Sweet Tea and Sympathy Page 9

  Bob gave her a pat on the head—what was with this family and head pats?—and walked out of the office. Margot thought he was out of hearing range when she muttered, “It’s not like it’s that hard.”

  But he was not. He heard. And that was when he put her in paperwork time-out, leaving her in the office largely unsupervised. It gave her plenty of time to think about the lunch scheduled with her father and how that was going to play out. She had so many things she wanted to say to him, but she knew she wouldn’t have time during one lunch. And she couldn’t exactly fulfill her teenage fantasy of telling him off and throwing a napkin in his face. That would make staying in Lake Sackett too uncomfortable. She’d accepted that she probably wasn’t going to get the answers she wanted that day. She was going to have to settle for collecting basic information about Stan McCready and hope that they could work up to her more complicated questions.

  At ten till noon, Margot combed her hair and slicked on another coat of lip gloss. Stan wouldn’t care about her grooming habits, she was sure, but it would settle her to know she looked her best. She waited, completing a few last-minute tasks that she could walk away from easily. She ignored the condor-size butterflies in her belly.

  It surprised her how unprepared she felt for this type of relationship. She’d thought she’d been close with her mother and stepfather, but she realized, watching the casual affection the McCreadys showed one another, that her family had been guarded even in their relaxed moments. Margot was reserved with Bob, uncomfortable with the encouragement he offered her at almost every turn. And she was even more politely distant with Tootie, who was a lot to handle even without a hangover.

  What if she wasn’t capable of being a daughter to a father? What if she found that Stan was a horrible person? Or Stan decided he didn’t like her after all?

  No. This was just lunch, she told herself. She had nothing to lose. This would not change her life. She was fine either way.

  So why did the two minutes after 11:58 seem to take so damn long?

  Margot’s foot jiggled under her desk in time with the fingers tapping against the surface.

  The digits finally crept to noon and . . . nothing. He was late, that was all, just running a little late. Margot was sure he was going to be there any minute with an explanation involving work, and in the spirit of cooperation, she would graciously shrug it off.

  As the minutes ticked by, her inclination to be generous eroded like Cousin Duffy’s truck bumper. Margot stood, slipped on her jacket, and walked a lap through the funeral home. She offered a polite but muted smile to the Akemans, who were discussing their mother’s service with E.J.J. Stan was nowhere to be found.

  Returning to her office—just in case Stan showed up after all—Margot pulled out her phone and texted Frankie down on the morgue level.

  Have you seen Stan?

  Frankie replied, U’re texting me from 1 floor away? Just come dwnstrs.

  That’s not happening.

  Fraidy cat.

  OK, but have you seen my Margot stopped typing and backspaced to replace my with Stan?

  Nope. Haven’t seen him for about an hr.

  Did he have to go pick up a body? Margot asked.

  Nope. My dad took pickups this afternoon because of your lunch plans.

  Margot breathed deeply and counted to ten. Stan didn’t have a work-related excuse for being late. She rubbed a hand over her sternum, willing the acidic burn there to fade away. She would not get upset over this. She would stay calm. She would be fine.

  A memory bubbled to the surface of her mind, of a very small Margot, waiting at the window of their first little apartment in Chicago, watching the street. She just knew her Daddy would be coming down the street at any minute. His big green truck would make that roaring noise, like a tiger, and she would know he was getting close, just like back home. She didn’t care what Mama said, this little room on the second floor of the moldy-smelling building wasn’t home. Home was the lake and Tootie’s house and the dogs. Daddy would be here any minute to take her home. She knew it.

  Margot shook her head. No. That memory couldn’t have been real. She’d spent years in therapy and never come close to any recollection like that. That was just a weirdly real daydream brought on by a few emotionally intense days and the remnants of moonshine in her brain.

  She was fine. This was disappointing but hardly surprising. Stan had spent her whole life avoiding contact with her; why would he suddenly want to schedule a one-on-one meeting just because Aunt Tootie had wedged Margot into the family’s life again? Margot had set herself up for this. Now she knew better than to reach out to Stan again. Lesson learned.

