Dreamspinner Press Year Seven Greatest Hits

by K. C. Wells

  A girl in a familiar red half apron approached when I walked in, wearing a big grin and a button that said Got Pork? “Welcome to the Sow’s Ear,” she said in a sing-song voice. “How many for dinner?”

  “I’m meeting someone.” A quick glance at the dining room behind her showed tables full of families and couples. “I don’t think he’s here yet. I’m a bit early.”

  “Well, I’ll get you settled, then. Who’re you meeting?”

  “Jeremy Collins.”

  The hostess’s eyebrows rose a little. It wasn’t a big reaction, but I noticed. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. This way.”

  She led me to a booth near the back of the porch dining area, close enough to the fireplace that I could take off my coat and be comfortable. I surveyed the dining room and its patrons as I walked, eyes open for a familiar and unwanted face. Maybe it was paranoid to think Martin would follow me all the way to Franklin, but he was certainly capable. And as I slid into the side against the wall—old habits—the hostess handed me a menu, smiled again, then wandered off.

  I studied the rough-hewn table, worn smooth over the years, and the faded red vinyl booths. A rack on one end of the table held six different house-made barbecue sauces, as well as regular condiments like salt, pepper, and mustard. I grabbed the squeeze bottle of tangy white barbecue sauce, squeezed a dollop on my finger, and licked it. The familiar flavors burst on my tongue and awakened my senses—just like I remembered.

  “Evening, darlin’, my name’s Bethann,” my waitress said as she sidled up to the table. She plunked down a basket of roasted, unshelled peanuts. “Can I get you started on a drink?”

  “Sweet tea,” I said.

  “Any appetizers?”

  “Not yet, I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Good enough, I’ll get your tea.”

  I watched her walk away, unable to place the short blond hair and plump figure. She seemed familiar, but I hadn’t been friends with any Bethanns.

  She came back with the tea. I shelled a few peanuts. The minute hand inched past the twelve on a pig-shaped clock near the front door. I hadn’t been waiting long, but punctuality was a huge thing for me, and now Jeremy was late. Sipping my tea and eating peanuts became ways to measure the passage of time, and it was halfway gone when the minute hand touched the two. The hostess kept tossing me curious looks and at some point whispered to Bethann.

  Jeremy breezed into the restaurant at quarter after—right about the time I was going to just order something for takeout. He greeted the hostess with a bright, dimpled smile, waved at a waitress across the room, and then spotted me. I worked to keep a neutral expression as he slid into the booth across from me.

  “Hey, Cole, sorry I’m late,” he said. His cheeks were rosy with the cold, his voice slightly breathless. Like he’d jogged to get here faster.

  “It happens.”

  Bethann appeared and gave Jeremy a saucy grin. “Usual?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ll just have a sweet tea tonight, hon. And a basket of clam strips to start. Cole?”

  “Huh?” I blinked, stuck on what his usual probably was. And realized I should have looked at the menu. “Sorry, do you still have the Cajun shrimp skewers?”

  “Sure do,” Bethann said.

  “Great, those too.”

  “Okay, I’ll put those in and be back in a bit.”

  “How’d the rest of the day go?” Jeremy asked.

  “Slowly, but I got some work done outside,” I replied. “I’ve got to get inside tomorrow, or I’ll never finish.”

  “Before you have to leave?”

  Perceptive. Only he probably assumed I had a life to get back to once this little detour was finished—maybe a wife and two-point-five kids tucked away in a little house somewhere. “Yeah.”

  “How long are you here?”

  “We’ll see.”

  After Bethann returned with his tea, Jeremy pulled a sheet of notebook paper out of his jeans pocket and unfolded it. He smoothed it out against the table, that playful smile tweaking his lips. “So I made a bunch of calls today, and I’ve got buyers lined up for bicycle, motorcycle, and car parts, as well as advertising pieces. I also got some leads for a few other folks, depending on what we find on the property.”

