The First Law of Love (8 page)

“That's the company,” I said. “Actually, this is good. I mean, not that they want your land, but that you have information. I need all the info I can gather on them,” and I gestured behind me at the paper mess sprawling across my desk. I turned back to his eyes and my heart continued to kick at my ribcage. I ignored this and asked, even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer, “What is your position on the sale?”

“Over my dead body,” he said, and for the second time just a hint of a grin lifted the right side of his lips. He said, “Those were my exact words. I doubt they appreciate me much.”

I felt myself smiling grudgingly back.

He asked, “Turnbull is your future boss?”

I nodded affirmation.

“We share a border with him,” Case said. “South side of our property runs up against his north. Though he's only on the land in the autumn, for a month or so usually.”

I nodded again, saying, “Yes, he lives in Chicago. I'm planning to work at his firm starting this fall.”

Case studied me silently at this information. Then he said, “He has a local guy who manages the property. I could put you in contact with him, if you'd like.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You also share a border with the Rawleys, isn't that right?”

“We do,” he said. He had an envelope in one hand, and he tapped the edge of it against the counter as though slightly restless.

“Your family?” I asked, not sure why a small, sharp hook suddenly inserted itself into me at the thought that he might be married. Of course he probably he was, and I was incomparably vain and immature if I thought he could possibly still carry a torch for me after nearly seven years. To compose myself, I turned and riffled through the shit on my desk to extract a notepad and pencil.

Case was watching me quietly. As I turned back around he affirmed, “My family has been on the land since the late nineteenth century, yes.”

“You and…” It didn't matter one bit who lived with him, but I used my most professional tone of voice, implying that this was a business question.

“Just me, these days. Dad passed a few years back,” he said. “And Gus lives with his girlfriend in town.”

“No one else?” I pressed, keeping my eyes on my notepad. Seconds ticked past and beneath my blouse I felt a trickle of sweat skim down between my breasts. He was still studying me as though attempting to read my mind.

“Not since Lynnette and I divorced,” he said calmly, and I realized he clearly understood that I was transparently fishing for personal information that was absolutely none of my ever-loving business.

I dared to look up at him again, immeasurably curious to know more. I wasn't at all relieved that he was no longer married. Not one bit. There was surely no logical reason for me to be feeling that way. I noticed that his skin was tanned and freckled. Freckles were scattered all along his arms, disappearing up and under his black t-shirt. He had strong, wiry arms, corded with muscle and dusted over with red-gold hair.

“Any children?” I asked him, as though just making conversation.

Just a hint of a smile as he replied, “None that have ever been brought to my attention, anyway.”

“Do you still play guitar?” I asked.

“Couldn't live without it,” he said in response, and I damned my heart for responding even more frantically to those words. I was about a step away from experiencing tachycardia. His smile had vanished and he looked hard at me for a fraction of a second before seeming to gather himself together and saying, “I stopped out to drop off something for Al.”

“He's out,” I said, stating the glaringly obvious. I laughed at myself a little and offered, “But I'll be sure he gets it straight away.”

“Much obliged,” Case said, setting the envelope on the counter that separated our bodies. He seemed to hesitate, as though unwilling to leave even though his errand here was complete. I tried to conjure up a reasonable excuse to keep him a little longer too.

“This is a beautiful area,” I said.
Great, Tish, talk about the weather next. What a sparkling conversationalist you are.

“Isn't it? Although where you're from is gorgeous too,” he said. “I was only ever there the once, but I've never forgotten it. Mathias and Camille are still having babies, huh?”

I giggled a little; I knew he and Mathias talked frequently. I said, “Yes, they're like bunnies.”

“I never saw two people so happy,” he said, smiling a little at my words. “So I'm glad for them.”

“Me too,” I admitted. A strand of hair came sliding down the side of my face. I tucked it back behind my ear but it wouldn't stay put. Case's eyes followed the movement of my hand as I messed with it again.

“There's something…” he said, and all breath snagged in my chest as he reached and used the tips of his fingers to carefully extract something from my hair. He explained, “I think you had a piece of tumbleweed,” showing me the wiry little stick. He set it on top of the counter. He had inadvertently tugged free another piece of hair from the clip at the back of my head, and I felt disheveled and sloppy.

“Thanks,” I said, simultaneously tucking both strands behind my ears. My face was about a hundred degrees.

“Well, I better get back to work,” he said then. Somehow we had ended up much closer than we'd been when he first came into the office.

“It was good to see you,” I told him, surprised at how much I meant this. “Will I see you around?” I hurried to explain, “I mean, to talk about Capital Overland, and all of that…”

“Friday,” he said, heading for the door. “Gus and I always eat dinner at the Rawleys' on Fridays.”

But before I could reply he was already back outside, the bell tingling as the door closed. I sank slowly to my desk chair and watched as he climbed into a well-used maroon-red truck and drove away, east along the dusty street.

I turned at once to my computer and typed his name into Google, reflecting that the amount of personal material available online was shockingly terrifying, though at the moment I was enormously grateful for the capability. Ignoring my work for the moment, I scrolled through hit after hit, glutting on the info dump at my fingertips.

In a short order I discovered that his full name was Charles Shea Spicer. I cupped my chin in one palm, staring out the window at the sun-drenched street, and wondered how ‘Case' had come from that. Born December fifth, 1983, to Owen and Melinda Spicer. He'd mentioned that his father had passed relatively recently, but my heart clenched to realize his mother had been gone much longer, dying back in 1991. His dad, Owen, had never remarried.

He must have loved her too much to find someone new
, I thought, painfully, and continued scrolling, even more intently, addict-like.

Case was something of a local celebrity; there were dozens of articles featuring him singing, songwriting, performing in area festivals. I clicked on photo after photo, some professional-grade, taken for a newspaper, and others informal, clearly posted by friends. In many, he was both singing and posing with Garth and Marshall Rawley.

