What choice did Charlie have? “Of course.”
“Excellent. I have a good feeling about this. I think your work, and your presence—after all the trials and tribulations you’ve gone through, will be … nothing short of providential. Very well, Mr. Sherman—Charles. Do you have any questions?”
The questions Charlie had were ones he couldn’t ask: Will I have to testify under oath? And what is the penalty for perjury? “No.”
“So you’ll be there with those records.”
“If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Charlie hung up, hoping that God had other plans for him and already knowing that a hundred-year flood was on the way.
* * *
Wednesday, Charlie taped a radio interview at the local NPR affiliate to be aired on All Things Considered. As he left the radio station, a GBI agent with a search warrant accosted him. “Why do you all have to be such stalkers?” Charlie asked.
The lawman didn’t answer his question. Instead, he took the writer to the State Crime Lab to get his fingerprints and a blood sample. Though no explanations were given, Charlie figured it had something to do with the large amount of blood recovered from the Store-All. (Well, that and mouthing off to reporters about the governor.)
This time, at least, Charlie got a ride back to his car. When he returned to Castlegate, he found a cream-colored envelope in his mailbox from Cantrell, Bachman, and Gaithers, the silkiest of silk-stocking law firms (John Cantrell was a former governor). In the letter, attorney Ken Mason demanded that Charlie “cease and desist making false statements about the recent land sale by Isaac Cutchins, or legal action will be taken against you on behalf of our client, Southland Associates.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Charlie said as he read. Fair enough. He was in a cease-and-desist mood, having said too much already.
* * *
For a writer who had tried for six years to get an agent, it was strange to be hounded by one. But it was all good. “Great news!” Barbara Asher exclaimed over the phone Thursday afternoon. “I have a preempt offer. Spence Greene, the head man at Brubaker Publishing, heard you on NPR yesterday and called me with a deal just as I was setting up the auction. They’d already been talking about it, but he is terribly impressed with you—did you quote Orwell?”
“Yes. I said, ‘Being shot is interesting.’ From Homage to Catalonia.”
“Smart move. Plus he saw the Times review of your other book. Perfect storm!” she belted out the last two words like Ethel Merman.
Charlie shifted his phone to his left ear, since she’d just scorched his right one. “What’s the deal?”
“Two million! Your wildest dream has just come true!”
Not quite. His wildest dream would be this, plus Jean and Dana, along with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Nevertheless, it was a struggle to recover from the shock of suddenly becoming a millionaire-to-be.
“Not too shabby, eh, Charles? … Charles … Charles!”
“Two million?”
“With all that money on the line, they want to publish quickly. You should go with this.”
“Let’s sign the papers before they change their mind.”
“Charles, you’re my kind of guy. I’m on it. I’ve put everything else aside to work for you. Britney Spears’ makeup artist wants to do a tell-all. We need a ghost writer. You interested?”
“I’m close enough to being a ghost already. Her makeup artist?”
“They know everything. Absolutely everything. It’s scary.”
Charlie hung up and danced around the loft to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck. He jumped up and pumped his fist in the air, shouting, “I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich!”
It was hard to believe that a month ago, he’d been living in a van.
* * *
Friday morning, Charlie checked the Forsyth Sentinel website and found an interesting item: State Rep. Stanley Cutchins announced he was tithing a million dollars, to be divided among “all the Christian churches” of Forsyth County. Either the varmints wanted to buy their way to heaven, or Uncle Stanley had just launched the most expensive General Assembly campaign in state history.
On the same page, he saw an article headlined “Local Historians Denounce Forsyth Work.” In it, Cecil Montgomery ridiculed Flight from Forsyth’s “many inaccuracies, factual errors, and glaring omissions. For example, everyone knows Sodder Creek runs west-east.” Charlie would have laughed off the criticism if Montgomery hadn’t also challenged the footnotes: “I’d like to see some of those land documents allegedly in the author’s possession.”
“I’ll bet you would,” Charlie muttered at the computer screen. “And so would I.”
However, now Charlie wondered if Montgomery hadn’t already seen them. When he’d first found out about John Riggins, Charlie thought Uncle Stanley was behind the burglary at Kathleen’s house a year before. Later, he realized Montgomerys and Logans would have had just as much motivation, since their ancestor had stolen a farm, too. Hmm. Cutchins and Montgomery had so much in common. Both were descended from lynchers. Both had profited from land thefts. Both had secrets to keep.
Charlie decided he should make the Logan and Montgomery clans’ lives more interesting, as well. He owed them that.
* * *
Groundhog Day: Wearing a new coat and tie, Charlie arrived at Buckhead Booksellers five minutes before the hastily arranged Saturday night signing was set to begin—the first of what he hoped would be many. Inside, a line of people holding copies of Flight from Forsyth stretched from a square black table to the coffee shop, then disappeared into the travel section. Charlie took a deep breath and sauntered over to the author’s chair.
A young Goth bookseller named Esmerelda briefed him. “We sold out of your book, but we received a rush shipment this morning. There’s a stack of books behind the register for people who can’t be here, so if you read the slips and sign them, that would be cool.”
