by Molly Harper
George Pritchett’s law office stood out from its neighbors by rejecting the rustic aesthetic in favor of a silver-gray plaster facade and Doric columns. Mr. Pritchett’s name and title were painstakingly painted on the picture window in bright brassy letters. From the outside, Marianne could see that his reception desk was unmanned. She hoped the office wasn’t closed, because she was barely resisting the siren call of the Rise and Shine as it was.
She pushed the door open, grateful for the cool embrace of the window AC unit. The office was subtly impressive, with walls painted the same light gray as the exterior and dark maple flooring polished by age and pacing. The air smelled of old paper and pipe smoke, and the sound of a ringing phone echoed through the silence. It felt exactly like the law office she worked for in Athens, down to the big rubber plant standing in a beaten copper pot in the corner.
Marianne wanted to wallow in it.
“Who’s there?” a whispery voice called from the back hallway.
“It’s Marianne McCready, Mr. Pritchett!”
“Well, looky here!” Suddenly, light footsteps echoed down the empty hallway.
Mr. Pritchett had always been a stubby man with rounded pink cheeks and twinkly blue eyes. Her brother used to joke that he would be better off baking cookies in a tree than practicing law, which usually got Duffy a whack on the back of the head from Daddy. He strode forward on his little banty rooster legs and shook Marianne’s hand vigorously.
“Hey there, shug!” he cried. “It’s been an age! Good to see you! I heard you were comin’ back, but I didn’t expect you to visit me so soon!”
“Well, we had a question come up at the funeral home and I was hoping I could look up some case law that could help us figure out how to handle it.”
“I might could help you.” Mr. Pritchett practically made (tiny) grabby hands for the pink envelope. “Whatcha got for me?”
“Well, I don’t want you to feel obligated to give us free legal advice,” Marianne said carefully.
“Honey, your grandpa buried my daddy when my mama—bless her soul—didn’t have a pot to throw. He let her pay off her balance in eggs and butter over the next eight years. Your family has done more than enough favors for mine. And I doubt you’re about to hand me a big ol’ class-action lawsuit. Give it over.”
Marianne snickered as she slapped the envelope into his palm.
“Poor Maisie. She’s been on the church prayer list for months now. Brother Marshall said she was real close to her appointment with the Lord.” Mr. Pritchett frowned as he read over Maisie’s funeral instructions. “I told her she needed to make a will with those idjit children of hers. And now it’s too late. Come on back, hon.”
Marianne couldn’t help but notice that the phone continued to ring as they walked back to his book-lined office.
“Does it violate attorney-client privilege if I ask why she didn’t write a will?” Marianne said as he gestured to a plush club chair across from his large walnut desk. The phone was still ringing, but Mr. Pritchett ignored it and poured her a glass of sweet tea from the beaded crystal pitcher he kept on his sideboard.
“Naw, because she was never my client, just a friend of my wife’s. You know Maisie. She never was one for confrontations. And she knew that it would cause trouble if she wrote out a will appointin’ Burt as her executor or leavin’ him any part of her property, especially if her children found it. And you know as sneaky as Laurie is, she would have snooped through the house and found it. Maisie kept puttin’ it off. She just kept tellin’ my Nancy, ‘Give ’em a few more years. They’ll come around.’ She ran out of years, that’s all.”
“So Lemm’s in charge of things?” Marianne asked. “The instructions she left aren’t legally binding at all?”
“They’re not notarized,” Mr. Pritchett said. “Or witnessed in any way. And as knot-headed as the Trinkitt kids are, they’re not gonna just give in out of the goodness of their hearts. I mean, Burt could take them to the civil court and try to push the matter. Get a handwriting expert involved, prove she wrote them. But even then, they could be dismissed. Besides, Burt doesn’t have that kind of money, to put a case through court. And none of this really matters, because you don’t have the luxury of time. Maisie is gonna die, soon from the sound of it, and this needs to be settled quickly.”
