“He’s a rescue.” Shelly held the pie dish as Duane scooped out his slice. “His previous owner was a film producer.”
“Cut me a piece, too.” I held my plate out. “And what kind of films did this guy make?”
“Oliver’s owner was a woman and she made, uh,” Shelly scratched the back of her ear, and then said on a rush, “dominatrix films.”
“No shit?” Duane spoke around his bite of pie, looking like he was trying not to choke.
“She was a sadist.”
“Oh no.” Jess’s face contorted with distress. “She didn’t hurt Oliver, did she?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Shelly’s features softened at Jess’s obvious worry. “But she taught him some colorful phrases and left him alone a lot. I’ve been trying to teach him new vocabulary, but I think he’ll always revert to his earlier training.”
“Can I meet him?” Jess asked hopefully. “I have a cat—”
“Sir Edmund Hilary. He keeps trying to murder her,” Duane explained, then shoved another bite of pie in his mouth.
“—but I always wanted a parakeet. Natalie Mason’s mom had two and they used to sit on our fingers. They were so beautiful.”
“Sure.” Shelly nodded, not sounding at all sure, and pushed back from the table. “I put him on the porch when I leave in the morning, so he has more room. He’s through here.”
“This place has a porch?” Duane looked from Shelly to me. “When did that happen?”
“I’ve made improvements.”
She is amazing. Was there anything she couldn’t do?
Jess followed Shelly while my brother and I ate our second helpings of pie.
Once they were out of earshot, Duane tapped on the table. “Hey, you should ask Claire.”
“Ask her what?”
“Ask her about what Christine might want. Claire might have some ideas what her momma wants with you.”
I scratched my chin, debating the merits of this idea.
But before I could respond, we were interrupted by a terrified-sounding shriek that had Duane and me sharing a stare of alarm.
Jumping into action, we both darted for the back of the cabin, tracing the steps Shelly and Jess had taken moments prior. We busted onto the porch just as another shriek filled the air.
Duane pushed past me and charged toward Jess, turning her to him and holding her close. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s fine—”
“That’s how he says hi.” Shelly’s face was scrunched in a grimace. “He screams when I introduce him to new people.”
Oliver let out another blood-curdling screech.
“Holy hell.” Duane backed away from the parrot, now perched on a leather sleeve covering Shelly’s arm.
“Hell. Hell. Hell.” The bird chanted.
“I try not to curse around him because he’ll immediately repeat it.” Shelly looked sadly at Oliver. “You’re a good bird.”
“Good bird. Darin is a good bird,” he echoed dutifully.
“Who is Darin?” Duane’s face scrunched in confusion.
“See?” Shelly turned a hopeful look toward me. “He can change.”
But then Oliver said, “Bend over, fuckface.”
And Shelly’s smile fell.
“Oh my.” Jess and Duane traded a look.
“He has a line about roosters, too,” I warned.
“Roosters?” Jess glanced at me questioningly.
“I think he means c-o-c-k-s.” Duane tried to whisper, but we all heard it.
And apparently, Oliver could spell, because he announced, “Cocks are for closers!”
In the silence that stretched following Oliver’s pronouncement, I shared a quick look with Duane and knew we were both thinking about the same thing, the same night over a year ago, and jokes about roosters. But I couldn’t hold his stare without laughing, so we both looked to the ceiling, rolling our lips between our teeth.
“It’s not funny,” Shelly said, like she was reprimanding herself. Her statement drew my attention back to her. She was also pressing her lips together and looked close to losing it as well. But she also looked guilty, like she was beating herself up for the urge to laugh.
“It’s sorta funny.” Duane gave her a rare smile, then reached over and patted her on the arm.
I stepped forward and rubbed her back, needing to explain why Oliver’s phrase had struck a funny bone with us. “The week before our momma died, we all traded rooster and chicken jokes, just to hear her laugh.”
Duane gave Shelly’s arm a squeeze before letting his hand drop. “Sometimes, things are sad and unfortunate. But finding the funny in a situation can make the sad and unfortunate more bearable.”
* * *
I didn’t cancel on Hank, but I wanted to.
Instead, I woke up at the same hour criminals went to bed, loaded up on coffee, and dragged my ass up to his place on Bandit Lake for Wednesday fishing.
“You look like shit.” He smiled, and then lifted his chin toward my ride. “Where’s the GTO?”
“You don’t want to know.” I grabbed my fishing gear from the back seat of Cletus’s old beater and walked past Hank, bypassing his McMansion and making a beeline for the dock.
He fell into step beside me. “Late night?”
“Yep.”
I sensed Hank hesitate before asking, “You and Patty?”
Stopping short, I peered at my friend. “What is wrong with you? I know you got a thing for her since the spring. What kind of friend would I be if—”
“Settle your feathers.” He held his hands up. “I was just asking.”
“Well, don’t ask stupid questions.” I continued my march toward the boat, seeing red and spitting nails.
Here I was, making a point to come out fishing after cancelling on Hank last week, wanting to be a good friend. And what does he do? Accuse me of going after the woman he’s interested in. What the hell?
“I—uh—I have something I need to tell you.” Hank leaned in close as we walked, his voice hushed.
“What about?”
“Don’t get mad. Slow down.”
I didn’t slow down; I was ready to get fishing.
I glanced at him again. “What did you do?”
He grimaced. “It’s no big deal.”
“Then why’re you making that face?”
“Because—shit.” Hank tugged on my arm, bringing me to a stop, his attention affixed to some point in front of us.
Confused, I followed his line of sight and my stomach dropped. No more than six feet away stood Christine St. Claire and Drill.
To her credit, the woman’s expression wasn’t smug. She wasn’t smiling. She was just looking at me expectantly, like Let’s cut the shit, shall we?
Releasing a gigantic sigh, I closed my eyes and shook my head. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so pissed off at Hank.
“We’re going to give you two some privacy.” Drill’s rumbly voice had me opening my eyes a slit and peering at Hank.
My friend had the good sense to look guilty. He also had the good sense to refrain from offering excuses for his shitty behavior. He grabbed my fishing gear, giving me a tight, remorseful smile, and moved off with Drill toward the boat.
I watched them walk off, making all sorts of plans for retribution. Perhaps I would consult Cletus on the matter. He was the king of retribution after all.