Ain’t He Precious?

by Juliette Poe

  “Did he put on his emergency flashers?” Ry interrupts to ask.

  “No, but his regular taillights were on and functioning,” I tell him.

  “What was he wearing?”

  “His scrubs… light blue and a black wool overcoat.” Dan was a nurse at the county hospital.

  “Would have been hard to see,” Ry throws out, and yes… that’s one of the problems of my case.

  “At any rate, a drunk driver came along. I have no clue whether he saw Dan standing at the rear of his car or not while he was getting the spare out, but the drunk veered off the road slightly and hit Dan, sandwiching him in between the cars. Both of his legs had to be amputated.”

  I’d already told Ry that on the phone, but he still makes a sound of sympathy deep within his chest. I go on to tell him the details of the medical treatment and expenses, and the fact that Dan is still out of work as he tries to acclimate to life on prosthetics. He was a surgical nurse, which can require hours on end of standing, and that’s not something that’s going to be feasible for him to continue. Still, he will get back to nursing eventually. That’s his immediate goal.

  “Where does the case stand?” Ry asks.

  “I filed suit, we’ve conducted discovery, and we have a mediation set next week,” I tell him succinctly.

  “Have they made an offer?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” I say bitterly. “And there’s a million-dollar insurance policy.”

  “They’re claiming Dan’s at fault for not pulling all the way off the road?” Ry asks, because he knows in North Carolina that any contributing fault bars people from getting anything.

  “Worse,” I tell him glumly. “There was a small convenience store about a hundred yards up the road. They’re saying he should have continued to there to change the flat.”

  “They have a point,” he says, not to be unkind but to play devil’s advocate. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t already known and discussed with Dan. His case is precarious at best.

  “His tire was flat, he was running on his rim, and it was dangerous to continue,” I counter argue. “His taillights were on, but, most importantly, Dan was not on the road. He was fully on the shoulder and the drunk ran partially off the road.”

  Ry is silent for a moment, but that’s because his legal brain is churning. Finally, he asks, “What do you think I can do for you, Trix? You’re a damn good attorney in your own right.”

  “I don’t have your reputation,” I tell him simply but with complete pride in what he’s made of himself. “Not at your level. You’ve handled multi-million dollar claims with absolute success. You’ve crushed bigger opponents. Attorneys hire you from all over the United States just to have your name attached to the case.”

  “It might not mean anything to the other side,” he says, completely egoless, which was one of the things I loved best about him.

  “It might mean everything though,” I say. “I’d like you to enter an appearance on the case with me and attend the mediation.”

  “You said that’s next week?” he asks.

  “Yes. Wednesday.”

  “I can clear my schedule for it. I’ll probably have to fly back tomorrow evening though, handle a few things,” he says.

  “And if we can’t settle it at mediation?”

  “I’ll help you try it too,” he says softly.

  My chest squeezes and then releases in sharp relief that he’s going to help.

  Then it flutters as I realize that I’ll be spending more time with Ry. Granted, only to work on the case, but the one thing I’ve learned the last few hours… I missed having him around more than I ever realized.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ryland

  A hand at my shoulder, a gentle shaking, and a sweet, lilting voice. “Ry… it’s time to get up.”

  Pain shoots through my head as I struggle to get my eyes open. My room is glowing, and I wince from light that I immediately note is from the bedside lamp.

  Trixie sits at the edge of my bed, her hand warm on my bare shoulder. “Let’s go. Pap will be here soon.”

  “What?” I mumble, taking great effort to peel my tongue away from the roof of my mouth. Another pain shoots through my head.

  “Fishing,” she says with a light laugh. Despite how much I’ve always adored that sound from Trixie, it causes another jolt of misery to flash across my forehead.

  “Jesus, Trix,” I groan as my hand comes up to rub across my eyes, which only increases the pain. “What the hell did you do to me?”

  “That wasn’t me,” she says softly. “That was the peach moonshine.”

  Vague memories start coming back.

