The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  Funeral services will be held at First Baptist in West Bay. In lieu of flowers, donations in Helen’s name can be made to Farm Aid.

  “But I thought Dr. Davenport made a donation in her name to the Foundation for a Smokefree America. Maybe it isn’t her. . .” I said, crestfallen.

  “The daughter, that Lauren McCarty, was the one I spoke with,” Flick said. “As I recall, she said her mother’d been a lifelong smoker. I can’t remember exactly all the details, but I’m sure she was a patient of Davenport’s. I remember because Lauren talked about being in the waiting room after the procedure and watching Dr. Davenport walk out. Said his face was as white as a sheet.”

  We had come up to Flick’s office, and now he lumbered over to his filing cabinet, pulled out a manila folder, and took out a piece of paper with some scribbled notes. “Daughter’s phone number’s on there,” he said, offering it to me. “I keep notes for at least a year.”

  I went back to my desk to call Lauren McCarty. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message for her that was purposefully vague. I wanted her to call me back, and I thought if I made her curious it improved the odds of that happening.

  Since there wasn’t much else I could do for the obit until I heard back from Ms. McCarty, I decided to do a quick search of the tobacco farms in the area. I didn’t think it would yield much useful information, but I did it anyway. I looked around to make sure stupid Spencer wasn’t around. Check. The coast was clear.

  Born and raised in Virginia, I was aware of the complexities surrounding tobacco production. It was a frequent topic of conversation in schools and around dinner tables in Tuttle County, and everyone had their opinion. But no matter how people felt about our great State of Virginia and its third-leading cash crop, there was one undeniable fact: tobacco production was shrinking.

  In 2004, the US government passed the Fair and Equitable Tobacco Reform Act, which ended a program that had supported pricing quotas. This meant that tobacco farmers could no longer count on a certain pricing or quota structure for selling their crops. As a result, the US Department of Agriculture agreed to provide compensation to eligible tobacco growers for this lost value. Some farmers ended up taking the buyout, some didn’t. Some started producing other commodities or increased their existing non-tobacco crops, others expanded their tobacco acreage as contract volume picked up, and still others chose to close up shop. The ones who chose to quit were mostly the elderly or folks who couldn’t work the land, or didn’t have anyone to leave it to. I’ll never forget when Richie Scruggs, a kid who was in my class in second grade, came to school and announced he and his family would be moving to Florida because “the government took my daddy’s farm away.” That wasn’t exactly what happened, of course, but I’m sure that’s what it felt like.

  My phone rang and I turned it over expecting to see Jay’s number on the display, but it was Lauren McCarty. That was fast, I thought. I thanked her for returning the call and explained to her the reason for it.

  There was silence on the other end of the line for longer than I expected, but I resisted the urge to prompt her. Granddaddy always said that ninety percent of obit interviews are positive—joyful even, because people get to relive special moments and talk about the departed. But they come with sadness too, when the finality of their loss eventually rises up like a wave to clobber them.

  “Lauren?” I asked gently.

  She sniffed and I could tell she had started crying.

  “I’m so sorry to have upset you.”

  “No, it’s okay, I’m fine,” she said, and took in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I still miss my mom, that’s all.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. It sounds like your mother was a lovely woman.”

  I could hear a smile return to her voice. “She was. Mom was a born nurturer. That was her gift: she could make anything grow. And since she’s been gone, well, I’ve just missed that in ways I didn’t know I would.”

  “She worked on an indigo farm, is that right?’ I asked, remembering the obit.

  “Most recently, yes. She was a farmer all her life, though,” Lauren said. “We grew up on my father’s family farm out in the county, but after Dad passed away two years ago, Mom moved to Tuttle Corner to be closer to me and my brother John. He’s had some hard times and Mom wanted to be there for him.”

  “That must have been nice to have her nearby.”

