The First Law of Love

by Abbie Williams

  “I hate to say it, but you’re asking for it,” I teased him.

  “I know, I know, ‘I wish,’ right?” Marshall had grumbled, and that had been the end of that.

  And so it had been nearly seven years since I’d seen Case Spicer. And I was flattering myself to think that it mattered to him one way or the other, if at all, that I would be working in his hometown for the summer.

  Probably he’s married.

  He must feel more than a little ridiculous for all of the things he said at Camille’s wedding.

  Shit, maybe he was so drunk he doesn’t even remember.

  I ground out the last of my smoke and sighed, shaking my fingers through my tangled hair. I was exhausted but I knew myself well enough to realize sleep would continue to remain a stranger at present; I was too used to forcing myself to stay awake for studying. I recalled a poster in my one of my old law professor’s classrooms – Sleep is Overrated.

  Right, I thought, heading back inside. In my room I clicked on the bedside lamp, caught my long hair back into a clip and snatched the Capital Overland file from one of my travel bags on the floor. I had spent my last week at the apartment in Chicago poring over all the information I could gather about this company, and its parent affiliate, Yancy Corps.

  Capital Overland had been established in 1993, and had nicely capitalized on the dotcom boom in that decade. Yancy Corps had been around much longer, established in Chicago in 1893, one hundred years earlier. These days they specialized in real estate markets around the world, dabbled in stocks, and had apparently earned fortunes for their family over the past twelve decades.

  I had collected numerous data, on my own and in contact with Al Howe in Jalesville, relating to the current managers of Capital Overland, two brothers named Franklin and Derrick Yancy; the younger, Derrick, was in Montana as of this moment. Apparently he was the company front man in Jalesville, a dark-haired, smooth-browed looker perhaps thirty years old. I would have bet money his hands were equally as smooth, just like Robbie Benson’s; men who considered manual labor what happened when they went to the gym.

  I had no trouble imagining Derrick Yancy charming his way into potential sales; that look practically oozed from him. Charming on the surface anyway, sharp as the knife he’d no doubt plunge into your back, beneath. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about him that bothered me, but an odd coldness had settled in my gut the moment I’d seen his picture. It had yet to dissipate.

  As of today, Sunday the ninth of June, sixty-eight of the projected two hundred eleven potential sales had been made to Capital Overland. Al had provided me with a list of surnames of Capital Overland’s targets, three of which I recognized – Rawley, Turnbull (which would be Ron’s acreage), and Spicer. None of these families had yet agreed to the sale. According to Al, Capital Overland had offered fair market value for each of the properties they were vying for, hoping for fast sales, and there were enough people in the area struggling to make ends meet that they’d been willing to sell their land.

  “It’s like the town is crumbling apart,” Al had said during our brief phone conversation, earlier this week. I knew from Dad that he was fifty-seven, but he sounded older, and close to defeat. I had almost considered telling him I’d be there before my projected arrival date of July sixth. He added, “I’m so grateful that you’ll be another body out here to help me. I mean that, Patricia. I’m beside myself here.”

  And I’d promised him I would do whatever I could to help.

  Chapter Three

  Jalesville, MT - July 2013

  The drive southwest through Minnesota and North Dakota had been endless, but as of three in the afternoon I had cleared the Montana state line and felt a rush of adrenaline, reenergizing me. Aunt Jilly’s old Honda ran like a champ but didn’t have air-conditioning, or so much as a CD player. I’d made do with the radio and Mom’s dusty shoebox of old cassette tapes from the 1980s, which she had laughingly lent me for the drive.

  At the café this morning, I had held tightly to my sisters, Clint, my mother; Grandma and Aunt Ellen had each kissed my forehead. I promised that I would sneak back to Minnesota before I returned to Chicago this fall. I had directions to the Rawleys’ house for this evening; they were expecting me for dinner, and then Clark would show me to my apartment, which I had found on Google Earth before leaving Minnesota. It was just outside of Jalesville, perhaps five minutes from downtown, a newer apartment building called Stone Creek, constructed of beige stucco and appearing to sit smack in the center of a forest of Christmas trees. The view from my laptop had shown mountains in the distance, sending an unexpected and distinct thrill through me.