“Fine.” Charlie gave the crowd—a roughly equal mix of black and white—a quick once-over. “Do you have security here?”
“No. Should we?”
“My publicist was supposed to request it.” He shook his head. “Too late to worry now. All right. Let’s do this. I’ll sign as many as I can before they get me.”
“Interesting tattoo.” She reached to touch his face. He pulled away.
“It’s not a tattoo.” The scab from the gunshot wound had fallen off to reveal a bright pink rose-shaped scar on his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably have space issues after all you’ve been through.”
Space issues. What a concept.
Charlie pulled out his trusty Waterman pen, laid it down, and rubbed his hands together. He threw out his fingers and stretched them like he was preparing to play piano, then popped his knuckles.
He signed books carefully and quickly. People congratulated him. Consoled him. Thanked him. Told him he was brave. Esmerelda stood beside him, holding books open and cutting conversations short, semi-politely encouraging people to move along once they had Charlie’s autograph. A woman pushed her book toward Charlie on the table, said her name, then added in a whisper, “I’m from Forsyth County. I knew those men who tried to kill you. They got what was coming to them.” Charlie kept his mouth shut as he wrote. She gave him an embarrassed smile and left. After he’d signed a book to Beverly Tucker, Charlie felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Hey, Daddy.”
Charlie jumped up and cried out, “Benny boy!” He picked up his son and hugged him fiercely. “I miss you, guy. Incredibly much. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you. What are you doing here?”
“Mommy brought us. I heard your voice.”
“Did she tell you I was here?”
Ben shook his head and stared at him intently. “I heard you got shot,” the boy said, overemphasizing the last word.
“Did Mommy tell you that?”
“No, Tyler told me at school. Mom said you were OK.”
“I am. It’s not a big deal.” He waved his hand to brush off the injury and sat down, then realized this was a teachable moment of sorts. “I was lucky. Usually, guns kill. So stay away from them.”
“You’ve got a scar.” Ben looked at the line. “Are all these people here to see you?”
“Yes. They’re buying my book.” Charlie showed a copy to his son.
Ben countered with his own book. “Can I get this? Will you read it to me?” He held up Lemony Snicket’s The Bad Beginning. A bit of a reach for a kindergartner, but Charlie had to admire the boy’s ambition.
“Sure, I’d love to, but—”
Ben was already climbing up onto his lap. Charlie grinned at an older black woman. “What can I do?” To Ben, he said, “Stay with me, but I’ll have to read it later.”
Beck appeared, holding a copy of Stellaluna and rushed to hug him. “You got shot,” she said.
“No big deal.”
“Is too. You’re famous now,” she said, looking over the line of autograph-seekers. “We’re kind of famous, too. You can sign my book.”
Charlie wrote “To My Special Princess—Love, Daddy.”
Ben got similar treatment: “To My Favorite Guy.”
While Ben sat on his lap, Beck stood by her father’s left shoulder and read aloud softly. Susan stepped into view around the corner of a bookcase with her copy of Flight. Charlie squinted at her, a bemused smile on his lips. She gave him her semi-pissed look, as if he had, for the thousandth time, made her late. In a dark blue dress and a trench coat, her long blonde hair falling in curls to her shoulders, she looked better than ever. The sharp features of the bank teller he’d met in Macon had softened with age. He beckoned her; she ignored him. God, what a contrary woman.
Beck and Ben returned to the children’s section. Charlie grew chattier and more charming with customers as Susan drew nearer. When she stood before him, holding her book and looking grim, Charlie gave her an easy smile and drawled, “Hey, stranger.”
“How many books have you sold today?” Susan asked, sounding like she expected a cut of the take.
Charlie glanced at Esmerelda, who said, “More than a hundred. I’m counting the stack behind the registers.”
“That’s some stack,” Charlie replied.
Susan shoved her book at him. “Sign this please, Mr. Sherman.”
Her tone was not especially friendly, and Charlie could tell she was nervous. Clearly, she did not like playing the role of supplicant. “Why of course, Mrs. Sherman.”
“Oh, are you two married?”
“Kind of,” Charlie said.
“I’m working on it,” Susan countered.
“Whatever that means,” Charlie said. “Look, you didn’t have to do this. I would have given you one, if only you’d asked.”
“You’ve been so busy,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“Yes, getting shot by people who were paid by those who shall remain nameless.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she snapped. “Never mind. Just sign the damn book.”
Esmeralda backed away from the bad vibe disturbing the air around the signing table. Charlie stared at the title page. With a dozen people still in line, there wasn’t time to talk to her much longer, nor did it promise to be a pleasant conversation if he did. He had to write something. The Waterman flew over the page, and he signed his name with a flourish.
Susan read, “Thanks for making this possible. Love, Charlie.” She stared at the page. “Love?”
“Somewhere,” he said sadly. “Maybe not with me right now.”
“No. I suppose you left it somewhere else.” After receiving no response, she continued. “Why do you have to take this psycho feud of yours public? That news conference was over the top, claiming Uncle Stanley is in some kind of conspiracy with the governor.”
“My feud? I’m the one getting shot.”