  Her head rose when she heard a light knock at the office door. She refused to let her disappointment show when she saw that it was Frankie.

  “It’s twelve nineteen,” Frankie said, her red mouth turning down at the corners. “That’s why you were textin’, right? Uncle Stan didn’t show up?”

  “No, he did not.” Margot opened a new file on the computer and started another obituary.

  “Dammit, Stan,” Frankie grumbled, whipping out her phone with its Avengers-themed cover. “I texted him, but he hasn’t responded, the doofus. I can’t believe he did this.”

  “It’s nothing, really.” Margot smiled, even though it made her face ache.

  “It is somethin’,” Frankie insisted, her cheeks red and flushed. “I’ve told him—well, never mind what I told him. But I told him what would happen if he pulled somethin’ like this.”

  “You two talk about me?” Margot asked.

  “He was nervous about today,” Frankie said. “He needed a pep talk.”

  Margot pinched her lips together and didn’t respond. Frankie tapped out messages on her phone while Margot typed out the names of Mrs. Akeman’s grandchildren.

  “He’s still not respondin’ even though my text messages are showing up as ‘read,’ ” Frankie seethed, shoving her phone in her pocket. “Do you want his cell number? Maybe he’ll answer if he knows it’s from you.”

  “No. If he wanted to be here, he would be here. I’m not going to beg him.”

  “There has to be a good reason for him not being here,” Frankie protested.

  “Then he can answer for himself. Frankie, I appreciate how concerned you are, really, I do. But you can’t do the work for Stan in this situation. Let this go.”

  “Well, at least go get something to eat. Just because Uncle Stan is bein’ a jackass doesn’t mean you have to starve.”

  “I have a protein bar in my purse for days like this. I’ll be fine.”

  “That is the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard,” Frankie said. “A ‘bar’ is not a meal, sweetie.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So you keep sayin’,” Frankie said. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Margot dropped her head, breathing deeply as Frankie’s sneakers thunked down the hall. Nothing had changed since this morning. Her father was still unreliable and unavailable. She’d lost nothing. Nothing about her life had changed. And when she went to the bathroom to check her makeup, she told herself it was the humidity that had smeared her mascara.

  Hours later, Uncle Bob stuck his head in the office door to find Margot still at the desk, updating preplanned service files. His expression was uncertain, as if he expected her to snap at him after that morning’s irritability.

  “Hey, Margot, I just got a call from Marianne. She’s stuck over at the elementary school. She took the boys there for Back to School Night and her car’s dead. Something about an angry ‘check engine’ light. I would go, but I have about thirty pounds of King Ranch potatoes arrivin’ any minute for Miss Elsie’s visitation dinner. Do you mind wrappin’ up and takin’ the van over there to pick them up? Carl can go get the car later.”

  “Sure, no problem,” she said, not bothering to ask what King Ranch potatoes were, because the answer would inevitably be “something car
by seasoned with pig.”

  “Thanks, hon. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Walking out the employee door, Margot swigged the last of her water and prayed she could make it to the van before the sweat rolled down her back. Across the lot, she spied Aunt Donna. She was standing on the dock, arguing with a tall African American man while waving what looked like a large hook in his face. Margot thought about intervening, but Duffy was standing right there, and when he saw Margot, he waved cheerfully, like there wasn’t a battle royale going down on their dock. If Duffy wasn’t alarmed, she wasn’t going to risk life and limb to help.

  The more frightening question was why Duffy wasn’t alarmed. Was this “normal” behavior from Donna?

  As the van cooled, Margot took advantage of the stronger cell signal and checked her phone. There were three increasingly urgent voice messages from Carrington, her former boss, asking her to call back right away. An inadvisable thrill of hope blossomed in Margot’s middle.

