Jack wondered what it was like to be able to say that. He didn’t have a person who knew him better than anyone else.
Ford pulled a fistful of envelopes from the pocket of his utility pants. “If you were someone else, I would have sued you. It’s obvious you either can’t buy me out or won’t. We had a contract and you broke it.”
He flipped the thick pile of envelopes across his palm and went on talking. “I won’t say I’m not pissed off.”
“I know.”
He held up a hand. This was his discussion. “Even if I’d found out about your kids—and, yeah, I’ve heard, Jack. Even if you’d come to me and said you were stuck, I still might’ve sued you.”
He made sure he had Jack’s attention and gave him a good long stare. Jack felt it, a hot wind through his gut.
“Now before you get to thinking you’re out of the woods, that I’m about to let you off the hook, you should know that I haven’t made up my mind yet.” He pulled an envelope from the stack in his hand and tossed it onto the counter. “That’s this one.”
Jack pulled the envelope toward him and opened the flap. He didn’t need to unfold it to see the Notice of Breach of Contract addressed to Mr. John James Thorson at the top.
“I’ve gone through lawsuits before and there ain’t nothing good about ’em. One long headache followed by lawyer’s fees and a whole lot of nothing in the end. That’s not the way I’d hoped to start my retirement.”
He shuffled his deck and threw down the next envelope.
“That brings us to door number two.”
Jack pulled it open and looked inside. Again, it didn’t take more than a glance. “I thought you said you’d never sell to Slush.”
Ford nodded. “I did say that. Only sometimes money speaks for itself.”
Knowing Ford must be talking price, Jack pulled the offer out and unfolded it. Slush’s offer was for a full fifteen percent higher than the number they’d settled on.
“There’s no way I can match this.”
Ford laughed from the bottom of his gut, like that was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard. “You can’t even match yer own offer, Jack.”
A decent man would have felt the shame in that truth. But there in his dingy kitchen, face-to-face with Ford, shame no longer registered. The curtain had been pulled, and they both knew it.
Jack nodded at the last envelope, the thinnest of the stack. “So, what’s behind door number three?”
Ford held on to it, refusing to relinquish an inch of control. “I’ll get there. But first, you owe me a few things.”
Again, the words should have hit him, but all Jack could do in his sorry state was surrender. He put up his hands.
“For starters,” Ford said, “I want a straight answer. Did you know you couldn’t afford to buy me out when you signed our contract?”
“Probably. Hoped not, though.”
The look on Ford’s face said the answer hadn’t surprised him. “So—just stupid, then. Not both stupid and a jackass.”
Jack nodded. “Just stupid.”
“Where were you gonna get the money? ’Specially given you never called the bank back about your loan.”
Any other town, Ford wouldn’t have known anything about Jack’s conversation—or lack of it—with the bank. But Tybee wasn’t one of those places. Just like Hartwell, news traveled. Even if Ford hadn’t made a personal introduction to National Union banker, Josiah Phelps.
Jack paused. It was no more than a second, but he was certain Ford could see that he was about to tell him something no one else knew—on Tybee or anywhere. “I’ve got land in Colorado. An inheritance. I was thinking about selling.”
“Same land your dad still farms?”
“Part of it. This parcel is mostly fallow. Dad can’t farm it without me, and I can’t bring myself to go back.”
“Trade the land for the sea, in other words?”
Right. In so many words.
They were both quiet for a minute, and Jack was thankful for the pause. In fact, Ford’s ability to honor silence was one of the things he’d always appreciated. “Without quiet,” Ford told him once, “a person is hard-pressed to get to the truth of a situation.”
“You know, Jack,” Ford started, “if everyone felt at home on the land they were born to, we’d never have explored anyplace other than our own backyards. I don’t need to tell you what that would have meant to the history of mankind, let alone your own life.”
He rapped his knuckles on the linoleum countertop, hitting the spot where someone’s long-ago misplaced hot pan left a bubbled scar. The sound echoed hollow rather than solid, and Jack couldn’t help feeling reminded, yet again, of how badly his life was falling short.
“Point is,” Ford went on, “some people are meant to stay put, and some people are meant to go. But running is different than going. When you’re running, you spend the whole time looking over your shoulder. To go forward, you gotta look forward.”
Jack shrugged. “Seems that’s how I got myself here to Tybee.”
Ford scowled. “Who’d you tell you were comin’ to Tybee all those years ago?”
“You. No one else needed to know.”
“No one else in the whole world needed to know where you were headed?” The tone made the insinuation obvious.
“I told my parents eventually. They know I’m here.”
Ford smirked. Meaning, exactly. “You’ll know you’re going forward when you have the courage to tell people where you’re headed.” He threw down the last envelope. “Which brings us to door number three.”
Jack reached for it, this time without a clue as to what he’d find inside.
“A decent guide knows the importance of a good map.” Ford watched him unfold a single sheet of paper. “You get yerself close and that’ll get you the rest of the way.”
Jack stared at the page, studying the contents without truly taking them in.
