by Pat Henshaw
“Okay, then. That’s all.” My coolness should have warned him how angry I was. But no, not Gary, who rivals a six-by-eight in thickness.
“That’s it? That’s all? You had me come all the way down here to hand you a bunch of paperwork?”
I nodded, dropped my chin, and narrowed my eyes. Guess maybe my frown grew to Biblical proportions too.
Gary got a clue and backed down.
“Yeah, okay, right.” He glared at Ben, then turned and stomped out.
I turned to Ben. “So what was that all about? What’s going on?”
Ben sighed and sat in the hot seat. “Fuck if I know. Gary’s just been acting weird lately.” He shrugged. “Could be he’s planning a company takeover?” Again, a shrug.
We both knew Gary’d never win unless I agreed to sell to him.
Before I could comment, Connor walked into my office and sat next to Ben. Ben, who’s two years younger than me, is the quintessential good old boy. Connor, two years younger than Ben, is an old maid. Okay, not precisely an old maid, but a picky, long-suffering perfectionist, whose idea of the world and the people in it is shattered over and over again. Me? I’m the glue who keeps us together. I’ve been the head of the family since our dad decided what he could find in a bottle was better than what he had in his sons or his business. What he found was liver failure. I was in high school when I took over the company full-time.
I managed to graduate, then went to California State University in Sacramento part-time, learning as much as I could about business. Around the office, I put up a facade of always knowing exactly what I was doing and what the company needed. I was big, tall, silent, and solid. I exuded leadership and confidence. I worked construction jobs with my brothers, and while they got their college degrees—which the company paid for—I added to my responsibilities.
“So what’d the other guy want?” Ben slouched in his chair and put a heel on the edge of my desk.
Five years ago I would have told him to get his fucking feet off my desk. Today I knew it was a ploy to annoy me. I let it slide like I usually did now.
“His name’s Jeffrey Mason. He grew up in the house.”
Ben’s foot slammed to the floor as he sat up.
“You’re shitting me. What’d he want?” he asked.
“He’s an accountant. Max, Felicity, and Fredi highly recommend him. I’m bringing him on board to look into our finances. Maybe come up with another financial plan.”
“What the fuck?” Ben nearly shouted. “You’re going to let an outsider—a Mason!—look at our books? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
I ran a hand over my scraggly short hair, knowing it was probably standing straight up now.
“I’m getting too old and too tired to do everything anymore. I can’t be in the field all day and look over the books every night.” As they both sat up and leaned forward, I added, “And I can’t put more on either of your plates. We got a lot of jobs to work on, so we’ve got to be on our best game.”
I pointed to the scheduling board, where ten names were listed. Beside each name was a status square—the list going from contract to wrap-up, with stages like teardown, electrical, mechanical, inspections, and others in between.
“I need you, Ben, to keep up with ordering and storage of supplies. Connor, I rely on you for scheduling. I know you guys are feeling the pinch too.” I sighed. The long days in the sun and the nights with spreadsheets weighed on me. “We got to work together as a team or this company folds.”
They were both staring at me, their mouths open.
“Damn,” Ben whispered, “I didn’t know you felt like this. I’m younger than you, old man. I could probably keep the books for the inventory.”
Here was the hard part. I needed him to do more than pencil work. Besides, what if he knew who was skimming? Could I trust anyone these days?
“No, what I need you to do is get us better teams. It’ll mean firing some of the cousins, guys we’ve been working with for years. We need teams who show up on time, work a full day, and don’t spend most of it waiting for the first beer, texting, or calling their friends. We need workers.”
Now Ben was really staring. His chin was nearly on his chest.
“Damn,” he drawled. “What happened to family? Loyalty? You want to just fire guys with wives and kids? What kind of employers do we look like then? Where do they go? I think it’s a hell of a bad idea.”
