by Cooper West
“Inventory changes a lot. Never know what’ll keep, what’ll sell,” Chuckie said simply, not moving his longbodyotherwise.
“Oh. Uh, youthe owner?”
“Yep.”
“Okay.” He decided not to pry about it, although obviously it was a family endeavor. For allhe knew, the absentee Miss Ellen was Chuck’s wife, and that was as good a reason as any for Gary to drop the conversation completely. He put the glass down, wondering why this felt so awkward. Chuck was not being rude or standoffish, but Gary still felt like an intruder, as if he needed to keep the conversation rolling. “Good music. Is it a localradio station?”
Chuck studied him coolly, then shook his head. “Myownmix. Playit offa computer inthe back.”
“I don’t know the bands, but I know music. You’ve got great taste.”
He smiled slowly. “Youplay?”
Garyrolled his eyes. “Yes, a little.”
“Not many notice the music, and them that do, few have calluses on their fingers.” He raised his chin and glanced down at Gary’s hands. Gary was surprised he noticed that detail, as he had not given any impressionofseriouslyinspectingGaryas theytalked.
“Bass guitar, mostly, but I can work my way around a six-string.”
Chuck nodded approvingly. They stood at an impasse for a few moments untilhe gave up.
“Well, thanks.”
Chuck watched himas he moved for the door, as iftryingto figure himout. “We’re closed tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Gary stopped, wondering what in the hell inspired himto saythat.
“Sunday. Church. We don’t open on Sunday. In case you were thinkin’ to come back tomorrow and buysomething.”
Gary nodded, realizing Chuck thought he was a tourist in town for a weekend of shopping. He shrugged. “Okay. Can’t reallyafford muchanyway.”
Chuck’s eyes narrowed in confusion as Gary walked out, offering no explanation. He was not interested in making friends, and Chuck was probably not interested in anyone not spending money, and sure as hell not interested in some queer boy sizing him up. Gary walked directly back to his car and was halfway to the house before he realized that his head was still buzzing to the music he listened to at the store. He wondered idly if Chuckie would be inclined to share. Most musicians were always excited about spreading the love of music they appreciated, but it also meant that he would have to go back and face off with those disturbing crystalline eyes again. He felt his face heat up and shook his head, uncertain if he was feeling shy or embarrassed or silly about the idea oftalking to a straight man. But then, technically, it was seven years since he had gone on an actual date, and he tried to cut himself some slack for acting like the twenty-four-yearold he used to be.
When he got back to the house, he pulled out his comfortable practice acoustic guitar and rifled through his collection of sheet music. He had bought a book of standard traditional songs a long time ago, and it had moved around with himbut never actually been opened more than a couple of times. He found the familiar tune “Durang’s Hornpipe”and sat inthe livingroom, plowing through the music until he could riff out a version of the song that sounded halfway good, although he knew he needed to spend a lot more time listening and playing before he could get even close to the sound he was aimingfor.
He started when he realized that he was hearing a car drive up to the house, and that the sun was low in the sky. Aglance at the clock told himhe had been at it for three hours, a good practice run and more time than he had spent on his music in two weeks. Shaking his head, he got up and walked around the porch to the front, still holding his guitar, to see who was daring to visit. A pickup truck was closing in. It looked big and, even in the dimming light, seemed to be well loved. Gary was not a fan of trucks in general, but he knew that out here he was in the minority—trucks were the life blood of the Deep South, and his tiny SUV was nothingto impress the locals with. He went and reached inside the front door to turn on the porch light, just to throw off the encroaching shadows, but it did not do a lot. Harriet clearly believed in energy saving by using verylow-watt bulbs.
As the truck pulled up to the stairs, Gary got an eyeful of the glossy, fully loaded machine. Not flashy and only a little jacked up, just a solid working truck that was well polished. He waited while it rumbled to a stop, and the strangers climbed out.
They stood blinking at each other for a second before he pulled himselftogether.
“You Miss Harriet’s nephew, then?” In the falling darkness, Chuckie’s movements were quick and smooth, like a dancer. His eyes were squinting at Gary as he stood at the bottomof the stairs. Behind him, the passenger of the truck stood looking at them from behind mirror shades and a jowly frown. He was older than Chuckie, just as tall but heavier set, and Gary had no doubts at allthat the two menwere related.
