Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Work. I was deadheading there for the weekend and flying out with a crew Monday.”

  “Ah. Great for us, getting to see you.” Patrick mulled over her words. The terminology was mostly Greek to him. Dian worked as a flight attendant. He got the part about flying out from Billings on Monday. Nothing else.

  Susanne raised her hands to shoulder height, like she was ready to ward off blows. “I hate to admit this, but I haven’t started cooking dinner yet. I had it in my mind that Barry and Esme would be arriving later, then time slipped away from me. How does everyone feel about chicken fried antelope steak and mashed potatoes?”

  Esme’s eyes widened, and her mouth made an O.

  Dian stepped backward toward the front door. “I need to get back on the road. I can grab a burger on the way. I just wanted to say hello.”

  Patrick looked at his wife. She gave a slight shake of her head. It was more than an hour past sundown on bad winter roads. They had to offer Dian a place for the night. She had no business continuing to Billings, no matter how uncomfortable that made things with Barry and Esme already staying here. The situation would be dicey, which put the ball squarely in Susanne’s court. In social situations, he was inept where she was easy and sure. In the wilderness, their roles reversed. Patrick nodded.

  Susanne said, “Dian, you can’t drive to Billings tonight. It’s not safe.”

  She batted a hand. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve been driving winter roads in Wyoming for three years, and I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Really?” Her expression fell.

  Susanne raised her eyebrows at Patrick like she was telling him to get on with it already.

  Darn it. Patrick sucked in a deep breath. “Really. You should stay with us.”

  “Oh, I can’t impose with Barry and Esme here.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Barry said. “We’re all old friends.”

  Esme slowly and deliberately stepped on the toe of Barry’s tennis shoe, not seeming to care who saw her do it.

  Susanne said, “We can make this work. Dian, you’ll sleep with Trish in Perry’s room. He gets the couch. Esme, you’re in Trish’s room—it’s the nicest—and Barry, we made up a daybed for you in my sewing room.” She beamed, like none of this was a problem. Patrick knew she was faking it for all she was worth.

  “But—” Dian protested.

  Susanne cut her off. “Nope. Your protests won’t do you any good here. I will let you help me in the kitchen, though.”

  Dian paused, looking from person to person, skipping Esme. When her eyes returned to Susanne, she said, “But will there be wine involved?”

  Susanne laughed. “I have a box of white zinfandel.”

  “And I brought a cooler of Lone Star beer, all the way from the Lone Star state. The ice is still frozen,” Barry said.

  “Everything is frozen up here,” Esme muttered.

  Susanne turned to her. “White zinfandel for you?”

  Barry gave Esme’s shoulders a squeeze.

  She sucked in a deep breath, then tried to smile, with partial success. “Why not?”

  “Great. This way, ladies.” Susanne headed toward the galley kitchen.

  Dian followed Susanne to the kitchen. Esme stalled but finally went after them, throwing a desperate look over her shoulder as she did.

  The phone began to ring. Susanne picked up. “Hello?” She paused. “Where are you now?” Then, “No,” and finally, “Be home by nine.” She mouthed, “Trish,” at Patrick, then grimaced.

  Barry didn’t seem to notice Esme’s unease. He grinned at Patrick. “How about I bring in that beer now?”

  Patrick glanced toward the kitchen, watching for signs of smoke or the sound of small arms fire. “I wouldn’t say no to one.” Or, depending on how things went between the women, maybe even two or three.

  Chapter Eight: Rip

  Flint Residence, Buffalo, Wyoming

  Thursday, December 29, 1977, 7:30 a.m.

  Trish

  “Trish, Ben is here.” Her mom’s voice shocked Trish out of sleep.

  Ben? Already? Trish looked at the clock she’d set on Perry’s desk. It was seven thirty already. She’d set the alarm for six thirty. Why hadn’t it gone off?

  “Coming. Tell him to wait!”

