“Ain’t no problem,” he drawls. “When I heard what was going down, well, Gwynee didn’t want to stay away.” He elbows Bullseye. “Gives me a chance to see how the other chapters are doing.”
“We’re doing just great.” Bullseye narrows his eyes.
When Big Daddy slaps him on the back, I move my son and me away.
“Ace, com’ere,” Tempest calls out. “Wanna see what I got you?”
When my kid leaves my side, it gives me a chance to look around the room. My eyes find my ma, she’s chatting with Saint.Should I warn him she’s probably armed to the teeth?Nah, I’ll just trust him to mind his Ps and Qs.
Then my lips curve as I find my old lady, wearing that amazing dress that emphasises her boobs and slim waist. But... who the fuck is she talking to? I move to her side fast.
It’s as if she senses my arrival, as she turns and grabs hold of my arm. “Freak, this is Mountain. He’s from Ohio.” As the man named raises his chin to me, she adds, “He was one of the Kings who helped me escape from New York.”
I shoot her a secret look at her mention of Ohio, she blushes. I grin and decide to refrain from raising the issue of scarecrows that can walk or men who disappear into thin air.
Instead, Mountain, who’s been appropriately named, and I exchange man hugs and back slaps. “Thanks, Brother, for helping her, and thanks again for assisting us with transporting our package to New York.”
“Least we could do, both back then and now.” His eyes narrow as they focus on Trixie. “You sure look in better shape nowadays.”
She laughs deprecatingly, and shake her head. “I sure wasn’t good when I stayed in Raven’s Crest. I spent most of the time hallucinating.” To which Mountain doubles up and gives a genuine belly laugh.
Ace is back at my side, pulling me away. “Dad, when are we…?”
“Shush,” I say fast, seeing Trix has finished her conversation with Mountain, and is approaching fast.
As she nears me, movement behind her catches my eye, and I raise my chin in response to the question Bullseye has, by way of his gesticulation, silently asked me.
Bullseye uses Dum/Dee to utilise his extraordinary piercing whistle to quiet down the clubhouse and get everyone’s attention. “Let’s move this party outside.”
“Are the grills ready?” Trixie, now standing next to me, asks. “I should go out and check.”
“Nah, babe. You’ve done enough already. Let the brothers carry their weight now.” Slowly, the room empties around us. I can see she’s getting antsy to follow them, and I’m fast trying to come up with an excuse to hold her back.
Ace steps in to rescue me. “Mom, did you see my cake? Come over here. Let me show it to you.”
“She ordered it for you, son,” I explain, not wanting anyone else to take the credit.
“You did?” He hugs her. “I fucking love it.”
“Language!” both Trix and I roar together.
Dutifully, we go and admire the confectionery marvel. The baker had really outdone herself. I’m stunned by the fine details, and Ace tries to interpret the code and, predictably, finds an error. And of course, he wants to point it out. My and Trixie’s eyes glaze over as he explains something about C++, going into detail about how the program should be corrected, something about a comma being in the wrong place, and the effect that that has.
By the time he completes his explanation, we’re the only ones left in the clubroom.
“Come on, Ace. It’s your party after all. We better get outside and join everyone.” Trixie’s patience has run out.
Above her head, Ace and I exchange grins.
This time, not wanting to be upstaged by my son, I make sure it’s my arm around her as we go to the kitchen, making our way through the detritus left from the preparation of food to take outside, me making a mental note to send the prospects in to clean up. Waiting at the doorway as prearranged, is Saint. He raises his chin, letting me know everything’s been arranged as planned. Then he steps aside.
Nothing’s immediately apparent. Our grilling area, fire pits, and picnic tables are set up behind the barn turned bunkhouse, so she’s heading in the direction she knows she has to go. But when we turn the corner, her sudden lack of momentum acts like a brake as she tugs on my arm.
It’s a late June afternoon, the temperatures are still high, so a large tent has been erected due to the ever-present risk of a thunderstorm. Just as she’d arranged. But nothing else resembles her plans.
The large tent is open at the front, and inside it’s packed with rows of chairs – hastily rented, collected, brought in, and set up by my brothers.
An aisle is between them, flowers on the chairs to either side, framing them fragrantly, and at the end, Words stands just behind an arch, just like I’d arranged.