“Yep, that would be me. Gary Winston.” He motioned him up the stairs and stuck out his hand. Chuck moved slowly and cautiously but came up and shook his hand. The man behind him did not move at all.
“Charles Everett.”
Gary nodded in greeting and pulled his hand back. Chuckie moved to the side.
“Most call me Chuck. My father here is Mr. Everett.”
The older man finally moved up the stairs, as if he had been waiting for security to clear the area for him. He dwarfed Gary and did not seem too concerned about physicallyintimidatinghimbut put ona short smile that was clearlyfor his sake.
“Mr. Winston.”
“Mr. Everett.”
They shook hands briefly and nodded properly before breaking the contact. He stood still for a moment, then stepped back a bit and waved a hand at Chuck, who begantalking.
“Fred George told us Miss Harriet’s heir took possession of the house. Came by to see if you had plans to cancelher contract withus.”
Garyshook his head, frowning. “Contract?”
He waved a hand out toward the encroaching darkness. “The pecan trees. We’ve harvested these groves for the last ten years. Don’t know if you intend to keep to that.”
And, Gary thought quickly, it was important to themto find out. “Yeah, Fred George mentioned that. I haven’t seen the contract, though. I don’t even know where to find it.”
“Fred’s got a copy,” Mr. Everett interrupted, fixing him with a solid gaze from behind his shades, whichhe obviouslyhad no intentionofremoving. Chuck cast a look to the side, a flicker of annoyance flashing over his features, but he schooled himself quickly and put his smile back in place for Gary. While they were strangers, it was easy enough to spot the family dynamics, so he nodded at Mr. Everett first before focusingback onhis son.
“Okay then, I’ll get a copy from him tomorrow. To be honest, Mr. Everett, I don’t expect to change much. If the deal is fair, then it’ll work for me. I’ma bit set at odds right now, so anything that keeps money coming in is good.” Gary knew he was revealing more than was proper for a first meeting, but it felt important for them to know that he was not a threat to their revenue sources. Chuck nodded solemnly, seeming to understand the purpose of his free-talking ways, but the father remained completely and strangely motionless, so he was not sure what effect his admission had on him. There was a small shuffle between the men, and Chuck stepped up a little closer. Obviously the father was done dealing and would let the son handle the uppity outsider.
“We pay a monthly lease, but the real money comes from her—your—share of the harvest. That happens pretty soon now. Her trees usually fall right in late October. We had a dry spring but summer was wet. Should be a fair harvest this year.”
Chuck was telling him that he was going to be getting some money soon, and it was probably his way of reassuring a new, nervous business partner. Gary smiled.
“Thanks for the info. Uh, you guys want to come inor something?”He went to step toward the door, and for aninstant he thought Chuck was goingto follow, but he pulled up and shook his head. His father had not moved a muscle.
“Myregrets, Gary, but we stillgot a d
rive back to Cornerstone. Just on our way through and thought to introduce ourselves.”
Gary was almost grateful, because aside fromthe beer he bought earlier, he really had nothing to serve company. It had been a reflex reaction to offer. He nodded, suspecting that his property was probably not on their way to anywhere, but they needed to know about the pecan groves, and fast. It was possible harvest was sooner thanChuck was lettingon, but Gary could not ask without insulting his presumed knowledge ofthe subject.
“Next time, then.”
Mr. Everett took that as it was meant and walked off the porch, going straight to the truck without looking back. Chuck paused in the middle of turning to leave and glanced at himwitha smile that was so slight, it was nearlyshy. He stuck out his hand.
“Sure thing. I look forward to it.” He shook Gary’s hand again with his long all-encompassing fingers, looking pointedly at the guitar he still held, forgotteninhis other hand.
“Right then, Chuck. I’ll see you next time.” He smiled and gave his guitar a little shake, and it felt like they were talking in code:I hope to hear you play next time, Chuck…. Sure thing, Gary. I’ll remember to bring my fiddle…. He grinned self-consciously, and Chuckie quirked aneyebrow, seemingto get the joke.