  She scrambled out of bed. Her mom’s friend Dian had slept in the other twin, but the navy comforter had been pulled up and the suitcase on the floor was zipped and standing upright. Trish ripped off her flannel pajamas and threw on the clothes she’d laid out the night before, back when she’d planned to get up early to wash and style her hair. She wanted Ben to remember her looking her best, so she’d picked her newest pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with a lightweight color block sweater tucked into the waist. But where were her boots? She thought back. She’d left them in the bathroom last night. That was her next stop anyway.

  She bolted toward the door in her stocking feet and tripped over Perry’s barbells. Dumb bells is more like it. Muttering a word her parents didn’t think she used, she hopped on one foot. When the smarting eased up, she ran into the hallway, hollering. “Wait, Ben. Wait. I’ll be down in just a sec.”

  “Okay,” he called back.

  She grabbed the bathroom doorknob and tried to turn it. It didn’t budge. Locked. No! She put her ear to the door. She heard the shower. Her toothbrush and toothpaste. Her hairbrush. Her makeup. And her boots. She couldn’t get to them.

  She could wear different shoes. She crossed the hall to her bedroom door. The metal sign with her name and a palomino horse on it made her grimace. Baby stuff, ugh. I need to change that. The door was shut. She tried the knob. Locked, too! The nearest hairbrush and toothpaste were in her parents’ bathroom, downstairs, past the great room. No matter what, now she had to walk past Ben barefoot looking like . . . like . . . this. This is how he would remember her when he met college girls. Stupid Uncle Barry and his fiancée! She swiped angry tears from her eyes. Then, holding her chin high, she walked down the stairs.

  “Hey, Trish.” Ben smiled up at her. He was tall and so handsome, with his dark hair, and he looked grownup, but something in his eyes was sad. Was it that she looked so awful? Or that he’d miss her? He met her at the foot of the stairs.

  “Ben, do you want some breakfast?” her mom yelled from the kitchen.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Tell her yes. I have to finish getting ready.”

  “But . . .” He gave her a puzzled look.

  Trish sped up to a run as she went by him without stopping.

  “Sure, Mrs. Flint. Thank you,” he said.

  Trish ducked into her parents’ bedroom. The door to their bathroom was open. She hurried into it, then realized water was running. Before she had a chance to avert her gaze, she got an eyeful of her uncle. Completely naked, stepping into the shower. She about-faced, unable to breathe. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Cheeks burning, she leaned back against the wall inside the doorway to her parents’ room. She’d never seen a fully naked man before, not even her dad. Pictures, yes, when a friend brought a magazine to school that had been confiscated by their teacher when it drew a crowd at recess. But never in real life.

  When she’d recovered enough from her shock that she could move, she zombie walked back to the great room, forgetting all about her hair, bare feet, lack of make-up, and unbrushed teeth. Her mom had just set a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of Ben at the kitchen table. Trish stopped and watched him. He scooped margarine out of a tub and plopped it on the stack, then squirted syrup until the bacon was swimming. He carved off a section and stuffed pancake in his mouth, chasing it with bacon, chewing, and washing it down with milk.

  Unable to think of a good reason to stall any longer, she plopped into the chair across from him. Outside, she saw Perry wielding a snow shovel by the deck. Behind her, the front door opened and then slammed shut. She turned. Her dad grunted, dropping an armful of logs in the wood box by the fireplace. His face was pasty white. She
knew where everyone else was. Behind locked doors upstairs and an open one in her parents’ bathroom.

  “Good morning, Trish,” her mom said.

  Trish made an unhappy noise, somewhere between a snort, a grunt, and a whine. “I couldn’t get into my room or either of the bathrooms. All of them were being used.”

  “Sorry, honey.”

  Trish leaned toward Ben and whispered, “And I just saw my uncle naked.”

  His dark eyes widened like an owl’s. He grinned with his lips closed. “Whoops.”

  She pouted. “I look awful, and I have bad breath.”

  “You’re beautiful to me.”

  “This isn’t how I wanted you to remember me.”

  “It’s not like it’s the last time I’ll ever see you, Trish.”

  “Still.”