  Even now, having driven through Miles City under the late afternoon sun, I was unexpectedly moved by the scenery flashing by out the window. The foothills, that’s what Camille had called the rock formations in this area, towering and odd, gorgeous and mysterious, painted with infinite colors of brown. I marveled that I had ever found brown a plain color; the sunlight tinted it into shades as dazzling and varied as the nail polish selection at Lanny’s favorite salon. I giggled at myself for comparing one to the other.

  What I had a harder time acknowledging was the stirring in my soul. The scent in the air, the wildness of the landscape, the sense of something untamed in the air, beyond my control. I was a control freak, by nature, and found this sensation both exhilarating and startling. I didn’t so much welcome it as I did recognize it; I thought, The country here doesn’t care for you at all. It’s utterly impassive. Somehow I had never felt this way, even in Landon; there, the tall trees that ringed the lake and whispered in the wind offered a distinct sense of comfort. Here, there was none of that.

  I crossed over from Custer to Rosebud County in the early evening, pulling into a gas station to refuel and attempt to calm my fluttering nerves. I was really not much more than an acquaintance to the Rawleys, and had never been around them without the rest of my own family nearby. Would it be awkward as hell? What would we have to talk about? Was I too underdressed to greet them? Pumping gas, I tipped to examine my travel outfit – jean shorts, a faded black tank top, black flip-flops. Chipped orange toenail polish, zero make-up. My long hair in a sloppy ponytail.

  It’s all right, I reassured myself. You’re just fine. You’ve been on the road. They’re hardly judgmental. You may not look it right now, but you’re a graduate of Northwestern Law, soon to be employed in a top Chicago firm.

  Just as I formed a mental picture of the impressive main lobby at Turnbull and Hinckley, my eyes drifted up towards the Montana sky, stretching endlessly above the little gas station. I blinked, not quite able to reconcile the sight before my eyes with the one in my brain. The sky was laced with fair-weather clouds as the sun drifted slowly westward, warm with tones of both blue and honey-gold. I felt a breath of wind against my cheek, and the law firm in my mind dissipated.

  You’ll have the rest of your life to think about Turnbull and Hinckley, I reminded myself. For now I breathed deeply the scent in the air, something spicy, invigorating. I felt a rush of belonging, oddly, just before the gas pump clunked, signaling that my tank was full.

  No more than ten minutes later I braked on the interstate, seeing the sign for the Jalesville exit, three miles away. My heart took up a rapid thundering, increasing my blood pressure exponentially; I was used to this anxious rush – hadn’t I just spent the last three years in law school? Though this anxiety was tinged with excitement as I slowed the Honda on the exit ramp. Billy Idol was singing on the tape deck and I giggled then, taking the left turn on the road into town to the tune of “Rebel Yell.” Jalesville itself appeared on the horizon moments later as I descended a steep hill, the landscape on either side reminding me of old movies, the kind about wagon trains and outlaws.

  Jalesville, population 823, I read on the faded sign welcoming visitors, slowing to a crawl as my tires rolled over a pair of train tracks bisecting Main Street. I’d passed the campground that Mathias and Camille had told
me about, the one which had already sold out to Capital Overland – Tomlin was that family’s name; I had memorized all two hundred eleven names on my list, mentally dividing it into two separate categories: Sold and Unsold. My eyes roved curiously over the buildings; most were weathered-looking mom-and-pop shops, wood-construction with metal roofs, awnings jutting over the sidewalks. Hanging planters attached to the streetlights, dripping with candy-colored blossoms. A lone stoplight a few blocks down Main, just like Landon, a series of side streets webbing out from this central artery.

  I caught sight of the bar and grill where Mathias and Camille had first met the Rawleys back in 2006, a little place called The Spoke. It appeared busy this evening; I reflected that it was Saturday. In the dusk of approaching evening, Jalesville was quaint, charming. It felt sheltered by the line of low-lying mountains on the western horizon. The air near The Spoke drifted into my open windows and I caught the scent of grease; my stomach groaned in near-pain, as I had been too revved up to eat a thing all day.