  “Really?” He said he’d make calls, but I hadn’t put a lot of faith in him getting buyers this quickly.

  “Yes, really. Most of them trust me enough to buy on photos and descriptions, so it becomes a matter of shipping or pickup. Some are collectors, so I can get a little more money from them, but the ones who buy and sell like me will offer a good chunk less.”

  “How much less?”

  “Usually half of what it’s worth, sometimes less, because they need to make a profit on it too. Folks who are adding to personal collections tend to care less about the cost, as long as you aren’t trying to gouge them.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Something else to think about, for the good pieces I can’t get immediate buyers for, is holding an auction. You advertise it for a couple of counties, and you get a big turnout. Usually those folks are a mix of collectors and sellers. You’d end up paying the auctioneer, though, especially if you hire a professional.”

  Dad used to take me to county auctions when I was small. I remembered feeling so tiny in a sea of grown men, many of them smoking cigarettes or pipes, and lots of shouting. The auctioneer sounded like an alien, talking the way he did. Dad always got mad when he couldn’t come home with something.

  “If you decide to do the auction,” Jeremy continued, “it could negate the need of a yard sale. You can just sell it all at auction. The cheaper stuff is often sold as boxed lots. It doesn’t always bring much, but it’s a fast way to move the merchandise. Professional flea market sellers and thrift store owners often gravitate to boxed lots.”

  Merchandise. It was a funny word for a house full of trash that I would have bulldozed to the ground if I didn’t need the money a sale would generate.

  “Unsoiled clothes can be donated for a tax write-off.”

  Any sort of tax write-off would be useful, even though I doubted many of the clothes in the house would be considered unsoiled. I sipped at my tea, listening.

  “And extra food can be donated to food banks—”

  I inhaled too sharply and caught tea in my lungs. It burned, and it took several minutes of coughing and sipping from hastily delivered ice water to get control of myself. I blotted my watering eyes with a napkin, cheeks hot, having just embarrassed the hell out of myself.

  Jeremy leaned across the table, frowning. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” Except for the shame and the awful, hoarse sound of my voice.

  “Not a fan of food banks?”

  I snorted. “No, just shocked you thought we’d find any salvageable food in that house.”

  “Ah. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re listing my options.”

  “I’ll try not to offer any more that might induce asphyxiation.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Lucky for you that was the end of the list.”

  “Oh. So how did you see this commission thing working?”

  Jeremy folded the paper in half, probably cutting off the first list, then turned it around and slid it across the table. I glanced at the paper, but his handwriting was awful. He seemed to realize this and used his butter knife to touch each point as he spoke.

  “My top thing is I’d like first pick of everything there for my personal collection,” he said. “I don’t buy much for me, but I’ll offer you a fair price for it.”

  “Dealer price or collector price?”

  He smiled. “Somewhere closer to collector price.”

  Considering the physical labor he’d be putting into this project, that didn’t seem like a terrible compromise. “Okay, done.”

  “Anything that I sell for you directly, whether it’s from my store or to my contacts, dealers or collectors, I
ask for 30 percent.”

  “Only thirty?” Somehow I’d expected him to want closer to 40 or 50 percent, especially when he was doing most of the work.

  “Seller’s premiums at auction can be anywhere from 15 to 40 percent, depending on what their buyer’s premium is or isn’t. Sometimes they use a sliding scale based on the cost of the sale. I picked a number that was fair for the work, and to keep the math simpler.”

  “Okay, that sounds good.”

  Our appetizers appeared before the discussion could continue, so we took a few minutes to enjoy them while they were hot. The Cajun shrimp skewers were something I’d dreamed about during my years away and were exactly what they sounded like—three skewers of three jumbo shrimp, sprinkled in Cajun seasoning and grilled over an open fire. They were hot and tasted like spice and char and woodsy smoke. It was the kind of indulgent, flavorful food that Martin didn’t allow me to eat very often. He used to say fancy food should be a rare treat.

