The Closer You Get (7 page)

“Oh, you wouldn’t regret it, baby.”

Cash didn’t answer. He and Adam held hands as they strolled back to the beach. Rye and Tracy weren’t in the water, but they weren’t anywhere else, either. Cash gathered up the fishing gear, and they headed up the bank to the pickup. Tracy was sitting in the cab, looking pissed. When Cash went around to stow the fishing poles in the back, he found Rye sleeping in the bed…fully clothed, thank God. Cash shoved his feet until he rolled to his side and drew up his knees enough that Cash could close the tailgate.
 

Adam had the passenger door open and was comforting Tracy. “Bastard called me Tonya,” she said. “Who the hell is Tonya?”

“Shh,” Adam said. “There’s no Tonya. He just got your name wrong. Can we take you home?”

She nodded. “I just really liked him.”

“I’m sure he liked you, too. People do stupid things when they’re drunk. You’re gonna be okay.”

She hugged him, and he patted her back.
 

“How much have you had to drink, love?” Adam asked.

“Just a few beers.”

“Do you have someone at home? I hate for you to be alone tonight.”

“I got my cousin staying with me.”

“Good. Cash, are you okay to drive?”

Cash had only had two beers and that was over an hour ago. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He drove Tracy home. He and Adam practically had to carry her up the stairs to her apartment. He drove Adam home where he refused to walk Adam to the door. Or give him a kiss goodnight.

So Adam made him commit to another date, which Cash did more than willingly. Then he drove home and left his brother in the back of the pickup for the night. He showered the day off of him and slept soundly until morning.
 

Rye woke up to the morning sun screaming into his eyes and indescribable pain in the arm he’d slept on all night on the hard metal bed of a pickup truck. He groaned as he pushed himself up and stretched out.
 

He heard the sound of the heavens opening up and the angel chorus singing. Only it was actually singing coming from a church not too far away. He could see the steeple. The windows must have been open. But still, how was the sound carrying so far? It echoed off the hills like light fragments through a prism.

Rye climbed out of the truck and turned to face the church. He started walking toward it, drawn to the music, so pure and ethereal to his foggy head. He cut through alleys between businesses, crossed Main Street, and followed the road that led uphill toward the massive steeple. The walk helped get his blood flowing to all the right places. The headache worsened, but his joints ached less. The steepness of the road gave his leg muscles and lungs a hell of a workout.
 

The music grew louder until at last, he reached the top of the hill, and the volume tripled in intensity. The church sat in a little dip in the land, nestled in the hill like a baby bird in a nest. Its congregants had gathered outside, proceeding with their worship service in the warm spring outdoors. There were some chairs set up, mostly inhabited by elderly men and women and mothers with young babies. Everyone else stood or sat on the ground or lounged on large rocks or surface tree roots.

Rye gaped. Ladies wore dresses as colorful as the spring flowers that had already begun to bloom. Men dressed in suits lent their bass voices to anchor the high trills of the women’s song in the completely a cappella chorus. Most of them held maroon colored song books with matching ribbon bookmarks in their hands.
 

As a child, Rye had gone to church with his grandma on occasion, just out of obligation and because he had no choice. But the memories were vague and nothing like this.

The song ended and a tall, stern man who looked to be about a hundred fifty years old rose. He had on a black suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. His head was bare, and steel grey hair hung to his shoulders.
 

“Welcome, church!” he shouted, his voice shockingly powerful given his slight stature.

The church murmured in reply.

“And welcome, sir!” the preacher said.
 

It took Rye a moment to realize he’d been spotted and that the preacher was addressing him. Rye rather stupidly glanced around to make sure he was the one being addressed, and then he simply nodded and offered a salute.

“Won’t you join us, young man?”

Rye was standing a good thirty yards off to the side and thought that was plenty close enough. “Uh, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”

“The Lord says, ‘For where two or more are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’ God’s presence is here amidst this gathering. Join us.”

