“That’s not helping.”
Beau stepped forward. “Actually, sir, the beer’s not for her. It’s for the film crew.”
Jack crossed his arms, the tic in his jaw starting. “Is that right?”
“Dad!” Nola stepped in front of Jack, and I was struck again by their nearly identical profiles with the same stubborn chin. “I gave them each a copy of one of your books with a can of beer.” She lowered her voice. “I overheard you and Melanie talking about how the filming needs to go smoothly, and I thought I’d do my part. Everyone knows that sometimes you have to put a fatter worm on the hook to get the fish to bite.”
Jack dropped his arms, his face softening as he studied his daughter. “Thanks, Nola. I had no idea that you knew how to fish.”
She slid a glance toward Beau. Looking embarrassed, she said, “It was his idea. And I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It was at the moment that Jack noticed the motorcycle at the curb, a large knapsack sitting on the ground next to it. “Is that yours?”
“It is now. It used to be my dad’s back in the day. It was stored at my grandparents’ mountain house during Katrina, so it wasn’t destroyed.”
Jack didn’t say anything as he stepped closer to the motorcycle. “A vintage Harley Shovelhead. Nice bike. ’Seventy-five?”
“?’Seventy-seven. I know that only because it was the year my mom was born. I was told that my dad had to do a lot of searching until he found one from the right year. Did a complete nut-and-bolt restoration.”
Jack walked around the bike, pretending to study it, although I could tell he was busy figuring out his next move. Without looking at Beau, he said, “I remember your dad. He fixed me up after a skirmish in Nangarhar. Good surgeon. He had a higher survival rate than most.”
Beau watched Jack, his face expressionless.
Jack straightened. “For some reason the Afghanis wouldn’t let him near them. Never understood why.”
Beau didn’t flinch or blink. He simply stared back at Jack, almost daring him to ask the unspoken question. As I waited for one of them to make a move, I was distracted by the sudden formation of a translucent cloud hovering over the wide leather seat of the motorcycle. No one else seemed to notice it, and it disappeared completely when Jack finally spoke.
“Nola, why don’t you go inside and have your breakfast? Use the kitchen door, please.”
“But, Dad—”
“Go.” He didn’t shout.
We were left alone, facing Beau, feeling oddly disadvantaged, standing in our pajamas and a couch throw.
Beau broke the awkward silence. “I need to get to class. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have brought the beer. It seemed like a good cause.” He moved toward the motorcycle.
“Does Nola know the purpose of your podcast?” Jack asked, an edge to his voice.
Beau slung the knapsack on his back, then kicked up the side stand before straddling the Harley. “I have no idea. We’ve never discussed it. I’m here today only because I overheard her talking with Amelia about that Marc guy and the filming. Other than that, we’ve kept our conversations limited to the store and work.”
I stepped forward. “I listened to several episodes last night. So we’re curious, Beau, about your motives for seeking employment at Trenholm Antiques. Jack and I can’t help but think that you read Marc’s book and took what he wrote about me as fact. Then you looked for a way to insinuate yourself into our family so you could observe me at close range.”
A foul odor drifted up from the front of my robe, but I didn’t look down. I had a good idea of what it was and made a mental note to reexamine my choice of diaper brands.
Beau grinned, altering his face from merely good-looking to movie-star handsome. I’d have to ask Nola if she’d ever noticed. Or maybe not, judging by the narrowed-eye scrutiny with which Jack was now regarding him.
“Think what you want, but I needed a job and I’m familiar with antiques. It was a no-brainer. And Trenholm isn’t an unusual name in South Carolina, so it wasn’t a natural conclusion that you were related.”
“So it was a coincidence?” Jack asked.
Our mantra rang inside my head: There’s no such thing as coincidence.
“Sure,” Beau said, priming the kick start a few times before giving it a solid pump. A loud rumble erupted from the engine, making it impossible to continue our conversation, which I’m sure was not a coincidence.
I shouted over the noise, “You should wear a helmet, you know. Dr. Wallen-Arasi calls motorcyclists who don’t ‘organ donors.’?”
He didn’t seem to hear me, his attention drawn to the asphalt by the side of the Harley where a set of isolated wet footprints had stopped. Light brown eyes fixed on mine briefly before Beau glanced at his wristwatch—a real one. “I have to get to class now. Good-bye, Mr. and Mrs. Trenholm.”
He slid on a pair of aviator sunglasses and, with a rev of the engine, pulled out into the street, the rumble of the engine following him like a restless ghost. The thought made me look down at the street, but the footprints were gone.
“It’s not a coincidence, is it?”
Jack shook his head, his gaze following the bike as it disappeared down Tradd Street. “Nope. And if he thinks my daughter will ever ride on that thing, he’s got another think coming.”
I remembered photographs, which Amelia had shown me, of Jack in his younger years on or standing near a similar motorcycle. More often than not with some beautiful woman on the seat behind him. I judiciously refrained from commenting.
I shivered in the cold and Jack put his arm around me. I needed to remember to wear fewer sweaters than I needed so this would keep happening. We were approaching the piazza steps as I attempted to remember something Beau had said at our first meeting.
“Do you recall what Beau said about his parents?”