  Us sitting on the front porch, watching fireflies, drinking and talking. We were out there for hours, I think.

  How many of those wicked drinks did I have?

  “I’ve got some Excedrin right here on the nightstand with a bottle of water,” she says as her hand slides away and she stands up from the bed. The slight rocking causes a jolt of nausea to hit me. “Take those and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

  “What time is it?” I grumble as I come up on one elbow, my gaze sliding to the window to see it’s still dark outside before coming back to rest on Trixie.

  And shit… how can she look that fresh and beautiful after drinking all night?

  Her long hair has two braids, one hanging over each shoulder. She has on a pair of denim overalls with a white tank top underneath. Her eyes are bright, clear, and sparkling with humor. I know she drank as much as I did last night, but she doesn’t seem to be suffering.

  “I think I’ll just go back to bed,” I say as I settle back onto the pillow.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” she says as her hand shoots out. She whips the blanket and sheet off me. “You said you wanted to go fishing this morning, so you’re going fishing.”

  My hands make a grab for the covers but come up with nothing but air. I don’t even have the fortitude to care I’m sleeping in nothing but my boxer briefs, and besides… Trixie’s seen it all anyway.

  Doesn’t stop her from looking though, I notice. Her eyes travel down my body and I do a quick peek to make sure I’m not sporting morning wood, but my hangover must have killed that embarrassment. Thankfully.

  “I don’t want to go fishing,” I mumble.

  Her eyes slide back up my body, and I swear I can feel the touch of her gaze over every inch of my skin which causes my body to reconsider morning wood when I see appreciation in those hazel irises. For a glorious moment, my head doesn’t hurt.

  “You’re going fishing,” she says adamantly. “You made a big deal about going last night, remember? If you don’t go, you’ll have to hear shit from my dad.”

  I sift through my memories and groan. Her dad had joined us on the porch for a bit last night, drinking Wild Turkey on the rocks. He was actually treating me halfway decently.

  I think.

  Not sure.

  Could have been the moonshine leading me astray.

  But I do remember us discussing fishing, me admitting I’ve never been but wanted to try it, and then Trixie’s invitation to go with her and Pap early this morning.

  Gerry Mancinkus had snorted and said, “No way that city boy will be up at the crack of dawn to go fishing after a night of Billy Crump’s peach moonshine.”

  Billy Crump had apparently given a case of it—in tiny Mason jars—to Trixie as payment for a speeding ticket she’d handled for him.

  I had enough liquor in me that I rose to the challenge. I told Trixie adamantly after draining the last of my current drink, “I’ll be up and ready to go at the crack of dawn.”

  “Shit,” I groan as I rise and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My head swims, then pains shoot through it, and I swallow back the nausea. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Trixie puts her hand to the top of my head and ruffles my hair, which oddly doesn’t hurt. “That’s my boy. See you downstairs. Mom has b
iscuits and gravy ready for us.”

  My stomach rolls, but I give her a smile. “Sounds yummy.”

  ♦

  I still feel like shit, but at least my headache’s gone. The biscuits and sausage gravy sit heavy in my stomach, and sometimes it threatens to rise, particularly when the boat rocks, but I push it down. No way am I hanging my head over the side and vomiting in front of Pap. It wouldn’t bother me if Trixie saw me do that as I’ve held her hair back enough over the years so it wouldn’t float in the toilet. I know she’d never give me shit. But Pap Mancinkus would probably push me right over the edge and into the water.

  Pap pulls his arm back. In a fluid motion, he casts his line into the lake. I watch as he slowly reels it in, waiting for something to bite. So far, we’ve been out here for twenty minutes and nothing major has happened.

  Grudgingly, I’ll admit it’s beautiful out here. The Mainer farm has a nice-sized lake surrounded by oak and pine trees that sits in the middle of the property. We’d driven a vehicle that Trixie called a Gator from the main house, and there was a small motorboat moored to a dock at the edge of the lake.

  Pap sits on a seat near the front, I’m in the middle, and Trixie is at the motor, expertly steering us around, choosing small pockets near the bank with low-overhanging branches where she says most of the fish like to hang out.

