“Because people will read your story out of interest and not for the lulz.” Rebecca scrolled to a stool or possibly a table. “Better add in a user’s guide while you’re at it. Oh, and nice work on the Voline story. It was too bad you didn’t get that quote, but I loved the sidebar of obituary misfires.”
“Thanks.” He’d emailed Nadine the link. She hadn’t replied.
When the phone rang an hour later, he nearly let it go to voicemail so he could continue his research on the environmental impact of tire manufacturing. Habit forced him to answer.
“Wes Chen,Spear.” He might be frustrated with his job at themoment, but there was no way he’d get tired of knowing he’d made it. Atrocious design profiles or not, he was working in journalism.
“Wes, this is Brent Tatterly.”
The name was familiar. “Tatterly. Dot Voline’s nephew?” Nephew by marriage, technically, as Tatterly had been Voline’s husband’s sister’s son. Or something like that.
“That’s me.”
Was Brent about to tell Wes where he could stick his story? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, so Wes was more curious than worried about the call. He hadn’t been by the house since his fruitless library search. At least Nadine had come up short as well, obvious from her defeated expression as she left the basement research bunker.
“I hope Ms. Voline is okay?” he asked, heart lurching as he grasped another reason Brent might be contacting him.
“She’s fine and why I’m calling. I’d prefer to talk about this in person. Do you have time later? Say three this afternoon?”
“I can move some things if it’s urgent,” Wes lied, calmer knowing Voline was alive. He didn’t want to look too desperate.
“It will be worth your time.” Brent gave him the location, which was nearby. “I’ll see you soon.”
The day dragged, but at 2:48, Wes was on his way to the café for Brent’s meeting. His legs were stiff after hours of sitting, and lengthening his stride to get a stretch did nothing to work the tension out of his calves. His friend Caleb was always on his case to build in walking breaks, but Caleb was the kind of guy who did triathlons and polar dips for fun. His opinions on exercise could not be trusted.
A text came from his mother.I can’t get the kitchen tap to close all the way.
He counted to ten before replying.I’ll fix it when I get home, okay, Ma?
No, the dripping is terrible. It’s ruining my day off. I don’t know what to do.
He waited for the light to turn so he could cross the street.Use atowel to stop the noise.
All it does is drip.
He tried to relax his jaw.Take a towel, and put it under the tap to absorb the water.
The phone rang and he ignored it, preferring to keep their conversation on text.You’re not picking up. I need to talk to you.
Sorry, I’m in a meeting.A very pale white lie, as he was about to be in one soon.
What kind of towel?
Any kind. Use a dish towel.His fingers hurt from how hard he tapped the message.
It’s too much. You don’t care. Go do your job since it’s more important. Amy can help me since you’re too lazy to do anything.
Don’t call Amy at work.
No answer. Amy told him he should take their mother’s silences as the blessing they were, but all he felt was guilt. He could call a plumber for an emergency visit, but Ma hated being in the house with strangers. Either he or Amy had to be there for any repairs. She’d have to wait for once.
Stressed in the way only his mother could make him, Wes tried to focus on the upcoming meeting. The café was on a side street with chairs chained to the two iron tables in the front. A small window sold drinks and pastries to passersby too busy to open the door and walk four steps to the counter. He stepped in, breathing the comforting smell of roasted coffee and melted butter, and then stopped dead.
In the back corner sat Nadine, laughing with a man in a blue Henley shirt and jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed off her ears. She had a new piercing, he noticed as he came closer, making it three in her left and one in her right. Why he noticed that about her, he couldn’t say. Well, he’d been trained to observe details, so that was probably it.
She looked up, and her smile flashed out of sight.
“Ah, you must be Wes. I’m Brent.” The man rose to a casually polite half crouch. He was tanned with brown hair, the kind of man who populated streetscape shots in movies because he faded so well into the background. He didn’t offer his hand and instead gave a small wave, which was a relief. Wes never trusted men who acted as if a strong handshake was some sort of stand-in for masculinity. Tyler had an intentionally crushing shake.