“That’s what comes with—” she bent down and whispered “—messing with drug dealers.”
“I keep hearing this. Is that what you think?”
“It’s what the GBI thinks.”
“How would you know?”
“Because they showed up with a warrant and searched the house for drugs,” she said, finishing by mouthing the word asshole. “I don’t know why I bother.”
She turned on her heel and marched toward the children’s section. Esmerelda flowed back into the vacuum.
“And she does bother,” Charlie noted.
He kept signing. A few minutes later, Ben ran up and hugged him. “I miss you, Daddy. I hope we can be together again.”
“We will be.” Even as Charlie said it, his spirits sank. Not only did he no longer believe what he’d just said, but there seemed to be no way to make that lie the truth.
“When you get out of your dungeon,” Ben said.
“Yes.”
Susan called for Ben. He ran off. Beck walked past, waving happily to him.
“Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman.” A gray-haired black man bent over the table.
“Huh? Sorry.”
“If you could make it to Clyde Simmons. My grandfather was run out of Forsyth in 1912.”
Charlie looked up. “Rufus Simmons?”
“Why, yes.” The man stepped back, looking shocked. “My Lord. Is he in the book?’
“Yes. A footnote, too, I think.” I’ll sign it to Rufus Simmons’ grandson, Clyde.”
“Thank you so much for doing this.”
Charlie looked out the window and saw Ben’s head bouncing up and down as the boy skipped along the sidewalk. “Huh? Oh, yeah. You’re welcome.”
After the signing was over and his audience had drifted away, Charlie learned that Susan had left the marked-up and unpaid-for children’s books at the counter. He was irritated at first, but then realized this gave him a legitimate, non-stalking reason to return to Thornbriar. Where he’d left his love in the first place. He’d see if any of it was still there.
* * *
Charlie showed up unannounced at Thornbriar the following Saturday afternoon. “I come bearing tribute,” he said when Susan opened the door. She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. Neither was he, but he wished he was, just to trump her. Prosperous from Angela’s $20,000 buy-in, he waved a $6,000 check with a flourish, then handed it to his stunned wife, figuring it would bring him almost up to date on child support and get him inside the house to see the kids. He pushed inside and patted Sirius on the head. At least the dog was glad to see him.
“Is this money from the book, or from selling drugs?” Susan whispered harshly.
“Hey kids! It’s me!” he shouted.
They came running. “You’re back!” Beck squealed. Ben stumbled into the foyer, his arms full of toys, dropping them at Charlie’s feet. Susan stood blocking Charlie from the family room, so he stepped into the living room, kids tugging his hands. Charlie put the books on the coffee table and plopped into the easy chair.
They ran off to get more stuff. Susan said, “I’ll need two thousand more.”
Charlie shook his head in exasperation. “You know, you’re such a … skip it.”
“Consider it skipped.”
The kids returned with artwork from school and squeezed in to sit beside him. They’d grown since he’d last sat with them in that chair, and Charlie felt like a big sardine, but he was too grateful to be near them to complain. As he marveled at their drawings, Beck scrutinized the scar on his cheek and poked it. “A flower is growing there.”
Ben pulled his injured ear and asked if it would come off. “It will if you keep pulling on it,” Charlie said. “OK, I’ll read the books now.”
“Mine first,” Beck said, grabbing Stellaluna from the coffee table and handing it to her father.
Susan took a seat on the sofa across from Charlie and folded her hands in her lap. “How long do you plan on staying?” she asked, her tone crisp.
“He just got here,” Beck said, scowling.
Susan stiffen
ed. Charlie snuggled in deeper with the kids in the chair. As Sirius lay contentedly at his feet, he read Stellaluna, then moved on to A Series of Unfortunate Events. Susan waited impatiently. He grew hoarse but kept reading, fearing that if he stopped and asked for a glass of water (which she wasn’t about to offer), Susan would declare the visit over.
After an hour, Ben said, “All for now. You can read to us tomorrow.”
“No, we’ll be going to church,” Susan said. “Charlie, you need to go.”
Charlie stood up. “All right. Bye, kids. I love you.”
Beck hugged him, then Ben followed suit. Sirius, moving slowly, came up and brushed his master’s knee. Charlie bent down and rubbed the old dog’s neck, wondering how much longer the pooch would be around.
“Beck, Ben, put your things up, please,” Susan said, then followed Charlie to the door. When he stepped outside, she said, “Wait up a minute.”
Charlie saw a look on her face that he’d seen a thousand times before, that of hesitant confession. “Did you have something else to say?”
Susan cleared her throat. “I guess you know that Pappy sold the farm.”
“Yeah. The article about it was right under the picture of me getting stomped by the police. I also saw that Uncle Stanley’s spreading money around to all the churches. I figure they already divvied up the profits.” Susan looked like she’d eaten a green apple. “I guess your mother and Uncle Stanley figure they’re due a cut since they’ve been paying taxes on it.”
Susan looked away. So there it was. Pappy had already given up his wealth to his offspring. Charlie smelled Shakespeare at play. Hadn’t that been King Lear’s tragic mistake? “Have they evicted Pappy?”
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