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She serves a helping onto her plate. “Axel says you got in late last night. How long are you staying?”
I swallow. “Not sure.”
Axel swirls his tea glass. “He bought a one-way ticket.”
Mom sets her fork down. “Is something wrong at the office?”
Now I can’t eat another bite. It’s one thing to disappoint Uncle Sherman. But by coming here, I’ve involved Mom.
“He’s not ready to talk about it,” Axel says. “We’ll weasel it out of him soon.”
Mom’s gaze remains on my face, as if she can read my mind through my expression. I force myself to shovel another mouthful of brisket into my mouth.
She lets us eat quietly for a while, but I can see the wheels turning as she watches both of us.
“Rhett is staying at your house, I take it?”
“Yup.” Axel sets his napkin on the table. “We’re heading over to the castle to help fix the fence for the donkeys after this. They haven’t been able to roam with the outer gate down.”
“That’s nice. Havannah doesn’t have enough help?”
“Oh, she does, but we like doing it. It’s good to talk to her.”
“Say hello to Calypso.”
Axel stands. “Will do. We best get going.”
“Thanks for lunch, Mom,” I say.
We both pick up our plates and take them to the kitchen.
“She’s onto you,” Axel whispers as we scrape our leftovers into the compost bin.
“Well, keep her off me.”
We hush when Mom follows us in with the platter. “Will I see you boys for dinner soon?”
“For sure. We’ll text you.” Axel kisses her cheek. I do the same, and then we’re off. Out the door and into his SUV, bouncing down the gravel road to get to the castle.
“Speaking of women,” Axel says, “someone keeps looking at their phone whenever the name Bailey comes up. Who’s that and why aren’t you responding?”
I don’t know what to tell Axel about the mess I’m in. So far, we’ve only made small talk about hiking and meeting Mom. Nothing serious.
“She’s my assistant at Dougherty.”
He focuses on the road a while before saying, “Seems like you’d have no problem answering if she’s an assistant.”
My family is too perceptive for their own good.
“How are things with Calypso?”
“No redirects. I’m not the one who showed up halfway across the country in the middle of the night. Either you killed somebody or you’re running from a woman.”
“Let’s go with murder.”
“I don’t think you have it in you, bro.”
I stare out the window as majestic fir trees whiz by. “It’s everything,” I finally say. The story feels too big. The requisitions. The firing. The cruise. The rescue. It’s laughable, like a movie plot, not real life. So I simply tell him, “Someone found out Uncle Sherman was the owner of Dougherty.”