“Stop bythe store again, and I’llget youa playlist of the tunes I had on this afternoon.” He turned back and stalked off the porch, leaving Gary a bit surprised that Chuck remembered their conversation. He tried not to stare as Chuck left, but he could not rip his eyes from the lanky, graceful man as he walked around the truck. Chuck swung into the cab of the truck, glancing back quickly with an inscrutable expression over the top of the door right before he disappeared into the vehicle.
Gary stood on the porch watching like a polite host untiltheypulled offthe drive onto the road beyond. And it was then, and not until then, that he realized he thought Chuck, for allhis lanky, rugged good looks and strange ways, was also a veryinteresting man.
“Well, fuck.” Gary stomped back into the house, determined to pretend he never thought any kind of a thing about a straight redneck North Carolina farmer. Pretending anything else was a quick way to a beating. He knew that for a fact.
Monday morning he drove into Holden a third time. He called ahead to arrange a short meeting with Fred George, who apparently considered himself the family lawyer, according to Marie. Gary did not ask for specifics about that as he suspected it might have to do with being related to Fred George, which would mean inviting his family over for a Christmas party when the time came—a special hell he was hoping to avoid forever. He kept his mouth shut as Fred George pointed out the important details of the contract for the pecan groves, which was fair to all involved but in no way, shape, or formwould pay all the bills facing Gary. When he said as much, Fred George looked at him quizzically, as if really registering his presence for the first time.
“What is it that youdo?”
“I’ma musician.”
He waited, as if expecting Gary to complete the sentence.
“That’s all. I play guitar, mostly. Bass guitar, mostly. Some composition.”
“That’s all?”He looked veryperplexed.
“Well, I know how to serve coffee.”
“Coffee,” he said, still confused. When Gary did not answer, he rallied. “Ah. Well… as you know, there is enough left of Miss Harriet’s estate to pay the household bills for a few more months, ifyouwould like my office to continue handling that for you. And the estate taxes, I might be able to hold offon untilafter the pecan harvest comes in. Fromwhat I know, that should pay the worst of it, if not all of it, if Chuckie and his people get a good seasonlike theydid last year.”
“Anyhelp is good help,”Garyanswered absently, registering the use of “his people” in reference to Charles Everett.
“Then it’s settled.” Fred George started shoving paperwork back into folders.
“So you know this Chuck, uh, Chuckie Everett prettywell? He’s trustworthy?”
“Oh yes. Solid stock, that family. Been living out over in Cornerstone since before the War.” By that, Gary knew Fred George meant the Civil War of the mid-1800s, and he nodded inunderstanding.
“Longtime residents, then.”
“Very. Like the Lees, and your family and all. Been around forever.” He stopped and gave him a cagey look. Gary raised his eyebrows to indicate his curiosity, which was enough incentive to keep Fred George talking. “But mind, they are their own kind. Keep to themselves, youunderstand.”
What Garyunderstood was that there were about ten layers of meaning in those few sentences, things that might hint at any number of Southern sins, but most probably incest ofthe kissing-cousins variety. The other sins would never even be referred to, not outside a bar without liquor to fuel the accusations. Fred was saying that the Everetts were a closed unit and protective of their kin. He was not warning him away from doing business with themso much as he was warning Gary to watch his step, and in the only terms he could use without resortingto gossip.
“I understand completely. I’ll stay out of Cornerstone.”
He looked relieved and nodded. “Most of us do. Chuckie, he’s fair minded and keeps the worst of his poppa at bay. But now Mr. Everett, that’s one man not to cross.” Fred smiled wanly as he said it, and Gary got the picture of Mr. Everett as an old-fashioned Southern patriarch of the leather-strap kind. It explained a lot about his behavior the eveningbefore.
Fred nodded as if they had settled a major court case, then pointed at Gary. “As your lawyer, I suggest you might look to finding a steady source of income. We don’t have much call for musicians here in Holden outside ofweddingreceptions and church.”
“Understood, sir. Trulyunderstood. Ifyouhear of anyjobs….”
