JJ rinsed off under the outside spigot while his new idol, who had totally cool scars, took a tepid shower in the men’s shower room. Already beyond the tiff in the river and having forgotten being grounded, he pestered Nell while she cleaned up in the RV.
“But you gotta see ’em, Mom. They’re gnarly.”
Nell permitted herself a small smile as she finger-combed her short hair in the mirror and raked gel through the ends in an upward motion. Claire was right. The blond, spiked tips were demanding another bleaching. She smeared on sunscreen and powdered her nose. Added a hint of coral lipstick. While she was dressing, she asked, “JJ, are you turning into a Peeping Tom?”
“What’s a Peeping Tom? Hurry up, Mom, I’m starving.”
“A Peeping Tom is a bad, low-life dude who sneaks around and looks in people’s windows.”
“Nope. I was looking in the door. How’d he get ’em?”
“I don’t—” Nell stopped herself. JJ was far more mature than other kids his age, simply because he hung around with adults all the time. And river guides, which wasn’t necessarily the same thing. There were only three other children his age living near them. All were girls and none were river rats. JJ read at a third-grade level before he started first grade. He had known there wasn’t a Santa Claus from age four. He had watched The Unit on TV with the river guides for three months before Nell found out he was being exposed to the violent life of a special forces soldier. He was chronologically six. Nearly seven. Mentally, he was somewhere closer to sixteen, and he always knew when she was telling a white lie. Nell stepped from the back of the RV to the kitchen and slid her feet into bright yellow river flip-flops. “He was a policeman, JJ. He was injured in the line of duty.”
“Like Sergeant Hector in The Unit. ’Cept he lived. Right?”
“I suppose. But you can’t ask him about his scars.”
“Why not?” her son asked, the belligerent tone back in his voice.
“Because that’s something that he has to volunteer to tell.” She grabbed his chin and made him look at her. “He might not want to tell it, JJ. It might be something he’s not ready to talk about. Like when Perkins died and you didn’t want to talk about your parakeet. He was dead and buried four days before you told Jedi Mike.”
JJ frowned. “I didn’t want to cry.”
“Right. And maybe Orson doesn’t want to cry. You cannot ask him.”
JJ heaved a sigh. “Yes, ma’am. Can we go now? Hey. Why’re you wearing lipstick?” His gamin face took on a sly smile. “Oh, I know. You want to do the big nasty, right?”
“JJ! No, I do not want—Where did you hear that?”
He shrugged his bony shoulders up to his earlobes. “Why? What’s it mean?”
“I’m gonna shoot me some river guides. And no, I am not gonna be doing the big nasty with anyone. Do not say that again. To anyone. Or I’ll tell Orson the story about you trying to learn how to do a C-to-C.”
JJ ducked his head. “I was only four.”
And cute as a button, too. And nearly drowned. But Nell said neither, gathering up her check card, cell and ten dollars in cash. “Remember. No scars. No big nasty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Orson watched for Nell and JJ from across the street at the Smokehouse. He’d taken control of a table for four, washed the plastic tablecloth, brushed crumbs off the picnic-bench seat, ordered French fries as an appetizer and found a full ketchup bottle. The restaurant sold both fast food and groceries, with a preponderance of high-fat canned goods, frozen treats, cola and beer—which couldn’t be consumed on the premises with the owner’s current liquor license. Which meant there were a lot of to-go orders.
Around him sat truckers, a table full of hungover river guides starting their day at noon with carbonated caffeine and BBQ, and a dejected family of six who had hoped to take the upper Pigeon in a raft. The power company guaranteed to run water Tuesday through Thursday, and on Saturday. Other days were a crapshoot. The power company would open the dam sluices if they could sell power or if local need required it, and today they hadn’t seen fit to let water into the river outside of the schedule, spoiling the family’s holiday. The guides had given directions to the Nantahala, which was running today, but the parents had to move on, making the Tennessee plateau by dark. The kids were whining and spoiled. A far cry from the spunk, determination and bullheaded intelligence he could see in JJ.
