I got out of the car and followed him towards the front door. He opened it and gestured for me to enter while he followed behind me. The statement head into town sounded a sudden alarm within me. Of course! I hadn't even considered what should have been the most obvious objection. "Wait a minute, this is ridiculous. I can't stay here with you."
"Why not?"
"I don't have a vehicle, and you live forty minutes from civilization." If River Bluff could even be considered that. "I'd be virtually stranded here. Which sounds too much like the plot of shitty Wes Craven movie, for comfort."
"Is that all?" Chuckling, he closed the house door and sauntered back down the yard toward the garage. He gestured for me to follow. Once inside, he cast a dusty car-tarp aside, with a flourish. It was a stunning candy-apple red, thunderbird convertible. It was polished and gleaming. I didn't know enough about cars to guess the year. It's bold lines, and massive front bumper suggested the early sixties to me, but what did I know? Whatever year it was, it was a classic and something Bryce valued a lot.
"This is Trixie."
I rolled my eyes. Why did straight men always name their cars? And why did they usually sound like strippers?=She's a beauty."
"She wasn't always," Bryce circled the car. "When I found her, she was little more than a rusted shell. I was rummaging the wrecking yard for tractor parts when I saw her." He settled into the driver's seat. There was something sweet and erotic about the way he ran his hands up and down the steering wheel. He saw me watching him and flushed, embarrassed. "Most people would have left her there. It takes too much time and money to restore a classic like this. Shit, I could've bought several cars for the amount that I've spent on her."
"Then why do it?"
He thought for a moment, "I'm not sure. I knew I couldn't leave her there." He exited the vehicle with natural grace. "Cars are a lot like houses. They carry the energy and memories of the people who owned them before. Whoever the original owner was, didn't value her enough to take care of her. I suppose I felt she deserved a second chance. I knew the powerful machine she once was and could be again -- with a little love."
"Well, if this car means that much to you, I couldn't possibly drive it. I wouldn't forgive myself if I scratched it."
"Don't be difficult. I know this may be hard to believe considering everything I've told you, but I know it's a car. It's meant to be driven, so drive it."
I had a sudden vision of Trixie and I, top-down, flying across the highway. The warm June air blowing all around us made cool only by the sheer speed of our travel. "I'd much rather drive the pick-up," I lied.
"Sure, you would." He scoffed. "Unfortunately for you, I use it around the ranch on the daily. So, if you want the freedom to travel, you're going to have to drive the expensive sports car."
What a burden.
SIX
"What is he doing here?" My father threw Lauren a daggered look, which suggested a betrayal had taken place. I nodded a greeting to the room, then hung my jacket on one of the empty hooks next to the back porch before following Bryce to the kitchen table. I tried not to notice his ass as I did so. Oliver stood at the open fridge and held up a brown beer bottle, raising his eyebrow questioning. I shook my head, no.
"We're having a family dinner," Lauren hushed him. "Of course he'd be here."
"If I'd known that, I would've kept my ass home."
Bryce smiled, an air of sarcasm in his tone, "And do what, Robert? Starve? We all know you only eat when Lauren feeds you." He had a knowing smile and a way of addressing him I had seldom seen before. Bryce did not cower under his glare or scurry from his booming voice. They were equals, and Bryce spoke to him as such.
I tried to shrug aside the thorny greeting and took a vacant seat at the table. My father shifted in his chair and took a bite out of his corn. The cob made a juicy, crunchy sound. Melted butter gathered at the corner of his mouth and trickled down to his chin. Most civilized people would have dabbed themselves with a napkin, but not him. To him, it had never made sense to cleanse oneself while the mess was still being made. Once, when I had wiped my hands during dinner, he had responded by stabbing my hand with his fork. "Waste of a good napkin," he had scolded.
"I'm sorry we're late," I felt very cautious and guarded. I hoped the others couldn't tell. "We stopped by the motel to pick up my things."
Lauren's expression turned cloudy, her bottom lip twitching. "You're leaving? Already?"
"Of course not," I was surprised by the accusation, although I suppose I shouldn't have been. Abruptly leaving had been my MO. "I couldn't stomach that motel another night. Bryce was kind enough to offer me one of his spare rooms." I addressed Lauren with sad eyes. "I know you said I could stay with you but given a choice between a couch and a bed, I choose a bed. Every time."
"That's a good idea," Lauren's demeanour softened. "I hated the thought of you in that awful place." She turned to Bryce. "Thank you."
Bryce shrugged. "I have more than enough room." He wore a soft smile on his face as he spoke, the genuine kind that made my stomach weak.
Lauren nodded and turned back to me. "I'm meeting with Father Flannagan tomorrow afternoon. You're welcome to come. I mean, if you want. I'm fine making these arrangements myself."
"Of course I'll come with you. Thank you for asking me. Have we decided who will give the eulogy?"
"We haven't decided anything," my father scolded. "Lauren will do it."
She looked pained. "We talked about this, daddy. I'd rather not. You know I've never been very good at public speaking."
"Would you rather I do it?" I offered. "I mean, it would be no problem."
"Lauren will do it," my father reiterated.
"Are you sure?" I eyed the table for support. "I mean, that's pretty much what I do best: talk."
"You need to work on your listening then, don't you, boy." It wasn't a question. "I told you. Lauren will do it. Your mother should be eulogized by someone who really knew her."
I nodded as the table fell silent, and we all resumed eating. Lauren sipped her wine while I stared down at my lamb chops, unable to bring myself to eat them. I ate around them instead. In the silence that followed, I could hear the tick of an old brass clock that hung above the stove. I counted the seconds and wondered how many of the others were doing the same.
At thirty seconds, Oliver scrapped his knife across his plate. It caused the table to cringe and grit our teeth. At forty-five seconds, Lauren clinked her glass while pouring herself another drink. At a minute-thirty, my father took another bite of his corn. Every insignificant sound echoed through the silence. It was almost too much to bear. Still, it was somehow more pleasant than any conversation we could have with my father in the room.
It was Bryce who finally broke the quiet. "Oliver, how's the bike running? Has it given you any trouble since we tinkered with it the other day?"
"None." Oliver swigged from his beer bottle. Seeing it was near empty, Lauren fetched him another and handed it to him with a smile. "But the truck has been grinding a little when I shift lately. Someone has been forgetting to clutch when she drives, again."