  I had received a quick five-minute lesson on how to cast the spin rod. It wasn’t difficult. Trixie would motor us around the lake to a new spot, cut the engine, and we’d spend five or ten minutes fishing a particular spot. If we didn’t get any bites, she moved us elsewhere. She was content to let me use her rod to fish while she sat back and sipped at a thermos of coffee.

  I found out quickly that fishing was a “quiet” sport.

  When I’d tried to ask Pap about his time in the marines, he, not unkindly, said, “Boy… if you’re talking, you’re scaring the fish away.”

  I snapped my mouth shut and was happy that Gerry wasn’t out here fishing with us. I expect he would have shot me.

  So, without the ability to talk, I focus on things like the rhythmic sway of the boat, which gets easier to tolerate on my stomach as I start to digest my breakfast, the zinging sound of the line as it’s casting, and the snicking sound of the rod as I reel it in. I feel the air warm as the sun rises, made intermittently cooler from the periodic breeze, and I can hear the call of geese in the distance. I can smell the pine trees. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I can smell Trixie’s shampoo too—crisp, green-apple scent—and I remember how I used to love putting my nose in her hair and just inhaling the fragrance.

  And Jesus… I don’t remember being this relaxed in a long time.

  My mind races to search for the last time I took time off from work to relax, but nothing comes to mind. At least not a real vacation where I wasn’t beholden to an agenda and still doing a few hours of work each day just to stay ahead in the rat race. I sneak a peek at Trixie kicked back, the bottoms of her flip-flops propped on the edge of the boat’s side, and a serene, happy smile on her face. It causes a pinching pain in the center of my chest to know that this right here is one of the reasons she returned to Whynot after law school. Oddly, there’s a small undercurrent of jealousy bubbling in my veins.

  Suddenly, my pole jerks in my hands, and I instinctively snap the tip upward into the air. I feel something catch as the pole bends in an extreme arc.

  “Holy shit,” I exclaim as I sit up straighter in the boat.

  “That’s a big one,” Pap says, and Trixie laughs with delight. “Now… keep the rod up and reel it in.”

  I plant my feet hard on the bottom of the boat and crank my catch in. My heart is racing because I don’t know what’s on the other end of the line, but it feels massive. I reel and reel and reel, watching as the end of the line in the water comes closer to the boat. I see a flash of grayish-brown thrash at the top of the water before the fish dives back down deep, but I keep cranking that spinner.

  Pap sets his pole aside, grabs a net, and leans forward, balancing himself with a hand on the edge of the boat. I give another mighty heave on the spinner’s handle, and the fish comes to the surface.

  “Oh, my God,” Trixie practically shrieks with excitement as her feet come off the edge of the boat. She leans closer to me. “He caught Ol’ Mud. I was knee high to a grasshopper the last time someone managed that.”

  Pap grunts in acknowledgment, scooping the net into the water under my catch. He proceeds to pull it up, and in it is the biggest, ugliest fish I’ve ever seen in my life. Not that I’ve seen many up close and personal. I mean, I went snorkeling in the Cayman’s once, but those were all brightly colored fish with long, flowing tails. This thing is indeed the color of mud, with enormous eyes that seem to be rolling and long whiskers sticking out from around its mouth.

  “What the hell is that thing?” I ask in horror.

  “That’s a flathead catfish,” Pap says as he hauls him in and carefully maneuvers him out of the net with practiced efficiency. He pulls the hook out of the corner of the fish’s mouth and then holds him up for me to see.

  The fish is massive and thrashes in Pap’s hands, but he grips him firmly before pushing him my way. “Want to hold him?”

  I recoil slightly. “Um… no, but thank you.”

  Trixie snickers behind me. “Oh, God… ain’t he precious?”

  Pap snorts but doesn’t give me too much shit. “Suit yourself. Take a picture, Trixie.”