The door of the RV parked in the gravel lot outside of Rocking River opened; Nell and her son stepped down to the parking area. JJ was wearing baggy shorts and an oversize gym shirt, and walked with a carefully studied swagger he’d clearly copied from a hero. The gait brought a smile to Orson’s lips. Nell…Nell was in a short denim skirt with yellow flip-flops and a chest-hugging blue top with spaghetti straps. River-rat clothes, but on her they became something else. A fashion statement all her own. Wet blond hair stuck up in tufts. Though she was short, her legs, arms, shoulders and face were lean, strong and tanned. Casual. Earthy.
She squinted at the restaurant and lifted a hand when she saw him through the windows. Orson felt something turn over inside, something broken and sharp-edged. Something painful. He lifted a hand in return. Nell looked both ways, a hand on JJ’s shoulder, and guided them across the street.
Hartford was an intersection just off of I-40. The air was constantly filled with the roar of eighteen-wheelers, the smell of exhaust and tires. It had little going for it except the river, and that the little town was bereft of chain food stores, hotels and the other boring parts of reproducible Americana. It was its own little piece of reality, with family-owned restaurants, a couple of bed-and-breakfasts and family-owned campgrounds.
He had done his research and knew that many members of the town council and county council wanted to make it easier for chains to move in, calling it progress. But they were making a mistake, in his opinion. The town was a slice of disappearing America. They should capitalize on that instead. Not that he’d be around long enough to tell any of them that. But he liked it the way it was. Homey. Different. Like Nell Stevens.
Nell belonged here. With her son.
Had she killed her husband because he wanted to take her and their then-unborn baby to New York to live? Had Joseph Stevens lost control, beat her in a fit of rage, and she killed him in self-defense? Had she just wanted the money? Or had he gotten stuck in a strainer and cut off his PFD to get free, then never resurfaced? Was Nell the grieving widow she had appeared nearly seven years ago or a cold-blooded murderer? Or was someone else involved?
If so, who? And where was Joseph Stevens? Where was the body?
Or was he even dead? Had he just up and left, disappeared into a new life somewhere? It happened. It wasn’t impossible. But if so, then the guy had taken off without his money. Not likely.
And then there was Robert Stevens. The guy had money enough to hire a hit. It happened more often than people imagined.
His reverie broke when the door opened and mother and son walked into the Smokehouse. Both took a deep breath of the smoky, hickory-flavored air. JJ, forgetting his strut, ran over. “You ordered yet? I’m starvin’. They got real good barbecued chicken and I always get the legs. Mama likes the sliced beef, and Mama Claire likes the pulled pork. Whatcha gettin’?”
One knee on a bench, Orson pivoted and looked at Nell, standing at the chin-high ordering counter, chatting with the cook, a grease-smeared man in a dirty white apron, river clothes beneath. “I’ll have whatever your mom is having.” He moved to stand behind her.
Nell said, “The usual, Bones. Sauce on the side, okay?”
“I remember, Nell. What about your friend?” There was a world of innuendo in his tone and the back of Nell’s neck colored.
Orson said, “I’ll have what she’s having, with sides of slaw and onion rings.” He held up a Coke with one hand to show he had his drink, and reached over the meat display case with his other. “Orson Lennox. I’m the new kayak instructor for Rocking River.”
“Ah,” he said, sounding disappointed, the tone of a deflated inveterate gossip. “So, I’ll put his on the shop tab, too?” Bones asked Nell.
“I have cash,” Orson said, handing over a ten. To Nell he added, “Tab?”
“Some of the guides have cash-flow problems,” she said. “I keep a tab open here and guides can sign for food. Food only, groceries or meals, no beer unless they have to make a swim buy. And only on the day before payday unless you come to me first. If you run the tab, I take it out of your check.”
“Mom? You want Fanta or Dr Pepper?” JJ asked.
“I’ll have the peach Fanta today, JJ. And you can have whatever you want.”
“Even if it’s got caffeine?” he said, incredulous.
“Today only.”
