Scratch the Surface

“Good luck with all this,” I told him. “I hope it all goes well, for you and for the town.”

“And that’s it? You’re done with a place you’ve been working at since you were what, fifteen or something? Just like that.”

I shrugged. “I won’t work for you, Merrell. You had to know that.”

“Why would I know that?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no job for me anyway.” I turned toward Zack’s ancient Ford, ready to drive away from Kingman’s for the last time.

He moved fast, grabbing my bicep to keep me from leaving. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Who do you think I was planning to have take over as general manager? I want you to run the restaurant; that was the plan.”

But he was lying. That couldn’t have been the plan, because a couple days ago he had wanted me to run the counseling center he was going to build. And now, out of the blue, he wanted me to manage his restaurant? How could he say these things with a straight face?

“You need to give this opportunity some real thought.”

On the one hand, staying would be a great idea. I had the payout from the Bowens I could tuck into savings, and could manage the restaurant, live off the salary that went with it, and maybe, for once, get ahead on bills instead of playing catch-up every month. It made sense to take what was being offered, a job I could do in my sleep, and nothing would change. Everything could stay the same, except I’d be better off.

On the other hand, the offer of employment came from Merrell Barrett. Whatever else he felt about me, it was clear there was some guilt, which I didn’t understand. It was misplaced, and he owed me nothing. Everything between us had been settled ages ago. I wasn’t mad that he’d left and never spoken to me again. I considered us, and whatever dysfunctional relationship we had in the past, to be over and done. But there were questions, like was his offer a handout? And was it fair to take a position I knew would be temporary? I wanted to do something else with my life, and I couldn’t give Merrell the hours he would need from a general manager, so was that fair to him or the people banking on the continued success of the restaurant? It felt like he was trying to pay some ancient debt I didn’t even consider he owed.

Taking a breath, I eased my bicep free, took a step back, and stared at him. “What’s going on with you?”

“I don’t—what are you talking about?”

“First you wanna give me my dream job at your new counseling center, which I’m not yet qualified for, and now you want to offer me the general manager spot here at Kingman’s? What the hell, man?”

He parted his lips to say something, but Rita Bowen was at the door calling him back inside to talk to some of his new employees. “I’ll be right there,” he answered, and when she retreated, after waving to me, he took a step closer. “Could I come by your place and speak to you? Would that be all right?”

I grimaced. “I don’t know that you want anyone seeing you at my apartment complex. I live on the other side of Mulberry, and it’s a little rough down there.”

He glared at me. “Just give me your address and stop making excuses not to talk to me.”

“Why don’t I meet you at your place?”

“I don’t have a place yet. I’m still living in the pool house until my house is renovated, and there is absolutely no privacy there.”

“Then I can meet you by the––”

“For fuck’s sake, we’re not in high school anymore. Just let me come to your apartment like a grown-up.”

“Yeah, but you can’t be seen in a shitty part of town or—” I gestured at him. “I mean, you have an image.”

“Yeah, how ’bout man of the people?”

“How about slumming in a bad part of town known for drugs?”

“For the love of God, Jere, you want to talk to me, I want to talk to you. Let me see you.”

But I didn’t want to talk to him. That was the problem. We had nothing to talk about other than whatever he needed to get off his chest. “I’m not tryin’ to be a dick, but why don’t we not talk,” I suggested. “And you don’t have to worry about whatever this”—I gestured between us—“is. Like ever.”

“Fine,” he growled. “I want to talk to you. I have things to say. Could I do that, please? Or do you want to keep fighting with me about it?”

“Whatever,” I groused at him. “It’s the Meadow Park apartments, unit D. But when your chief of staff or whoever has a seizure, don’t blame me.”