June (21 page)

Elda pointed her finger toward her sister’s closed door again and again, as if pressing an elevator button. “She is ludicrously stubborn.” Inside, Cassie could hear the low rumbling of Nick and Tate’s exchange, but she couldn’t make out the words. Elda went on. “Why she gives two shits whether he was a good man is beyond me. He was a Hollywood star! Are we surprised he was diddling farm girls? No, we are not!”

On the other side of the thick oak door, Tate raised her voice in response, but Nick shushed her again. Cassie decided not to go after the farm girl comment. “He was her father,” she said.

Elda’s knowing laugh shook the hall. “He was my father too, and that’s precisely why”—she raised her voice again—“I see who he truly was.” To Cassie, she said, “She thinks her parents had some kind of great romance.” Her voice turned to poisoned sugar. “Jack Montgomery and Diane DeSoto and their adorable daughter, Tate.” She buried her finger into her chest. “But I was there. I was witness. I was the one who saw him belittle Diane. Who saw how she berated and threatened and, yes, spat at him. Who saw her snort and drink everything in sight.” Her voice lobbed again toward the door. “The truth is, they hated each other. It’s no surprise she killed herself.”

The door swung open as Tate flung herself into the hallway. Her face was now crimson, her hands murderous. Cassie took a step back as Tate closed in on Elda. “Don’t. You. Dare.” Tate’s voice was no longer shrill; it was icy and filled with power.

Even Elda seemed a touch concerned. She backed toward the stairwell, holding her hands up in supplication. Behind Tate, Nick scratched at his brow. He approached Tate and placed his hand gently on her back just as she reached toward her sister’s neck.

“Tate,” Nick said, moving his hand to Tate’s shoulder.

She shook him off.

“Tate, take a step back.”

“Get off me.”

Nick flinched, but he wasn’t moving; Cassie felt proud of him for holding his ground, and burned at Tate’s nasty expression as the woman went at her sister once again.

“You can’t do this,” Nick said, this time closing his hand around Tate’s arm.

She wheeled on him. “What are you, deaf? I told you: Get. Off. Me. Or do you need me to remind you where your checks are coming from?”

Elda cackled. “You going to fire him too? Just like poor Margaret? I guess that’s something else Daddy taught you—how to treat people.”

“Shut up shut up shut up,” Tate cried, putting her hands over her ears. “Your voice is—”

“Enough.” Cassie heard herself bellow the word before she knew she had something to say. “This is my house. You are guests in my house and you will stop this now.” They all looked appropriately chagrined. She went on. “You.” She pointed at Elda. “You have such a good memory? I need to know everything about the summer your father spent in St. Jude.”

“I was four,” Elda replied, crossing her arms.

“Well, I’m guessing Tate didn’t fly you out here on her plane just so you could go at each other.”

Tate nodded smugly in agreement, as though her hands were clean. But Cassie jabbed her finger at her. “You want to get out of Ohio as soon as possible?”

Tate’s eyes widened at the bald truth. Then she nodded, once.

“Well, stop bullying people for five seconds and actually sit with your father’s papers. Not Hank. Not Nick. Not Me. You.”

Nick cleared his throat. “What about me?” he asked.

“Go to the library,” she boomed, not because she actually had a plan, but because they were all blinking at her as if she did, and she figured that there had to be something useful at the library, and also that maybe she could go along and they could kiss some more in the stacks or something. Nick nodded nervously, and she wanted to smile to reassure him, but then she’d lose her edge.

“Well?” she thundered. “Get to work.”

Lindie was awoken by the screen door yawning ajar. It was rare for Eben’s friends to come by on a Sunday night. As her eyes fluttered open, she listened for the usual back claps and handshakes and the heavy wallop of bourbon on the table, waited for the sharp tang of cigars rising through the vent at the foot of her bed. There was none of that, though; just her father’s gentle voice welcoming in a guest, and a quiet male voice returning the niceties.

Lindie clambered to the bottom of her bed, where she flattened herself and listened.

The other man said something as he came into the room, something that made Eben laugh. She heard two dining chairs graze the floorboards. Whoever this man was, her father did not offer him a drink.

“Well, Eben, you can imagine I’m curious,” the other voice said. It was closer now, more distinct, and Lindie knew at once that it belonged to Clyde Danvers. “Thought you might be throwing me a surprise party.” He sounded amused at the thought.

“I wanted to discuss a private matter,” Eben said. Lindie could imagine her father’s hands waving Clyde’s concern away. It was the same gesture he employed whenever Lindie objected to the prospect of moving out of St. Jude, or when she awoke from a bad dream about her mother coming back to steal her away. “Just a little something that needs clearing up.”

“Do tell.” But before Eben could begin to answer, Clyde spoke again. “Did you know Lindie came out to that movie party on Friday night?”

“Far as I know, she was asleep in her bed.”

That made Clyde laugh. “I admire you, Eben, I really do, bringing her up on your own. I can’t imagine it’s easy. We both know she’s got a bit of her mother in her.”

Eben grunted. The air grew thinner. Lindie ached for Clyde to elaborate; she hadn’t been sad to see her mother go—Lorraine was not the type to kiss a wounded knee—but that didn’t mean Lindie didn’t want to know everything about her.

