“A customer,” I lie, shifting in my seat.
Cap grunts.
“A customer?” Nash asks, skeptical. “At Old Vines?”
“Yes. Fontain may be small, but there are serious collectors.” I brush invisible dirt from my shoulders then fumble with the strap of my overalls. “One of them got wind of my connection to dear old Dad here and hired me to look into it. A coin collector. I, being the adventurous spirit I am, was happy to oblige.” I smile the biggest, fakest smile I’ve ever smiled then kick Cap under the table until he does the same.
He grunts, kicks me back, and says, “Sure did.”
“He’s paying me a lot of money to be here,” I continue. “Funding the whole thing. All expenses.”
Lies, lies, lies, lies.
Nash blows out a long breath, breaking it up by opening and closing his lips. “Fine,” he finally says. “But I’m going with you.”
“No!” I shout at the same time Cap says, “Atta boy!”
“Why not?” Nash asks. “He’s going.” He gestures at Cap, who shoves his oxygen tubes up his nostrils before raising his glass in a cheers, his silent betrayal. “What’s one more person? You need my help. I’ve never read the letter. I don’t even know what places you’re talking about.” Another sip of his drink and he looks at me deviously. “I’ll be more useful with eyes on the situation.”
“I’ll be limited with my leg,” Cap adds. “Might be good to have someone else. In case we run into a snafu.”
My estranged father is a turncoat. This is absolutely the worst idea I’ve ever heard of. Cap is one thing, but Nash is horrific. He won’t take any of this seriously; it might as well be branded on his skin along with the stars, stripes, and constitutional quotes.
“You know SNAFU is an acronym that comes from World War II?” Nash asks, Cap instantly intrigued. “Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. Used to describe chaos.”
“No kidding?” Cap says. “Never knew that.”
“There was another one. SUS?—”
“And the divorce papers?” I demand, cutting off this stupid lesson in etymology. “Will you at least sign those?”
Nash squints at the envelope. “Better have my attorney look those over.”
“Youwhat?”
“Eight years is a long time, Rue.” His lips purse slightly. “How do I know you didn’t throw something wild in there? Might want my business.”
“Your business?” I shout, making nearby tables go quiet. “What business?”
“Thirsty for History. I own it.”
Immature Nash owns a business and mine is about to go belly up. At this revelation, I drain my drink. That can’t be right. He was with me and couldn’t sit still, and now he’s without me and owns a business and has been still for three years. He might as well slap my face.
“Plus,” he says, “Iris isn’t here to back up your story. Who knows what you’ve been up to these last years.”
Guilt becomes a living, breathing thing inside my body, eating me from the inside out. Because:I’ve been up to raising your kid.
“First of all,” I say through gritted teeth. “Your last postcard said you were going togive me up.” The way he looks at me crawls right under my skin and festers like an infection. “You know what, Nash? I have been up to something.” I fumble in my pocket for the abandoned engagement ring and slip it on my finger, flashing it in Nash’s direction. His expression falters—just slightly—but enough I notice. “I’m engaged. How’s that? Hm? Happy now?”
“Engaged?” His eyebrows lift. “To whom?”
“Jonathan. A dentist.”
At this, Cap laughs until he wheezes.
“Why is that funny?” I demand.
Cap shrugs. “Just is.”