Marianne nodded sadly. “I guess my family has no choice but to abide by the Trinkitts’ wishes for a full funeral and burial.”
“Looks like,” he said, sighing when the phone rang again.
“Did you want to get that? Where is Miss Trudie?” she asked of his longtime secretary.
“Retired,” Mr. Pritchett grumbled. “Her husband told her that if she didn’t retire by his sixty-fifth birthday, he was gonna pack up the RV and tour Civil War battle sites without her. So she handed in her notice three months ago. And my office hasn’t run right since. If I pick up the phone, I just get distracted by whatever that person wants, and I get derailed from what I was supposed to be doin’. So I let the machine pick up and just answer everybody’s questions at the end of the day.”
“But what if it’s an emergency? Someone’s been arrested or is being questioned by the police right then and there?”
“I’ve got enough of a caseload that for right now, I’m not lettin’ that bother me.”
“This strikes me as an illogical way to run a business, Mr. George.”
He held up his hands. “I’m interviewin’ replacements, but so far the only gal who got through the interview process kept tryin’ to put ‘LOLs’ in her business correspondence, which I can’t stand.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” she told him, lips quirked into a smile.
He shook his head and slid the pink stationery across his desk. “How long are ya in town for?”
“Until August, when law school starts up. The family’s got me workin’ at the funeral home to keep my hands from bein’ idle.”
“I don’t suppose you’d want to work for me until then? Keep me from drownin’ in voice mail? It’s just answerin’ phones, filin’, and bein’ discreet. If you can handle the funeral home, you can handle it here.”
She grinned at the prospect of staying in this nice, quiet office where she actually understood most of what was happening. And then realized that would mean telling her family that she wasn’t going to work with them for the summer. Less than twenty-four hours after getting back into town. “I’ll think about it.”
“Let me know,” he said, offering her his hand to help her up from her chair. He ushered her out of his office, to the lobby. “And tell Miss Tootie that my Nancy is bringing a pecan pie to the card game this week.”
Marianne hooted. Tootie had been saving up her weekly card winnings for a while, hoping to take Grandpa E.J.J. on a Caribbean cruise—all expenses paid by her deftness at poker. “Are they still doing that?”
“You bet they are. Nancy’s been losing ten bucks to your grandma every week now for nigh on twenty years.”
“Good thing they keep the pots small.” Just as she opened the door, the phone rang again.
He sighed. “And think about that job offer. Whatever your family pays, I’ll double it.”
“I will, I promise.”
Marianne tried to get to the truck quickly, before the humidity ruined her hair. But just as she was climbing in, she spotted the red-and-white sign for Mason’s Towing, blinking at her from its spot next to the golf cart dealership. The shop was closed, which wasn’t unusual. Wendall Mason had always kept his business closed on Mondays to make up for all the weekend hours he lost to other people’s vehicular emergencies. It was a little irritating, though, knowing that her poor busted baby was locked in Carl’s repair bay, neglected, while she drove Duffy’s truck around.
She turned east, toward Peachtree, where Wendall Mason’s great-grandfather had built a veritable palace by Lake S
ackett standards. It stood high on the crest of a hill, overlooking Main Street, so the Masons could get the best view of the lake. It was a couple of blocks away, too far to pick along in her needle-thin heels. She started up the truck and moved it the scant half mile up the hill to the faded manor house.
While it was stately from afar, the house failed to impress up close. The gingerbread trim on the porch was molting old gray paint. The slate roof sagged. The fence looked like Hap Borchard’s smile, gapped and an indeterminate rusty color.
A pit bull mix, mottled in a piebald pattern of reddish-brown and white, lay across the top of the limp porch steps. While he had the stocky build and barrel head of a typical pit, his snout was elongated like a bird dog’s and his ears perked up. Frankly, he reminded Marianne of the goblin puppets from that David Bowie movie. Marianne could hear the strains of “The Meanest Girl in Town” from inside the house, underscored by the whine of power tools.
