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Custom cabinetry, Slate thought. It was about as far from banking as a man could get, that was for sure. But so was working on a ranch.
The truth was, Slate didn’t know what he wanted his life to be. He didn’t know how he wanted to spend his time. It sure would be nice if someone would just tell him what to do.
He let the cold water run over his hands as he closed his eyes.Just tell me what to do, he prayed.Lead me in the right direction. I’ll follow what Thou wants me to do.
His thoughts didn’t double or triple. If anything, they slowed, and all the chatter about the football tickets behind him vanished. He could only hear the running water and feel the chill of it start to seep into his muscles and bones.
One thought emerged out of the sound, and it made Slate frown.
Call your parents.
He realized in that moment, that his inability to clear the air with his parents was blocking him in every other way. He couldn’t make a decision about his life moving forward until the past was taken care of.
Glancing at the clock, he saw he still had plenty of time before he had to be back on the construction site. He slipped away from Nate, Ted, and Dallas at the kitchen table and down the hall to his bedroom.
The door leading to the bathroom was open, and he went to close it. Soft snores came from the other side of the doorway, and Slate walked through the bathroom to find Luke sleeping on top of his made bed. He looked peaceful in his sleep, and Slate knew what it was like to finally be able to sleep without worrying about going too deep. If he slept too deeply in prison, danger could be upon him without a moment’s notice.
River Bay hadn’t been a very violent place, but there were a few scary characters in there. Dallas had been beaten nearly to death on his first night there. Just because it was a low-security facility didn’t mean it was a picnic.
Slate quietly closed the door to Luke’s bedroom, then the one to his. He locked both entrances to his room and sat on his bed. His chest rose and fell with each breath. Granny had given him his parents’ numbers, as he’d gotten a whole new phone, and no one memorized cell phone numbers anymore.
His parents were so old-school—and frugal—that they had one cell phone between the two of them. It acted as their landline for the house, as well as a way to text and call their friends and family on the go.
Slate had labeled the number Mom and Daddy in his phone, and he stared at the letters for what felt like a very long time. He finally took a deep breath and tapped on the name. The option to text or call came up, and he let his fingertip touch the phone icon.
The screen blipped, and the line began to ring. Slate jumped to his feet, his nervous energy far too high to stay sitting down.
“Hello?” his mother answered, and Slate’s emotion welled in his throat. He couldn’t speak, and he tried to clear his throat.
“Yes, there’s someone there,” his mom said. “I know how to answer a phone, Sterling.” Her exasperation made Slate smile, and that loosened something inside his chest. “Hello?” she asked again. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” he said, but his voice sure didn’t sound like his. His mom wouldn’t recognize it, he was sure.
But she sucked in an audible breath and let out a little screech. “Slate?” she asked, the word made of hope and air. “Slate Robinson Sanders, is that you?”
“Yes, Momma,” he said, everything—including his voice—coming back to normal for him. He’d forgotten that she loved to use middle names when she wanted to get a point across or make sure she knew who she was talking to. “It’s me.”
She started to cry, which made Slate tip his head back and blink back his own tears as he studied the ceiling. “I’m out, Momma,” he said. “I’m done with my prison term, and I wanted to…let you know, I guess.”
She started speaking, but it wasn’t to him. Her voice bore excitement as she told Daddy who was on the phone, and that Slate was out of prison. He didn’t expect a parade or streamers from his father, that was for sure.
He also didn’t expect the scuffling as something happened on their end of the line, nor his father to say, “Slate, is it really you?” with so much of that dang hope in his voice.
“Yes, Daddy,” he said. “It’s really me.”
A couple of beats of silence went by, and Slate didn’t know what to say. He’d already apologized a bunch of times for his behavior. The family name meant so much to his father, though Slate wasn’t sure why. The barbecue joint which bore the Sanders name had been blasted in a public review for poor customer service, because Daddy was so hard to get along with.
“Why are you callin’?” he asked. “Because we don’t have money.”
“I know that,” Slate said. “I’m not calling for money. I have a job on a ranch.” His defenses flew right back into place. He wanted to ask the Lord if this was really what he should’ve done.Call my parents?he questioned.Why? So I can be attacked and told how worthless I am?
He took a deep breath. “I’m calling, because I haven’t seen you guys in a long time, and I’d like to come spend an afternoon with you.”
Where the words had come from, Slate didn’t know. But they felt right, and best of all, they’d rendered his father mute.
More scuffling came through the line, then some murmured talking. His mother got back on the line with, “Slate? Come anytime, son. Daddy will put a pig in the ground, and we’ll have Cindi and Win come.”
Slate had to swallow to get himself to speak again. “Okay, Momma,” he said. “I’ll need to talk to my boss and work out a date, okay?”