“So you’re saying we should keep paying them for eight hours when they work six at most on a really good day?” I ran my hand over my head. “When we close the company for good because we’re bankrupt, they’re going to have to find jobs then. You want all of us going down with the ship together?”
“We’re not that bad off!” Ben shouted.
“How do you know?” I shouted back.
We were getting riled up—two Behrs going at each other. Connor was sitting back, taking it all in as usual. He was the thoughtful one when he wasn’t directly involved in a fight, but the Mason name had even stirred him up.
“Wait a second,” he broke in. “You want this Mason to come in and sniff around our operation? You’re going to have a Mason tell a Behr how to run this business?”
Now Connor’s hackles were raised as much as Ben’s and mine. In a minute we’d be slugging it out if I didn’t do something to stop us.
I pulled back in my chair, rolling it slightly toward the wall behind me.
“One of you wants to take over, it’s all yours,” I growled. “I’m tired of juggling to make this company work. I’m thirty-two. I need to get a life.”
My words stopped them cold. They stared at me as if I’d said something unbelievable.
“You can’t quit.” They spoke as one.
“Hell I can’t. We either let Mason help us organize, or one of you takes over and I’m out. What’s it going to be?” Did one of them want to take the blame for the company’s slow death?
They stared at me and then each other.
“Okay,” Ben said, “we’ll give him a try. But so help me, if he fucks up, I’ll pulverize him.”
Connor nodded.
“Good enough,” I said, wondering how all of this would play out.
ONLY ONE cure for today’s tension. I closed up the office and walked to my truck.
The office is located above a gift shop in Old Town, down the street from Stonewall Saloon and Penny’s Too coffee shop. Strong coffee sounded appealing as I strode to the truck, but I longed for something more potent than caffeine to smooth out my day.
Fortunately, everything I needed was already in the truck. All I had to do was make a quick stop at my place, change clothes, and I was on my way. When I bought my house, it was a rundown clapboard structure with a really nice yard. Towering redwoods shaded the back, and a small stream ran along the edge of the property. I’d fixed up the house and built a gazebo on the banks of the stream.
Most times sitting in the gazebo and listening to the music of the water flowing by might have been enough. But I couldn’t rely on its soothing help today. Fortunately, it was Friday, and this weekend wasn’t my weekend on call. I had two full days to prepare myself for a Mason to burrow into my life and take stock. Ben, Connor, and Cousin Gary thought they were the only ones upset, but they weren’t. I hated outside scrutiny too, no matter how handsome Jeffrey Mason was.
If I knew my brothers, and of course I did, Ben would be in Dave’s Bar & Grill right now, bitching and moaning to one of his good buddies about his stupid big brother and lamenting that he was on call for the next two days. Connor would be hanging around the bakery, trying to get a date with whoever the new baker was, and then he’d head over to Charlie’s Corner to get the weekend started with a couple or three glasses of wine.
I never could understand why either of them drank and got drunk. Hadn’t they been around our old man enough to know how fucked up drinking is? Hadn’t Ben had to pick up our dad and walk him home, clean him up, and put him to bed? Or had it ju
st been me? I honestly couldn’t remember.
All I knew was I wasn’t spending my weekend brewed up and upchucking on my bed and my house only to have a thick head on Monday morning. Got enough troubles without adding to them.
I had better things to do.
2
I OWN a small parcel of land on the shore of spring-fed Lake Rafi. When I say small, I mean a pie-wedge section between two massive ranches. The point of my land ended somewhere in the lake. This leaves me with a little under fifty yards of shoreline.
I’d had my eye on the parcel ever since my friend Judd, a land surveyor, told me it was coming up for sale. At the time the parcel only had road access, a stream cutting along one edge, and a cleared space for a small cabin or outbuilding. The land sloped gently to the lake and ended at a large tree before a few feet of rocks and boulders made up the shoreline.
