“She’s our daughter,” Frank said, his voice iron. “We care about her just as much as you do. And remember our family history. We’re going.”
It took Dan a moment to comprehend what his father-in-law was talking about regarding family history. Then he remembered the suicide of Wallace Copeland, that event that was so crucial to Frank, so unimportant to everyone else. Yes, suicide was horrible, but it had happened, what, forty-plus years ago? Dan saw no need to dig extra graves so you could just dump a family member in if they offed themselves.
“As I said, Frank, this is between me and my wife,” Dan glowered. “Let us work this out ourselves.”
“No.”
The two men glared at each other in a staredown that, had it been seen by more people, would have gone down in legend. Dan had recovered from the angry helplessness that had demoralized him in the aftermath of Emily’s departure, and attacked Frank with a look that would have melted the resolve of the most hard-bitten courtroom witness.
He might as well have been trying to burn through a mountain with a laser pointer.
Frank and Jean came with him, though he did prevail upon them to drive separately and to stay at a different hotel. Dennis stayed in Raleigh, because, as Dan told him, “if I find your mother, this might get ugly, and I don’t want you to see your parents fighting.” Dennis didn’t mind being left behind, although he didn’t like that he’d be staying with their next door neighbors, the Cobbs. The Cobbs were two smotheringly-loving retirees, and Dennis had had enough smothering love from his grandma during this charade.
And now the three Copelands and one Dowling were about to eat some greasy seafood and yak about things they’d already yakked about for hours. Frank was tired of yakking. He wanted to sleuth (he’d just read a mystery novel, and sleuthing was on his mind), though he didn’t quite know how he’d sleuth, since Dan refused to involve anyone else. One needed to interrogate people to sleuth.
“Thomas, do you eat here often?” Jean asked. “You used to love coming here when you were a wee little fellow.”
“No, not really,” Thomas replied. “I go to Clamshells and get a discount, since Reggie works there.”
“Ah, that’s smart!” Jean said. “How is he?”
“He’s the same old Reggie.”
Their waitress, an emaciated girl as plain as a dock piling, came over with a basket of hushpuppies. She took their drink orders, and then asked if they wanted any appetizers. In the way of certain families trying to order shared food, there was an elaborate discussion about the qualities and prices of the various appetizers listed on the menu. Each person gave their preference (Jean: “I remember their shrimp being divine!”), then exercised their personal vetoes (Dan: “I’ve never liked crab dip — or crab anything.”), until finally a consensus was reached: they would have a shrimp cocktail. The waitress scribbled on her pad and left.
“So, Thomas,” Dan began, “tell me again about this Brett Hickman person.”
“What do you want to know?” Thomas said, feeling vaguely uneasy, as if he was being asked to snitch on a close friend. Dan wasn’t the wreck he’d been at Christmas. He seemed back to normal — in fact, he seemed better than normal, at least in the short time Thomas had had to observe him. He exuded a sense of happiness and freedom — much like his estranged wife had.
“I want to know everything, of course,” Dan said, smiling. “Mainly how he was able to seduce my wife away from me.”
“You’d have to ask Emily that.”
“Emily isn’t here. I just want to know what you think.”
“Well, she said he was a stud,” Thomas said, annoyed at all the eyes fixed on him, “and that he’d made a bunch of money. Other than that, I couldn’t tell you exactly what made Emily fall for him — again. I guess he has that bad-boy edge that a lot of women like.”
“Did she go into any detail about this affair?” Dan asked. “Where was all this… stuff taking place?”
“I don’t know. Like I’ve told you, they met at the gym, and then things just kind of happened.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Dan asked, still smiling. With a sinking feeling, Thomas suspected that Dan’s mood was buoyant because he’d decided to let Emily go. For some reason, Thomas had pictured Dan as the still-loyal husband desperate to get his wife back, despite her cuckoldry. His anger at Christmas had been an aberration, soon to be cast off once he regained his senses. After all, Emily had had him squarely under her thumb. But Thomas hadn’t considered that her metaphorical thumb was now nowhere near Dan. In a relatively short time, he had grown tall, like a plant that, having struggled through a drought, was now being blessed with a life-giving rainshower.
Thomas looked at his parents, wondering if they had noticed this. If they had, they were likely in denial over it.
The waitress returned with their drinks, informed them that their shrimp cocktail was just about done, and were they ready to order? Another round of discussion began, which baffled Thomas, since each person was ostensibly ordering what they wanted. But as soon as someone would give the waitress their order, someone else (specifically, Thomas’s parents) would ask if they had seen this other option, which may be just as good, and was cheaper to boot? Thomas himself was ridiculed when he ordered a prime rib. (Jean: “This is a seafood restaurant, Thomas!” Frank: “That steak’s a bit expensive, too.”) Dan ordered a shrimp salad (“I’ll take your word that the shrimp are divine, Jean.”) claiming he was trying to save room for dessert, and was pilloried for his unmanly, rabbit-like eating choice. Throughout all this, Thomas and the waitress suffered. He caught her eye and shook his head slowly, subtly telling her that he wasn’t really part of this circus. He thought she understood.
Finally the orders were placed, and the waitress bustled away. On her pad, next to the orders written in shorthand, she’d drawn a crude machine gun spraying bullets into the space beyond the page. It was her habit to scrawl violent imagery when dealing with a difficult table.
“Well, I hope this Brett Hickman fellow is happy with Emily,” Dan said, though his tone suggested he doubted they’d have lasting happiness.
Again, Thomas looked at his parents, but his father was brooding, as usual, and his mother was smiling obliviously, perhaps imagining a happy ending to all this — which meant, to her, the Dowling marriage restored and this Hickman person banished.
“So, did you two get a chance to drive around and look at the old sights?” Dan asked, motioning to Frank and Jean. Since they’d driven separately and checked into different hotels, they hadn’t seen each other since noon, when they left Raleigh.
“Yes, we had a little reminiscing drive,” Jean said happily. “We haven’t driven by our old bungalow yet or by the old Copeland home, but we drove by the furniture store. Frank didn’t want to go inside, though.”
“It’s no longer my store,” Frank stated, “so I don’t see the need to walk inside and stare at it. And the owner wouldn’t want me coming in and sniffing around and finding fault in how he does things. It’s his store, he can do what he wants.”
Though Frank Copeland did think the lettering of “POTTER FURNITURE & INTERIORS” on the store windows looked terrible.
No, he would never admit it openly, but he had wanted to see the store, if only to ponder what could have been. He wished it was “COPELAND FURNITURE” still on those windows and on the sign by the road, instead of that ugly “POTTER FURNITURE & INTERIORS.” He wished his children (one of them, at least, but preferably both) were running the store, with him acting as a sort of consultant and sage, but they had both rejected that path long ago.