Ford let the silence speak for a minute more, then turned to go. “I trust all this’ll have you thinking. Just let me know what you decide by close of day tomorrow.”
“All right.” Reeling, Jack refolded the page. “I can do that.”
Ford was at the door and nearly gone before Jack found the words he needed. “They’re mine. I don’t have proof yet, but I know.”
Ford turned to face him again and smiled wryly. “Seems pretty hard to deny, seeing the gap in that kid’s teeth. Braces and all.”
Jack laughed without even thinking, the release feeling as good as sudden rain on a hot day. “And her. It’s not as obvious, but it’s there. Neither one of us can wear flip-flops. It’s our toes. It’s—well...”
“I get the idea, yeah.”
“And not just one, but two. Twins. Nearly ready to leave for college, and I didn’t even know they existed.” And again, he could see from Ford’s face he knew he was about to tell him something he hadn’t ever admitted to anyone else. “I don’t know if I should be pissed off or happy or—I mean, I didn’t even know.”
“But there’s a part of you that thinks their mom might have been right to leave you out of it,” he said, reading Jack’s mind.
“I was a mess.”
“Sure.”
“But not gone. I mean, I could’ve gotten it together.”
“You could’ve.”
“I should be mad. I mean, I should be, right?”
“But what’s the point?”
Jack nodded. That was it exactly. What was the point.
“You know,” Ford said after a pause, “if having two decent parents were everything, I would’ve stayed married for more than three miserable years. Unlike you, I did like my old man. My mom’s still alive—eighty-seven next month—and we wish she had thirty more years in her. Even so. I was a crap husband and my ex-wife was a quick study. First thi
ng she says to me whenever we bump into each other nowadays is Thank god I left you.”
He laughed, and Jack did, too.
“Like I said, Jack. It’s hard to move forward when your eyes are on yer six.” He pulled open the screen door and stepped onto the dark porch. “Don’t forget. Close of day tomorrow. Let me know.”
Thirty-Three
Savannah
Thomas had called it a “game.” As if getting attacked on television, on social media, in her own house was fun. As if the past week hadn’t been one long nightmare.
For her. Savannah.
Not Thomas.
Not Maggie.
Not Sam Tamblin. Or Saj. Or Guava Media.
Not even for their father.
For her.
The person who hadn’t even wanted to do this in the first place.
“Savannah?” Nadine knocked on her bedroom door. “I’m out here if you need anything.”
Her gut boiled with rage at the intrusion, and Savannah yanked the door open. “Why do you have to be so nice?”
Nadine’s face crumpled. “What?”
Savannah felt a nudge in her gut, knowing she’d hurt Nadine’s feelings. Even so, she couldn’t help going on. “You’re too nice.”
The word came out as the accusation she intended it to be.
“But I’m—”
“You’re always following me around. Like a puppy or something. Or a lost duckling looking for her mama.” Her every instinct told her to slam the door, to stop the argument before she went too far. She didn’t. She wanted the fight.
“I’m just trying to help. To be a good friend.” Nadine’s voice quivered, but she didn’t retreat.
Savannah stared, doing her best to make Nadine see just how much she hated every bit of her. Every perfect blond hair, every precious freckle, every smile and laugh and nicety.
“I have my own friends, Nadine. Sorry to break your ’ittle wittle heart, but I don’t need you.” She watched for the tears to begin rolling down Nadine’s pretty cheeks, waited for her to accuse Savannah of being mean, to run downstairs and report every awfulness to Chef Bart and Maggie and Thomas. Savannah would sit in her room, hating herself and licking the wounds until Maggie came up to confirm what a hateful person she was.
But Nadine didn’t move. “I don’t blame you for being mad.”
“Yeah, well—” Savannah started to explain exactly where to shove her opinions when she realized—“What did you say?”
“I mean, I understand why you’re mad. You should be. At Eaton, of course. But even more at Thomas. Especially him.” Nadine was barely whispering, her voice unsteady, but she’d managed to say the exact words Savannah needed to hear. “He should have told you.”
Savannah’s knees went soft, like the floor was opening beneath her, and she grabbed the doorjamb. “Thanks,” she said. It felt as if her breath had run away.
“I know Maggie can’t pick sides. She’s in a terrible position. But the way I see it, he kept you in the dark, and then let you take the fall. How is that fair?”
“Exactly!” The word felt like it might choke her trying to get out.
Nadine smiled sympathetically. “And now everyone is scared, and that just makes everything worse.”
“Yeah.” Savannah reached out a hand and Nadine grabbed it, pulling her into a hug. The gesture was enough to make Savannah lose it, fat sobs racking her all the way down, reducing her to a quaking mess. And still, Nadine stayed put.
They stayed that way for several minutes, Savannah sobbing and Nadine not letting go. Finally, Savannah pulled free and walked over to her desk to grab a box of tissues. She plucked out the first bunch and handed them to Nadine. “Sorry. I goobered on your shirt.”
“That’s okay.” She took the tissues and looked briefly at the mess but wiped her face. She’d been crying, too.
“Holy cow.” Savannah laughed through her tears. “You’re so nice you don’t even care I just snotted all over your shoulder.”