  I turn in my seat and watch Trixie pull her phone from her pocket. Pap scoots closer to me and holds the damn fish up over my shoulder—which, in addition to fish, smells like mud too—and chuckles, “Smile for the camera, city boy.”

  Trixie holds the phone out, grinning as she takes a picture of Pap and me as he holds that slimy, nasty-looking catfish. I know my manhood took a bit of a ding with my refusal to hold it, and I can’t say I’m thrilled that Trixie thinks I’m precious, but screw it… not going to apologize for my failure to bond with that smelly thing.

  To my amazement, Pap leans over the side of the boat and slides it gently into the water while murmuring, “Until we meet again, Ol’ Mud.”

  “You let it go?” I ask incredulously. While the thing was scary looking as all get out, I’ve eaten catfish before and it’s delicious. I have also witnessed Catherine’s cooking firsthand, and I bet she’d do heavenly things to that fish. Besides… I thought that’s what you did in the south. You hunted shit and you ate it.

  “Ol’ Mud’s been in this lake for years,” Trixie says by way of explanation. “He’s rarely been caught, but we always release him. He’s like an icon around here. The fact that you caught him, and in the morning, is amazing.”

  “Really?” I ask, a small pattering of pride thumping in my chest.

  “Flathead’s normally sleep during the day, usually down under lake debris,” Pap explains. “They’re easiest to catch at night, but I don’t think Ol’ Mud’s ever been caught in daylight hours, right, Trix?”

  “Right, Pap,” she says and then winks at me. “We might turn you into a southern boy yet, Ry.”

  I snort. Fat chance of that. While I’ve been enjoying my time out here this morning relaxing, I certainly didn’t want any part of what happens after the fish are caught. Still, this morning had its merits even with that vicious hangover.

  “We got to get going,” Trixie says as she looks up at the sun. Why she didn’t look at the clock on her phone is beyond me, but she was apparently satisfied with her decision to leave based on the sun’s height in the sky. “We’ve got actual lawyer work to do today.”

  That’s true. The rough game plan is to go to Trixie’s office and let me pore through the file she has on Dan Ogletree’s case, then I’m going to catch an evening flight out of Raleigh to head back to Boston.

  While I stepped foot in North Carolina with the goal in mind of helping a fellow colleague on a case and returning to Boston as quickly as I could, I can’t help but feel that I just have
n’t had enough time here with Trixie.

  This makes no sense to me, because she had nothing to do with my real goals in coming here. If anything, I was hoping for a little bit of closure as she’s no doubt plagued my thoughts over the years. Instead, I have a distinct uneasiness at the thought of leaving out of here tonight.

  CHAPTER 7

  Trixie

  If I lean to the left—not too far, mind you—I can see across the hall to the small office that holds a round work table that seats four. Ry sits there with his back to me, head bent over the Ogletree file as he flips through pages. He’s got his laptop out and it sits to his right just a bit. Every so often, he turns in his chair to type some notes there.

  With the sexiest man I’ve ever known sitting just twenty feet away from me, I’ve been having a hard time concentrating on my own work, which is boring financials. I’ve been putting off reconciling my checking accounts—three in all for the law firm—because it’s one of the things I hate most about being a business owner. I hate math, I hate money—or the lack thereof—and I hate the stress that comes with it.

  It’s easier to lean in my chair and appreciate the broad expanse of Ry’s back and shoulders. Because he’s Ry and he’s a high-powered lawyer, he chose to dress in a suit to come into the office after our fishing expedition early this morning. Because I’m doing nothing but reconciling checking accounts, I chose a pair of worn jeans with a hole in one knee, a sleeveless gray button-up shirt with tiny ruffles along the button path, and white, flat sandals. Normally my hair would be in a ponytail and there wouldn’t be a smear of makeup on my face, but I took some time to curl my hair and add some blush, eyeshadow, and mascara today.

  Damn you, Ry, for turning me into a girlie-girl again.

  My iPhone rings, startling me to sit up straight in my chair again, just on the off chance Ry was to turn around and look across the hall at me. I’d die if he caught me staring at his back.