“No ear piercing, Mona,” said Austin. “We agreed Bea gets to decide if she wants them after she turns ten.”
Mona merely shrugged her shoulders at this, flipped her dark hair, and shook her head. Which had been her reaction to all of his objections for the past fourteen years. In this instance, Austin wasn’t budging.
“No, Mona, and I mean it.” To Bea, he said, “If they come at you with the piercing gun, just start screaming, okay?”
Bea smiled, a smile she only shared with him, delighted to be given permission to rebel. He’d taught her that over the years, reinforcing with her that she got to say how long or short her hair was, whether her ears were pierced, whether she’d allow her mother to take her to a salon to get her nails done.
Bea enjoyed playing out of doors and so those nails were history within the hour after their completion. He’d always thought that if Bea wanted her ears pierced, then a nice, clean tattoo parlor, with professionals, would be the place, but he’d never convinced Mona of this, as Mona considered tattoos an abomination to her beautiful skin.
“Okay?” asked Austin. “Scream loudly. Everyone will hear, and the piercing won’t happen.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Bea.
Her mouth trembled and her eyes grew big, and Austin knew he was just being cruel by dragging out the goodbye. He pulled himself out of her arms and gave her the best smile he could.
“See you soon, honeybee,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad,” she said, tears falling down her cheeks.
The taxi driver helped him out by stepping forward.
“You want your backpack with you, Mr. Marsh?”
“Yes,” said Austin, shifting his attention from a sad-shouldered Bea returning to her mother’s side. “I’ll carry it.”
The taxi ride to the Motel Six along the highway took exactly seven minutes. Austin tipped the driver, grabbed his suitcases from where they’d been placed, and checked in at the front desk—all as if on autopilot. It was as if the years between him graduating from high school, which was when he’d really started dating Mona, and this moment had all been erased. Like the last fourteen years had never even happened. He was newly born, newly arrived on the planet, and he knew not a soul.
“Room 218,” said the clerk, handing him his plastic card key. “It’s around the back.”
His room being around the back meant that it was on the second floor facing the highway. There, the noise from trucks and cars speeding along the cement was a constant song in his ears, along with the jackhammer blasts of repairs and construction from around the building next door that echoed off the cement barrier blocks placed on the edge of the highway.
Thornton was a busy place, a noisy place, but for now, until he secured a job and a place to live, it was home.
As he laid his suitcases on the other double bed, his phone beeped at him. He took it out to look.
Google was reminding him he had an online interview with Leland Tate of Farthingdale Ranch in fifteen minutes. The position was for an accountant and included room and board. The salary wasn’t that great, but it was something.
There were plenty of accountant jobs, especially for those with a CPA certificate, but he was picky. Which had been another thing Mona had groused about, as he wouldn’t take a job in downtown Denver so they could all live in a swank high rise overlooking the Denver Botanic Gardens. And now, he wanted to move as far away from Denver as he possibly could, far away from Mona.
He didn’t know whether he wanted to be so far away from Bea, but the alternative, to stay nearby on the chance of seeing her felt as though he was giving into Mona, yet again.
He had fifteen minutes to freshen up, to wash the grief from his face, to tame the cowlick along his right temple. In short, he had fifteen minutes to make himself look like he wasn’t a broken man. Hopefully, the interview would be short so he didn’t have to pretend for very long. But really, why was he worrying about it? A place like Farthingdale Ranch probably wouldn’t want a city boy doing their books anyhow.
3
Clay
Clay strolled back into the Rusty Nail, hitching up his jeans so Levi could see that Clay had gotten what he needed from Mr. Grey Suit. And if there was a trace of misty watercolor not-quite-happiness trolling around in his brain, Clay wasn’t going to say anything about it. He had a reputation to uphold, even when there was only Levi to see.
“Want another beer?” asked Clay as he sat across from Levi at the table by the front door. “I’m going to have one. Maybe I’ll find another guy.”
Levi shrugged, then raised his hand so the waitress would see and come over for their order. When she did, Levi quietly ordered two beers and laid a five-dollar bill on her tray, even before she brought them their beers.
As always, Levi got the most amazing service anywhere he went, which Clay admired, though he didn’t have money to throw around the way Levi did. Which always made him wonder, if Levi had money, why was he working at a ranch that required employees to put in 12-hour days?
“It’s not craft beer,” said Levi when the beers came. “But it’ll do.”
“It’ll do,” said Clay in echo, though he didn’t really know what craft beer was.
