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“We didn't have to do this, you know. We didn't have to treat her special,” I mutter.
“That was your decision,” Owen reminds me sourly.
“Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs and looks away, shaking his head. “I had a suggestion for you, before the ceremony,” he answers reasonably, with an I told you so sort of tone in his voice. “You're the one who chose this direction. Because she reminds you of her mother, right? Like she reminds you so much, maybe you should think twice about getting too involved. Her mother is no innocent. You should have listened more closely to my suggestion.”
“To sell her? To Dustin? That's your big suggestion?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You got a better one, I suppose?”
I grind my molars. The truth is, I don't have a better suggestion. It doesn’t look like anyone's going to be dying and sending us a mysterious check in the mail this week. And he did try to make this suggestion. I just didn’t really want to listen for some reason.
“Why don’t you just give him a call?” he suggests reasonably. “You can make a decision with all the facts. Find out if he is even still interested. Maybe he doesn't even want her anymore.”
“What's that suppos
ed to mean? He doesn't want her anymore?”
Owen scoffs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He knits his fingers together, looking at me like he's explaining something to a child. This only angers me further.
“I said maybe,” he reminds me patronizingly. “You should look into it. You should make a decision, since apparently everything is your decision.”
I stalk away. I need to not look at him for a few moments.
What is happening to me? Fighting with my own brother? Over some girl?
Over some woman?
She's clouding my judgment. She's making me look like a fool. I won’t be treated like this, not by anybody.
Without another word, I yank open the door to the barn and walk out into the night air. It's cooler out here, the dewy moisture hanging in the air. I glance off to my left and see low, brownish clouds on the horizon. Then just now, the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance.
That must mean rain. That has to be rain. We need it so badly.
I wonder if it’s a sign.
Back in my office, I pick up the old-fashioned telephone off the wall and pull on the twisted cord so that I can sit behind my desk.
I dial 411.
It takes the operator a little while to pick up. Do people even use these kinds of telephones anymore? I don't think they do. I should probably be grateful it still works.
“City and name?” the operator asks me in a nasal voice.
“Longboard County,” I answer, reaching for the words. “Dustin's Roadhouse.”
She gives me the number and I memorize it temporarily, then jam my thumb on the cradle to hang up and start again.
I hear a ringing tone, then the click as someone picks up the line.
“Dustin's,” a lady's voice sneers. I hear the puff of air as she probably blows out a long plume of cigarette smoke. In the background I hear some kind of crappy southern rock playing, and voices. Lots of voices.
“Is Dustin around?”
“Who's askin’?”
“Silas Redken,” I growl, irritated by her sass. I had forgotten how women in the outside world talk to men. Pure impudence.