  He stuffed in another bite, then stood, still chewing. He pushed his bangs off his forehead. The C-shaped scar her dad had left when he walloped Ben during Trish’s rescue was still noticeable, like a brand. Pointing at the clock, he swallowed and said, “I’ve got to get going.”

  Trish felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. The time she could have spent with him, stolen from her.

  Her dad stuck out his hand and shook Ben’s. “Good luck in Laramie.”

  Her mom hugged him. “Study hard!”

  “Thank you, Dr. Flint, Mrs. Flint.” Ben’s expression was serious. Then, to Trish, he said, “Walk me out?”

  She felt numb. “Yes.” She put her hand in his. Together, they walked to the front door.

  He opened it and stepped out onto the stoop. “You’re in your socks.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She went outside with him. The sun was shining but it was windy and felt like the temperature was in the teens. She wrapped her arms around herself.

  He put his around hers. “Is that better?”

  She dropped her forehead to his chest. Nothing could make it better. “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  “I, um, I have something for you. I was going to give it to you last night, but then, well, it’s not much, but I want you to have it.”

  She looked up as he backed away from her and jammed his hand in his pocket. “What is it?”

  Ben held out a ring. A small, golden ring with a bright purple stone. “It’s your birthstone.”

  Trish sucked in a breath. She reached for it. “It’s beautiful.” Her hands were trembling. “What finger do you want me to wear it on?”

  “Maybe it could mean something.”

  “Like?”

  “A promise? About us?”

  Trish’s heart hammered in her chest. “Yes.” She slipped it on her ring finger. “Yes!” She held out her hand to show him.

  “You have such pretty fingers.”

  “It’s perfect.” She threw her arms back around him. “Thank you. I promise. Someday. Us.”

  His exhale rattled her chest. “I’m glad. Me, too.”

  “Can you call me when you get to Laramie?”

  “Trish, calls are expensive. I don’t have much money.”

  “Just to let me know you’re all right. One minute.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll write to you every week.”

  “I’ll write to you, too.”

  She felt him shake his head. “This is crazy. Maybe I should just go work on a fishing boat in Alaska. What if I’m not cut out for college?”

  “You are. You’re smart and you’re going to do great things, Ben Jones.” Trish tried to hold back her tears. “With me.”

  “I’ll be home at spring break. Maybe sooner.”

  “You’d better.”

  He squeezed her. “I love you, Trish.”

  She nodded, no longer able to speak. He released her and started backing toward his truck, his hand over his heart. When he got in and closed the door, a sob broke loose from her, and she bolted through the snow. He looked up in surprise and rolled down the window.

  “I love you, too,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  He reached his hand out and touched her wet cheek. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She tried to nod, but her head wouldn’t move. She rotated the ring on her finger. It was going to be okay.

  Ben drove away, waving to her. She stayed rooted in place in the driveway, oblivious to the cold and her feet, waiting for just another minute, in case he came back.

  He didn’t.

  She went inside, back to Perry’s room, flopped onto his bed face down, and cried.

  Chapter Nine: Smooth

  Flint Residence, Buffalo, Wyoming

  Thursday, December 29, 1977, 10:00 a.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne sat with her feet propped on an ottoman. She was drinking her third cup of coffee when the guests began arriving for their late breakfasts. Third shift. Patrick had eaten before the kids. Dian appeared first—a petite model ready for a magazine photo shoot—followed seconds later by Barry, who looked adorably rumpled. The norm for them both.

  “Do I smell bacon and coffee?” Barry said.

  “Good morning to you, too. You do.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  “Good morning,” Dian said.

  “Why does she have such better manners than you? Good morning, Dian. Pancakes and bacon in five,” Susanne said. She was proud to have guests at her polished walnut table and chairs. Even after all the years Patrick had been a doctor, the table they’d bought his first year out of medical school was still the nicest piece of furniture they owned. “Coffee and mugs are on the counter. Sit anywhere you like.”

