Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  And that’s exactly what happened. Bert Quinton abandoned Billy Mac and Beau and Rafe and the others without a qualm. He denied being involved with any illegal dog fighting—thereby putting a fine point on what was illegal and what wasn’t—and said flat out that he was proud of his granddaughter for having the courage to confront men who’d do such a thing. It got good press in all the local papers, and even made the papers up in Memphis. The media got interested in things like that when an important man like Bert Quinton was involved. The rest of the time, it was barely a blip on the radar screen of media compassion.

  Chantry half-expected a summons from old man Quinton. It didn’t happen. Maybe he figured Billy Mac and Beau and Rafe deserved what they got for threatening Cinda. Or maybe Quinton just figured they weren’t useful anymore. Whichever, life got kinda quiet.

  Beau and Rafe got out on bail, but since the passage of that “three strikes” law, it was likely they’d go back to prison if convicted on assault charges, and Billy Mac got a big fine that he couldn’t pay so had to put his land and trailer up as collateral.

  Captain Gordon threw his hat in the ring for the next elections, running for sheriff of Quinton County. Cooler weather finally drifted in from the northwest in September, and they got busier than ever at the clinic. Doc had inoculations, tests, and the usual round of injuries and illnesses in the field, so Chantry did most of the clinic work. He was working on his “bedside” manner, and even Mindy said he was doing a lot better.

  “You’re not such an asshole anymore,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Mindy just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  After his preceptorship ended, he had a final exam to get behind him before he got his DVM license. That’d be sometime in January.

  “Then where are you going to go?” Cinda asked him one evening. They sat out on the carriage house veranda. There was enough of a breeze blowing that no bugs could light on them, and the air smelled crisp and clean, the last hurrah before autumn brought cold nights and frost. Everything was still in bloom, clay pots spilling over with all kinds of flowers, vincas, petunias, marigolds, and some new ones he didn’t recognize but that Herky said would bloom even after the first frost.

  Chantry shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about where to set up practice.”

  “Why not Cane Creek?”

  He could think of several trivial reasons right off, and one big one. He didn’t say anything, just let that lie there in the quiet stillness of the evening. After a minute or two went by, Cinda sighed.

  “You’re going to leave again.”

  “I never meant to stay.”

  “Then why’d you come back?”

  He took a sip of beer before he answered. “I’ve asked myself that a lot lately.”

  Shifting position, she leaned back in the wrought iron glider to look at him closely in the dim light. “It was a long time ago, Chantry. You were a kid. Things happened then that were beyond your control.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Maybe not. But I know some things.” She got quiet for a moment, then said, “I’d never really questioned my grandfather’s version of things, or even my parents’. Not until lately. I know I’ve been oblivious at times, just like Chris says. If it wasn’t something I could change, I just didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t worry about it. I focused on things I could change instead. It never mattered to me what they said about you. I knew different back then and I still do.”

  He didn’t want to have this conversation. So he got up from the wrought iron glider and went to lean against a post that looked out over the still vivid green expanse of lawn. The sprinklers hadn’t been reset yet, and water had already sprayed the grass. It smelled wet. Sweet.

  He thought of all the times as a kid when he’d fiercely wanted something just out of his reach, the wonder and excitement if he got it, then the crushing disappointment when it was snatched away. Maybe it was better to never have what he wanted, rather than lose it after only a brief taste.

  “Some of the things they say are true, Cinda.”

  “So? What—are you afraid, Chantry? Afraid of losing again?”

  He turned to look at her. It was spooky how she knew what he was thinking a lot of the time, just like Tansy used to know. Was he that transparent?

  Cinda got up from the glider and came to stand in front of him. “Have faith. Trust in something besides yourself. If you don’t believe in God, trust in the universe. Karma. Fate. Destiny. Recognize that there’s something out there a lot bigger and wiser than you, Chantry Callahan.”

  He looked at her, then away. “Mama believed in God. I did, too. Once.”

  “But not anymore. I get it. Do you believe in evil?”

  That got his attention. He nodded.

  “Then believe in goodness. For every negative there’s a positive.”

  “For every yin a yang.”

  She smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Now you sound like Dempsey.”

  “Do I? I’m honored.” She slid her arms around his waist, seemed not to notice that he tensed. “It’ll work out, Chantry. Just give it a chance.”

  He wanted to. God, he really did want to give it a chance. Give them a chance. He just didn’t know if he was ready for the risk.

  Cinda’s birthday was the next week. She wanted him to come to her party up at the house, and he didn’t want to go but couldn’t think of a way out of it. Not without looking like a coward or idiot or both.

  So he went, stood under strings of lights and crepe paper and plastic banners, and tried to pretend he was having a good time when all he could think about was getting out of there before something bad happened. Bert Quinton was there, and Chris and his parents, and the Sheridans and Savona. Lots of other people came too, Nancy from the real estate office, even Cathy Chandler Durbin showed up. He knew most of them from Cane Creek, but there were people there he didn’t know, business associates from Tunica or down in Jackson, and a few senators as well as other people who showed up because they wanted to stay on Quinton’s good side. Bringing his granddaughter a present for her twenty-ninth birthday was a damn good way to do it. Besides, there was free food and plenty of liquor.