She was starting to resent Elvis for providing the awkward, emotionally provocative soundtrack to her life.
The dog’s glassy black eyes followed her on her ascent up the front walkway, but his head didn’t move as she got closer.
“If I ask real nicely, can you agree not to bite me?” Marianne asked in a calm voice. “These pants were not cheap and it’d be a shame to ruin them.”
“He doesn’t bite. Unless you’re an Auburn fan,” Carl called as he walked through the frame of the open door. He was wearing ratty jeans, and while he was technically in possession of a shirt, it was hanging loose from the waistband of his jeans to soak up sweat. Sweat that was rolling down his smooth, tanned skin in tempting droplets. On an unrelated note, Carl had been working out since the last time she saw him shirtless.
Her dignity was taking a lot of hits today.
Desperate to look anywhere else but at Carl’s attractive sweaty chest, Marianne spotted the small metal tag hanging from the dog’s red leather collar. It read PIG.
“Your dog’s name is Pig?”
“That’s all he’ll answer to,” Carl swore. “I tried calling him King or Spot. I even called him Tupelo for a while. He just ignored me. But as soon as I offered him a pig’s ear, he perked right up. So ‘Pig’ stuck. He rides with me on jobs sometimes, unless I know the person doesn’t like dogs or is allergic or something.”
“How long have you had him?”
“Couple of months. Tootie found him all twisted in some fishing line on the shore near your place, took him in and nursed him up. He was super skittish and wouldn’t eat for nobody. Tootie was afraid that she’d have to take him to the vet for supplements or a feedin’ tube or something. But I came by for a visit, fed him beef jerky I had in my pocket, and he’s been my buddy ever since.”
“That’s a pretty big deal, my grandma givin’ you one of her dogs. Duffy asked her if he could keep that beagle, Roscoe, when he was eleven? Tootie told him no, that maybe after he kept a goldfish alive for more than a few weeks at a time, she’d think about it.”
“Well, he did go through a lot of goldfish,” Carl said.
“So.” She gestured to the large foyer behind Carl, which was empty save for cut lumber and paint-spattered tarps. “This is . . . spacious.”
“It’s a little close to town for my tastes. And I haven’t got much done,” he said, waving her into the foyer. Though the parlor and dining room still had large holes in the hardwood floors and plastic sheeting over cracked wall plaster, Carl’s efforts showed in the newly replaced windows and refinished stairway. Marianne supposed knowing the stairs weren’t going to collapse from underneath you was a big plus when living in a two-story house. She spotted multiple cans of paint in the corner, with subtle shades of slate blue and sage green dabbed on the lids.
Marianne could imagine those colors on the walls. She could see the floors polished to a high shine, covered in soft area rugs in complementary shades. She could see comfortable, functional furniture arranged around the stone fireplace, meant to encourage people to sit for a while, get comfortable. She could see dinners served on a long maple table in the dining room. She could hear forks scraping against plates and laughter and conversation. This could be a home.
“I don’t have a lot of time to work on it. It’s why I keep the whole ‘Mondays off’ thing goin’, just so I can get some hours in.”
“I guess this is the wrong time to ask about my car, huh?”
“I’ll get started as soon as I get the parts. It won’t take me long,” Carl told her, flicking her with a bandanna from his back pocket. Marianne laughed. “Smartass.”
“I know, you’ve gotta work on my car if you’re gonna pay for the repairs on this place.”
Carl grimaced. “Yeah, but it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than where I grew up. There’s a roof, with no holes, for one thing. And I can get through the night without worrying that my mama’s gonna set the place on fire trying to make scrambled eggs three sheets to the wind.”
Marianne sighed. “It must be kind of nice, havin’ the whole place to yourself . . . she said after spending one night under her parents’ roof.”