  Could this be the end of her exile? Was it possible that Carrington and the partners realized they couldn’t run the company without her and were asking her to come back? Or maybe Carrington was just trying to give her a tip on a good job in another city. That would be just as welcome. Margot plugged her earbuds into her phone jack and hit the CALL BACK button so quickly she almost dropped the phone on the van’s floor.

  Margot rolled the van out of the parking lot. Carrington picked up on the first ring. “Margot! Sweetie, how are you? Did you really move to Georgia or is Cecily in HR drinking again? Is it dirty and awful there? Tell me everything.”

  “I did move to Georgia,” Margot said, a bit stiffly. “It’s not dirty or awful. It’s actually very nice here. It’s warm, but I’m living in my family’s lakefront property. I’m very comfortable.”

  It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

  “Ugh, that means I owe Cecily ten dollars. I told her there was no way you’d move that far away from civilization. But she said you left a forwarding address for somewhere called Lake Sackett. I guess she wasn’t exaggerating.”

  Margot rolled her eyes. Had Carrington phoned to gloat over her situation or was there a point to this call? She’d thought they were friends, before she left Chicago. And just for her ego’s sake, she’d hoped that someone from her old life would call. It was possible she was still feeling residual anger at her father, but she found that she was annoyed with Carrington and her condescending tone.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Carrington?” she asked. “I’m on my way to meet some friends.”

  “Really? Well, I needed to ask you about the florist you used for the Hopmann Enterprises executive dinner last year. Franz simply refuses to follow the color schemes I’m giving him. He always seemed so cooperative when he worked with you. What’s your secret?”

  Margot huffed, “You fired me; that means you lose my secrets. I’m not super inclined to help you, especially since you’ve probably given Mandy my job by now.”

  “Of course we didn’t promote Mandy to your job! We promoted Natasha.”

  “Natasha? The intern?” Margot exclaimed.

  “It’s nothing personal, darling. Natasha’s put in her time. It’s only fair to give her a chance. Besides, I was only calling to see how you were doing down there in the sticks. I know it has to be awfully hard, but think of it like those boot camps where they send teenagers into the woods for character development. You’re going to come out of this stronger and better for it.”

  “I’m going to go now, Carrington.”

  “If you change your mind and decide to be a team player, you can—”

  “Good-bye, Carrington.”

  Once she managed to shake off Carrington’s “concern,” Margot found the elementary school pretty easily. It was at the end of Main Street, located right next to the Lake Sackett Middle and High School. Dozens of families were milling around the parking lot while a screen-printed WELCOME TO BACK TO SCHOOL NIGHT banner flapped over the main entrance.

  Margot could only hope that Marianne’s parent-teacher conferences had gone well. She didn’t want to be stuck in the car while her cousin dressed her children down for whatever kids got into trouble for in the middle of nowhere. Her own parent-teacher conferences always seemed to end with some sort of lecture at home about how she could be trying harder, doing more to bring her As to A-plusses.

  She parked the funeral home’s van in the lot and noticed the uncomfortable looks she got from the parents, like her presence at the school was somehow wrong. She wondered if Marianne’s older son had reached the age where he would be embarrassed by being picked up in a funeral home vehicle.

  She walked through the front entrance, narrowly avoiding collision with the kids darting around the construction-paper-bedecked lobby. If she’d known that her suit would be in danger of contact with gummy, glitter-covered hands, she would have worn the emergency poncho stashed in the back of the van. That mothering instinct that made women decide that sleepless nights and perpetual yoga pants were a fair trade for tiny, cute people? She did not have it. She valued quiet. She valued her time. She didn’t judge the people who had kids. She understood the necessity of children. She did. Someone had to run the retirement community where she would inevitably end up. She just had no desire for her own.

  The sight of a boy running down the hall with his shirt pulled over his head, his belly painted with a neon-green smiley face, confirmed that she’d made the right choice.

  Marianne dashed past Margot without looking at her, yelling, “Nate!”

  So that was what Frankie meant by it being better to meet Marianne without her boys around as a distraction. Marianne had clearly birthed hellspawn.

