“It’s just missing something.”
He shifted the truck into reverse and backed out, not saying anything more.
Of course, I knew what he was talking about—he was missing someone to share all this with. I knew that empty spot myself, but I hadn’t been in a hurry to fill it. Just trying to move myself forward in a life I had tanked. Dak had done what he said he would do. But I had sidestepped so often that I was virtually sideways. Things were looking up for me. I had a good job. I had a friend in Cricket. I had $80,000 sitting in my bill stack.
Was I ready to take a chance on love again?
That, I wasn’t certain about.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CRICKET
I had left the bar with a plan. Or sort of a plan. I would let Juke do an investigation on Donner Walker’s company, and I would go home and spend one more night pretending to be the dedicated wife of the Caddo Bank executive vice president and the respected mother of Julia Kate Crosby. The next day, I would turn the photographic evidence over to my attorney, who had already filed the divorce papers. I still wasn’t sure what to do if Juke learned that Scott was involved in a scheme. And I wasn’t sure how to get back the money Scott had hidden. Maybe I could blackmail him or something? Say I was going to go to the Feds with the information. But I wasn’t even sure who the Feds were. That was just what people always said in the movies. And though I had disguised myself as some biker chick and straddled Griffin—no, not Griffin, the motorcycle—I wasn’t cut out for blackmailing someone. Lord, this whole thing felt like something out of a John Grisham novel.
Was the man who had rubbed my feet when I was pregnant really planning on leaving me and our daughter for a life with a tennis pro? All this time I had been trying to protect myself and Julia Kate while Scott was feathering a nest that had no room for even his own baby bird. I couldn’t reconcile this Scott with the man who had always prized his stellar reputation. In fact, next week, Scott was supposed to receive the University Club’s Man of the Year Award at a luncheon. Integrity, honor, and service—the hallmarks of the award—didn’t describe a man who did what Scott was doing.
I was baffled. No, I was angry. I wanted Scott to pay.
I pulled into my garage and noted my mother’s car in the circle. Sure enough, Marguerite sat at the kitchen island. I stepped inside, having changed from my rocker duds but still sporting the tattoo that I needed to remove with baby oil. My mother’s gaze zipped to the heart and sword like an eagle spotting a struggling field mouse. Suddenly I was a teenager again, trying to hide the evidence.
“Catherine Anne, what have you done to yourself? Have you taken leave of your senses? A tattoo? Do you want everyone in town thinking you’re trash?” Her voice rose an octave with every query.
“Well, first, having a tattoo doesn’t make you ‘trash.’ That’s a bit elitist, judgmental, and some other offensive thing I can’t think of right now. Besides, on some people tattoos are sexy.” My mind went immediately to Griffin and my inordinate interest in what other tattoos he might have on his body and the specific locations of imagined tattoos. Which was crazycakes.
“Piddle. Tattoos are for sailors and women of—”
“Watch it,” I interrupted, setting my big purse on the marble. “You are reverting to your roots.”
She looked at me, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“Well, I’m just saying that your sassy open-mindedness from last week was appreciated. No, it was desirable. You actually seemed human, Marguerite. Please return to the previous version of yourself.” I made my request light because that’s how I got mileage out of my mother.
Marguerite made a face. “Just because I have a certain way of believing doesn’t make me a monster. I don’t like tattoos. Simple as that.”
“You don’t have to like tattoos. You just have to not cast aspersions on people who have them.” I walked to the cabinet and fetched a large glass, filled it with ice, and poured a sweet tea. Calories be damned. Sweet tea was the balm to the soul to southerners. And probably northerners, too. Everyone who appreciated the good things in life. “Plus, this was just a fun one Ruby and I were playing around with. It comes off with baby oil.”
My mother tilted her head. “Okay. Fine. I will try to quash my inner critic of others.”
I threw out my arms and spread my legs, pretending as if the earth were quaking, looking around in panic.
“Oh, cut it out,” my mother drawled, picking up her martini glass and taking a sip. “A leopard can change its spots. I’m trying to be hip. And woke. And all that other stuff young people are asking old birds like us to be. I even listen to NPR.”