  “It was. She liked it too,” Lauren said. “She found a job working out at Luke’s Farm. It was a perfect fit because they’d been trying to diversify part of their acreage into indigo but had been struggling. Mom had the magic touch and got them sorted in no time.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They’d been trying to take advantage of the new program for tobacco famers wanting to switch over, but it wasn’t as easy as they thought it’d be.”

  “Did you say tobacco?”

  “Yes, Luke’s was a tobacco farm—well, still is mostly, but ever since the buyout, people have been trying to find ways to diversify their crops. Indigo grows in the same soil with the same equipment so it’s a natural switch.”

  Interesting. I jotted down a note and then directed the conversation back to the issue at hand. “Can you tell me about your mom’s experience with Dr. Davenport?”

  Lauren paused a moment and I heard her take in a breath. “I don’t blame him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You don’t?” I didn’t know what she was referring to but I didn’t want to let on.

  “He told us that there was a chance Mom would have complications. Granted, he told us it was less than a one-percent chance, so you never really think it’s going to happen—” She broke off again and I could tell she was struggling to keep her composure. “Dr. Davenport was very kind. I think in many ways he was as shocked as we were.”

  “Do you mind me asking what happened?”

  “Mom had something called atherosclerosis—she was having some chest pain and shortness of breath, so my brother made her an appointment to see Dr. Davenport. He said she had a blockage and needed this procedure called a cardiac cathero . . . or maybe it was an angio-something-or-other . . . I can’t remember exactly what it was called, but Dr. Davenport said it was like a Roto-Rooter for your heart.”

  I remembered Susan Pettis had described her procedure the same way.

  “Anyways, during the procedure I guess some of the plaque in her artery broke off and traveled to her brain. Caused a stroke right on the spot and there wasn’t anything anyone could do. When Dr. Davenport came out to tell us what had happened, he was pale and sweating. I knew as soon as I looked at him.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

  “It was.” Then she added after a moment, “I guess it was just her time.”

  I still hadn’t come across any information to use in the obit, so I tried to steer the conversation back to Dr. Davenport without seeming insensitive. “I heard from his colleagues that Dr. Davenport sometimes attended the funerals of his patients or made donations in their name. Was that the case for you?”

  “He did both, actually,” Lauren said. “He came to the church service and made a donation to the Foundation for a Smokefree America in Mom’s name.”

  I noticed her words didn’t match her tone. Instead of sounding touched or grateful, she sounded—for the first time in our conversation—bitter. “Was that not a good thing?”

  “Well,” she said, “as someone who grew up farming tobacco, the Foundation for a Smokefree America wasn’t exactly the best choice of places to make a donation in her name. It felt like adding insult to injury, if you want to know the truth.”

  This was not the heartwarming anecdote I wanted to open the obit. Far from making Arthur sound like a caring doctor, it made him seem insensitive. But it was interesting, and, I reminded myself, I wasn’t writing a eulogy. This obit was supposed to be an objective look at who Arthur Davenport was. The good, the bad, and the ugly, as Flick had s
aid. I took Lauren’s full contact information and thanked her for her time.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, sounding weary. “At least she’s with Daddy now. That was always her favorite place—right next to him.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I was about to leave for the day when the bell on the front door chimed to signal that someone had walked in. People are in and out of our newsroom all day, so I didn’t think twice about it until a sickening cloud of men’s cologne wafted over and assaulted my nasal passages. That smell could only belong to one person. A second after the smell hit, I heard Toby’s nasal, high-pitched voice ring out. “Hey, hey, newsroom!”

  I quickly closed my browser and stuffed the obit file into my bag. I could tell he was getting closer by the concentration of stink heading my way.

  “Hey there, Riley!”

  “Hello,” I said without looking up.