Over the years, I’d built a one-room cabin resembling a bear-sized studio in the woods. It’s got a kitchen with a country table, a cistern-fed bathroom with roomy shower, a bedroom with an extended queen bed, and a living room of sorts with an oversized couch and a fieldstone fireplace. No electricity, no county water, no heat, no A/C. Just peace, quiet, tranquility, and fishing.
All my productive thinking gets done there. Sometimes I catch dinner while I’m thinking.
The drive up was pretty this fall. The leaves were starting to turn color. The retailers at Apple Hill looked like they were getting ready for the family groups and tour buses to arrive. The apple harvest had outdone itself this year. The tourist roads would be packed. Those of us who knew the dirt-topped back ways and farm roads would use them to get around for the next few months.
I got to the cabin, dragged my folding chair and gear to the lake, and had wet two lines in record time. I sat under my favorite tree and thought about the company.
No two ways around it. A family member was probably ripping us off. The realization stung. I couldn’t understand why anyone would do it. Everyone from my brothers and me on down was making more than industry average. Most at the bottom rungs were making much more than twice what they would from anyone else in the area.
Other than money, what could anyone want? Why kill the golden bear?
Working conditions, safety, and days off made Behr Construction the number one place to work for anyone in the business. We hired family first and very few afterward. Could someone be jealous or envious? Unless they out-and-out destroyed equipment or trashed sites, they didn’t have access to authorize the kind of money drain I was seeing.
One of the fishing poles bowed, pulling me out of my thoughts. Time to decide about dinner. Fish like me. When I sit on a bank or in a boat, they flock around. Before I caught more than I needed, I had to decide if I wanted to cook tonight. If not, back into the lake this bad boy went.
Lorraine and Bud’s boysenberry pie decided me. No cooking for me. No fish death tonight. I was dining at the Rock Bottom Cafe.
The sun had set and my stomach was grumbling. I carried my chair and gear back to the cabin and drove to the Bottom before the other pole could register a catch.
Fredi Zimmer and Max Greene reigned in their back booth. They nodded in greeting. I wondered how Max was doing. He’d been a target of hate before he’d even admitted he was gay.
As the patriarch of my family, I knew everyone expected me to marry like Max’s family had expected him to at one time. I snorted at how little people knew me. I’d never been attracted to anyone, male or female. Ever. Except for one time. Kind of thought of myself as asexual. None of the above. Too big to be felled by a four-letter word like love.
Seeing Fredi and Max, though, made me long to be different. To shuck the pelt of stoic old bear. Become one of two. Have somebody to share stuff with. Only problem, I had no idea what this other half looked like. No clue.
Lorraine seated me at a two-person table near the front window. I was looking outside, staring blankly at the trucks parked in haphazard rows. Maybe I could talk her husband Bud into a paved and striped parking area. I’d tried before. He considered it an extravagant waste. Now most of the trucks were new F-150s and not old beaters. Maybe he’d change his mind.
As I considered how to broach the topic, I felt someone staring. In the window glass, I saw handsome Jeff Mason standing next to the empty chair across from me.
“This seat taken?” he asked as I turned to him.
I scowled. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept smiling happily. After a few seconds, I nodded.
“All yours.” When he was settled, I added, “Ever been to the Bottom before?”
He shook his head. “I just bought the family land and cabin from my sister. I thought I’d better come up and see if it needed any work.”
I digested his words while we ordered. He asked for a lot of food, considering how skinny he was.
“I see you have my aunt’s wedge,” he said, pulling me away from thinking about food. “Down on the Rafi,” he added.
“Oh. Yeah. You’re the new owner?” I’m not a brilliant talker at the best of times. His affable manner, happy-go-lucky smile, and twinkling green eyes captured me for the moment.
“You thinking about selling?” he asked.
It took me a minute to process his question. My scowl deepened. He chuckled. Chuckled. Was he laughing at me? A tiny growl erupted.
“Are you?” I countered.
“Didn’t think so,” he commented. “I saw you earlier in a camp chair under the tree with your poles in the water. Glad you didn’t decide to cook the fish. I’d rather talk to you here.”
