“Sure, and you’re working for Da.”
“I’ll give him back his money.”
She stiffens. “You already know too much. He’ll kill you.”
“Tell him to get in line then. And bring his best shot. They’ll have to get past the Sawgrass men.”
“Da’s a menace.” She says it like she’s proud, but I see a shiver go through her. She’s scared of the man. Scared of all he’s done over a lifetime of pain.
Pain that I just added to, without permission. Without control. But I cannot lose Mr. and Mrs. A.
Sighing, I take another step back. I keep my hands conspicuously in sight, but I let my ragged voice explain I’m deadly serious. “I will not stand here and argue with you. Fix this with the Andersons. Or pack your fucking bags.”
The ultimatum surprises me. But I do nothing to take it back.
I watch a dozen arguments bloom on her face, all the ways she can tell me to go to hell. Before she settles on an answer,though, a timer goes off on the oven. Mrs. A must have been standing just the other side of the door, because she bursts into the kitchen, twisting her apron in her hands. “It’s the lamb,” she says apologetically.
“I’ll get that for you,” I say, opening the drawer where she keeps the potholders. I take my time centering the pan on a pair of waiting trivets, giving Kate a chance to make her choice. The roast sizzles like souls burning in Hell.
Mrs. A clicks her tongue and begins issuing orders like a general on a battlefield. Ice water is poured into glasses. Ginger carrots fill one bowl. Snap peas with mint fill another. Yeast rolls come out of the second oven, followed closely by roasted radishes that make Mr. A wrinkle his nose. He knows better than to complain, though, as he begins to carve the massive leg of lamb.
Finally, we’re settled at the table, all the dishes passed and compliments delivered to the chef. Mr. and Mrs. A exchange meaningful glances, which leads to Mr. A launching into a long recitation about the robotics team’s performance at State. I make interested noises to keep him going.
All the while, I study Kate. She pushes a few bites of food around on her plate, doing an expert job of avoiding eye contact with everyone. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t actually eaten a single bite. She sips her water, though, and she wipes her lips with her napkin.
After Mrs. A has passed around dishes for everyone to take seconds or thirds, Kate clears her throat. She fiddles with her fork. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely loud enough to hear. “I’m afraid I caused a bit of a scene earlier, and that was never my intention.”
“Now, dear—” Mrs. A begins.
But Mr. A interrupts. “Let the girl talk.”
Kate swallows hard. She glances at me, just a flash, too fast for me to predict what she’s going to say. Despite my having eaten enough to fuel a small army, I feel completely hollow inside.
“I told Mrs. A that I haven’t been completely honest with you. And I know I’m embarrassing Cole by saying this, but I have to get the truth out there.”
Every muscle in my body is frozen. I couldn’t interrupt Kate if I wanted to. And I’m not sure I want to. I don’t know what choice she’s made.
Mrs. A pats her hand sympathetically. Mr. A sits back in his chair, waiting.
Kate looks up from her plate and finally says, “I’ve purposely let you think that everything is just fine with Cole and me. But the truth is, I was laid off from my job with the school district two weeks ago. Thank God, Cole’s work is stable at Hamilton so we don’t have to worry about that. I should have said something earlier, when you asked about the server outage, but I’ve been embarrassed. And angry. And to be perfectly honest, I’ve felt helpless. I barely had a chance to figure out how to run a household on our two salaries, and now I’m rewriting the book, making do with one. I’m sorry I upset everyone. I just… I’m sorry.”
It’s a pretty act. I watch Mrs. A’s face soften with pity. “In this economy, dear, there’s no shame in being laid off. Come with me into the kitchen. I’ve got an entire section in my recipe box for meals that stretch a penny. Let’s copy over a few of those, to tide you over for a bit.” Mrs. A looks at her husband and me. “Gentlemen? If you’ll excuse us?”
Of course we both agree. Mr. A shakes his head as the women disappear behind the kitchen door. When he starts to stack dishes, I realize he isn’t wearing a Band-Aid. I say, “I didn’tthinkyou caught your hand while we installed the screen door.”
He looks confused for a moment, but then he laughs. “I figured you and your missus needed a chance to talk.”
I twitch a shoulder in agreement. I’m still ashamed that I lost my temper. I can’t afford to do that—not here. Not ever. I can’t call myself a Dom if I’m out of control.
“May I offer a word of advice?” Mr. A asks.
I can’t bite back a rueful smile. We both know he’ll say whatever he wants to say.
“Be careful, son, about who you do business with.”
I blink, buying a second to translate my response into something Mr. A might expect to hear. “My job at Hamilton is secure. We don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’m not talking about Hamilton,” he says.