“I’ll call you personally should anything present itself,” he said stiffly. Gary figured it was a promise he felt secure in making because nothing was likely to present anytime soon. Gary left after that, going back to wander the antique shops yet again. Unsurprisingly, it was a repeat of the day before as none of the stores were hiring, not even part time. He ended up down at the small library next to the courthouse, logging onto one of the public computers to check his e-mail. Friends from Chicago were panicking at not hearing from him. He had a pre-pay cell phone back in Chicago, but it ran out of money halfway through the trip south, and he did not want to throw his meager funds at it again. It was dead and buried in his suitcase, useless, and his only option was Harriet’s land line at the house. He shuddered to think what long distance would cost from that, so instead he sent out a mass email to just about everyone telling them a very upbeat version of events, suggesting that his finances were a lot better off than they were, the house was in better shape than it was, and the phone would be up and running soon, when it was more likely he was going to have it recycled.
Then he sat down and spent the time to send a realistic rundown to his manager. Tally McGuire was a great manager, well known and well respected in both the live and recorded music scene up North. It had been a huge coup for Gary to land his interest a few years back. The spark had not struck on Gary’s career inthe meantime, but Tallywas determined once he took a musician on, and even 800 miles was not daunting to the undiminished enthusiasmof Tally on a mission. Gary figured that if anyone deserved an honest perspective on his dire straits, it was Tally. Not that there was much his manager could do, other than give himthe names of some people inAtlanta or Nashville, but Gary was not about to let ten years of hard work in the industry evaporate because ofa house inNorthCarolina.
Logging off, he browsed the stacks for a few books—two biographies and a promising sciencefiction novel by Jack McDevitt—because he did not want to be reduced to watching local news on the ancient black-and-white television in the den. He got an instant library card by having the librarian call Fred George’s office and confirm with Marie that Gary was now a resident of Holden (or, actually, Marker County), and after that, he decided to head back to the house. He was not
looking forward to anymore cleaning, but it had to be done for the house to be livable, and since he was livingthere, livable was a good goal to have. He stopped at the small grocery on the wayout oftownagainto buya few more foodstuffs and Borax powder to put down as a pesticide on the carpets and mattresses. As he drove he considered how to best turn the den into his studio, realizing with a bit of shock that he really was planning to stay. It was not as upsetting a thought as he supposed it would be, and that startled him more than anything. He had not lived in his own place since the breakup, and he wondered ifhe was just settlingfor the first actualhouse to come along. It was not too different from how he ended up living with the wrong guy: Roger was there; Gary stumbled over him and stuck around. It was a ridiculous analogy, but as he pulled up to the weatherbeaten house, he wondered what he expected to find inside of it, other than more dust and ancient issues of National Geographic.
He did not make muchprogress onthe house that day, instead sitting on the porch with his guitar and workinghis waythroughthe music book he had ignored for years. His only thought was that sometimes, a good thing was there all along, and you did not know it until youplayed the tunes it held.
ChapterFour
He foundhimself back in the Everett shop two days
later. He was ona mission. The previous two days were filled with unremitting drudgery as he cleaned what he could ofthe house and began sorting out Harriet’s possessions. Childless, Harriet and her husband did not have much reason to collect sentimentalthings, for which Gary was very grateful. Still, it was severalgenerations of lifetimes in the house, and while Gary did not know the significance of the antique Japanese kimono doll above the mantel, it went against his grain to just get rid of it. However, most of the junk in the closets—old clothes and shoes, romance novels, five broken irons, and boxes offishing lures that had not been used in decades —was easy to sort directly to the car and fromthere to the charity bins outside the Holden police station. The boxes of photos were more problematic, as was Mr. Lee’s (Gary could not remember his uncle’s first name to save his life) collection of dictionaries. He was apparently a connoisseur, and the large collection included several pudgy volumes from the late 1700s. Those, Gary knew, were important, so he dusted the bookshelves carefully and touched nothing else on them, trying to remember if dictionary collecting was something he already knew about and had simply forgotten. He suspected it was not the case, that instead his uncle did not tell many people of his passion for dictionaries, in much the same way Gary did not try to explain modern jazz to his family when he was a teenager. The idea made himfeel closer to both Harriet and his uncle, and in some strange way, the house itself. He closed the glass doors to the bookshelves lovingly.
