Something Like Family Page 5

  “He’s my—” Grandpa? Grandfather? Rave realized these were words he’d never said. “I’m staying with him.”

  “You his grandson? Phil told my mom Tuck was havin’ company. His grandson from Florida. You staying through summer?”

  It was weird—and disconcerting—to think they knew anything about him. He typically kept to himself. Especially in a new town. He’d learned from his mother it was best to not make waves. Fly under the radar. Of course that was because she was usually setting someone up. Under the radar was safer. Silent entrance. Speedy exit.

  But he didn’t have to do that. He wasn’t out to hurt anyone or steal anything. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

  The one across the counter nodded. “Yeah, man. I get it. Keeping it real.” He went on punching bar codes from the produce into an archaic computer. Maybe Tuck had been right. Maybe there was a market for floppy discs. They could sell them, along with VCRs and Walkmans—a thing Rave wasn’t too familiar with, although his mom had sung the praises of the Walkman when she’d spotted a broken one at a flea market once.

  The guy checking his groceries slid the last of the produce toward the sacker. “Every Friday and Saturday morning there’s a swap meet on the square. James Harper sets up on the corner. He has CDs, and that’s about the only place around here you can find any decent death metal.”

  Rave’s brows shot up. “You listen to death metal?”

  “Yeah. And country. I’m Buck.” He pointed to the sacker, a kid with a buzz cut and dark-blue eyes. “This here is Rowdy.”

  Rave shook hands with the sacker, who added, “Real name is Randall, but everyone calls me Rowdy.”

  “Thanks for the info about the swap meet.” He knew there was a quizzical look on his face. Of course there was. He’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone. He took his change from Buck. “I’m Rave.”

  Rowdy placed the last bag in the cart. “Dude. That’s a cool name. Is it a nickname or—”

  “Nope. On my birth certificate.” He didn’t mention the rest of the story. How his mom named him that because she’d gotten pregnant at a rave.

  Buck shook his hand next. “Maybe see you Friday? I’m usually there. I help my dad at his booth.” He rolled his eyes. “You know, farmers.”

  No. Rave didn’t know farmers. Or farm boys who listened to death metal. Or guys his age who were this friendly unless they were after something. “Maybe.”

  He left through the slow-moving automatic door. Outside, he turned and glanced back. Buck and the other kid were flipping through a hunting magazine. Rave shook his head to clear it. Then he started up the truck and turned onto the road, letting the air conditioner vents fill the truck with the perfect temperature—a blend of cool and comfortable—something he knew was a dangerous combination.

  When he realized the truck was low on gas, he wheeled into a station and started counting what money he had left. Before he could step out, there was someone knocking on his window. He jumped and lost count of the change. He had at least a ten and a five. In the window, another face about his age, this one littered with pimples over ghostly white skin. It reminded him of the tourists back home. Walkers, he liked to call them, because their dead-white flesh looked painted on.

  The kid’s brows rose. “How much?”

  Rave put the window down. “How much what?”

  The boy smiled. “How much gas? Tuck usually fills it.”

  Confused, Rave glanced up at the station window. FULL SERVICE. “Oh, uh, I’ve just got fifteen.”

  “You Tuck’s grandkid? You look like him. I mean, don’t take that wrong, just family resemblance.” The guy started filling the tank but kept talking. “I was hoping Tuck’s grandkid would be a girl.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Rave leaned out the window and noticed the kid wasn’t even watching the pump. “Dude. Only fifteen, remember?”

  He brushed a hand through the air and left the pump running while he took a squeegee and cleaned the windshield. “Tuck’s got a tab here. He’ll settle up.”

  Rave looked down at the cash in his hand, then at the floorboard of Tuck’s truck. It was littered with trash and speckled with dirt. “Is there a car wash in town?”

  The kid pointed across the road, then finished pumping the gas. “If it was a snake, it would have bit cha.”

  “Thanks.” Rave started to drive off, but first he handed the kid a five for a tip.

  Time got away from Rave while he cleaned the truck. It felt good to scrub the thing, the red paint gleaming, the wheels shining. He dried it by hand because the gravel road Tuck lived down would make it a mud mess if he didn’t.

  Adjacent to the car wash was a snow cone stand. There was sweat on his brow, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not like home, where this much exertion would leave every pore running like a miniature faucet. Still, he could do with something cold so he rummaged through the ashtray and found four bucks in quarters. He’d used all the cash to wash, vacuum, and wax Tuck’s Chevy. He parked by the stand and walked up. There were two rows of picnic tables, six in all, in front of the stand. He ordered a Tiger’s Blood, and when he turned around to have a seat, he stopped.