He is really good-looking
, I acknowledged, almost unwittingly. He looked so utterly at home on stage, in complete enjoyment, grinning widely in some shots, cradling his instruments (clearly he favored the guitar and the fiddle), eyes closed with concentration in others.

This is what he was doing all those years you never gave him a thought
, I realized. Out here living his life.
So what
'
s he do now? Surely he can
'
t make a living performing on weekends.

Manages an instrument repair shop, I discerned minutes later. Spicer Music, which I had seen just this morning, a few blocks from where I was sitting right now. Lessons offered.

A woman with shiny, shoulder-length brown hair and very large breasts kept appearing in pictures with him, and I assumed, pursing up my lips in judgment (Did she really feel the need to wear shirts that tight on such a regular basis? That much cleavage is tacky anywhere outside of Las Vegas, doesn't she realize?), that this was his ex-wife. Then I found a Facebook picture in which she was tagged and realized this was indeed Lynnette ‘Cleary' Spicer. Case didn't seem to have his own Facebook page, though he was tagged by name in dozens of images.

Aren
'
t they divorced? Why does she still have his last name?

When the bell on the door tingled again I jumped about a foot, instantly closing the search screen, as though I'd been surfing for porn. Al held the door for Mary as they entered.

“Hello, Patty!” she said cheerfully. Again, I didn't bother to correct her regarding my name; if that's what she felt like calling me, I supposed she had a right.

“Holding down the fort all right?” asked Al, giving me an indulgent wink that acknowledged Mary's misuse of my name.

“No fires or famines,” I assured him. “I've got quite a pile of notes here. And Case Spicer dropped this off about a half hour ago.”

“Oh, great, thanks,” Al said, collecting the envelope from my hand. He asked, “Did you get out for lunch?”

“I brought a sandwich,” I told him. “I've been busy. I usually eat on the go.”

Mary disappeared into the employee bathroom and Al ducked behind his own desk. He said, “I've got a second hearing, over at the courthouse at two-thirty. If you'd like to accompany me?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I responded.

Al and I spent the afternoon in the county courthouse, an old brick building on the east side of a well-groomed town square. I refastened my hair and made sure that my jacket was buttoned properly into place before we met with the client, a man in the midst of a custody battle over his two children. I observed more than anything, letting Al do the talking; he was a soft-spoken man but he meant business before a judge, I could clearly discern. The hearing was relatively brief, over before three-thirty, and we walked together across the town square in the afternoon sunshine, back towards Main Street. Al favored walking; I was reminded of Landon, where people walked everywhere. It was only a few blocks to all the downtown businesses here too.

“Tish, you've worked hard today,” Al said. “Why don't you beg off early?”

I was on high alert as we strolled along, taking especial notice of people; was that a part of me hoping to catch a glimpse of Case? I realized that my eye had been caught twice now by maroon-colored vehicles, and mentally slapped the back of my own head.

Stop it
, I told myself.

In the courthouse, Al had introduced me to a number of people, including the city clerk and the mayor, both of whose names appeared on my mental Unsold list. Many others offered greetings as we walked, prompting Al to introduce me as his newest associate. We had only a block to go before reaching the law office when a voice behind us said, “Mr. Howe, I don't believe I've had the pleasure.”

Al and I turned at the same moment. Immediately I was aware of a big white smile and shiny-dark hair. I found myself thinking that I could very nearly see my own reflection in his teeth as a tall man approached us, suit jacket slung casually over his right shoulder.

“Derrick Yancy,” he said in a cultured voice that spoke of educated, privileged pleasantry, though I had already recognized him from his picture. A chill surged across my gut. He stopped just a hair too close to us and I refrained from the instant urge to lean slightly backward from him. Instead I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely.

“Patricia Gordon,” I returned, offering my hand and shaking his firmly.

His eyes held a hint of suggestion, calculated as I could clearly tell, before he said, “It is indeed a pleasure. I asked Albert here when you would be arriving, just last week. I understand you represent Turnbull and Hinckley's interests here in Jalesville?”

Not exactly, though he wasn't about to get that out of me. I said lightly, “At this moment, I represent Howe and James.”

“You're not planning a long-term residence here though, isn't that correct?” he continued.

Al said mildly, “Derrick, you know well that my associate is only here for the summer,” though his tone casually implied,
Quit wasting our time
.

“I'll settle in Chicago, this autumn,” I answered, not about to be intimidated by him.

“Myself, as well,” Derrick replied. “I look forward to bumping into you in the city.”

“You may not as much as you think,” I said, with not so much as a hint of challenge in my tone. I could not, however, repress a flare of anger in my eyes. Here was the man attempting to destroy this town, a place he cared nothing for; it was a matter of capital for him, money and more money. Capital Overland, taking over land for capital. Their name was an apt descriptor.

He flashed his teeth again, openly amused by me now.

Al said, “Good-day.”

“Oh, to you as well,” Derrick said, tipping his head to the side and studying my face intently, the kind of look that was meant to induce obedience, the kind of look you might give a dog you were training.

I repressed the urge to drive my shoulder into his as I walked past him.

Back at Howe and James, Al said, “Yancy believes he has the upper hand, as you can see. Spoiled little bastard. He's staying over in Miles City, at some fancy hotel. Tish, don't let him get to you.”

“I won't,” I replied, with more assurance than I felt. I was all sweaty again, this time with outright discomfort, and shed my jacket once more. I told Al, “I think I might take off a little early, if that's all right with you.”

It was approaching four anyway, and Mary had already left for the day. Al said at once, “Of course, you go on. You've had a productive first day, and I appreciate it.”

“See you tomorrow,” I told him, and collected my purse.