Danger, Sweetheart Part 5

"They don't recycle?" His hip buzzed; he ignored it.

Here came the scowl: "I'm serious, Son. What have you seen?"

"Mom, please. I've been in town less than a day, and in this establishment less than three minutes, and-" His phone buzzed again; he ignored it.

"And talked about tea for most of it, yes, but you don't fool me, boy, and you never have. You- Why don't you take that?"

"It's fine, Mom. Here, I'll shut it off."

She shook her head. "Not necessary. And it might be your brother."

He shuddered. "Then I'll definitely shut it off."

"Forget it. Listen, I know you see it and if you don't-for G.o.d's sake."

He pulled his phone, glanced at the text. Conference over; don't have to head back till tomorrow, dinner? Kelly. Her skills as a veterinarian had creative applications in the bedroom, something he thought he would never know, much less appreciate. Alas.

"Er-" He indicated the phone. "May I?"

"Politely turn down one of your random lovers for s.e.x? Yes."

"It could have been work related," he replied, stung.

"It never is with you, sweetie. And I thought you put a stop to the texting."

"Unfortunately, if they have my phone number they also have the ability to text. I told them my preference, but it's not for me to dictate the terms of their communication." Lovely to hear from you, but so sorry, I'm out of town for a few days. A pure crime; no one with legs like yours should have to wait for anything or anyone. Send. Shut off. Put away. "You were saying?"

"I was saying you should pull your head out of Edward the Third's bio and really look around this town."

"I left Edward the Fourth's biography in my Supertruck," he mumbled.

"Your what? Never mind; we've got to stay on track. Surely you've noticed that it's six o'clock on a Friday night and there aren't more than a dozen people in the only restaurant still open on Main."

"I had noticed that," he admitted.

"Which is why what you did was such an unholy disaster."

"Let's be clear. I paid off mortgages so you had less on your plate. I did not kill a chicken, make a pentagram with its blood, then try to call up the Beast. Not that I would, even if I could. The Beast is also my brother, because Rake is terrible." His took a gulp from his water gla.s.s, already annoyed and rattled beyond belief. "But please continue explaining the unholy disaster I brought about through love of my mother. Specifics, please."

She rolled her eyes. "G.o.d, the guilt. All right. Specifically, these people don't need money; they need their property. Specifically, duh. Right? Is that what the kids say?"

"I have no idea."

"Why would I have called you if money was the solution? You boys have always been generous; you could have challenged the trust anytime after you turned eighteen, then twenty-one, then twenty-five, but you never did."

"And never would. You deserved every penny, then and now." A rare moment of agreement between the twins. Of course their mother should keep enjoying their inheritance, even after the twins were of age. It hadn't been a matter for debate.

"You're nearly thirty and could have fought to exclude me-I'm only a Tarbell by shotgun marriage-but you never did." Her tone softened and she reached across the table to touch his hand. "For which I was, am, will be grateful, always. But for G.o.d's sake, boy, did it never occur to either of you that if I'd wanted that solution I would have paid them off myself?"

"It did," he acknowledged, giving her fingers a slight squeeze before she withdrew her hand. "But Rake reminded me, because he is awful, that your stubborn streak, which mercifully pa.s.sed me by, was likely to prevent you from throwing in the towel, as they say. Isn't that what the kids say? Always remember, Mom: Rake is terrible and should have been destroyed long ago. In a way, this is entirely his fault." Blake was vague on the details but remained convinced.

"Spare the s.h.i.t." Blake blinked; his mother rarely indulged in epithets. "Listen: Money won't fix this. The bank doesn't need it and the townspeople won't take anything perceived as charity. Some of the families have been here longer than North Dakota has been a state."

"It's been a state less than one hundred thirty years. That's, what? Three generations?" In Las Vegas terms, an eternity. In Roman terms, a sneeze.

His mother chose to ignore math. "Some of them would literally rather die than give up their land, d'you understand? You've got no idea the things they've done to hold off foreclosure. The sacrifices they made because to them it was worth it; they knew it was to secure their children's future."

Blake was beginning to see the problem and didn't like any of it: the actual problem and his part in the actual problem, which made another problem, which was a hideous offshoot of the original problem.

"You giving money to the bank holding their lien literally made their worst nightmare come true."

Mother never confuses "literally" and "figuratively"; ergo, I really have made nightmares come true. What will be required? Amends? Likely. But what sort? An offer of a cashier's check will not be welcome. What can I give her-and Sweetheart-that would signify remorse, and also help? And why am I pondering? She'll have a solution; she always does. She wouldn't have summoned me if she didn't have this figured out. So now I am terrified.

