He laughed. “There you go,” he said. He reached for his jeans and pulled them on. “You might get the hang of this joke thing yet.”
Of course, I hadn’t been joking. Not at all.
“I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s go see what’s in the fridge.”
After we ate cereal, we washed our dishes by hand since there was no dishwasher. While Dekker showered, I looked around to see if there were any magazines or books, but I found none. I wished for the one I’d left behind with my suitcase and guns.
A weathered red Ford Taurus drove up and parked in front of the house, and the dog barked. I didn’t see how you could keep a dog outside with how cold it got up here, but he obviously wasn’t allowed in the cabin. Through the window, I saw Mitch get out of the car and walk to the house with the dog close behind. My palms got sweaty again, waiting for Mitch to unlock the door, and I couldn’t figure out why. Was I afraid he was going to reject me? Ask me to leave? That this trip had all been for nothing? Or was it just because I didn’t know him at all?
He came in, closed the door behind him. “Good morning,” he said.
I gripped the arms of the rocking chair, my heart pounding. I wished Dekker would come out of the bathroom already.
“Where is your friend?”
“He’s taking a shower,” I said.
“Good,” he said, sitting on the couch. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”
My hands got clammier and I rocked a little faster.
“I certainly appreciate his bringing you to me.” Mitch didn’t look directly at me. He jabbed up his glasses. “I’d like to repay him. He told me about the show coming up.”
For a second I didn’t know what he was talking about but then I remembered Dekker’s drumming job in Kansas City.
“I’d like to see that he makes it back in time to rehearse, but I’d also like us to have more time together.” Mitch reached out and took hold of my chair arm, halting the rocking motion. I had to force myself not to brace my feet and push against his restraining grip.
“Okay,” I said, moving my hand that was nearest to his to my lap.
He fixed me with an intent gaze. “But I think he’s hesitant to leave you here. He’s willing to miss the show just to make sure you’re safe—-and I appreciate that about him—-but I think if you tell him he can go ahead and leave, he’ll understand that you’re okay staying here by yourself.” With every emphasized word he jerked the chair a tiny bit closer. “What do you think?”
I didn’t think I was ready for that. But when would I be?
“How will I get back there?” I said. Even though earlier I’d been thinking about living here with Mitch, the reality of it made me nervous. I reached up to scratch the bump on my shoulder and dug into the injury by accident, forgetting the bump had been replaced by a laceration. It hurt.
“I’ll just put you on a plane when you’re ready,” he said with a smile, his tiny eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I don’t want to lose you again.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, you need to put others before yourself sometimes, don’t you agree?”
I nodded slowly, trying to discern why his words made me anxious. What he said was the truth, but I couldn’t help but feel accused somehow.
“When he comes out of the bathroom,” Mitch said, “why don’t you tell him I’m taking you all on a tour of the mine. And then you can tell him you want to spend some alone time with dear old dad, and he should go on back without you.”
I wished I could talk to Dekker about this alone, but I didn’t know when we’d get the chance. I didn’t say anything. Mitch gave my hand a squeeze, patted it and rose from the couch. I fought the desire to wipe my hand off. His was spongy and moist, nothing like Michael Rhones’s callused ones.
“I’m going to make some coffee.” He smiled at me and went in the kitchen.
I didn’t really care about seeing a mine, but if it was important to him, it was important to me. I knew from TV that -people liked to show other -people stuff as a way of explaining themselves, what they liked, what made them who they were. I wanted to know who he was because he was my father. I just needed to get used to him.
MITCH HAD A cup of coffee waiting for me when I came out of the bathroom. I sat next to him on the couch.
“So tell me,” he said. “How did Michael Rhones die?”
“He had a heart attack,” Petty said.
“Heart attack,” Mitch said, shaking his head. “So young. So sad. But it’s brought you to me, so it’s not all bad, is it?”
It seemed to me then that maybe Petty had inherited some of her social awkwardness from Mitch, because who would say such a thing? I decided to steer the conversation in another direction.
“Why don’t you tell Mitch about Randy King and all that?” I said to Petty.
She told him about the forced betrothal, but she didn’t mention how much money there was. She also didn’t mention the arrest warrants or any other unpleasantness. As she talked, Mitch’s eyes went flat and his expression hardened.
“That bastard,” Mitch said. “That coldhearted, manipulative bastard.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s Randy.”