“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his face blushing.
Jana turned and walked toward the exit. Fire by the Lake was a restaurant that sat right on Lake Guntersville off Highway 69. It had been one of her favorite haunts for years, even before the ownership changed. She felt eyes on her as she strode toward the door. That was nothing new. Jana Waters always left a wake coming and going.
She walked to her car, keeping her shoulders back and eyes forward. The wind off the lake was warm and sticky. When she reached her Mercedes SUV, she gazed out at the blacktop, glaring at the huge billboard that hugged the edge of the road.
INJURED AT WORK? GET RICH.
Below the tasteless slogan was her brother’s smiling face and the message to call an equally crude telephone number—1-800 GET RICH—for legal services. She hadn’t seen Jason in three years, but he was never very far from her thoughts because she passed at least five of these monstrosities every time she drove anywhere. Guntersville to Boaz on Highway 431. I-65 all the way to the beach. Hell, even Lusk Road past Signal Point to Alder Springs.
It didn’t matter. Jason’s billboards were everywhere, and in each of the highway posters he flashed his bleach-whitened teeth and dirty-blond stubble, which some woman—probably his trashy ex-wife or his bitchy law partner—must’ve told him looked cool. Jana thought he looked ridiculous, and she’d told him as much the last time they’d spoken. She’d told him a lot of things then, and he’d fired some choice words back. Seeing him now, smiling down at her as if he were enjoying the crisis she was in, made her want to vomit. She stuck her middle finger at the advertisement and slid into the driver’s seat. Before starting the car, she sucked in a deep breath and felt her heart rate speed up.
She glanced at the clock on the dash. 8:55 p.m. The meeting was supposed to happen at 9:00. As she backed up her vehicle and turned for the exit, she glanced out the window at the dark water and full moon. A cascade of roman candles lit up the sky followed by the machine-gun sound of God knew how many other kinds of fireworks.
It was the Fourth of July. She should be sitting on the screened porch of her home on Buck Island, watching the show with her husband and daughters. Maybe walking down to the dock for a better look. Grilling dogs and burgers. Listening to Darius Rucker or Kenny Chesney or some other lake-appropriate artist. Maybe the girls could’ve had friends over. Or perhaps a boyfriend?
Jana felt her eyes welling up, and she ground her teeth, refusing to wipe away the tears. She glared at the billboard of her brother again.
She would not be weak. That had never been her style, and it wouldn’t be now.
She pulled the Mercedes onto Highway 69 and accelerated east toward town. As the strip mall drew near, she clicked the right-turn blinker and pulled into the lot. She parked under an unlit streetlamp. Ten seconds later, the passenger-side door opened, and a man climbed inside. He smelled of mint chewing gum with the slightest tinge of body odor. Jana fought the urge to gag.
“Ready?” he asked.
Jana tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She glanced at him, nodded, and edged out of the space.
Seconds later, she was back on the road.
As she passed the causeway, fireworks illuminating the lake, Jana thought of her girls. And Braxton. Her husband.
What in the hell am I doing?
3
The club felt good in the surgeon’s hand.
The grip was sticky, and though he wasn’t wearing his customary FootJoy StaSof glove, he still had firm control over the eight iron. He looked down at his feet, which were adorned with blue-and-black Tevas, and then the scuffed Titleist golf ball. He waggled the clubhead and set it behind the ball on the green nylon mat. Then he began his swing, turning his shoulders behind the ball and cocking his wrists. At the top, he shifted his weight from his right leg onto his left and fired the clubhead at the ball. There was a satisfying thwack at impact, and the ball lifted into the air and out over Lake Guntersville. Because of the full moon and the fireworks being shot in every direction, he could see that the ball curved gently from right to left, traveling perhaps 130 yards before disappearing into the dark water.
Dr. Braxton Waters breathed in the humid air and took a few seconds to admire his handiwork. He was hitting balls off the dock just like in his favorite Darius Rucker song, “Beers and Sunshine,” which he’d listened to a few minutes earlier. Now playing on his Alexa: “Wagon Wheel,” another goody by the pop star turned country artist. Normally, these tunes would have lifted his spirits, even if he was in a bad mood. Launching balls into the water usually helped relieve stress as well, and the shot he’d taken was as close to perfect as could be.