It was close to noon. We had not eaten, slept, or exited at a rest stop since driving out of Jalesville in the darkness of predawn. Our list of facts had tentatively lengthened; I’d spoken earlier to Robbie, whose voice brought hot tears bursting to my eyes and throat. It was on the tip of my tongue to warn him of the danger to his life, to beg him to be careful; Robbie seemed completely unchanged in this lifetime, dishing out droll sarcasm exactly as I recalled from college.
“Gordon, please hurry back from your trip. This place blows without you around. I fucking hate spring break when I’m not springing or breaking someplace with topless chicks and rivers of booze. I hate being responsible and shit.”
“What place?” I had whispered, holding the phone to my ear with both hands.
“What’s with you? You sound weird. Are you and your sister fighting or something?”
“No, I’m just…I’m just tired.”
“Did you find a hot cowboy to ride, like you were hoping? Maybe two or three?” He cracked what sounded like a piece of gum and I could exactly picture his smirking smile. His words, delivered as one friend relishing the chance to mess with another, pierced the pieces of my already-shredded heart in ways he could not begin to imagine.
“What place?” I repeated, ignoring his taunting.
“Tish, come on. Our place of business, Turnbull and Hinckley, or have you forgotten where you work?”
Radiation zizzed through my limbs and I sat arrow-straight, startling Camille. Before I thought I cried, “We work at Turnbull and Hinckley?”
“Did you by any chance partake in drug usage last night? Maybe excessive grain alcohol consumption? Shit, I’m jealous…”
I bit down on my stupidity and conjured an authoritative tone. “Rob, what do you know about the Yancys? Franklin and Derrick, specifically.”
“The Brothers Grimm?” He chuckled at his own joke. “Their holdings are affiliated with several of Ron’s subsidiaries, as you well know. Don’t act like you don’t remember how Derrick tried to snag your sweet ass for, like, our entire last year of law school. He had it bad for you, Gordon. Probably still does, I don’t know. Haven’t seen him in a month or so.”
Never mind his shit, get more facts, I thought, sickened by Robbie’s insinuations about Derrick.
“What about Franklin, when was the last time you saw him in the city?”
“What’s with the urgency? You sound like you’re interrogating a witness. Which, at our current rung on the corporate ladder, we won’t be allowed to do for another decade-plus.”
“When?”
“Maybe a month or two. Ask your dad, he sees him more often.”
“Thanks, Rob. And listen.” For only a second hesitation held my tongue. “Please listen to what I’m about to say. If you care about our friendship even a tiny bit, trust me right now, okay? You have to trust me.” I stopped short of saying because your life depends on it. With as much authority as I could muster I ordered, “Quit. Seeing. Christina. Immediately, completely, and no excuses, all right?”
I disconnected before he could respond; ten seconds later I was on the phone with my father, Jackson Gordon.
“Hi, hon, how’s your trip? I can’t wait to hear.” Dad sounded exactly like the man I remembered, as smoothly polished as a collector car.
“Dad, when was the last time you saw Franklin Yancy?” I demanded, dispensing with any form of small talk or pleasantry. “Have you seen him since last night?”
I sensed my father’s puzzlement. “Franklin Yancy?” he parroted.
“When, Dad? It’s more important than you could realize.”
“Tish, what’s going on? You sound panicked.”
I drew a deliberate breath, thinking fast. “Sorry, it was a long night. I’m fine, just a little hungover. But I’d really like to know.”
“Well then, I guess it’s been a few weeks. He travels quite extensively, as you know. I believe he’s due home for the benefit dinner next weekend. Lanny and I are planning on attending. You should join us, hon, my treat. You’ve been dying for a new gown and an excuse to wear it, as I recall. You and Lanny can hit the stores.”
My soul seemed to fold even more tightly upon itself – I sounded so shallow and callous when confronted with these descriptions of my words and actions. Robbie and Dad were describing the person I’d been in danger of becoming before moving to Jalesville for an externship with Al, last summer; the materialistic, narrow-sighted woman who had never met Case Spicer and therefore learned what it meant to be loved absolutely, equally met and cherished in every way. With my free hand I gouged my fingernails into my thigh, digging through the layer of denim.
“Maybe I will, Dad,” I whispered, near the end of my emotional rope. “Listen, right now I’ve got to go. Milla and I are headed to Landon.”
“I’m so glad you two are taking some time for each other. Tell…” Dad paused. When his voice came back on the line it was rougher than it had been before, the polish having scraped away in spots. “Tell your mother hello from me.”
“I will, Dad,” I whispered and then hung up, tossing the phone to the floor mat and bending forward over my knees.
The road that curved around Flickertail Lake from downtown Landon and out to Shore Leave remained blessedly unchanged. I traded places with Camille for the last two hundred miles and we sat in expectant silence, alone inside both the stuffy interior of the car and the torture chambers of our own thoughts. Plans built to towering heights as I studied the monotony of the interstate beyond the windshield, only to disintegrate in the next second.
I ruffled without letup through the information we’d gleaned this morning, treating it like a mental stack of research documents. Ruthann
