For a Good Time, Call

by Anne Tenino

  Tarkus yipped at the door, startling Nate out of his funk. He jogged to the door and let the dog in. “Sorry.” Tarkus pranced across the room and dove into his breakfast.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Nothing. Just talking to Tark.” Nate licked his lips. “The thing is . . . I might be seeing someone. Sort of. I think.”

  “Well there’s a definitive statement for you,” his father said dryly.

  “I’m not sure he thinks we’re seeing each other. I mean, I come with some unusual baggage.” Besides, Nate had kind of told him they weren’t seeing each other—and never would be—the first time they’d met.

  “Everyone has baggage, son.” A three-“son” conversation. Shit. Nate must be sounding especially pathetic today. “We just need to find someone whose load balances ours.”

  “Deep, Dad, very deep.” Nate headed to the bathroom. “Listen, I’ve gotta jump in the shower or I really will be late. Talk to you again soon?”

  “You bet. Love you, son.”

  “Love you too, Dad.”

  While Nate was in the shower, he remembered how down Seth had sounded after he’d talked to his grandmother. The Beacon came out today—when Shannon’s story hit, would it make Seth feel better or worse? Better, surely. He’d been pretty disgusted about the Fennimore whitewashing job and Adeline’s victimization. Having popular opinion behind him was bound to bolster his confidence.

  Wish I knew what the article actually says. He’d grab a copy at Stomping Grounds, along with a couple of bagels because he had no time to eat, not if he was going to get Tarkus to Bluewater Bark and make it to the studio by the eight-o’clock production meeting.

  As it turned out, he didn’t even get his bagels. After handing Tarkus over to his enthusiastic fan club—who had to chat Nate up for fifteen minutes he didn’t have—he barely pulled in to the staff lot in time.

  He sprinted from his car to Soundstage Two and slid into a chair next to Morgan just as Anna finished her regular glare at Finn.

  Morgan cut a glance at him. “Nice save, Mr. I’m-Never-Late-for-a-Meeting,” she murmured. “Hot breakfast date?” Just then, Nate’s stomach growled loud enough to attract the attention of half the room. Morgan grinned. “Guess that would be a no.”

  “Settle, people.” Anna lifted an eyebrow. “And somebody get Nate a doughnut so I can hear myself talk.”

  “I’ve got him, Anna.” Morgan handed him a Stomping Grounds bag.

  Nate tried not to rattle the paper as he pulled out the pastry—a pecan twist, the same kind he’d shared with Seth that first night, when his comments had been so wildly misconstrued. Maybe someday Nate would be ready to put the pecans on the plate again, so to speak. Too soon. But the idea that it might be possible was strangely pleasant, and carried him all the way through a nightmare of a meeting.

  As he and Morgan headed to their workshop afterward, for once Nate wasn’t the one fuming the loudest. “Can you believe that asshat Larson? How does he think we can cut the budget by using real bottles from the canteen instead of the breakaway ones? Yeah, he’ll cut the prop budget, but our workers’ comp rates—not to mention the hospital bills for the stunt performers—will go through the roof.”

  “I don’t think he was serious. He’s been in the business long enough to have that much sense. I think he was just grasping at straws because Anna shut down all his other suggestions.”

  “Well he shouldn’t have said it, then,” she said. “It’s irresponsible and demoralizing for the crew and the cast. We’re people, damn it, not dollar signs. He needs to remember that.”

  She flung the warehouse door open—so hard it clanged against the wall—then charged inside.

  “Hey.” Nate trotted to catch up with her. “What’s the matter? It can’t only be Finn—this isn’t any different than his usual bullshit, and usually you’re the one telling me to cool off.”

  She strode into the workshop and picked up the newspaper off her drafting table. “I’m pissed off at this whole town right now. Have you seen this?” She waved the paper at him.

  “Not yet, and I won’t if you don’t stop playing keep-away with it. Show me.”