Rye wondered if he was still drunk and maybe hallucinating. The scene was so surreal. But all those people were now turned to face him, and he realized he either needed to sit with them or turn tail and run. He was about to do the latter when a lone figure rose from the crowd. She wore a dowdy skirt that was too big for her and a blouse that matched but did nothing for her figure. Her hair was in a ponytail and her eyes were boring into him like twin drill bits.
 

Cora McKay stepped through the crowd, approaching him steadily and with great purpose. Rye merely watched in awe, curious to see what that purpose would be. Her steps brought her before him, within inches. She moved, and for some reason he expected a soft touch. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him toward her so that he was bent closer to her face. “For fuck’s sake, sit down and stop making a scene,” she hissed.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the crowd, though she didn’t return to the group she’d been sitting with. Instead, she led him to a large tree root at the edge of the congregation. He sat next to her. There was a slight rustle in the crowd as her family—Rye assumed—passed her purse and song book back to her.

“If you’ll all turn with me to Ephesians chapter four, starting in verse twenty-two,” the preacher said, “we’ll be reading from there in a moment. First of all, I want to tell you all what a fine thing it is to see you gathered here, worshiping under God’s cathedral.” The preacher raised his arms to the sky. “Pray with me, please.”
 

There were murmurings of amens and other unintelligible comments among the people. Rye looked around him, still unsure why he’d wandered this direction or why he’d stayed. A sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs. He turned to see Cora giving him an angry look before closing her eyes and folding her hands.
 

Right. Prayer. He was supposed to close his eyes for that. Rye followed suit and even said ‘amen’ at the end. Then he smiled proudly at Cora, who was still glaring at him. As the preacher began his sermon on ‘Spring Cleaning for the Soul,’ Cora leaned into him. “You stink of whiskey and you look like you slept in the back of a truck.”

He nodded. “Spot on, boss.”

“Were you rolling around in the mud?” She gestured to his jeans that had a fair bit of dried mud on them.
 

“Playing on the river bank with a girl,” he said.

Her face turned red, and she looked away. Rye gulped down a pang of regret though he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He leaned down and lowered his whisper. “It was just a little fun, that’s all.”

Her eyes, when she turned to him, were pure vitriol. Rye had never felt so judged before in his life. This time, he was the one to look away.

“‘That ye put off concerning the former conversation the old man, which is corrupt according to the deceitful lusts; And be renewed in the spirit of your mind; And that ye put on the new man, which after God is created in righteousness and true holiness,’” the preacher read from his Bible.
 

“Why are you here?” Cora whispered.
 

Rye shrugged. “Wanted to hear the singing.”

He couldn’t look at her, not after those eyes she’d given him. Somehow, in that one look, she’d punched a hole in the dam he’d built around his conscience and feelings of guilt were beginning to trickle from it.

“Seriously?” she asked.

He shrugged again. “Maybe I got the Holy Spirit, and it led me here so’s I could be cleansed of my sins.”

She was silent for a moment before saying, “I suggest you disappear at the first possible moment, or they’re gonna try and baptize you.”

He turned and frowned. “You serious?”

She nodded, dead serious.

“Against my will?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “They’s a lot of strong fellas here. They’ll haul your hungover ass down to the river and throw you in, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said. She had to be kidding. But then, this woman didn’t strike him as much of a kidder.

“Yup. And if you don’t stop your sinful ways, they’ll come to your house and lay hands on you…try and cast out the demons.”

He grinned. “You’re shitting me.”

She shook her head, still keeping a straight face. “Stay if you want. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Purge yourselves of these evil ways!” the preacher boomed. “Carve out the cancer of sin and live in purity for the Lord. Don’t let the vile lusts of the world corrupt your soul!”

Rye listened, transfixed. The dude was charismatic. His grand, mystical presence and passionate verbosity cast a spell over his listeners.

