Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I looked up and frowned at the little clapboard building across from the Tavern. The building itself was old, but the businesses inside it were unfamiliar. After a moment, I shrugged. “Couldn’t say. But when I was growing up, the closest thing to a coffee shop in town was the McDonald’s out by the highway, so I doubt whatever we’d be sipping is anything like we’d be used to in civilization.” I picked at a piece of lint on my cuff. “You’re from Nashville, right?”
“Nah.” The GPS called out a warning, and the driver took a smooth right turn onto a residential street lined with historical homes. “Grew up in LA, actually. But the scene there is shit for getting discovered, so I moved out here. You listen to country music?”
“Not if I can help it,” I said, hoping he wasn’t planning to pitch me some kind of demo.
“Well, if you change your mind, me and some friends—”
“Oh, look, almost there,” I said, cutting him off before he could beg me to find him at amateur night in some dive bar off-off-off-Broadway—which was to say Nashville Broadway, the one with more pickup trucks and less Steven Sondheim. “You can pull up by the house with the, ah… green tractor mailbox.”
Despite my mood, the familiar John Deere tweaked a long-forgotten thread of sentimentality deep in my chest. My great-grandfather Mortie Nutter had hand-carved the thing as a gift for my uncle when he’d taken over the running of the farm. Every year after that, Uncle Amos had painstakingly cleaned it and touched up the paint to keep it in top condition. It was a symbol of his pride in our family homestead, and it had become an iconic landmark when giving directions to anywhere on this side of the Thicket, even back when I was a kid.
I swallowed. “You can pull over by the barn and that white pickup. Thanks.”
Before the town car’s tires had crunched to a stop, the front door of the farmhouse opened and out spilled a metric fuck ton of various Nutters and neighbors who still, after all these years, treated the arrival of any newcomer as a rare treat.
My mother’s designer pantsuit stuck out like a sore thumb from the assortment of denim and elastic-based cotton knits everyone else sported. I had no idea what expression I was wearing, but when she spied me, she lifted a carefully sculpted eyebrow in maternal challenge through the back window of the car.
I rolled my eyes in response.
Three weeks ago, when she’d browbeaten me into agreeing to spend Thanksgiving in Licking Thicket, my mother had made a snarky comment about my inability to last five days in town without offending anyone. She seemed not to remember that I’d spent the last five years toiling for a boss who made Attila the Hun seem woke and cuddly in comparison and that when I’d been named VP of distribution and logistics last month, there’d been no question that I’d earned the promotion as much for my diplomatic skills as for my understanding of logistics and supply chain management.
So, naturally, I’d done what any man would do when his mother impugns his honor in such a fashion: I’d challenged Katherine Nutter to a nice-off. Whichever of us lasted the longest in Licking Thicket without causing a scene, starting a fight, or creating a mortal enemy would win the prize of their choice—my mother had already told me that she’d be escaping Nashville for a few days to enjoy the Waldorf Chicago’s luxury day spa as her prize—as well as bragging rights for eternity.
Unfortunately for her, I was not planning to lose. Not when my reputation was at stake.
I plastered on a grim smile as I thanked my driver and exited the vehicle.
“Uncle Junior, you’re here!” someone cried from the middle of the pack. Three kids, including my cousin Jack, came running from around the side of the house, skidding to a stop just before knocking me to the ground.
“I go by Charlton,” I corrected, even though I knew from experience no one would listen. “Sometimes, Charlie—”
“Junior! We ain’t seen you in a yonk’s age,” an adult voice interrupted. The words almost sounded like an accusation, and they instantly made me bristle.
Nice-off, I reminded myself.
I glanced up, smiling even more determinedly, and met my aunt Bell’s eyes. “Aunt Bell. Good to see you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s happening with your face, son? You been in some kind of accident?”
A snorting sound came from the crowd that sounded distinctly like my mother’s smug chortle.
“No, ma’am,” I said smoothly. “Of course not. I’m just happy to see all y’all!”
I snapped my teeth shut in shock. Where the fuck had that come from? Not just “y’all” but “all y’all”? Christ, was it that easy to slip back into Southernese? How abhorrent.