  “Look.” She unfolded the paper and slapped it on the table. “Institutionalized racism—hell, worse than that. Legally enforced racism and scapegoating. Right here.”

  Nate glanced at the headline. Shannon’s story. Their story. “This is great.”

  “Great? This is outrageous. It’s appalling. It’s—”

  “Hey, hey, hey. Yeah, it’s all of those things. The great thing is that it’s in the open now, right? Adeline can be vindicated.”

  She folded her arms. “Fat lot of good that does her. Or any of the Chinese citizens—citizens!—who got run out of town back in the day.”

  “I know. But since we can’t change the past, we can at least work for justice in the present. I don’t know if restitution is possible—”

  “It ought to be,” she growled.

  “Does it make you feel any better that Seth and I are trying to trace Adeline’s mother and baby?”

  Her scowl lifted. “You don’t say. You and Seth, huh?”

  Nate fought the urge to duck his head and shuffle his feet like he’d been caught doing something shameful. “He’s got a vested interest, you know. It was his ancestor she was convicted of killing. He’s the one who found the knife that started my search, so you kind of have him to thank for bringing this to light.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. But your attitude is exactly what we were hoping for when we handed the story to Shannon. Public outrage. No more sweeping the dirt under the rug of history. Admit the wrongdoing and . . . and . . .” What about the other suspicion? Nate hadn’t wanted to say anything to Seth, to make him feel any worse than he did, but even if Fennimore hadn’t physically overpowered Adeline, the power imbalance between them made a consensual relationship highly unlikely.

  “Yeah. And what?”

  “I . . . uh . . . guess we figure that out next. I wonder if Seth has seen this yet?” Nate pulled out his phone and keyed in a text message. Something upbeat—to keep his mind off the other thing.

  Early results are in re: Beacon story. Success! Pro-Adeline sentiment with tempers running high against F.

  He stared at his phone, expecting Seth to respond. Nothing.

  And still nothing, all day long, no matter how many times he checked his phone. Morgan finally yanked it out of his hand and tossed it in a drawer.

  “You’ll get that back at the end of the day.”

  “Yes, Miss Gulch.”

  She chuckled. “And your little dog too. Now get to work.”

  The day the story was published, Seth went into work early to start a new project: limoncello. His nerves over telling Nate the baser details of his family history had been nothing compared to his anxiety now.

  “Hey,” Dave called from the doorway into the kitchen after Seth had been puttering in there about an hour. “Shannon’s here, wants to talk to you.”

  Excellent. He supposed he had to go say hi to her and probably be there while she celebrated the publication of a non-Wolf’s Landing story.

  He found her at her usual spot—seated at the last stool of the wraparound, facing the main entrance. Dave had already served her up a double mimosa. They had her to thank for the inclusion of that on the menu, now. It was very popular.

  “Isn’t it great?” she gushed as soon as he was within hearing distance. “My editor is thrilled.”

  “He is?”

  “Eh.” She shrugged. “Well, he’s not bitching, so that qualifies. Did you read it?”

  “Skimmed it, and it looked pretty much the same as your first draft.” He’d read that before finding out the rest of the family dirt, and thank God. Reading it a second time was beyond him. “Are you getting any feedback yet?”

  “Not really. It only came out today, so I didn’t expect much anytime soon.” Her face changed, from beaming in de
light to confused eyebrows as she refocused her gaze over his left shoulder. Know what that means. Someone was coming their way. Please let it be Nate. It wouldn’t be, though. By the indisputable rule of Murphy’s Law, it’d be someone in his family.

  “Oh, hey it’s your—”

  “Seth.” Uh-oh. His mother’s voice. Was Kirk here too? Closing his eyes, he took a second to compose himself.

  “Young man, your mother’s talking to you.” Well, that answered that question.

  Pivoting, he faced them, separated only by the counter. Smiling perfunctorily, he hid the way his hands fisted in a bar towel from his apron. “Mom, Uncle Kirk. Do we really have to do this now? I am at work.” They didn’t need to know he wasn’t actually on shift for three more hours.

