“Got it. What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see.”
Fifty-five minutes later, Jason walked down the Wittschen dock wearing a T-shirt, khaki Patagonia shorts, and flip-flops. He saw Chase fire up her Sea-Doo and drive it out of the slip, then stop by the side of the pier.
“Hop on,” she said.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“One of my favorite spots,” she said as he climbed onto the back of the craft.
“Chase, don’t you think we should have some security?”
She patted her pocket. “I’ve got a nine-millimeter in my shorts pocket and a Glock in the console. And I was also in the army and can take care of my damn self. Let’s live a little, J. R.”
He smiled. Outside of Harry, Chase was the only person who called him by his initials, and he had to admit that he sort of liked it. He didn’t often feel badass in his life, but being called “J. R.” kind of gave him a rush. He’d watched the old Dallas reruns as a stress reliever in law school and had loved the adventures of the ultimate TV villain, J. R. Ewing. Even in recent years, Jason still found himself drawn to the scandalous adventures of one of the richest TV families from the eighties.
They went under the bridge and picked up speed as they passed a small island and made their way up the main channel toward Scottsboro. Jason remembered some of the spots. Preston Island. Mint Creek. And, of course, Goose Pond. Chase got the Sea-Doo up to sixty miles per hour, and Jason closed his eyes and enjoyed the wind hitting his face.
As the watercraft slowed, Jason realized they were coming up on the tip of Goose Pond. He saw a marina and, in front of it, a wooden-looking shack with some tables in the back. He squinted and read a sign. THE DOCKS.
“What’s this place?” he yelled over the sound of the engine, leaning close to Chase and breathing in the smell of fruity perfume tinged with sweat. A pleasant scent.
“My favorite restaurant,” she said. “No bullshit. Just great food and the best view on the lake.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a wrought-iron table on the edge of the patio. It was the table closest to the lake. After they’d roped the Sea-Doo off on the pier, Chase had walked around to the front and said something to the manager, after telling Jason to have a seat where he was now. When she’d returned, he’d asked, “What’d you tell him?”
“That I wanted my usual spot.”
“Come here a lot.”
“At least once a week when the weather is warm. Always by boat or Sea-Doo. Sometimes the Tonidandel gang come with me.”
“I can’t believe those boys all moved back home.”
“Well, I can. Something about Mill Creek. Even you, the billboard lawyer himself, back on the cove.”
“My circumstances are a bit different. Are the brothers still crazy as hell?”
“As shithouse rats, but they are solid gold down deep where it counts. And you better be glad the Tonidandels like me. They don’t give a damn about you, but they’ll do anything I ask.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m a veteran,” she said. “All three brothers were, at one time or another, in the 101st Airborne—the Screaming Eagles—and Satch was a full colonel. All honorably discharged. All a bit fucked up with PTSD, and, like me, they’re like Texas toilet paper.”
Jason wrinkled his face.
“They don’t take shit off nobody. Anyway, when I told them I served in the army and showed a few of my scars, it was like they accepted me as one of the boys. They invite me over to watch the Bama games, and, if anyone comes nosing around my house for any reason, they’ve got my back.”
“God, country, and Alabama football.”
“Roll Tide,” she said, winking at him. “Honestly, though, Jason, the Tonidandels are good folks. And damn good friends.”
“Have you been . . . more than friends with any of them?”
“None of your damn business.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Shut up and order.”
Jason turned to see a man coming his way. He didn’t have a pen or paper and took down what Jason said by memory. Jason ordered a ribeye steak, baked potato, and salad while Chase ordered the shrimp and grits.
“House specialty,” she said.
“Well, you’ll have to give me a bite.”
For a few moments, they drank their drinks—ice water in plastic cups—and enjoyed the ambience of the quaint restaurant. A Kenny Chesney song, “No Shoes, No Socks, No Problem,” played on the outside speakers, and Jason breathed in the simple elegance of folks enjoying a meal and company with an incredible wide view of the lake. The sun was beginning to set a deep orange out over the water.