  I could see now he disallowed it as a punishment and a means to control me—two years (and three therapists) away from Martin had given me some pretty good insight (and hindsight) on our relationship.

  I ate the first skewer of shrimp quickly to put that wonderful flavor back on my tongue and remember the texture of shrimp again, its wonderful, chewy bite and creamy texture, cooked just right on the grill. Then I took my time with the others, using the two dipping sauces—a homemade cocktail sauce and a creamy cucumber/tartar sauce—to my advantage in cutting the building heat. They went down well, and I started on my second glass of tea.

  Jeremy munched on his clam strips, dipping them in catsup rather than his two identical sauces. I found myself watching his careful method of dipping each strip exactly halfway into the puddle of catsup, swirling it to get a thick coating, then popping it into his mouth. He actually chewed about twenty times for each piece. It created a much slower pace of eating, and at one point he caught me staring. I looked away and shoved the tea straw into my mouth.

  Bethann saved me by coming over for our dinner orders. Neither of us had even looked at the menu.

  “Is catfish still the Wednesday night special?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yep, pan-fried with potato salad and cornbread.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll have that.”

  “Me too,” I said. I loved good catfish, and the Sow’s Ear did it right. No one in Michigan could even find a good catfish, much less cook one.

  “Good choice. Be up soon,” Bethann said.

  I let Jeremy finish his methodical consumption of the clam strips before tapping my finger against his list. “What about the things you help me unearth, but you don’t sell directly?” I asked. “How do I pay you for that labor?”

  “Depends a bit. I do recommend an auction for expediency, which I’d volunteer to help organize. For that, I would ask for 15 percent of whatever you make from those sales.”

  “Fifteen of what I get after other expenses are taken out, such as the auctioneer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t fifteen off the top a better deal for you?”

  “Sure, but not for you. I’m not trying to gouge you, remember?”

  “No, I know.” His smile was gone, and I felt like I’d insulted him somehow. “Thank you for being so honest with me and for explaining everything. I’m not a business person, and this is all pretty overwhelming.”

  “You’re welcome. You know, you’re giving me a chance to dig around in a lot of history and see some pretty cool stuff. I almost feel bad taking your money to do it.”

  I laughed. “If you feel bad—”

  “Not that bad.” His smile returned, along with the dimples, and relief settled warmly in my stomach.

  “Well, an auction sounds like a better idea than a yard sale. I’d much rather get it all sold at once than have to deal with it over too many weeks.” I wasn’t living in that house, and I had no desire to waste all my money on the Traveler’s Inn.

  “I don’t blame you. Since it will probably be an on-site auction, you can rent a dumpster for anything that doesn’t sell and is left behind.”

  My chest tightened. “On-site?”

  “Yeah, unless you want to haul everything to an auction house somewhere on your own dime.”

  As much as I abhorred the idea of dozens of strangers on my property, looking at what my parents’ lives had become, I despised even more the idea of hauling it away on my own. I could deal with the embarrassment if it saved me time and trouble in the long run. The easier and faster this happened, the sooner I could get the hell away from this town and the whispers and finally start my life over again.

  “No, you’re right,” I said. “On-site is a better idea.”

  “Great. Now they aren’t forecasting any rain this week, but I’ll bring some tents over tomorrow. We can set them up in the yard for storage and to keep auction items separate from direct sales items.”

  “However you want to do it.” At this point, I almost trusted him to do this on his own. Almost.

  He smiled again, then reached into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Oh, I almost forgot. This is yours.”

  I took it, then examined the three twenty-dollar bills. “For what?”

  “Sold that bicycle frame to a pal of mine.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone in town?”

  “No, I texted him a photo of it, he agreed on the price, and sent me the money over the Internet.”

