refills our glasses and points to the far end of the bar. “I’ll be down there if you need me.”
After he leaves, Lexi and I don’t return to our discussion of Dad. Not of the Emory professor, either. Skirting around the reason for our reunion is only a temporary respite, I know, but neither of us seems willing to risk another outburst. We scarf down our Thursday-night specials and tiptoe around each other, chatting and catching up on jobs and boys and Bo, who is about to put his name on yet another patent for Eastman Chemical Company, this time for a new and revolutionary mascara.
It takes a couple beats for her message to muddle through my jet-lagged brain. “Hold up. Bo hasn’t called me back because he’s working on a stupid mascara?”
“Excuse me, but just because you got all the dark lashes in the family—” she leans in, giving me a pointed look “—mascara is not stupid. Especially Bo’s. His is about to change the way women put on makeup in the mornings.”
“Again, we’re talking about a cosmetic.” My level tone abandons me now, as does my inside voice. “Not a cure for cancer. Not the key to world peace. A freaking cosmetic.”
Lexi sniffs. “One that women all over the world are going to pay a lot of money for. Good thing Bo promised me a lifetime supply.”
I resist rolling my eyes, but just barely. “But not one that’s more important than calling back his sister, who he hasn’t talked to in forever. And I know I don’t have to remind you what’s happening tomorrow. I swear to God, if he ditches Dad’s homecoming for a tube of face paint—”
She stops me with a manicured hand in the air. “Calm down. He’s going to call you back.”
“How do you know? When did you last talk to him?”
A frown tries to push up her forehead—a frown aimed at me, and not our errant brother. “Not for a few days, but Cal has. He told me Bo knows about tomorrow.”
“Good.” Though I may have been willing to back off—temporarily, at least—on the subject of Jeffrey Levine and his allegations, I bite down now. Dad’s homecoming is a party I don’t plan to host all by myself. “Because Dad’s supposed to arrive at noon.”
Her next words come at the tail end of a sigh. “So I hear.”
“Lexi.” My tone is weighed down with enough warning to sink a ship. “Don’t even think about bailing.”
She shoves away her empty plate with an elbow, opening her mouth for a response when she’s distracted by Jake charging by, a sheet of paper half crumpled in a fist. Something about the way he comes around the bar, mouth set, shoulders determined, eyes not so much as glancing our way, silences her before the first syllable. She clamps her mouth shut and follows him across the room with her gaze.
I, however, have had enough of my sister’s distraction maneuvers. “Just so we’re clear, Lex, tomorrow is nonnegotiable.”
But I’m talking to her back. Lexi is twisted around on her stool, watching Jake approach a woman with a droopy stack of flyers fanning over her arm like an accordion. The Light of Deliverance frump, judging from her outfit: a turtleneck sweater and pleated skirt that would give even Heidi Klum a fat ass.
The woman doesn’t resist when he clamps a palm around her biceps and pulls her aside, parking her next to the cigarette machine by the bathroom hallway. She doesn’t speak, either, mostly because Jake doesn’t give her a chance. Not with his expression, which practically dares her to try. Not with his body language, which puffs his chest and makes him stand a few inches taller in his boots. And not with his scolding—for Jake is surely giving her a scolding—which continues unbroken for a good sixty seconds.
“Who’s he talking to?” I say. “I feel like I should know her.”
“You should. That’s Tanya Crawford, formerly McNeal.”
It takes me a minute to connect the long-forgotten dots. “The same Tanya McNeal who got suspended for selling hand jobs in the school parking lot?”
“That’s her. Married one of those loony Pentecostals a few years ago, so I suppose it was inevitable she’d follow him over the hot coals.”
Whatever Jake’s message, Tanya doesn’t like it. She scrunches her mouth and pushes past him without a word, barely pausing to snatch her coat from a hook on her way out the door.
Lexi returns to her wine, draining her glass and then reaching for mine.
“What do you think that was all about?” I say.
“Not about snake handling, that’s for damn sure.”
The back of my neck tingles at her ominous words, at whatever’s written on Tanya’s paper, now stuffed into the back pocket of Jake’s jeans. And the undeniable hunch the episode has something to do with our father.
I steal another glance at Jake, but now he’s swapping greetings with a man in head-to-toe Harley-Davidson gear, and I’d be hard-pressed to find any indication of his former aggravation without a blood pressure cuff. He slaps the biker on the back, sweeps up two empty plates from the table to his right and heads back to the bar as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just tell Tanya McNeal she was no longer welcome.
“Jakey.” Lexi’s voice is high and honey sweet, stopping him before he can slip into the kitchen. “Did you or did you not just toss that woman out of your restaurant?”
“Absolutely not.” He shifts the plates onto a forearm, not quite meeting Lexi’s eyes. Mine, either. “The choice to leave was hers entirely.”
Lexi and I share a look, and then she reaches a hand, palm to the sky, across the bar. “All right. Hand it over.”
He pauses a beat too long. “Hand what over?”
“Jake Foster, don’t you play coy with me. Either give me that paper in your back pocket or I’ll go over there and get a copy from Andy Jamison. Your call.”
A faint furrow dips between his brows, but Jake slides the paper from his pocket with his free hand. He goes to pass it to her, then reconsiders. He pulls back his hand, and the wadded-up paper, just out of her reach. “Maybe you should wait till you get home to read it.”
Lexi molds her lips into one of her beauty-pageant smiles. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t born yesterday. By the way your eyes get all pointy just looking at me, I already have a good idea what this is about. But don’t you worry. If that paper has something to do with that man, then it has nothing to do with me.” She holds up her palm. “Now give it.”
“What man?” I ask Lexi. “You have nothing to do with what man?”
Lexi doesn’t answer, doesn’t take her eyes off Jake, and he drops the wad into her hand. She uncrumples the paper, flattening it onto the bar with both palms. Her red-dipped fingertips swipe along the first three words: Guilty as Sin.
She thrusts the paper away like it’s garbage.
“That hardly seems very Christian,” I say.
“That’s exactly what I told Tanya.” Jake slides the dishes with a loud clatter onto the bar, his gaze hardwired to my sister.
Lexi ignores both of us. She reaches into her purse for a tube and a silver compact and sets about applying a fresh coat of pink gloss.
I slide the page closer with the tip of a finger and read further. My stomach twists at the image of my father, looking almost dashing in his trial suit, like he’s on his way to the Barter Theatre rather than playing center stage in his own nightmare. But I can see why Tanya chose to feature this shot of him. His mouth is set in a crooked grin, his expression confident and cocky, as if daring the jury to find him guilty, which of course they did.
And now, according to the flyer, Tanya McNeal and her Pentecostal cronies plan to gather tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp on the street in front of the house. They will be armed with posters