“It’s washable.” Nadine shrugged and the look on her face said Savannah must be crazy for making a big deal out of something so small.
Then Nadine started chuckling, and they just stood there, laughing, trying to talk, sniffling through every word.
“Trigg would totally be freaking out if I did that to her. Oh my gawd,” Savannah mimicked. “You are sooo disgusting!”
Nadine snorted and tried to cover her nose, but she was too slow. A long stream of snot came sailing out, catching the light, and landing with a splat on Savannah’s foot. They looked at each other in shock for one second, then screamed with laughter and tumbled to the floor, no longer able to even hold themselves upright.
“I can’t believe you just snotted all over my foot!”
“I can’t believe you snotted all over my shirt!”
Savannah was rolling on the rug now, clutching her stomach.
“I can’t believe I accused you of being too nice!”
“I know! What’s wrong with being nice?”
Savannah’s stomach began to cramp she was laughing so hard, a stitch all the way up her right side. If only she could catch her breath. Except, then the moment would be over, and that would be awful.
She gulped at the air, almost gaining control when she caught a glimpse of Nadine rolling on the floor beside her and lost it all over again.
“Did you know I’m a Twitter hashtag?”
“Don’t forget Instagram!”
“Oh, that’s right! People hate me there, too.”
“You’re such a social media whore!”
“Hey, you’re just jealous!”
“Totally jealous! I mean, who doesn’t wish they had such a jerk for a brother?”
“Well, you can’t get a brother now because your mom is dead!”
“Yours, too!”
They stopped, a moment of morbid realization passing between them. Then, even the subject of dead mothers wasn’t too awful, and they laughed and cried and let it all go. The release was the best thing Savannah had ever felt.
* * *
Later, when they’d both finally laughed themselves out, they heard Nadine’s dad call upstairs that it was time to go home. She stood up to leave.
“Thanks, Nadine,” Savannah said. “You’re a good friend.”
She smiled. “Of course.” She grabbed one more tissue from the box and swiped at the dried snot on her shoulder.
Savannah groaned. “Sorry again.”
“Seriously. Don’t worry about it. One wash and it’ll be gone.” She tossed the tissue into the garbage can. “Our little outburst reminded me of something, though. Have you been following Sam Tamblin’s Twitter feed?”
The mere mention of Twitter turned Savannah’s stomach and it must have shown on her face. Nadine waved her question away. “Sorry, of course not. Twitter’s a hellscape and the less time you spend there the better. It’s just—” She paused. “It could be nothing.”
Chef Bart called up the stairs again.
Nadine ran to the door and answered, “Coming!” She turned quickly to Savannah and said, “Never mind. Ignore what I just said. I’m probably just imagining things.”
“All right.”
When she was gone, Savannah wiped her face on her shirt. It was amazing what a change an hour could bring.
She felt a happy surge of energy and got an idea. She stood up, walked to her desk and rolled a piece of paper into her typewriter.
Renata Covington
Showrunner, Son Showers
American Broadcasting Company
Dear Ms. Covington,
As you may know, I am an aspiring screenwriter and a fan of your show, Son Showers. I also know you have begun to make a name for yourself as a producer, so I thought you might be interested in a concept I have for a new series.
Imagine this:
A famous conspiracy theorist and blogger is forced to reconcile with her awful past when she loses all but one of her fingers in a freak lawn mower accident.
Savannah tore the paper from the typewriter and crumpled it. Then she rolled in another piece and started again.
Renata Covington
Showrunner, Son Showers
American Broadcasting Company
Dear Ms. Covington,
My name is Savannah McClair and I would like an internship on your show, Son Showers.
You may recall that I’ve written to you before. I am seventeen years old and am entering my senior year of high school. Like you, I grew up in Minneapolis and I want to make a career for myself in film and television. My twin brother and I lost our mother when we were thirteen and your show explores parental loss better than anything I’ve ever seen.
On my enclosed résumé, you’ll note that my brother and I have a podcast titled “The Kids Are Gonna Ask” in which we search for our biological father. It’s proven to be an unexpected hit, and, in the process, we’ve learned more than I can articulate here.
I did learn this, however: we would not have gotten anywhere in our search if we wouldn’t have asked the right questions.
That is the purpose of this letter. I want to work for you and will do what it takes to make that happen. I have already begun applying to several Southern California schools and hope to be there by next fall.
In the meantime, I will send a copy of this letter and my résumé to Fox Studios, ABC, and your production company.
I can be reached at the contact information provided.
Respectfully,
Savannah McClair
Cocreator and Writer, “The Kids Are Gonna Ask”
When she was finished, Savannah tore this sheet of paper from the typewriter, too. But she didn’t crumple it. Instead, she pulled an envelope from her drawer, addressed it to California, and set the two pieces aside with a smile.
Then, she pulled even more paper from her drawer. She was on a roll, and it felt terrific. Her fingers flew across the keys as she typed, “The Kids Are Gonna Ask: The Final Episode.”
The Kids Are Gonna Ask Page 21