  There, at the last picnic table, sat a girl. She had long, red hair that she’d pulled over one shoulder. Waves of the deep auburn stuff caught the sun, and he wondered for a moment if it would feel as soft as it looked. A small nose that fit her delicate features was stuck in a book. He glanced behind him at the woman running the snow cone shop, then back to the girl. No way had she been sitting there when he pulled up. He’d have noticed her—the pretty face, the soft-looking skin. But she wasn’t eating a snow cone, so why was she there?

  He sat directly across from her, one table down. Rave scraped at the top of his snow cone, stealing glances at her. She wore a white sundress and cowboy boots. Behind him he heard the woman yell, “It’s ready.”

  The girl stood, walked past him, tan legs taking long strides and that skirt teasing the breeze. It seemed her skirt and hair were competing for attention. Behind him, he heard, “Thanks, Elsie.”

  She sat back down and opened her book, taking the occasional bite of a melting snow cone.

  He opened his mouth twice to say something, but nothing came out. He probably shouldn’t be staring, but he was, in that way guys did when they were interested in someone of the opposite sex. Of course, he wasn’t interested in this girl. He couldn’t be. Ashley was still in his system. Where the redhead was concerned, he was curious, nothing more. Still, he couldn’t deny the quick shot of instant attraction that settled in his stomach. It was normal, a guy noticing a pretty girl. One of his sweaty hands wrapped around his snow cone cup. It cooled his fingers.

  She finished her snow cone and rose to leave.

  Before he could form a thought, he said to her, “Wait.”

  She paused, then turned around, one brow peaked. “Yes?”

  Oh, that was smooth. Words. He needed words. He was usually confident with girls. “Uh, I’m Rave.” It wasn’t just that she was pretty. There was something . . . settled about her. Like she knew exactly where she was headed, and life needed only to stay out of her way.

  “Hello.” She turned around and started to step away from him.

  “Wait.”

  Again, she turned, faced him, this time cocking her hip. She held the book to her chest. Bright-green eyes locked on him.

  “I, um, I think I read that.” He pointed to the book.

  Her mouth became an o. “Really? Most guys aren’t into life-affirming chick lit. Good for you. Break down those gender walls.” Her tone was just playful enough to make the sarcasm alluring.

  He dropped his head. “Is that what that is?”

  She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

  Rave brushed a hand through his hair. “I might have just been trying to get you into a conversation so I could find out your name.”

  “Or you could have just asked me my name.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.


  “What’s your name?”

  “Rebecca. Friends call me Becca or sometimes Bec.”

  “You live here?” The snow cone had helped cool him down, but that seemed lost now.

  “All my life.” She cast a glance behind her. “I have to get back to work, Rave. Welcome to Barton. By the way, I’ve never seen Tuck’s truck look so clean.”

  By the time he’d gone from looking over at the gleaming red Chevy to back at her, she’d made it halfway to the road. “Bye, Rebecca,” he hollered.

  “You can call me Becca,” she said, then jogged across the road. He watched her slip into a coffee shop on the corner called Sustenance. Whatever that meant.

  With a goofy smile planted on his face, Rave drove home.

  Rave had never washed a new vehicle. His whole life, all he or his mother had ever owned were secondhand beaters with as many dents as rust spots. Those, he’d run a hose over a few times a year, because, let’s face it, they looked about the same, clean or dirty.

  “She sure is shining,” Tuck said when Rave encouraged him to slip into the driver’s seat.

  “I detailed the trim work, too.” Rave pointed out the spots that had been the grimiest—the coffee cup holder, the area around the radio, the steering wheel. “All the dust from the dirt road will be a constant battle, but at least she can breathe for a while.”

  “Driveway,” Tuck said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a driveway, not a road. No other cars, no other houses, and it’s on my property, so that makes it a driveway, doesn’t it?”

  Rave nodded. “Guess so. How much property do you have?”

  “Quite a few acres.”

  Rave laughed. “Great. If you ever decide to sell, you can put up a sign that says Quite a Few Acres for Sale.”

  Tuck grinned. “For the price, we can say, ‘quite a bit.’”

  Rave nodded and used the hem of his T-shirt to wipe at the inside door frame. He’d missed a spot.

  “Proud of your work, aren’t you?” Seated in the cab, Tuck was eye to eye.

  “Guess so.” That wasn’t all. He liked taking the truck and making it look new again. He liked the ranch house and the barn. He liked the idea of wandering through a swap meet with Tuck on the weekend. In fact, he had some other ideas about the swap meet.

  Tuck worked the muscle in his jaw. “I had some maps on the floor. Need those. Where are they?”

  “They were covered with mud and something had spilled on them. They’re in the trash, Tuck.”

  The jaw crunching intensified. Rave watched him lower his fingers from the steering wheel and wring his hands. His eyes darted around the cab. What was happiness quickly turned to something else. Despair, maybe.

  “Was there something special about the maps?” He could go back to the car wash. They’d be near the top of the garbage can he’d tossed them in.