Now I was really confused. He’d seen me fishing? He’d followed me here? He knew I didn’t want to sell? Before I could catch up and answer, he was off again.
“You ever come up the bank to sit under my tree? Looks like a much more comfortable place to fish. Not as rocky at any rate.” He took a drink of his beer as I again scrambled to keep up. “My dad called it the Fishing Tree. He seemed to think fish congregated off the shore there.”
We sat in silence. It was my turn to talk. I’m pretty good in business situations. Not so much in social ones. At social events, mostly I hold up walls. Shake hands. Grunt a lot. Let others carry the conversational load.
Lorraine set our meals in front of us. The full burger with everything for him. The grilled mountain trout and steamed vegetables for me.
“You do a lot of fishing?” I managed after a long silence.
“Not really.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “My dad said fishing couldn’t be taught. He said it was something intuitive. I never had any idea what I was doing. So I never saw any use in fishing. I never saw any fish either.”
Again, silence as I processed and caught up. “It’s not rocket science. You figure out what kind of fish you want. Where it lives. Lure it to you. Then catch it.”
He looked skeptical and almost self-conscious. “It can’t be so easy,” he said with a little laugh.
“Why not?”
“What about the different rods, lures, tackle, stuff?” He looked so serious, as if I were missing the point. As if I didn’t understand. He was right. I didn’t.
“Look. You can catch fish with your bare hands. If you want to. The extra stuff is just extra stuff.”
“If you say so.” He shook his head, a smile still on his lips. “Have you ever caught a fish with your bare hands?”
I lifted my hands and looked down at the mess that were my paws. Calluses, nicks, cuts, punctures, blunt fingers, the bandage now off the one with the splinter. These were the hands of a man who’d framed houses as a tall, rangy preteen and had lived in construction ever since. Could I catch a fish with my bare hands?
“Yeah. All it takes is absolute stillness and patience.” I sighed. “Not a whole lot of people have both together. Somebody once told me it’s all about Zen.” Somebody else said the only reason I could do it was because I was too stupid to know it was impossible.
“Zen.” His tone said he was surprised I knew s
uch a word.
“You know, like the Eastern religion,” I answered. “Though why we still call it Eastern is beyond me. It’s really Far West, not Far East to us.” I was grumbling and rambling. Avoiding for some reason.
He rattled me. Nobody ever rattled me. I’m Abe Behr, the big Behr.
He was studying me as intently as I was him. He appeared too beautiful, too perfect, too unscarred. I just hoped his accountant skills were as perfect as he looked.
“What kind of fish you want to catch?” I asked. Staring at him wasted our time.
He pointed his fork to my plate. “How about that? It’s good, right?”
“Trout,” I agreed. “Lots of different kinds of trout.”
He looked like he’d never eaten any in his life.
“This is trout from our lake. Have a bite.”
He’d finished his burger but didn’t make a move on my fish. His expression was split between wanting to dig in and reluctance to do so.
“Just taste it,” I growled. “It won’t bite.”
His eyes snapped up to meet mine. His puzzled stare asked if the stupid bear had deliberately made a joke or not. Then he gave a happy, hearty laugh, and his fork raided my fish.
“So? What do you think?” I asked after he swallowed.
“I think you made a great joke,” he said with twinkling eyes. “And the trout is delicious. Is this why you threw your catch back? Did you know you’d get it cooked perfectly here at the cafe?”
“Naw. I was stalking the pie. Fish was a bonus.”
“They have good pie here?”
“Wait and see.”
3
WE SPENT the weekend fishing. I slept at my cabin. Got up before dawn. I love the crisp morning hours before the dew dries off and the fog rises. The lake looked like glass or a sheet of ice. Nothing stirred but me.
I thought I was going to have to walk to Jeff’s place at the top of the hill overlooking the lake to get him, but we met before I was a few yards onto his property.