  Chris came up to him when he stood by one of the long tables loaded with food. A huge pile of pulled pork that’d been smoked in a deep pit filled a big platter, and Chantry had just put a good sized portion on his plate. Real china, not a flimsy paper or Styrofoam plate that’d crumble under the weight of food. Buns and fresh slaw sat beside bottles of barbecue sauce. On another table, there was caviar and sushi, and lots of things that looked exotic, that highbrow stuff that sounded good, looked pretty, and tasted like crap.

  “Hey, Chantry.”

  “Hey, Chris.”

  “Tansy gets back in town tomorrow night.”

  He poured barbecue sauce on his pork sandwich and nodded. “I heard she’d be back soon. Grand Isle’s been advertising the hell out of her shows.”

  “Yeah. She’s a big draw. Makes a ton of money. Too bad we can’t get her over at the Silver Dollar.”

  “Old man Quinton would bust something vital if you even suggested it.”

  Chris laughed, and it sounded weak. He looked pale, but that could be from all the white lights strung in graceful loops overhead.

  “This time I’m gonna tell my grandfather, Chantry. I made up my mind.”

  Chantry looked close at him. “No wonder you look like shit. Better wear a hard hat and flak jacket for that conversation.”

  “A vote of confidence. Thanks.”

  “I’d ask what’s the worst he can do, but I think we both know the answer to that.”

  Now Chris looked almost green. He swallowed hard and looked away. “If I don’t say something, I’ll lose her. I can’t lose her again. Anything is better than . . . this.”

  Chantry didn’t say anything for a minute. Up at the house, music played on a huge stereo system. People laughed, conversation buzzed
, and it all seemed surreal. He caught a glimpse of Cinda flitting through her guests, taking all of it in stride, mixing as easily with politicians as she did the secretaries in her real estate office. She was born to this. He wasn’t. He felt out of place, an outsider again.

  “Right,” he said finally, “but you don’t have to stay here once you tell him about you and Tansy.”

  “She wants me to manage her career. I’m just not sure I want to work for my wife. And what the hell do I know about all that stuff anyway?”

  Chantry ate a piece of pork. Across the yard, under a canopy set up for the party in case it rained, Cinda paused to talk to her mother and Savona. Colin hovered protectively over his wife, who looked vague but happy. There was no sign of Philip Sheridan. On the stereo, David Gray sang about spending a long time persuading himself that he needed no one. Chris shifted impatiently from one foot to another, looking nervous as a cat.

  “Yeah. That’s probably what I’ll do. After I tell him, I’ll just leave town with Tansy for a while.” Chris jiggled some loose change in his pocket, looked over his shoulder, then back at Chantry. “Ever think about how weird this all is? Us talking, I mean. As a kid, I always hated you.”

  “Back at ya.”

  Chris nodded. “And I envied you, too.”

  Chantry just stared at him.

  After a minute, Chris shrugged. “You were always so sure of yourself. Not like me. I was afraid of everything back then. Now I’m just afraid of my grandfather.”

  Before Chantry could think of anything to say, Chris walked away. He watched him go up to Cinda and give her a hug, turn to speak casually to some acquaintances, then walk into the house. If that wasn’t the damnedest thing . . .

  Cinda made him come and stand beside her when everyone sang Happy Birthday to her in front of a table piled high with brightly wrapped gifts. His gift was in there somewhere, a small jeweler’s box that held a silver bracelet with entwined C’s and old engraving. She’d recognize it and know what he meant. Cinda & Chantry 4ever.

  Her family gathered around Cinda. Colin, Laura, and her grandfather. There was no sign of her mother, but Chris came out to stand beside them, and Philip Sheridan stood up in front of the towering cake to make a toast to his daughter. Chantry hoped he wasn’t expected to say anything, and he gave Cinda a quick glance that she rightly interpreted and shook her head. That was a relief.

  Then Bert Quinton made a speech about how important to him his family was, his slow, cultured drawl carrying across the yard and guests like a politician at a picnic. Some flashbulbs popped, and then one of the guys there to videotape the celebration pushed through the crowd.

  “Mister Quinton, why haven’t you investigated the 1972 disappearance of your oldest son? Can you tell us why he’s never been heard from again?”

  Everything seemed to stop, all sound and motion just hovering like a pulsating alien spacecraft overhead. Chantry stared at the man, and saw the microphone in his hand with the logo of a Memphis television channel. Then Bert Quinton turned toward Chantry and bellowed, “You sonuvabitch, you did this!” and hit him.

  It was chaos after that.

  Damage control. That was the key phrase of the night. Bert Quinton’s lawyer issued a statement that the family was shocked by any allegation of wrongdoing, that Ted Quinton had voluntarily left Cane Creek and obviously didn’t want to be found, and any allusion to foul play was utterly absurd and patently false.

  Maybe everything would have blown over pretty quick, but Cara Sheridan was found having sex with Paolo Savona in the gazebo out on Cinda’s back lawn, and that only added to the frenzy of media attention and gossip. It’d have been a lot better if it had been someone besides a reporter from the Memphis paper who stumbled across them and made a pretty big fuss about it.

