Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

“You’re going to win this race for her tomorrow, right, son?”

I snuck a glance at Ava in hopes she’d be holding up a cue card with a little guidance on what the heck he was talking about. Instead, she was happily stripping a drumstick like a starving teenager biting into a turkey leg at a medieval festival.

“Do you mean metaphorically, or…?”

Mr. Ivey’s eyes narrowed. “The Lope. We need this. The Ivey family has won every Lope that’s been run without a Johnson. Just because Brooks is back this year and Elliot’s not competing doesn’t mean they get to take the title away from us.” He sat forward, pushing his dinner plate off to the side where Mrs. Ivey scrambled to clear it to the kitchen. “It’s one thing for that boy to win the race when he was in top shape as the QB for the Bovines, but I’ll be damned if some pencil pusher from New York City is going to embarrass the Iveys. Do you understand what I’m saying, son?”

I was pretty sure he was saying the Thicket’s high school mascot was a cow, but that should have been obvious. It certainly explained the random moo shouts I’d heard earlier today when Brooks had walked into the planning meeting. At first I’d thought they were heckling the poor guy, and then I’d assumed they were making a comment about his “pencil pushing” physique. Which, honestly, was pretty damned fine if you asked m—

“Malachi!”

I jumped at Mr. Ivey’s bark. “Yes, sir. I mean, I can try. I do run fairly regularly.” I glanced at Ava again, who, if I was keeping track properly, was enjoying her sixth ear of buttery corn.

She nodded. “Yes, Daddy. It’s like I told you. Mal runs when he’s upset which means he’s in really good shape.”

She made me sound like I had an anger management problem. “That’s not—”

“Good,” Mr. Ivey said, sitting back and clasping his fingers over his belly. “That’s real good, son. I knew we could count on you for something.”

How was it possible to feel like I’d both impressed and disappointed him at the same time?

“You’re… welcome?” I glanced toward the kitchen, both hoping there might be dessert to soothe my hurt feelings and hoping there wasn’t dessert so I could leg it the fuck out of there.

Mrs. Ivey came in carrying a cake with lit candles. “Mal, dear, why don’t you lead us?”

I glanced around the table hoping someone, somewhere would tell me what the hell was happening. Was it someone’s birthday?

“Um… I don’t…” Several expectant faces beamed at me, and it was worse than the interrogation lights. “Happy Birthday,” I began singing and thankfully everyone else joined in immediately. I found out from the final stanza that it was, indeed, the Thicket’s own birthday cake.

Because the Lickin’ was born out of a celebration of the town’s founding. Which made sense if you thought about it. Singing the birthday song to a town, however, did not make sense, especially in a private residential celebration.

I leaned over to Ava once the song was over. “Are you a founding family or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a scoff. “The town was founded by a big cluster of Johnsons and a whole passel of Mawbrys. It wasn’t until Enid Mawbry married Randall Ivey in the 1920s that the Iveys really established themselves.”

“1913 actually, sweetie,” Mrs. Ivey said, handing me a tiny sliver of cake and one undersized ball of ice cream. I assumed this meager offering was a result of the intense fitness expectations on me the following day. “He lost his first wife on the Titanic, so the date is important. It’s why he came wife-hunting in the Thicket in the first place.”

“The Titanic? Wow,” I said before thanking her for dessert.

Elliott snickered. “Pretty sure he lost his first wife in a bet down at the Feed and Seed, Mama. At least that’s what Grandpa told me once.”

“Hush your mouth,” she hissed. “Anyway,” she said sweetly back at me, “once Gracie Johnson married into the Mawbry family… well, let’s just say it was almost as exciting and long-time-coming as our Ava here finally marrying Brooks.”

She blinked happily at Ava as if she hadn’t just struck a prison shank into my fictional love match.

“Mom, that’s never going to happen,” Ava said for what had to be the millionth time. “Besides, I have Mal now.” She shot me a smile, and it took all of my self-control not to roll my eyes.

Mrs. Ivey swallowed. “Yes, well, be that as it may, you have to admit an Ivey/Johnson wedding sure would be something to see. I don’t think I’m the only one in town who thinks—”

“What’s that?” I asked loudly, cupping my ear. “Lassie says someone’s fallen into the well. I’d better go check.”

I raced out of the room by way of the sink to deposit my dirty dishes before hoofing it out to the guest house and climbing up the rope ladder to freedom.