  “What’s the matter, Buttercup? You mad at ol’ Toby?” He leaned against my cubicle wall, so his OOTD (Outfit of the Day) was in full view. He wore brand-spanking-new white men’s high-top basketball shoes, with navy knit pants and a bright orange long-sleeved shirt in a technical fabric that fit snuggly across his belly, leaving little to the imagination. Today’s shirt message: Beware of My Game. As I looked up at him, all I could think was how I’d never be able to un-know that Toby had an outie. Ew.

  “I’m not mad,” I said, pretending to straighten some papers on my desk. “Just busy.”

  “Aw, don’t do me like that,” he said in a tone of voice best described as insulted-baby. “Tell Toby what you’re working on?”

  “Not the Davenport story, thanks to you.”

  This made him laugh, which made his shirt rise up a few inches, which exposed a strip of hairy belly skin directly at eye level. I looked away as fast as my eyeballs would allow.

  “You’re writing Artie’s obituary, aren’t you?” He peeked around for evidence. “He was a good man, Arthur was. Aunt Shaylene says that’s why we’ve got to close the books on this case. Bring his killer to justice.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, still averting my eyes from the aggressively pale patch of skin.

  “Now personally, I think it was Thad that done it,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thad always did have kind of a serial killer vibe about him, don’t you think?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said, standing up. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter what I think. You’ve made sure of that.”

  Toby laughed again and his shirt, which had been struggling to stay on the lower part of his stomach, hit the tipping point and suddenly sprung up like a roller shade, zipping upward so that only the words Beware of My . . . were visible. The effect was: Beware of My Big, Hairy Belly.

  “Now would you look at what you did there,” he said, grabbing his shirt by the hem and pulling it back down. “You made my shirt go all haywire!” He laughed some more, but this time had the forethought to hold his shirt down. “All’s I did was bring it to your boss’s attention that you might have a little too much bias in this case.”

  I started to spit back a retort but stopped myself before I said anything I’d regret. “See you later, Toby. If you’re looking for Kay, she’s in her office.” I turned and walked toward the door, but the little pest followed me down the corridor.

  “Actually, it’s you I came looking for.”

  “Oh yeah? What for—you want to get me fired this time?”

  “I was . . . I mean, Aunt Shaylene, was wondering if you might like to interview her for the obituary.”

  This stopped me. “Mayor Lancett wants to be quoted in Arthur Davenport’s obit?”

  “The thing is, those two were close friends growing up, you know. And she’s so broken up about his untimely demise. She thought it might be nice to be recorded in the local newspaper as having attested to his fine character.”

  I’ll admit I was surprised. I’d thought Libby Nichols was just spreading rumors when she hinted that Arthur and the mayor had something going on, but now I wondered if she might have been right. “Okay. . .” I said.

  “Can you come by first thing tomorrow?” Toby asked. “She’ll save you fifteen minutes.”

  I agreed, and Toby and I walked out of the Times office together just as Jared Rayburn, the owner of My Secret Garden flower shop, was walking in carrying a huge arrangement of orange roses with fiery red tips.

  We said hello and I held the door open for him. Jared was a member of my father’s poetry group and although he was a sweet guy, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call talkative. Jared was in many ways a study in contradictions: He was five-foot eight, built like a ballet dancer, a card-carrying member of the NRA, owned a flower shop, wrote poetry, and founded the local chapter of the Brigade of the American Revolution reenactment society. Oh, and rumor had it that he used to work in the CIA. I don’t know if that was true or not, but I’d often thought Jared would make a fascinating subject of a biography.

  “Who’s the lucky duck?” Toby said, eyeing the flowers.

  Jared glanced down and squinted as he read the name on the envelope. “Looks like it’s you, Riley.”

  “Those are for me?”

  “A rose by any other name. . .” He shrugged, and handed me the low, square vase containing the gorgeous arrangement.

  It may not have been my most feminist moment, but I’ll admit there was something of an inner-swoon at the thought of Jay sending flowers to make up for acting like an overprotective goon the other day. It wasn’t like roses changed anything exactly, but between the apology and the flowers, I was feeling pretty good about him. Plus, they were soooo pretty!