  People were standing in the parking lot there, smoking and laughing; I almost pulled over and introduced myself to bum a smoke. There was some foot traffic on the sidewalks, a few curious looks directed my way, as surely people here knew one another’s cars and trucks without exception. The stoplight caught me, and I took the time to covertly study my surroundings. My heart jumped as I spotted a little building on the right side of the street, with wide glass windows announcing Howe & James, Attorneys-at-Law. The sign in the door was flipped to CLOSED, lights inside extinguished for the evening. It was all I could do not to pull over and press my nose to the glass.

  The light changed and the truck behind me gave a couple light beeps on the horn, so I waved apologetically out the window and then drove forward. I needed to catch Cartersville Road to take me out to the Rawleys’ place, and it took me two wrong turns before I was headed in the right direction. I cleared Jalesville, back into the gorgeous, wide-open foothill country, gazing out my car windows with a great deal of pleasure. The sun was just melting over the edge of the mountain range in the distance when I pulled cautiously into what I believed to be the right place, my heart all fluttery and my stomach twisting.

  Holy shit, what a beautiful spot for a home, was my first thought.

  Seconds after I put the Honda in park, nervously gripping the wheel with my left fist, the door of the main house banged open and I saw people in the rearview mirror. A lot of people, and dogs, coming towards my car. Laughter, chatter, exclamations of excitement. Almost before I could wrap my fingers around the door handle, I was surrounded.

  “There she is! Tish, welcome!” said Clark, closest to the driver’s side. He was grinning widely and opened the door for me; I was swept summarily into a warm embrace. He smelled strongly of peppermint and faintly of tobacco. He drew back to grin at me; he looked just as I remembered, sparse silver hair lifting from his head in the light breeze. His mustache still dominated his face, along with wire-rimmed glasses. His four youngest sons crowded behind him, Marshall, Sean, Quinn and Wy. I remembered the two weeks they’d spent with us in Landon, grilling out, swimming and drinking beer, and felt myself smile, my concern slowly evaporating.

  Truly, though, ‘boys’ wasn’t the proper word to describe them any longer, as only Wy was yet a teenager. The Peter Pan tribe had grown up and I was surrounded, almost overwhelmingly, by a rowdy group of handsome, twenty-something men. I thought of Grace and Ina, smiling to myself as I thought about what my former roommates would say at this fortune. Though it was apparent that a couple of them had girlfriends; either that or Clark had adopted two daughters.

  “Tish, you remember me, don’t you?” Wy asked, dancing from foot to foot with excitement. He was tall and gangly now, with the same shaggy, dark-brown hair and long noses shared by all the Rawley men. His attitude reminded me instantly of Clint.

  “Of course I do,” I said, curbing the odd, tender urge to ruffle his hair. He had only been six years old when his mother had been killed in a car wreck. “You’re just a little bit bigger now.”

  All the boys offered hugs; I was introduced to Sean and Quinn’s girlfriends (who did not hug me); they were surface-nice, though their eyes covertly roved over me as potential competition – unknown woman from a different state could be trouble. I understood this, and felt compelled to assure them that I had no designs on their men.

  “Garth and Becky couldn’t make it this evening, but they’ll be over this next Friday for supper, as will you, I hope,” Clark said as he led me inside.

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” I told him. Inside, the house was redolent with the scents of grilling meat and spice. There was a fire roaring away in a stone fire bowl on the back deck, I could see clearly out the glass patio doors. I felt my shoulders relax fractionally, swept into the warm sense of home that so clearly exuded from these people.

  “Come on out, honey, have a chair,” Clark told me. “What would you like to drink?”

  Probably I should have said water, but the air out here was intoxicating and as I sank onto a plushy patio chair near the crackly fire, I heard myself respond, “A gin and tonic would be great, if you have it.”

  “Coming right up,” Clark said.

  I was joined by the whole bunch and found myself truly enjoying their company as they questioned me about Landon, about Mathias and Camille, about Ruthie, and Clint, who they all remembered well. Clark and Quinn resumed grilling steaks on the charcoal grill, and there were appetizers spread across the outdoor table, chips and salsa, a platter of veggies with sour cream dip, but I was content to sip the icy, delicious gin and tonic, my perennial favorite.