  “I’ll just wait here, Marianne!” Margot called down the hall. She pursed her lips. “She didn’t hear me.”

  Margot scanned the lobby, looking for a place to sit among the homemade posters and display dioramas of dinosaurs. But the school seemed to have some sort of policy against sitting—no benches, no chairs, nothing. She glanced toward the office; maybe they had a waiting room or something. A place where she could protect her clothes from the thin layer of sticky substances that seemed to coat every surface in this building. Her eyes landed on a familiar face and she gasped.

  It was the haunted lumberjack, he of the comfortable truck seat and agile tongue.

  He’d cleaned up considerably, wearing khakis and a crisp white button-down shirt. His hair was neatly combed. He was smiling, talking with other parents, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He barely had a grip on it.

  That grip slipped entirely when he saw her. His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped. She wasn’t sure whether it would be more awkward if he didn’t recognize her. Her face flushed hot. Why was he here? He was supposed to be off smoldering in the forest somewhere, staring pensively into the distance.

  Oh, no, was he a parent? Had she climbed into a truck with a married man? She couldn’t see his ring finger, as his left hand was curved around the shoulder of a nearby woman. Was Margot going to have her ass handed to her by some backwoods bottle blonde for him violating their marriage vows?

  No, wait, he was wearing a name tag. Maybe he worked here. Which would be better . . . right?

  And he was making eye contact. So much eye contact. Because the whole “I know the exact texture and circumference of your tongue” element of this interaction wasn’t uncomfortable enough. He wiped his hands on his khakis as he crossed the lobby, again preventing her from seeing his ring finger. And he didn’t reach out to shake her hand as he asked, “Hi, um, are you a new parent here?”

  “A parent? Me? Oh, no no no no no.”

  His brown eyes went wide at her tone and she stammered, “I—I mean, it’s not that I don’t like children. I like them just fine . . . when they belong to other people.”

  His lips pinched together, but a snicker escaped. And then his lips parted into a dazzling smile, hesitantly, as if he hadn’t done it in a while. Margot shook her h
ead and returned the smile, hoping it was half as stunning as his. “Never mind. What are you doing here?”

  She glanced down at his engraved metal name tag, which read KYLE ARCHER, PRINCIPAL.

  “You’re the principal? At an elementary school?”

  Kyle frowned. “Yes? Why does that seem to upset you?”

  “Oh, I’m not upset. I just didn’t expect it,” she said. “You don’t seem like the educator type.”

  She couldn’t help but notice—now that she wasn’t completely addled by moonshine—the lack of an accent. Unlike the molten-sugar twang of most of Lake Sackett’s residents, Kyle’s speech had the quick, sharper tones of the northeast. And there was the smile again, slow to bloom but sweetly sincere. “What type do I seem like?”

  Lumberjack. Underemployed poet. Spokesman for paper towels.

  Margot managed to keep those answers to herself and changed the subject. “Aren’t you kind of young to be a principal?”

  “There were very few candidates when I applied. It was between me and the guy who wanted to remove prepositions from all of the grammar textbooks.”

  “Well, then I’m glad they hired you.”

  “Me too.”

  He lowered his voice and stepped so close she could smell that clean, crisp fabric-softener smell. She could feel sweat gathering behind her knees. That was a new reaction to a man. “So, you’ve made it very clear you’re not a parent. Why are you here?”

  Margot scoffed. This man was not good for her. Despite seeming somewhat reluctant about his flirting with her, he made her feel things that were reckless and do things that were just plain stupid. Kyle Archer and his soulful beard were dangerous. And yet she leaned closer, too. Then she leaned a little closer because if he happened to get a glance down her blouse, that was just the blessing of good tailoring. “Family. I’m picking up my cousin and her sons.”

  “Really? Who are they? Maybe I could at least figure out your last name, which you haven’t bothered to share with me. Or your first name, actually. It was pretty sexy at first, but it’s getting weird.”