  The confrontation itself was inevitable, and for once he planned on telling them how he really felt. Normally he took a page out of his father’s book and went along to get along. Oh, speaking of . . . “Dad.” The guy was standing behind Mom, face unreadable as usual, but not glowering angrily at him the way the other two were. He nodded once.

  Kirk got right to business. “Yes, we must do this now.”

  “We went by the house and you weren’t there.” His mother doubled-down on her glare. “Your uncle took valuable time away from his own schedule and you owe it to—”

  “As did your father,” Kirk interjected.

  “Yes.” Mom waved a hand in the direction of her husband, but didn’t actually look at him. “He left his office too.”

  For his part, his dad glanced uncomfortably around at the customers near them. His family had clearly attracted attention. It was lunch hour, so the bar itself wasn’t crowded, but the dining areas were.

  “Now, do you have a break coming up?” Pointedly, Kirk looked at his wristwatch, then crossed his arms over his chest.

  Unbelievable. “I can give you fifteen minutes.”

  Kirk’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers clenched. Look at that, they had similar physical reactions to each other.

  “Let’s find someplace private,” Seth’s father finally chimed in.

  He couldn’t take them to an unused table or the break room. He hesitated a moment, until, much like Shannon had a few minutes ago, his mother’s eyes focused over his shoulder, widening in recognition. They’d know who wrote the piece. Would they give Shannon a hard time too?

  Well, he couldn’t let them do that.

  He jerked open the counter at the pass-through and marched off toward the kitchen without really knowing where he was leading them. He considered pretending he smoked, so he could force his family outside in the rain and possibly irritate them by exhaling in their faces, but that seemed petty. Plus, Grandma would tan his hide if she thought he’d taken up cigarettes.

  Nettling them really wasn’t worth ruining his health, anyway. They ended up in the tiny alcove that hid the entrance to the storage room from the bar area, crowded too close for comfort, but there wasn’t a lot of choice. Jockeying them around, he arranged it so that he was the one most visible from the bar, where Shannon was leaning back on her stool, openly watching.

  Uncle Kirk and his mother stood front and center, with his father still hanging back, slightly behind his wife, and looking politely indifferent, now that they weren’t in public. Why had they even brought him?

  Kirk stepped a half foot toward him, establishing his dominance in the coming discussion.

  Unthinkingly, Seth widened his own stance and firmed his jaw. His defensiveness would be obvious, but no way could he back off. This was too important. Not only because Grandma wanted to move, but because the whole damn mythology of their family was built on lies. Sickening ones.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “You know perfectly well what you can do for us,” Mom snapped.

  “Um, no, actually. I know you’re here because of the article in the newspaper—”

  “You were quoted. You gave them—her—” Mom pointed at the wall separating them from the bar where Shannon sat. “You gave her this story, and you never said a word about it to us. That’s completely unacceptable behavior. You had a duty to tell us first.”

  “Grandma agreed to the article.” After the fact, but still.

  Kirk scowled. “It wasn’t her decision to make. Father left us in charge of Mother to keep her from doing foolish things—”

  “You know what I think of that.” They’d discussed this before, and at least once, nearly in this same spot. It was the other time Seth had stood up to them, so both his father and uncle knew Seth thought they were severely misinterpreting their own father’s wishes. And more, doing it out of selfishness.

  Well, Uncle Kirk was. His father’s motivations remained a mystery.

  “Regardless of how you feel about it, you just remember that we let you stay in that place rent-free, for the past twelve years.”

  God, this again? “Yes, and you remember that for that entire time, you’ve expected me to maintain the property, all of it. I’ve had to learn everything from electrical work to plumbing to house painting—”

  Kirk scoffed at that, as if house painting wasn’t a skilled job. What Seth wouldn’t give to make him get up on a ladder and see how easy it wasn’t. “My point is, and has been, I met all those expectations and I’ve saved the family thousands. I’m sure it makes up for any rent you could have charged me for a studio apartment over a garage.”

