I wish I could say this is the first conversation I’ve had in Piggly Wiggly that jumped from talking about grilling to someone offering up their daughter, but it’s not. I can’t blame Gloria, though; she worries about her kid and grandbaby just like any decent mama would. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that an asshole who won’t even stick around to see his kid born isn’t likely to pitch in for support.
“I appreciate the struggle she’s having, Gloria. It’s a real shame. I’m sure she’s going to find a great guy who will appreciate both her and that little girl.”
She finally takes my hint that I’m not going to be that guy, and pushes her cart on down the aisle. I need a woman to want me for more than what I’ve got in my wallet or my bank account.
As I reach for a package of ground sirloin, I can’t help but shake my head. It’s funny how things change. Gloria Barnum would have had a heart attack if I’d pulled up in my Camaro to take Jessica on a date when I was in high school, and it wouldn’t have been because of the three-year age difference.
The reputation I had as the troublemaking Brantley kid haunted me for years. Before I left the military, my mom passed away from a drug overdose, and when I came back to Gold Haven, people didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms.
It wasn’t until I took over Chuck’s garage and word got out that I was making good money and keeping my nose clean that women started showing up at my service station with purposely flat tires and engines making funny noises only they could hear.
Mrs. Barnum disappears around the corner past the dairy case.
Which reminds me, I forgot to get cheese. After selecting some pepper jack, I grab lunch meat from the deli, bread, and a six-pack of beer.
I’m met with another familiar face when I push my cart into the checkout line. Unfortunately, this isn’t a friendly one.
Roy Planter glares at me as his daughter, Rachel, sells him a case of beer and a carton of cigarettes. He leaves the stench of stale smoke behind him as he hands over the money. He keeps his scowl pinned in place as he hefts his purchases and leaves the store.
Rachel’s expression isn’t much different from her dad’s. “You know he needed that job.”
I put my groceries on the belt and give her an answer she doesn’t want to hear. “I needed your dad not to be drunk when he came into work to do that job.”
The red blush of embarrassment stains her cheeks. “It’s a disease, you know. How about a little Christian compassion? It ain’t easy for him to deal with.”
I reach for my wallet, amazed at her hypocrisy. “You ain’t blaming this on me. You sell him a case of beer every damn day instead of pushing him to go to AA.”
It sure isn’t my place to judge, but if she’s going to fault me for firing him after costing me thousands of dollars in damage, you better believe I’m going to point out her faults in return.
“He won’t go to AA. I’ve tried. I don’t know what else to do.”
Her desperation comes through loud and clear, and I feel it to my depths. I felt the same way about my mama, and she was just as stubborn. I gave up on her, and maybe I shouldn’t have. Rachel shouldn’t make my mistake.
“Get your ma to push him too. It’s not too late. Otherwise, one of these days he might not just hurt himself. He might hurt someone else, and this whole town would suffer for it.”
An expression of despair creeps over her face, like she’s already pictured the situation a hundred times. “I know,” she whispers. “But Ma isn’t going to do anything. She can’t say a word without him flying off the handle.”
“You ever heard of an intervention? Maybe you and your brother and your ma could all talk to him at the same time.”
She shrugs, and I know the suggestion will go unused. She looks back up at me, pain in her eyes. “Want to help me forget about it for a few hours? I get off at ten.”
When I came back to town, I promised myself I wouldn’t be the guy with that reputation, the one who shits where he eats. I’ve done a pretty good job of staying true to that, and I’m not about to break the rule for Rachel Planter.
“Sorry, I’ve got plans.”
She finally starts ringing up my groceries when I hear voices from the checkout lane beside me.
“Yep, she moved in today. I saw her. I guess Holly Wix is plannin’ to use Rosemary’s place as a flophouse for all her fancy New York friends.”
Holly Wix, the hometown girl who made good, is the one who’s ultimately responsible for me getting all tangled up with Banner. If Holly hadn’t married a billionaire and his sister hadn’t stayed at her gran’s, I wouldn’t know Banner existed.
And I wouldn’t have left New York City with an empty flatbed and my pride shredded like the flag they just replaced outside the VFW.
“Who is it this time?” one woman asks.
“I’m not sure, but she was real pretty. Her hair was all different shades of blond. Must be some fancy new style. I wish I’d gotten a picture to show my niece. She’d know if it’s someone famous.”
No way in hell.