’d been withdrawn and sullen for the last two days, grunting that he was fine when she asked if he was feeling okay. She left it at that, knowing he’d withdraw further if pressed. The teenage years, she told herself. All moodiness and sullen silences.
“You seem awfully quiet these days.” She couldn’t help herself. It was like trying to keep your hands in your pockets while someone drowned.
“I’m fine.” His first words since they’d sat down.
“Anything you want to talk about?” She knew it was the wrong approach as soon as she said it. Travis didn’t respond to direct questions like that. Did anybody?
Travis grumbled and put his book down. “Where’s Dad?”
Where indeed? Father and son were both acting strange today. “He said he had errands to run. He’ll catch up.”
“Isn’t he eating with us?”
“I don’t know. Your father keeps his own council these days.” More bite to her tone than she’d meant.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Her turn to go silent, look for a way to shift topics. “I was thinking, if you wanted to invite your friend over, maybe she could come for dinner on Sunday.”
“What friend?”
“Brenna.”
Crash. The boy tensed up like he’d been stung. Another misfire. Keep it up, she told herself, and the boy will never speak again.
He went back to his book. The clatter of dishware clanged from the counter. She watched Hitchens push off his stool, clap McGrath on the back and pass by their booth.
“Morning Doug.” Emma smiled up at him, eager for some other conversation to dig her out of the hole with her son. “Did Jim talk to you about that tractor?”
He nodded but didn’t smile or even slow his pace. Kept walking right out the door. Emma stared after him, startled by his rudeness. There was no way he hadn’t seen her.
Even Travis, normally clueless to social graces, raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What’s his problem?”
“Lord knows.” She left it at that, unwilling to speculate.
Then it happened again. McGrath laid two bills on the countertop and lumbered past their table. Emma said hello but all she got back was a brisk nod. No smile, no warmth. Downright frosty to tell the truth.
Travis harrumphed. “Did you piss somebody off?”