Except Cora, who was fidgeting, trying to get comfortable on the tree root. After a while, her fidgeting snagged Rye’s attention, and he turned to study her. Definitely not hot. But the smattering of freckles was cute. She had a sweet curve to her jaw. Her bottom lip was a little fuller than the top…good for biting, Rye thought with a smile.
 

She turned sharply to him. “What?” she hissed.

“Nothing, boss.”
Just wondering what you look like naked, is all
.
 

She glared at him.

The preacher’s tone changed, and the movement within the crowd indicated that the sermon was almost over. With an invitation to anyone wanting prayers, the preacher backed away and was replaced by the man who had been leading the singing earlier. The congregation stood to their feet and began singing.
 

Rye looked down at Cora, watching her intently gaze into her songbook and sing along. He was too tall. There was too much distance for him to hear her singing. He wondered if she had a good voice.
 

Several people filed forward and knelt in front of the congregation while the preacher prayed over them. With a final prayer, the service ended. Rye was supposed to flee, at this point. But there was Cora with the freckles and the dimples and the clearly repressed sexuality. His feet simply wouldn’t obey his head when it told them to walk away. Even after she turned and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Why are you still here? Go!”

“Wish you’d smile again,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

He didn’t repeat himself. He hadn’t meant for the words to come out loud. What he asked instead was worse. “Why didn’t you wanna come fishing last night?”

For a moment, surprise and confusion clouded her eyes. She gave her head a little shake and said, “I believe I’ve answered that question. I prefer to keep my work life and social life separate.”

“In a town this size? Is that realistic?”

“It’s worked so far.”

“You were friends with Sam.”

“Sam didn’t flippantly screw every interested party who came his way.”

It wasn’t a literal punch to the gut, but Rye fell back a step anyway. “I’m just…” What? Lonely? Desperate? How was he supposed to finish that sentence?

“Listen, you should go,” she said. “The preacher’s heading this way.”

He blew out a breath, not at all sure of where he was standing. “If that’s the only thing you don’t like about me, we could still be friends. Nothing inappropriate about fishing together.”

“It sounds to me like we have very different definitions of fishing, and I have absolutely no desire to roll around on the river bank with you, Rye.”

That one hurt even worse. He shrugged, hoping the hurt didn’t show in his eyes. “Doesn’t have to be the river bank. We can roll around anywhere you want.”
 

Cora drew herself up tall, rolling her shoulders back. “Your employment history reads a lot like a rap sheet. Are you sure you want to add ‘sexually harassing your boss’ to the list of misdeeds?”

That was enough for him. The walls came right back up. He plugged the hole in that dam, no longer interested in entertaining someone else’s ideas of right and wrong. “Fuck it. Plenty of fish in the sea. Sorry for bothering you, Mrs. McKay.” He turned on his heel and left.
 

S
AM
WAS
GONE
. He’d spent a month training Rye as he’d promised, then he left. As he’d said he would. Cora hadn’t really believed it until the next day when he truly didn’t report into work. A week later he sent her a postcard from the Dominican Republic.

She sat at her desk staring at the card. He’d been with the company since its inception over thirty years ago. Beyond that, he’d been her friend and mentor. She’d leaned on him heavily over the past few years, especially when her father had finally passed.
 

Cora sighed, tucked the postcard into her purse, and went to the Friday afternoon staff meeting. Nobody liked these, but she tried to keep them under fifteen minutes. She didn’t micromanage anyone, which they all appreciated, but she needed to know where everyone was spending their time and what the statuses of their projects were.
 

Daniel Crouch had a big smile on his face, so she asked him to start. “Richard Pinkerton wants us to design and build his country club!” He beamed with pride.

The Pinkerton family practically owned Fidelity. On one hand, a country club in this area seemed a ridiculous extravagance, yet another way to encourage class division in Fidelity and the surrounding rural towns. On the other hand, the project would be excellent for business, and on that point, Cora’s heart sped up.

Then Daniel frowned and glanced at Rye. “Mr. Negative doesn’t want to do it.”