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Gene harrumphed at him, but slid into the passenger seat. The moment felt like dozens before it, and Tick bit back a grin, glad some things really never changed, glad for the time with Grandaddy. He had a week of meetings in Tallahassee, and Coney made a decent base for that. He’d miss seeing the girls off to camp, but would arrive back in Houston the day of Caitlin’s appointment with Alice. Her cycle hadn’t sorted itself out after the miscarriage — he could have set his watch by her before, and the change made him uneasy.
She worried about fertility, because they were into month three after that conversation about having a baby and she wasn’t pregnant.
He worried about her health.
Today, though, he didn’t have to worry. He had to escort Gene, shake hands, including with his brother the straitlaced insurance salesman and his other brother, the bohemian contractor and artisan, and talk about Georgia as a human trafficking pipeline. That wasn’t his daily life any longer, thank the good Lord, but the information continued to be important.
The Farm Table occupied a former furniture store less than a block from the retirement village. The lot overflowed with vehicles, dusty farm trucks and sparkling SUVs, a few sensible sedans in the mix, and Tick parked in front of the old depot that housed the Chamber of Commerce. Maybe the secretary was too busy to notice and wouldn’t come to the door to yell at him to move.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment to a couple of local turf farmers who hailed them across the parking lot. The restaurant interior proved nearly as warm and humid as the air outside, heavy and redolent with the aroma of fried chicken and seasoned vegetables. Sure enough, Del and Chuck were in attendance, and after swapping hugs and brotherly ribbing — how in the Lord’s name did Chuck think that scraggly Moses beard looked good? — they got in the buffet line behind Gene.
Tick swept an eye along the offerings — fried green tomatoes, fried okra, beans full of bacon, potato casserole more butter and cheese than potatoes. Holy hell, if Caitlin saw this, he’d be running for days.
Del leaned forward, close to his ear. “I’m texting her a photo of your plate.”
“I’ll tell Barb you almost let Blake fall off the bed at Mama’s that time.”
A quiet grin lit Del’s serious face. “Statute of limitations is up on that one.”
Tick snorted, adding a generous spoonful of layered salad to his plate. It was green — that had to be healthy, right? “The statute of limitations is never up on almost dropping a baby, trust me.”
At about six months, Eva had flipped off his arm onto the couch, a five-inch fall if that, and he still heard about it.
Ahead of them, Gene grabbed a foam cup of sweet tea and hustled for his favorite table. Snagging his own cup, Tick followed, smothering a groan at the makeup of that table.
Virgil Holton and Talley Palmer.
Son of a bitch, he’d be fighting off come-home-and-run-for-sheriff all through lunch. How many times did a guy have to say, “I’m not asking my wife to live in BumFuckEgypt, Georgia”?
Not to mention “I made leadership with the Bureau and I’m not pooch screwing my career”?
He hated when Gene looked at him with disappointment, though.
Sue Anglin and Cynthia Rackley took up the final two seats at the table, Cynthia at Gene’s right elbow. He shook hands with Virgil and Talley, greeted Sue and Cynthia, tagging on the obligatory Mrs., despite Cynthia’s widowed state. She was Aunt Maureen’s age, had lost her husband in a farming accident back when Tick had been with DCPD. Her son, a late-life only child, was a little older than Tori.
Sparkling earrings dangled from her ears, beaded bracelets covered both wrists, and her personality glittered the same way. Pulling his napkin out of the cellophane pack of plastic cutlery, Tick smiled at her level of enthusiasm.
His wife was like still, deep water. He loved that, even with the wicked undercurrents that showed up every so often.
“Gene, you forgot your extra napkins.” Cynthia tapped the top of his hand and slid off her chair. “I’ll get them.”
As she passed behind them, she trailed a fingertip along Gene’s shoulder. Tick stilled, a forkful of potato casserole halfway to his mouth. He knew that touch — he’d witnessed Louise do the same thing countless times, had experienced the pleasurable shiver each time Caitlin ran her finger over his own shoulder when she left the table to retrieve something.
Holy hell.
The old man wasn’t simply fielding phone calls from flirtatious women.
He was dating Cynthia Rackley.
Catching Del’s quick, amused glance, he recovered, lifting the casserole to his lips, but not really tasting it. Okay. Gene was in good health, still had plenty of miles left on him, and Tick didn’t want him alone and lonely. This wasn’t much different from Mama dating, although that had come years after Daddy’s death.
Except . . . damn it. They were talking about Louise, the hole her passing had left. They were still shy of a year.
Lifting his roll, he slid a sidelong glance at his brothers. Someone could have warned him. Chuck shrugged, and Del lifted two fingers, rotating his wrist in a call-more-often-and-you’d-know-shit gesture.
Damn it, he’d been busy, learning the intricate role of leading multiple teams, navigating loss and renewed hope with his wife. That was really why he hadn’t called Del as often — the loss of that baby still choked him when he tried to talk about it and he couldn’t hold a conversation with Del without wanting to talk about it.
He phoned Gene, a lot, on the regular, and the old geezer never let on about Cynthia at all.