  “Thanks!” I squealed.

  “Sheesh, what’d your man do?” Toby asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe I should ask what’d you do?” He snorted out a salacious laugh.

  “Shut up, Toby,” I said, irritated he was sullying my moment. “Some men are just romantic.”

  “Whatevs,” he said. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning!”

  With Toby gone, I dipped my head to inhale the flowers’ sweet scent. Heavenly. I plucked the card from the little pitchfork and gently opened it, my belly swirling with anticipation. It wasn’t every day a girl got roses! At least not this girl. Ryan would bring me a rose once a year on our anniversary—but it was usually the gas station variety inside one of those green plastic tubes, not a professionally delivered arrangement like this one. This looked like something out of a movie. With what was surely a goofy smile plastered on my face, I pulled out the card and read the note contained within:

  Meeting you brightened my day, hope these brighten yours . . . xo, Brandon Laytner

  What. The. Hell. I looked at the back of the envelope and sure enough, in tiny slanted letters it said: Ridley. A rose by any other name indeed.

  CHAPTER 29

  I stuffed the card back into the envelope and tried not to bite Mr. Gradin’s head off when he passed me on the way to my car and said, “Isn’t someone a lucky lady?”

  I gritted my teeth and faked a cheerful tone. “She sure is!”

  She sure is. Fricking Ridley. Again. Did that woman’s allure know no bounds? I made the quick drive home and then, as if the universe was testing how much it would take to get a good Southern girl to lose her shit, I pulled up to my house to find none other than the Fantastic Miss Ridley sitting on my porch swing.

  “Ryan and I had a big fight,” she said as I walked up to my front door. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Her eyes landed then on the flowers. “Those are beautiful, by the way.”

  “Glad you like them.” I thrust the vase into her hands and got out my keys. “They’re for you.”

  She opened the card, read it, rolled her eyes, and flicked it down on my entry table. “Ryan was mad that I went with you to talk to Brandon. He said it wasn’t a smart decision.”

  I hadn’t thought of it before but maybe he was right. Had it been irresponsible of me to involve Ridley in all of this? She didn’t work for th
e newspaper (despite what Brandon thought) and she was pregnant, after all. I glanced at the roses and felt a pang of guilt for using her as eye candy. But then I remembered it was Ridley who came to me looking for a way to help—not the other way around.

  “Does he know about your ‘connection’ with David?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I mean, could he have been jealous?”

  “I doubt it,” she said as she nestled into my overstuffed sofa. Coltrane sat in front of her, panting, waiting for more of her attention. Traitor. I stayed standing in a subtle form of protest. Although, to be fair, I also got her a glass of lemonade, so as protests go, it was pretty weak.

  “Sometimes I think he can be a bit controlling,” she said. “Like he knows what’s best all the time.”

  This I could relate to. I had spent much of the past year thinking through all the ways Ryan had controlled the narrative of our seven years together. We ate at the restaurants he liked best, we went to the movies he wanted to see, and I even went to the college he wanted to go to. Don’t get me wrong, I was a willing participant, but that was one of the reasons we were able to be together as long as we were. I handed Ryan control over my life, which felt really good at the time because he didn’t over-think, he didn’t ruminate, and he did what seemed like a good idea at the time—and when I was with him, I did that too. It worked out great until he decided it would be a good idea to move on without me. If there is one lesson I learned going through heartbreak hell over Ryan, it was that I’d never abdicate again. It might not always be smooth sailing, but I was the captain of my own ship and I’d sink or swim by my own hand.

  But I didn’t want to talk about any of this with Ridley. I still had a complicated sense of loyalty to Ryan and talking about him with his baby mama just didn’t feel right. It felt like a betrayal.

  “So,” I said. “Maybe you should go talk it out with him? You know, clear the air?” That was my not-so-subtle way of trying to get her perfect butt off my sofa.