  “Thanks, Tootie.” Barry grinned at his sister, or maybe at the childhood nickname he used to torture her with. He poured two coffees. “Still take it black, Dian?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Barry sat across the slab tabletop from Dian, his view into the living room, Dian’s of Clear Creek running past the frozen backyard, and Susanne’s of the two of them. Susanne tried not to make it obvious she was eavesdropping as they chatted. Barry and Dian had quite a past. They’d been engaged as high school sweethearts, then broken up during college. Gotten back together at a high school reunion, decided once again to marry, then called it quits. There had to be a story to their ending, but neither Dian nor her brother had ever told it, no matter how many ways Susanne had asked.

  “Barry, pancakes for you,” she said.

  He said, “I like the table service.”

  “Don’t get used to it. Dian, here you go.” Susanne set a second plate down.

  Patrick, who had been reading the paper in the living room, joined them. “Found yesterday’s or last month’s coffee cup on the mantel when I was loading the firewood box earlier, honey.” He brought a Dallas Cowboys mug to Susanne and winked at her.

  “Ha ha. Thanks.” Why did it always have to be Patrick who found the mugs she lost around the house? She always seemed to set them out of her own line of sight.

  Patrick returned to the dining area. “As soon as you’re done, Barry, we have to get ready for the trip.”

  “When do we leave?” Barry asked.

  “This afternoon.”

  Barry nodded and crammed down a last huge bite, standing as he chewed.

  After the men left, Susanne sat down with her own breakfast and caught up with Dian, until Esme joined them, wearing a robe over a long nightgown.

  “Good morning.” Susanne jumped up. Time to make pancakes. Again. For the fourth time. But who was counting? Guests couldn’t be served cold pancakes, after all. But this time, she was finishing the rest of the batter.

  “Morning.”

  Susanne cooked to the sound of Dian’s cheery voice and Esme’s frosty one. She wanted this to go well. Esme would be her sister-in-law, and Dian would always be her friend. She decided to intervene.

  “So, how did you meet Barry?” Susanne raised her voice to be heard as she flipped cakes over in the cast iron skillet.

  Esme warmed, turning towar
d Susanne, and her eyes sparkled. “At a backyard barbecue political fundraiser. I was there with Rick Perry, a fellow I’d gone out with once before.”

  “Do tell,” Dian said, leaning on her hands to get closer.

  “I wasn’t interested in dating a cotton farmer—that’s what Rick is, plus he lives somewhere north of Abilene.” She crinkled her nose. “I met Barry in line for the bathrooms, and we enjoyed talking to each other. I gave him my number. Then he didn’t call me. I thought he wasn’t interested, but it turned out he’d lost it.”

  “Sounds like Barry,” Susanne said, laughing.

  Esme’s chill returned. “I don’t know why you’d say that. Barry is usually very organized.”

  Susanne and Dian shared a raised eyebrow look. Boy, has he ever got Esme fooled. It was well known to all who loved him that Barry was out to lunch most of the time. He came by it honestly, taking after their mother. His life had changed dramatically when he acquired a secretary to handle his schedule, by all accounts. But as for his personal life, Susanne knew Barry was still hopeless.

  Esme sniffed but continued her story. “He finally got my number from a mutual friend and called me before Thanksgiving.”

  “So, you’ve been together a year?” Dian asked.

  Susanne counted the months since Barry’s engagement with Dian ended. It had been a little more than a year.

  “Oh, no. Six weeks.” Esme took a sip of her coffee.

  Susanne stared at Dian, who mouthed, “Oh, my gosh.” Then Susanne remembered the pancakes. She turned off the burner and removed the pan from the heat, then quickly slipped the cakes and the last slice of bacon onto a plate and took them to Esme.

  Dian said, “A whirlwind courtship. When is the wedding?”

  “Thank you,” Esme said to Susanne. Then, to Dian, “This summer. June.”

  Dian said, “A June wedding. That’s great.” Her voice sounded hollow. Dian and Barry had planned to marry in June of the previous year.

  Susanne started loading the dishwasher. Esme picked at her food, not seeming to really swallow anything. Susanne didn’t think she had eaten more than a bite or two of potatoes at dinner and none of the venison. The wrists extending from her sweater sleeves were small and bony. She was even more slender than Susanne had realized at first. Starving yourself will do that.