"Three generations would be considered 'new guy in town' by anyone on the other side of the planet."

She groaned and rubbed her temples. "No 'Europe is ancient and wondrous and America is as a truck-stop restroom in comparison' c.r.a.p, please."

"But when one puts the Sweetheart dilemma against radiometric dating, it's not long, and there are lots of places to live. I drove through several in my Supertruck."

"Your what?"

He ignored the dumbfounded query. "If this particular patch of planet Earth is no longer habitable, for whatever reason, they can find another one." Blake, native of a city of transients, had never understood the emotional response some people had to specific pieces of land. "It's not a matter of sentiment; it's a matter of logistics. Land is the one thing the planet will never make more of, so all parts are equally precious. So what does it matter? You always told us that home is where you hang your hat."

His mother was staring at him and Blake braced himself for angry hair ruffling, finger-pointing, shouting, or perhaps a gentle punch to his solar plexus. But she didn't speak, didn't move, and long seconds pa.s.sed before she managed, "This is all my fault."

Ah, sweet relief! If she wouldn't blame Rake, who was awful, she would blame herself. Either way, he might make it out of this diner alive. Alas, relief fled as she finished her thought: "But you're still going to help me fix it."

"How?"

His mother showed her teeth in what most people would a.s.sume was a smile. "Thought you'd never ask."

Eight.

"No."

"Blake."

"Absolutely not."

"Blake!"

"I refuse." He was iron; he would not be moved. "I will love and honor you as my mother for my lifetime, but I draw the line here. No."

"Blake." His mother was steel, an alloy of iron and carbon. "You have to do this."

"Untrue." Iron, dammit!

"You will do this." Argh, steel. Superior tensile strength.

Still, he hung in. "Inaccurate."

"Blake, I will activate the nuclear option."

His brain actually went off-line for a second as it contemplated the horror. "... you can't mean that."

"Without hesitation. I'll turn that key and you'll have to live with the fallout."

Blake stared at the alloy of iron and carbon and knew defeat, which he indicated by muttering, "s.h.i.t," into his perfectly brewed cup of tea.

Minutes later, a thoroughly defeated Blake turned his phone back on (bring on the s.e.x texts! bring on the awkward! I don't care anymore and have nothing left to lose!) and began mentally composing the blistering text he would send to Rake, because Rake was terrible. The text would be a thing of hateful beauty, Blake's triumph and vengeance at once.

Face up to it: you're screwed.

Yes. He was screwed. But Rake was still terrible, and that was the straw he would grasp. Meanwhile, the bulldozer of his life was imparting more waitressing wisdom: "You can save yourself more trips if you learn to antic.i.p.ate," she was saying in her frightening (obey me or face the consequences!) yet soothing (I'm just looking out for you, honey) voice. "Most of the time a customer who wants a hamburger will want ketchup. And small children-"

A sharp ka-clang!, followed by a tentative voice from the booth behind them: "Um, waitress? Can we get another fork over here?"

"-frequently drop their silverware."

How did she accomplish that? The timing was perfect! I didn't even know a child was sitting behind us. Once again I am in awe, and also terrified, of she who gave me life.

Their waitress began to wander off in search of flatware just before his mother put down three twenties to cover a $32.46 bill. The manager loomed out of nowhere, startling them both, like a corn-fed chubby demon emerging from the shadows of the hostess station. "You folks have a nice evening," he said, starting to scoop the twenties across the table and into his pocket. "Unlikely, but no fault of yours."

"That's not for you," his mother spoke up. "It's for our waitress."

"Yeah, no. See, I keep them all and we divide at the end of the week." The manager (black lettering on white background name tag read Bill! And what was with this town and unnecessary exclamation points?) was short and round, a little taller than Blake's mother and wider, and balding, which he for some reason called attention to by combing strands from one side of his head up over the top of his (bald) head and securing them on the other side with ... what? Gel? Superglue? Saliva? A bad business, regardless.

(He recalled Rake explaining his position while they were in their teens. "If I start shedding like a husky in spring, I'm just getting rid of all of it. f.u.c.k all that clinging to sc.r.a.ps garbage. It's all going down. I will totally rock the Patrick Stewart look. And the Dwayne Johnson. And the LL Cool J. And the Taye Diggs."

"And the Pablo Pica.s.so," he suggested.

"Dammit, Blake, do you have to suck the cool out of everything?") "You can't do that, Bill," Blake's mother was saying, sliding out of the booth and getting to her feet.

"Sure can, Shannah." The manager was coolly polite, obviously known to Blake's mother but not a friend. "We keep some in the pot for the holiday party at the end of the year and I divide up the rest so we all get a share. It's called teamwork, like when people in this town stick together to stick it out? Maybe you've heard of it?"