  “Oh.” I’d heard of people doing that but hadn’t ever done it myself. The computer I’d used during college had been destroyed during one of Martin’s rages, and I’d never replaced it. I tucked the money into my back pocket, grateful to have something extra to cover dinner. “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how much I sold the bike for?”

  I did the math quickly in my head. “Somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty-five dollars, I’m guessing?”

  “Nice.”

  “I was always pretty good with fractions and percentages.”

  “And you said you weren’t a business person.”

  We shared another smile, and then our food arrived. I was too overwhelmed by my descent into the plate of comfort food to pay attention to his methodical consumption. The fish was flaky and perfectly spiced, and the potato salad the right mix of tender and crisp. The cornbread had an amazing crust on top and was moist inside, with just the right balance of sweetness and nut. It was heaven on a plate, and I surprised myself by eating every last morsel.

  Jeremy was still working his way through the last few bites of his meal when Bethann came around to ask about dessert. Neither of us had room for more food. Since I had the extra cash in my pocket, I ordered four pieces of cornbread to go, so I’d have something for breakfast. She jotted that down, and by the time she returned with our bill and the cornbread packed in a Styrofoam carton, Jeremy finished his food and put down his fork.

  He waved my hand away when I tried to take the check. “Forget it. I can write this whole thing off as a business expense, now that we’re in business.”

  My cheeks warmed, and I gave him a hard stare, leery of his paying for dinner even if he had a good excuse. “At least let me pay for the extra cornbread.”

  “You can leave the tip.” He told me what it should be, then slapped his credit card down on the bill and pushed it to the edge of the table. Bethann swooped by and snagged it a few seconds later.

  I managed to scrounge the tip out of my wallet and tucked it near my dinner plate. Jeremy took the time to suck down the last of his iced tea in between signing the receipt and leaving that and the pen for Bethann. Bethann, who still looked so crazy-familiar, but who I was certain I didn’t know.

  We left together, and it earned me another funny look from the hostess. Or maybe it was directed at Jeremy; it was difficult to tell. He was obviously a regular at the Sow’s Ear, and he knew several of the women employees, which didn’t surprise me. He possessed a s
elf-assurance that complemented his unconventional attractiveness, and this was a pretty small town. The dating scene had to get a little congested.

  “So I will see you tomorrow, yeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there around seven, but you don’t—”

  “Seven it is. I’ll bring coffee. How do you take it?”

  Since he’d probably say he could write that off too, I didn’t bother arguing. The positive attention, business motivated though it was, felt nice. “Black with lots of sugar.”

  “Can do. See you tomorrow, Cole.”

  “See you.”

  We walked in opposite directions. At the motel, I skinned down to just my boxers, brushed my teeth, and then fell into bed. I got back up to double-check the locks, which were fine. Television sucked, as expected, but I found myself nodding off by eight thirty. My thoughts occasionally drifted to Jeremy’s dimples, but they stopped there.

  Business partner. Period.

  Even if he was a cute business partner.

  Around nine I finally gave in to my fatigue, checked the locks a third time, turned everything off, and went to sleep, dreading the tasks waiting for me tomorrow.

  And for a lot of tomorrows after that.

  Chapter Three

  MY MIND woke me long before my aching body wanted to get out of bed, and I fought a losing battle against my bladder. It was just after 5:00 a.m., still dark, and too early to even consider getting up, and yet I did just that. I stumbled through the shadows to the bathroom, blinded myself with the florescent lights, then pissed with my eyes mostly shut against the glare.

  There was nothing quite as annoying as bright lights after being in the dark for hours—a flashlight had been one of Martin’s favorite ways to wake me up if I accidentally fell asleep before he got home.

  Once my vision adjusted, I studied the thin layer of whiskers on my chin and throat. In the two years since I left Martin for good, I’d reduced my shaving habits to every couple of days, when the whiskers started to annoy me. Martin had insisted I keep myself clean-shaven at all times—and not just my face. Nature and time had retaken control from Martin in a handful of physical things.