“Peach Fanta?” Orson said, pointing to the table he had taken. “Forgive me for saying so, but that sounds gross.”
Nell grinned up at him, accepting a Fanta from JJ as she sat, sliding her legs around the end of the bench seat. “No worse than what you’re drinking. And no caffeine.”
“And you live without caffeine, how?”
Nell laughed, a lively, energetic sound. A real laugh, not the public laugh most women used, no polite titter. Nothing like Janine…He stopped cold, staring down at the tiny woman. God help him. Janine had tittered. How could he have been so stupid as to marry a titterer?
“I drink caffeine,” Nell said. “But only when I’m on the river. I had to give it up when I was pregnant with JJ and never started back on it, except as an energy drug.” She frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.” Orson straddled the bench, facing her, and drank his Coke, his mouth strangely dry. He pushed the French fries to JJ, who sat across from them, arms akimbo on the tablecloth, his chin cradled in his hands.
The boy immediately stuck three fries into his mouth at one time and started chewing, his head bouncing up and down to accommodate the motion of his jaw. Two inches of fries stuck out of his mouth, the potatoes waggling with each chew. As he swallowed the fries, JJ raised up and popped the top of the Fanta, sliding it across to Nell before popping the top of his own drink, a Cherry Coke. Orson took a fry, dipped it in ketchup and ate it. Grease and carbs, two of the food groups of choice for river rats. “You go on the river?” he asked.
“I pull my share of rafting guide jobs,” she said, and Orson wondered at the careful way she said it. “You ever work as a guide or just kayaking?” she asked him.
“I’ll guide, but it isn’t my favorite. I like hard boats.”
“River rat. Like me,” JJ said. After a swig of cola to wash down more fries, he said, “But I’m gonna do it all, soon as I’m big enough to get my certification. Rocking River always needs guides,” he said, sounding as if he was quoting someone older. Nell? “Tips are good. You should do guide trips too. Jedi Mike can take you down the Upper and Lower and get you trained.”
Orson glanced at Nell, who was smiling at her son. “I’ll do that,” he said. Changing the topic, he asked, “What’s JJ stand for?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to see what the boy would say.
“Joseph Junior. My daddy disappeared before I was born and Mama named me after him. What kinda name is Orson, anyway? It’s weird.”
“JJ!”
Orson laughed, the sound raspy and soft compared to hers. “It’s okay. I was named after my daddy. He still calls me Junior. So do some of my childhood friends.” He leaned closer to the boy, across the table. “But JJ is way better than Junior. And frankly, so is Orson.”
“If you say so,” he said, clearly disbelieving. “Food’s ready, Mom.”
“I’ll get it,” Orson said. He stood, lifting his leg back across the bench. He carried a tray full of paper plates and napkins and small plastic bowls of sauce. The smell was unbelievably wonderful. “If this stuff tastes as good as it smells—”
“Better,” JJ said. “It’s the best stuff in the world. Even Uncle Robert and Grandmother Stevens like it, and they don’t like anything.”
“JJ,” Nell said again, sounding long-suffering. Orson laughed softly and Nell’s eyes flew to his face. He wondered why, but JJ continued.
“Mom doesn’t like it when I say it, but it’s true,” he said between chewing French fries and chicken leg coated in baked-on sauce and drinking Cherry Coke. The can was quickly coated with sticky sauce. “They come for Thanksgiving and they complain about the food and the beds in the house and the bugs—which is why they don’t come in summer anymore—but they like the Smokehouse, except for the smell.” He licked his fingers, smearing barbecue sauce up above his mouth. “Grandmother Stevens says the smell gets in her hair and she can’t get it out.”
Nell hid her eyes and looked at Orson. “He does know table manners. I promise.”
The boy took another bite of chicken leg, his face liberally coated from nose to chin and ear to ear. “They make me go up there to New York City, which is booooring. No rivers. Don’t ever go,” he advised. “And I have to go to museums and look at pictures. No, not pictures. Paintings,” he corrected. “And statues. Which isn’t so bad ’cause some of them are naked.” He ducked his head and looked pointedly at Orson. “Naked women. Showing boobs and everything.” He looked at Orson’s plate. “Your food’s gonna get icky.”