  It went down a little too well and Wy was quick to refill me almost the second I downed the last swallow, catching an ice cube in my mouth, crunching it as I studied the mountains on the western horizon, which were backlit by a mellow honey glow and reminded me of a dinosaur lying on its side. I heard myself make this observation, along with a giggle, and then Marshall, who was on the glider nearest my chair, snorted a laugh and said, “Wy, I think you’re mixing Tish’s drinks a little strong, bro.”

  “I’m just making them how you guys like,” Wy defended, plopping down on my left. He had found a faded gray cowboy hat on the deck, which he settled over his shaggy hair and adjusted with his right hand. From beneath its too-big brim, he regarded me with a smile.

  “Shee-it,” Marshall said, drawing out the word, and then everyone was laughing, me included.

  “I’m not drunk,” I assured them. “Just…relaxed.”

  I was surprised to find that this was true. It could be the gin, the company, the scent in the air, the guitar music on the radio. I couldn’t define it exactly and decided not to try. I settled my shoulder blades more comfortably into the cushions behind me. Marshall was using his thumbs to drum along with the beat.

  “This is us,” he told me.

  “Hmmm?” I asked, not following.

  “One more?” Wy asked me, nodding at my empty glass.

  Shit, is that already gone?

  “Sure, thanks,” I smiled as charmingly as I could manage at Wy.

  “Me, Case and Garth,” Marshall explained. “We got in a few recording sessions at a studio in Billings two years ago, when we still played regularly.”

  “You guys don’t play anymore?” I asked, having to concentrate slightly more than normal on my words. I saw Marshall’s eyebrows lift in amusement.

  “Too busy, mostly,” Marshall replied. To Wy, who was approaching with a fresh drink in hand, he complained, “Where’s mine?”

  “I only wait on beautiful women,” Wy said, smooth as whipped cream, and I giggled as I accepted the glass, accidentally sloshing some onto my hand. It wasn’t until I realized I was licking the gin from my wrist that I understood I was pretty damn toasted.

  Sean’s girlfriend Jessie said to Wy, teasing him, “Hey, in that case, grab me a beer!”

  “Camille told me you guys are really good,” I said to Marsha
ll, who grinned at once.

  “We’ll play at the local fair next week,” he said. “And sometimes in the bars around here, just for fun. We all have day jobs now. Can’t be out on the town quite so much.”

  “Oh, whatever,” Sean contradicted his brother. “You’re out on the town as much as you ever were.”

  “No, sir,” Marshall disagreed, but there was a teasing gleam in his eye. The song switched from a fast-paced guitar to something sweeter and slower; though I was no musician, I recognized a fiddle.

  Indicating the music by lifting my glass into the air, I said honestly, “This is really beautiful. You guys play a lot of old-time music, my sister said.”

  “We do, but original stuff too,” Marshall told me. He seemed to be watching me carefully (but maybe I was imagining this), as he said, “Case writes most of our music. He wrote most of the CD that’s playing now.”

  I heard myself ask, “Is Case coming for supper?”

  Was I a little curious to see him?

  Maybe, I allowed.

  “Not tonight,” Wy informed me, returning with Jessie’s beer. “He’s over in Miles City tonight. But he said —”

  “Bud, go get me a drink,” Marshall interrupted his little brother.

  Wy responded, “No way.”

  “You want a beating?” Marshall teased. “Besides, Tish needs a new one now too.”

  Wy huffed a long-suffering sigh. I told him, “Maybe just a soda this time,” and he nodded, kicking at Marshall’s ankle as he walked past.

  “You’ll be working for Al, right?” Jessie asked me then.

  I nodded. “Yes, for the summer. I saw his office on the way here. I’m supposed to meet Al tomorrow.”

  “He’s a good guy,” she went on, sipping from her beer. “My grandpa just retired, but he worked with Al for years.” She clarified, “Grandpa is the ‘James’ of Howe and James. He was just saying at Sunday dinner last weekend that he’s so glad that someone is coming to help out Al. He said what we need around here is some young blood.”