  Once again, his father spoke up. “That’s really not the purpose of this discussion. This is about the knife you found, which you didn’t inform any of us about.” For a moment, Seth thought he might say more, but he subsided into silence.

  Silence that his mother filled. “And all that business you made up about your great-great-grandfather. That’s just shameful.”

  “None of it is made up.” That was the real shame. “All of it is clearly documented, exactly the way it’s explained in the article. A friend of mine, Nate, is an experienced genealogy researcher. He found most of that stuff on the internet in less than a day—only a couple of hours.”

  “Who cares what this Nate guy says he found on the internet?” Kirk smirked unpleasantly.

  “I saw the records,” Seth said through his teeth.

  “They’re just records!” His mother threw her hand up into the air. “They’re impossible to interpret.”

  It had seemed pretty black and white to him. Literally. Well, more black on yellowed paper.

  Kirk threw a quelling look at Seth’s mother, then tried more of his brand of patronizing logic. “How can he know anything? He’s just some man who’s got no connection to us. He’s certainly not family, so how could he possibly understand the deeper motivations behind what Fennimore did?”

  There were so many things he could say, but Seth cut to the chase. “Grandma showed me the birth record.”

  Kirk and his father knew immediately what he was referring to: he could see the understanding all over their faces. His father paled, and Kirk went so red it approached purple.

  “What are you talking about?” Mom asked, hands on her hips and scowling. “What birth certificate? You aren’t suggesting that maid’s baby was actually related to us, are you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Grandma thinks he might even have forced himself on her.”

  Seth’s father jerked slightly, and for a split second shock widened his eyes.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Uncle Kirk nearly shouted. His voice rebounded on them in this tiny space, and he lowered it to a hiss. “He can’t have forced himself on someone he never had a relationship with. This is unproductive. We will discuss it further, later.” Kirk performed an angry pirouette and took the first step of what would clearly be a bombastic exit, then lurched to a stop. “We don’t want that business getting out. I expressly forbid you from telling any reporters. Or anyone else.” His narrowed eyes met Seth’s over his shoulder for a second before he marched off, with Seth’s mother closely mimicking his movements. Althoug
h her confusion was still clear. As they passed Shannon, the look Kirk gave her was the visual equivalent of spitting at her feet.

  Presumably by “that,” Kirk had meant the birth certificate. Seth sighed, then realized his father was still standing in front of him, eyebrows raised.

  “Son?”

  When was the last time Dad had called him that? “Yeah?”

  “You really opened a can of worms, here.”

  Unbelievable. “Thanks for the heads-up, Dad.”

  “Listen . . .” He adjusted his tie, then patted down the front of his suit in exactly the pompous way Kirk would. Seth braced himself for whatever bullshit his father was about to spew. “We should meet for coffee soon. I have some, um, unrelated business to discuss with you.”

  Then he left too.

  Well what the hell did that even mean?

  Nate still hadn’t heard a peep from Seth by the time he got to the Playhouse for final dress. Levi had invited the residents from Bluewater Bay Senior Estates to the rehearsal, and the house was half-full. He ducked backstage to check in with Jack and Levi. He wanted to congratulate Shannon on the story too, but he didn’t want to distract her before the show.

  Levi was huddled next to the fly rail with Jack and Darla, but grinned when Nate walked up.

  “Hey. Ready to see how your effects play to our test audience?”

  “Some of them don’t look too steady on their pins. Are you sure we’re not inviting tachycardia with some of the effects, not to mention seizures from the strobes?”

  “We issued a content warning with the invitation, so everyone here is prepared for thrills, chills, and action-packed adventure.”

  Nate chuckled. “That line sounds like an ad for a vintage horror film.”

  “Where do you think I got it? It’s on at least three of the posters in the lobby.” Levi gripped Nate’s shoulder. “Seriously though—your effects give the show exactly the boost I wanted. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “If you want to repay me, don’t tell my mother I’m doing theater work again. I’ll never hear the end of it.”