  Cinda showed up at his door early the next morning, devoid of makeup, looking like she’d been up all night.

  “I’m running away,” she said, and stuck out an empty coffee cup. “Caffeine.”

  He made some coffee, watched her while he did. She’d sat atop one of the bar stools at the counter. Copper pots overhead caught light from the fluorescent fixture over the sink and reflected it onto her hair.

  “You should have stayed the night with me like I asked you to,” he said when he’d poured her coffee. “I’d have let you sleep.”

  “No. I had to deal with it. Everyone else was hysterical. Except Granddad. How’s your eye?”

  “Sore.”

  “Thanks for not hitting him back.”

  “You’re welcome. That took a lot of restraint.”

  She nodded and sipped her coffee. “What a hellish night.”

  “Birthdays are highly overrated.”

  “Maybe my thirtieth will be better. So. Do you really think Granddad killed Ted?”

  He ran a hand through his uncombed hair, then rubbed the bristle on his jaw. “I think he’s capable of it. But I don’t know if he did it.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with the media showing up, did you?”

  “No. Not directly, anyway.” Her brow arched, and he blew out a heavy breath. “I asked Mikey to help me get some info on Ted. And he asked his girlfriend how to go about it. She’s an intern at The Commercial Appeal in Memphis. I didn’t know that at first, I swear.”

  Cinda nodded. She didn’t look mad, just thoughtful. After a few minutes of quiet, she said, “Am I warped to think that the worst part of the evening was my mother being found with her pants down—literally—in my gazebo during my birthday celebration?”

  “Not so much.”

  Cinda laughed. “I should see the humor in all this. My next birthday should be a piece of cake.”

  “Yeah, sorry about your cake, by the way.”

  “That’s all right. If Granddad hadn’t hit you, you wouldn’t have knocked it over.”

  “If it’s any consolation, it tasted pretty good. Buttercream icing is my favorite.”

  “I’ll remember that for your next birthday.” She took another sip of coffee and eyed him. “Do I look as bad as you do?”

  “Truth? You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”

  Her hair was wadded up and clipped to the top of her head, and dark smudges cut under her eyes like bruises. Pale skin showed a few freckles, and the loose tee shirt and short pajama pants she wore looked like they hadn’t seen a bed.

  “Come lie beside me?” she asked.

  “What the hell. It’s Saturday. I can spare an extra hour.”

  He tucked her next to him, and about ten seconds after her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. He lay there staring at the shadowed room, listening to the whirr of the ceiling fan and thinking about how right it felt to just hold her next to him.

  Then he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew the phone was ringing. Groggy, he got up to answer it and left Cinda lying in his bed.

  Chris sounded a lot calmer than he’d expected. “Have you seen Cinda?”

  “She’s here.”

  The lines hummed a moment, then Chris said, “I’ve never seen Granddad this mad, Chantry.”

  “He’ll get over it. Or not.”

  “It’s not the right time to say anything to him about Tansy.”

  Chantry squinted across the room. His eye hurt and he was sleepy, and when had he become Chris Quinton’s best friend and confessor? Just what in hell did Tansy see in this guy? He had to wonder.

  “I liked you better as a bully, Chris. At least you acted like you had balls then.”

  Silence greeted that comment, so he said, “There’ll never be a right time. Suck it up. Tell him you have your own life. He doesn’t have to like it.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Tell Cinda to show up for church tomorrow. We’re supposed to be a united family. In public, at least.”

  Chantry left her a note before he went to the clinic, but let her sleep. She needed rest more than anything else right now.

  The clinic parking lot was packed. He had to
drive around back by the corrugated metal building used for livestock to find an empty spot, and even then ended up parking on a strip of grass under the trees.

  There wasn’t an empty chair or patch of unused linoleum in the waiting room. He looked around at the menagerie of animals being held by familiar and unfamiliar clients. It had gone quiet the minute he stepped inside, and he suddenly understood. The curious had come to gawk. Even Mrs. Tilly, the church choir director, sat on a carpet covered cat condo holding something that looked like a furry rat in her lap. Hell, he’d been to vet school, and he still had no idea what kind of animal she’d brought in to justify showing up.

  Mindy just stood behind the high reception desk staring at them all. He went past her headed to the back and she followed.

  “Damn,” she said, “I should have posted a sign charging admission. Five dollars a head to get a look. Ten to actually talk to you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “That’s very rude. I know you were taught better.”

  He escaped into Doc’s office and shut the door behind him. Doc sat in his leather chair that was creased with age and had big torn places. It creaked loudly when he leaned forward.

  “Heard you had a big night.”

  “Apparently, so did the rest of town.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a small town. Not much to do on a Friday night. Ten o’clock news can be the highlight of the day.”

  “It was on the news?”

  “Late breaking news. A really good shot of Quinton decking you right before cake splattered on the camera lens. Nothing quite like a scandal to perk folks up.”

  Chantry flopped into the small chair set in front of Doc’s cluttered desk. “Great. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Doc’s chair creaked as he sat back. “So that wasn’t you in the gazebo with Cara Sheridan, then.”

  “Good God.”