Orson made himself look away from the boy to the plate before him. He ate a couple of French fries, stacked the thick-sliced beef between two slices of bread and spooned on coleslaw and extra sauce. He took a bite and almost groaned. From the way JJ laughed, he must have looked moonstruck. Mouth full, he pointed at the sandwich. “Thish ish the bes’ thin’ I ever tasted.”
“Told you. Even Grandmother Stevens likes it.”
“Except for the smell in her hair,” Orson said around the food. Nell just shook her head, hiding a grin. He chewed and swallowed. “Is your mama gonna get mad at me for talking with my mouth full?”
“Yep. But I’m grounded already and you just work for her, so she can’t ground you.”
“Good thing.” He swallowed, looked at Nell and took another big bite. Halfway through chewing he said, “Some food is so good you can’t use manners when you eat it. It’s the law.”
“And you used to be a cop,” JJ said, imitating him by taking a big bite of chicken leg and talking around the meat. “Sho you know all ’bout it, riii?”
A peculiar feeling swept through Orson at the phrase. Used to be a cop. If he went back to the job after his recuperation, he’d be stuck in an office with piles of old evidence, ancient cold cases. Interviewing witnesses and suspects who had forgotten or imagined scenarios. Bored to death. Never again going undercover, as he had occasionally been called to do. Never again an asset loaned to different units as needed. Not on the streets. Not investigating active cases, where the action was.
JJ was looking at him with worry in his eyes. Orson didn’t want to be the cause of anything dark in the kid’s eyes. He forced a smile, the sensation feeling strange on his mouth. Unfamiliar. How long had it been since he smiled with ease? Really smiled, because the expression was called from within, not manufactured, required for social convention. Long before the shooting. “Yeah. I used to be cop, so I know the law.” He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “But now I’m a kayak instructor.” And he licked his fingers, to JJ’s delight.
Nell sighed and cut a dainty piece of sliced beef, tapped it into the sauce and held it before her. “I am surrounded by hooligans and barbarians.”
“You like barbarians?” JJ asked. “We got this cool DVD of Conan the Barbarian, who became the governor of California and has to wear suits with ties now.” He grabbed his neck as if choking. “Yuck. He’s got a cool sword. Wanna see it? The movie, not the sword. It’s in the RV. Mom has to work till three.”
“If your mother doesn’t mind. Sure. But we got to have popcorn for a movie.”
“Yeah! The RV has a microwave. Mom?”
Nell sighed again, and Orson applied himself to the sandwich so she wouldn’t see his silent laughter. “You call your friend Emmett. If he can come over, the three of you can watch DVDs together. Long as youns stay outta my hair so I can work.”
JJ looked at Orson. “Youns is Tennessee talk. It ticks off Grandmother Stevens, so Mom and I say it all the time.”
“Good for you,” Orson said.
“And Mom wants Emmett around so I can be safe around you.” JJ rolled his eyes and Nell blushed but didn’t refute the statement. “She thinks you’ll try to kidnap me and play grown-up games like sex with me.”
“JJ…” Nell said, sounding embarrassed and amused, and uncertain which emotion held more sway. To Orson, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re being a good mom.”
“But,” Nell said, amusement winning out as she banged her soda can against her head in mock frustration, a smile pulling at her mouth, “he’s giving away all my secrets.
“The Stevenses are okay,” she said, taking them back to more socially acceptable topics, “but I’m glad they live in New York and not closer. And I really don’t try to annoy them.”
“But she’s really good at it,” JJ said, his voice proud.
Orson laughed, staring at the sauce-smeared, amazing kid. He had made the acquaintance of Joseph Stevens’s mother. He figured anything that ticked off the old biddy was worthwhile. If he’d known that saying youns was all it took, he would have dropped into his native vernacular seven years ago. And maybe he’d have the chance later on. Fate was good about giving you second chances to do the right thing. Or to tick off old biddies.