But instead Clyde returned to the subject of Friday night’s festivities. “The party was very grown-up, if you catch my drift, Eben. Men. The crew.” He laughed again. “Lord knows I count myself lucky to have dodged daughters and wives. So take my advice with a grain of salt. But while I’m at it—would it hurt you to put her in a dress? She’s a growing girl, Eben. She can’t be wandering all over creation in overalls anymore.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Eben’s voice sounded tamed, as though he was holding it back with reins, when what it wanted to do was run wild. He sighed. “But you’re right. She shouldn’t have been out at the development, especially not after dark, especially not with grown strangers. I’ll speak with her.”

“Don’t get her in trouble on my account,” Clyde protested. “I just want her safe. You know I love her like she was my own.”

Something skittered through the air—something invisible and razor sharp. The night stayed quiet for a bit after that.

“Funny, though, you should bring up the development,” Eben said, after a while.

“Why’s that?”

“What are you calling it these days?”

“Thinking it might be Two Oaks, actually.”

“You can’t call it Two Oaks, Clyde.” Lindie liked how normal her father’s voice sounded again, just perturbed.

“That old bastard might own half the town, but he doesn’t own the name. Show me anywhere he’s got a copyright on it.”

“It’s a matter of respect.”

“Three Oaks, then. You like that better?”

Eben was silent. When he spoke again, he had made his voice tranquil. “I’ve been going over Mr. Neely’s papers, just like every year. To make sure everything’s in place. And, well, I discovered an irregularity.”

“Fancy word.”

“It seems”—Eben pressed as though he hadn’t heard—“that a good eight acres of Three Oaks is actually built on Mr. Neely’s land.”

“I own that land.” Quick as that.

“You own some of that land. You own the land to the east and north, but you don’t actually own”—Lindie could hear the scuttle of paper upon the table—“this land.” She imagined her father’s finger jabbing at a map.

Clyde started laughing. “What a regular Sherlock Holmes you are!”

“Didn’t take much sleuthing,” Eben said evenly. “Just common sense.”

There was a quiet patch then, in which Lindie imagined Clyde was leaning over the map to get to the bottom of the misunderstanding. After a while, he mused, “What an oversight! Can’t believe I could have done something so dumb.”

“You know what, Clyde? I don’t think it was an oversight,” Eben said coolly. “Three years ago, you tried to get me to sell you that land and I said no. You thought I forgot, didn’t you? The only reason it took me this long to say anything was I couldn’t believe you’d actually build houses on land you don’t own. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

“Now see here,” Clyde replied, quick as a snake, “I made an honest mistake, Eben. I’ll be the first to call myself a dang fool. But it’s water under the bridge now. The houses are built! I’m happy to consider cutting your old pal Lemon in on the profits of the home sales; that seems fair. But you know how I see it? My honest mistake does him a favor. Before I got to it, it was all just empty land out there, waiting to be turned into something worthwhile. Now that land is making us money! Changing our town for the better!”

Eben didn’t reply.

“Anyway,” Clyde continued, “it doesn’t really matter what you think. That’ll be my brother’s property soon. Good old Artie will put that ring on June’s finger, Mr. Neely—God bless him—will pass on to the next life, and all his worldly possessions, and his money, and his land”—he enunciated that final word—“will go to June.”

An icy, untamed feeling crept up Lindie’s spine: a combination of fear, fury, and righteous indignation. Her stomach soured. Had Uncle Clyde just admitted he wanted June to marry Artie because of what he assumed would be her inheritance?

But Eben kept his head. “Don’t count your chickens, Clyde. Even I don’t know who Mr. Neely’s heir is. The only person who knows is Mr. Neely’s lawyer down in Columbus, and you don’t hold any sway there. You’re a big fish in a small pond, Clyde. A big fish in a small pond.”

“I don’t see the point of this,” Clyde said, sounding annoyed. “Why bring me over here to rub my face in a mistake? I said I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t, in fact.”

“You want something, Eben?” He sounded plain angry now. “Spit it out.”

“What I want,” Eben replied, voice just as fierce, “is for you to take those buildings down.”

“Take them down?” Clyde cracked up, but it was a dark laugh, not a bit of friendliness about it. “You want I should tear down the hard labor of men? Oh, Eben, you got me good! You must be a damn fool to think this town wants to see progress demolished. You’re missing the big picture, old man. The future. This is our chance to get a piece of it. Ripvogle’s this close to getting the bid. This close, Eben. You know as well as I do that that interstate will change this town and make it great. I’m giving you a chance to be a part of that greatness. To make something of yourself, something that doesn’t belong to some highfalutin old pansy who still treats you like the trash you were born into.”

“Time for you to leave,” Eben said, sliding his chair back from the table.

“Sure, sure,” Clyde replied, sounding wounded. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want, just like I came when called. But I’m my own man, Eben. I do what I want. Don’t screw this up for me.”

Next came their footsteps, followed by the squeal of the screen door. Lindie crept up to the small, cracked window that looked out over the front porch. The night was cloudy, the light from the moon dissipated over the whole world. Lindie could make out the glint of Clyde’s pistol at his belt as he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off into the night. After that came the sound of the front door closing, and the bolt being laid across it. Then Lindie heard a great, terrible crash from downstairs—glass against wall—but nothing of note after that.