Warm delight curled through Blake's midsection. Oh. Oh, this is going to be wonderful. His phone started buzzing (Caroline? Sharon? Barb? Vanessa?); he ignored it.

"It's called tip pooling!" she snapped. "And it's illegal. Tips by definition belong to the employees, not the employer. Do you know why, Bill? It's because you aren't paid subminimum wage. So you don't get a share of their tips. Nor can you share them out with nontipped employees like dishwashers."

"I know the law!" Bill! snapped back.

"It seems," Blake said in a low, soothing tone, "you don't."

Like all bullies, Bill! ignored the larger threat and went back to trying to dominate the shorter, lighter threat. "This is none of your d.a.m.ned business, Shannah, again."

"You're wrong, Bill, again. You can sue him, you know," she said, turning to the waitress, who had frozen in place with a replacement fork clutched in one fist. "He's not legally ent.i.tled to any of your tips."

"Sue?" she echoed, and then laughed. Looked around the almost-deserted restaurant, the dusty corners, the quiet kitchen, and laughed harder. "Sue! Right! Because I want a percentage of whatever all this is."

Sensible creature.

"You, get back to work." Bill! pointed in one direction, then the other. "You, get the f.u.c.k out of my restaurant."

Blake stepped up, forcing Bill! to stand his ground or take a step back. He stepped back with such speed he nearly fell into the booth with the forkless child. "Sir, I have terrible news for you. More terrible than the fact that a visit from the North Dakota Department of Labor seems to be in your future."

"You don't-"

"My terrible news is this: I don't mind that you're crowding my mother and using foul language, because I have endured a very odd day where almost everything has been out of my control. That's bad for me, because I dislike change, and being out of control, but it's worse for you. Because I am in a foul enough mood that I'm hoping you'll be suicidal enough to raise a hand to my mother. Federal a.s.sault is against the law, of course, but sometimes unacceptable actions are met with unacceptable nosebleeds."

"Jesus. You people. All right." With a snarl, Bill! threw the sixty dollars at the waitress, who watched with an amazed expression as the twenties fluttered to the floor, then stooped to pick them up. "Now get the f.u.c.k out. I'm serious, now."

"Did you know that over forty percent of facial injuries result in broken noses? Your nose is always in danger, as it protrudes from the middle of your face. Yours more than others. And it's not just cartilage; it's bone, too, which is why it often requires surgical correction."

"Blake."

"Sometimes if you're hit hard enough, a broken nose can even damage the bones in your neck. Isn't that fascinating?" Blake asked Bill's! nose, as the man refused eye contact.

"Blake," his mother said in fond exasperation. "Please don't. It'll be inconvenient to bail you out."

"Worth it," he told Bill's! nose. "My brother and I are the only ones allowed to contemplate Shannah Tarbell's grisly murder. Finding our mother intensely annoying is a privilege, not a right."

"If you get pinched, Rake would have a field day."

In an instant Blake abandoned Plan Deviated Septum, because she was right and he would never live it down, because Rake was terrible. "Very well, Mom. Shall we?" He stepped back to let his mother walk past and to let Bill! sidle around him to scuttle to the kitchen. Their waitress seized Shannah's forearm and mouthed, Thank you, with a big smile, holding up the twenties for emphasis. Blake turned to follow, and felt a big smile of his own slide onto his face.

She was there, the woman he had met outside the bed-and-breakfast, the one he had plunged from his Supertruck to a.s.sist. She was wearing the same suit she'd had on earlier, and the same brown wedges, and two older men were right behind her, also in suits (one with tan oxfords, one with brown loafers), waiting to be seated. All three were big eyed, but she was the only one grinning. It threw her gorgeous cheekbones into sharp relief, and he was absurdly happy she had caught him doing something cliched and heroically masculine.

"The North Dakota Department of Labor, eh?" she teased as his mother walked past, intent on the street. "G.o.d help us all. The last thing this town needs."

"Evil must be stomped from existence by any means possible," he replied, wishing he could linger and talk. Alas, he had a mother to soothe and a venomous text to prepare, because Rake was terrible. And if things went the way Blake's mother planned-and as she had the nuclear option, that seemed to be the case-he would have plenty of time to strike up new conversations. Perhaps his exile to Sweetheart wouldn't be entirely wretched. He wondered if the lovely blue-eyed creature tasted as good as she looked. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Back atcha," she replied, which pleased him so much you'd think she had said, Jeepers, you're dreamy! or the twenty-first-century equivalent.

At the time he had no inkling, but it would be their last pleasant interaction.

Nine.