Carl snickered. “Growin’ up the way I did, where my whole life could get turned upside down by someone else’s screwup, yeah, it’s nice. I like knowing that I’m not gonna come home to a huge blowup fight, or the screen door ripped off because it wouldn’t close right. I know my bills are paid, so I’m not gonna wake up one morning without lights or water. It’s safe and it’s mine.”
“I get it,” she said. “It’s going to be beautiful when you’re finished.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling with genuine pleasure for the first time since she’d come back to town. He’d stopped smiling for her like that on that day on the lakeshore, when she’d stomped his heart into the high grass.
“Carl, about how I left things—” she began.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, the smile sliding off his face like greased lead.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I hurt you and that was wrong. I should have apologized a long time ago, I just didn’t know how.”
“ ‘I’m sorry’ is a good way to start,” Carl grumbled.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was young and I was scared and I was stupid.”
“Scared?” Carl’s brows drew together. “Why in the hell were you scared?”
“Hey, Carl!” a bell-like voice called from outside. Carl leaned through the door. Marianne saw a train of elementary school children holding hands as they trooped down the sidewalk in front of Carl’s house. They were singing a song about counting by fives and some of them seemed to be skipping. A woman with long black hair and a tiny Scarlett O’Hara waist was leading them, also skipping.
The dark-haired Pied Piper waved. Carl’s face lit up in a bright, happy expression and he waved back. Marianne wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe she hated this woman on sight.
“Hey, Jessie!” he called. “Goin’ to the park?”
“It’s bug project day!” one of the kids yelled. “We’re gonna catch butterflies!”
“I’m gonna get me a frog!” a short ginger-haired boy bellowed, making Marianne wince. “I don’t like butterflies.”
“Come on, kids!” Jessie called, waving to Carl. Marianne couldn’t help but notice that the happy expression was still plastered across Carl’s stupid, beautiful face.
An awkward silence hung between them as the kids trooped away. Marianne shifted, resisting the urge to lift her damp hair off her neck. So that was who Carl was dating now. She was gorgeous. And apparently worshipped as a deity by small children. This was Marianne’s nightmare.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said, hitching her purse over her shoulder.
“Marianne, come on, we need to talk.”
But Marianne was already halfway down the front steps. And she’d learned to make pretty good time in those heels.
“I’ve gotta go!”
5
MARIANNE HAD STRIPPED down to her suit pants and camisole, drinking moonshine and sweet tea from a jar from the Snack Shack. She’d stayed late at work, trying to catch Junior so she could have more than a passing “hi” from her father, but he’d been so busy, he’d kept putting her off. And when the last visitation cleared out, just after six, he got called out to an incident involving a “homemade bungee jump rope.”
She stared out over the twilight-colored water, but the quiet, gentle lapping against the dock did nothing to calm her. Carl was dating the modern personification of Snow White.
Marianne wanted to be happy for him. She really did. And maybe it was the moonshine doing her thinking, but maybe she wanted this girl gone. Not dead or kidnapped by an Internet predator or anything, just gone. She’d thought that she wanted Carl to be happy. She’d thought she wanted him to marry someone else and make pretty babies with her. But she didn’t want that at all. She didn’t want him to be miserable or bald or anything. She just wanted him alone. Happy, but alone. Was that so wrong?
Marianne swallowed the sweet moonshine combination and winced. She was not a good person. Nope.
A cold wave of panic washed through her as, for the first time since she’d fled Lake Sackett, she felt a tiny bit of doubt about her seven-year plan. What if she was wrong? What if she was making a mistake, going to law school? What if living some life she’d conjured up in another city wouldn’t make her any happier than living in Lake Sackett? She enjoyed her life in Athens, but what if that was just the side effect of her desperation to be different from her high school classmates? What if the novelty of living apart was all that kept her there? Did she want to be a lawyer? She liked the intricacies of the law, like a puzzle to solve in order to help people. But did she really want to wait another three years before she started her working life? What if she was committing a small fortune to an education she might not want? For no other reason than she didn’t know what else to do with herself?