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Old or new, Trey didn’t really care, and it showed in the idle shrug of his shoulders. “It’s that old catchword called progress, I guess.”
“You’ll never convince me progress has come to the Triple C until there’s a swimming pool in the backyard,” Laura declared.
“That’ll be the day,” Trey scoffed. “Besides, a swimming pool isn’t progress; it’s a luxury.”
“Surely one luxury is permitted,” she replied. “Remember the time you two went skinny-dipping in the river and I stole your clothes. Watching you two trying to sneak to the barn, picking your way across the gravel—I nearly laughed out loud.”
“You were watching us.” Trey looked at her in disbelief.
“You didn’t think I’d steal your clothes and not stick around to see the fun, do you?”
“Quint got you back, though.” Trey’s smile was loaded with devilish glee. “Remember the minnows in your ice cubes?”
“How could I forget?” Laura shuddered at the memory of the minnow head poking out of the ice cube in her iced-tea glass. “But that wasn’t Quint who did it. That was you.”
“Trey’s right. I did it,” Quint spoke up from the backseat, amusement gleaming in his eyes.
“You?”
Trey took considerable satisfaction from the look of astonishment on her face. “And you were always blaming me for everything.”
“With cause,” Laura reminded him. “Ninety percent of the time you were the culprit.”
The good-natured squabbling continued all the way into town. Only three vehicles were parked in the graveled lot outside Blue Moon’s lone eating establishment. The neon letters that proclaimed the place as Harry’s Hideaway were dark, but the red Bar & Grill sign in the window was lit, confirming the place was open.
Laura parked the Suburban close to the front entrance and climbed out. She briefly surveyed the building’s grimy windows and its cracked and peeling paint,
then scanned all the weed-choked yards and empty houses just beyond it.
It was her first trip to Blue Moon since she’d returned, and she couldn’t help being struck by the changes. “When you said Blue Moon was turning into a ghost town, you weren’t kidding,” she said to Trey when he jumped out to give Quint a hand. “All it needs is some tumbleweed rolling down the empty streets.”
“It’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” Trey agreed as he collected Quint’s crutches and readied them for the moment when he would need them. “Gramps says it’s back to the way it was in the old days when the town had to depend on the trade of the local ranchers and the occasional motorist.”
“Times have changed since then,” Laura said thoughtfully, not altogether sure if the town could still survive on only that.
“I suppose.” Trey held the crutches steady while Quint planted his good foot on the running board and gripped the crutches, preparing to swing to the ground. “Still, it reminds me of the story Gramps used to tell about old Fat Frank Fitzsimmons, the first to throw up a ramshackle building here when his wagon broke down. There he was in the middle of nothing on the road to nowhere. A cowboy even warned him that people came this way only once in a ‘blue moon.’ You’ve gotta admit, Laura, that hasn’t changed, but the town is still here.”
“The Triple C can send some of its business Blue Moon’s way and help it along.” Quint hopped on one foot to get his balance.
Laura smiled at him with a mixture of amusement and affection. “You’ve always had a soft spot for the weak and helpless.” Without waiting for a reply, she made a jaunty turn toward the entrance. “Come on. Let’s go get something cold to drink. Heaven knows we won’t have to worry about not having a reservation.”
The tinkling of the bell above the door announced their arrival when the trio walked in. Not a single table on the restaurant side was occupied, but from the bar came the sharp crack of one billiard ball hitting another, followed by the sound of balls rolling across the table.
A short, balding man pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen and paused at the sight of them, a half-scowl on his face. “The kitchen won’t be open for another hour yet.”
“That’s okay,” Trey told him. “We just want something to drink.”
The man gestured toward the bar area. “Have a seat anywhere ya’ like. I’ll be right with you.”
Laura led the way to a four-top in the center of the bar area while Quint thumped along behind, bringing up the rear. After Quint had lowered himself into one of the chairs, Trey scooted another one around to face him.
“Prop your leg up on this,” he said and left it to Quint to manage it unaided.
Laura resisted the impulse to help, sensing that Quint was tired of everyone fussing over him. But, then, he’d always had an independent streak that manifested itself in a quiet determination to manage on his own.
Laura suspected that a stranger seeing them together would never guess that the three of them were related. There was a dissimilarity that went beyond the differences in hair and eye coloring. Everything about her said city, from her clothes to her hairstyle and makeup, while Trey had cowboy written all over him, from his hat to his boots and that far-seeing look in his eyes, and it was all wrapped in a kind of restless energy that never let him be still for long. Quint was more difficult to label. Those steady gray eyes and his air of quiet strength seemed to set him apart somehow, as if he could be whoever and whatever he chose. Laura smiled to herself, thinking that he certainly didn’t look like a Treasury agent.
The scuffle of footsteps signaled the approach of the balding man. He stopped at their table. “What’ll ya’ have?”
