Page 73 of His Third Wife

“There are a dozen other programs just like this one,” Cade said. “All around the country. We’re not inventing anything new. I need your signature on that contract.”

“I’ll need to look it over again. I can’t answer you right now.”

“I’m telling you it’s good, son. For your own good. I’ve looked it all over myself.” Cade paused and thought a second the way a salesman does at the end of the day when he’s speaking to the last customer on the floor. “Now Emmit bought into the company organizing the construction. His name isn’t on the paperwork, nothing can come back to him. We have more space for another partner.”

“So?”

“You want in? I can give you the same deal. Cash under the table.”

Jamison just started walking away. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d heard it before. It was rare that such deals didn’t exist behind contracts in the city. The disappointment, the reason for walking away, was in the details.

Jamison’s sudden departure made already ogling eyes turn toward the governor.

“All right, son,” he said loudly. “We’ll have lunch next week.”

Jamison showed up at his ex-wife’s house drunk, bewildered, and with no way home. In the car with Leaf on the way to his house, they’d decided that they needed somewhere to talk, to sift through the governor’s offer in connection with rumblings down under that were no doubt in connection with the scene at the funeral. Of course, Cade knew about Dax and Keet and probably even the confrontation Jamison had with Emmit outside the jail. His position though wasn’t to play as a man who was in the know. His visit with Jamison was a final plea. Or a warning. Still, there was no simple way to explain everything. They decided the best place to consider the chessboard from every angle was a bar. There they had drinks that turned to shots, and soon both men were so drunk they had to use each other as crutches to make it to Leaf’s car.

When Jamison told Leaf to drop him at Kerry’s house, Leaf asked if that was a good idea. Jamison hid behind a desire to see his son, but at Kerry’s door it was a different situation.

“I can’t go home. I can’t,” he said, lifting a ban on emotional exchanges he’d had in place since the day he’d realized he would have to see her as an enemy to move on.

Kerry looked out the door and noticed that she didn’t see Jamison’s car—or any car. Jamison had made Leaf drop him off at the head of the driveway.

“How are you getting home?” Kerry asked. She still hadn’t decided if she’d let him into the house. Tyrian was with her mother and she was not in any mood to handle a drunk man after hours, who was coming from his mother’s funeral.

“I’m too drunk to drive,” Jamison muttered.

“Then how’d you get here?” Kerry asked.

“You going to let me in?”

Kerry backed up and let Jamison in the door. He smelled of smoke and scotch.

“Can’t look at all those cakes. Everywhere,” he half whispered.

“What?”

“Cake. Pots of collard greens. Fried chicken. All over the house.”

“Here, come sit down,” Kerry said, pulling Jamison to a seat in the living room. “You want some coffee?”

“There you go! Trying to make me feel better already,” Jamison said laughing drunkenly.

“You say that like it’s about you. I just don’t want you to throw up on my floor.”

“Humph.”

Kerry went to the kitchen to get the pot of coffee started. She stood at the sink and stared out of the window at the pool. Somehow she wasn’t so surprised that Jamison was at her door. She knew better than anyone that losing his mother meant he’d have nowhere to go with his emotional pile-up. Mrs. Taylor had always been his official unloading station, a voice that confirmed his divinity in any situation and cursed anyone who questioned it. Now, there was no one there to tell him everything would be okay and that this death didn’t mean the whole world had come to conspire to kill him. Then Kerry considered that maybe Jamison thought she was supposed to be that someone. She looked over at the coffee machine, remembered opening her front door and letting him in, offering him comfort in her chair, offering him a drink for clarity. There she was, so quickly a fool. She decided not to put any creamer in the coffee the way he liked it. She cursed herself for remembering that.

“My mother’s dead, Kerry,” Jamison said. He’d left the living room and was kind of propped up against the wall in the entrance of the kitchen. He’d been standing there watching Kerry at the window for a few seconds before he spoke.

Kerry looked away from the window and at him. “I know.”

“I knew it would happen someday, but, you know, that doesn’t make it easier.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to

be easy. It’s death,” Kerry said.

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