  “No. No, I just . . .”

  Rave almost wanted to calm him. He started to reach for Tuck but stopped himself. “We’ll buy new maps.”

  Tuck focused in on him. The frown softened. “OK. New maps.”

  “Something else I was thinking about . . .” Rave let the words fall away, carried on the wind to be lost on the lake behind the house because he wasn’t sure about this. He hadn’t thought this through, and it seemed maybe he couldn’t think it through without hearing it out loud. “I met a kid at the store today. Buck or something. And he said there’s a swap meet in town on weekends. I was thinking we could load up some of the junk you’ve got inside and sell it. Not a lot, the first week or two. Maybe just a few boxes, but if people like what we have, we could add more.”

  Tuck’s eyes widened. “A week or two. That’d mean you’re staying for a while.”

  “Guess I’ll have to. Make sure you keep taking care of Ruby.”

  When Tuck gave him a quizzical look, Rave added, “The truck.”

  “Oh, Ruby. Suits her. I guess I have been negligent. Old arthritic fingers don’t relish holding a scrub brush.”

  That made Rave feel bad. He hadn’t meant to point out any shortcomings of Tuck’s. “I’d like to stay for a few more weeks. See how things go.”

  “Live here?”

  “If that’d be OK.”

  “Son, nothing would make me happier.” He raised a finger. “But, every first and third Saturday night is the memorial. If you live here, you don’t miss the memorial. Ever. You ever do, and I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Seriously? This old man had done everything in his power to get Rave there and to make him a place where he’d want to stay, but miss a memorial—whatever that was—and he’d be out? He’d just started thinking maybe this place was different. Maybe this man was different, but just like everyone else who’d ever entered Rave’s life, he came with stipulations. Rave should have known not to let his guard down. “Fine. Whatever.” He’d stay until he had a better place to go. Then he’d load his car and hit the road. And never look back. The one thing he’d learned from his mom.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rave watched Tuck rise from his recliner when the phone rang. It was late on Friday night and for once, Rave thought he might follow Tuck’s lead and turn in early. A couple of hours before, they’d finished dinner—steaks on the grill, again. He’d never eaten so much steak in his life. Rave had spent the day poking through boxes to find stuff for the first swap meet. From the living room, he could hear Tuck. It sounded like he was trying to calm someone down. When Tuck stepped around the kitchen door and Rave saw the fire in his eyes, he put down the antique transistor radio and gave Tuck his full attention.

  Tuck passed him and went to a cabinet on the far wall. He opened a drawer and before Rave could inquire, he’d strapped a pistol to his waist.

  “Whoa. What’s happening?”

  Tuck checked the pistol for ammo and then pointed above the mantel. “Grab the shotgun.”

  Rave did as instructed. He’d fired a couple of guns in his lifetime, but he wasn’t good with them. Tuck took the pump-action shotgun, checked it, clicked the safety, and grunted, “Come on.”

  They left Tuck’s property and turned onto a dirt road less than a quarter of a mile down the main road away from town. “Trini Barton’s place. Some kids are partying out on her land, and the sheriff’s not answering her calls.”

  Her last name was the same as the town. But that wasn’t the detail that interested Rave right now. “So, we’re going to go—what?—murder them?”

  Tuck gave him a disgusted look. “No. Run ʼem off if we have to. Let ʼem know they can’t be there disrupting an old woman.”

  Rave forced his head to bob. “OK, man. I’m in.” The shotgun sat between them, the pistol hung on Tuck’s right side. If this went sideways, and he got arrested . . . with his grandfather . . . he’d never live it down. There were some things you couldn’t recover from. This had to be one of them.

  Rave had to admit, this whole toting-guns-in-the-truck thing had him nervous, and the bumpy road to their destination wasn’t helping soothe the anxiety. Trini Barton’s house was a long, skinny ranch that had yellow paint and white shutters. There was a giant street lamp in her front yard that illuminated an oblong swatch of her property. It looked out of place there in the country rather than lining the homes of a neighborhood. “Almost daytime with that giant streetlight.”

  Tuck nodded. “Yeah. City put it in for her. She’d called the sheriff one too many times about intruders. Come to find out, a family of raccoons had taken up residence under her front porch. She’d hear them at night. Scared the daylights out of her.”

  “Is she not used to being alone?” It looked like she’d lived there forever.

  “Has been here since her husband died over eight years ago. Being alone never bothered Trini until someone broke into her house. He was a drifter. Druggie. Lookin’ for cash or some dope. Anyway, Trini’s never been fond of guns, but she chased him out with a baseball bat.”

  They pulled in alongside a tan SUV, and as soon as
they stepped from the truck, Rave could hear music and voices in the distance.

  Trini burst through the front door. “Thanks for coming, Tuck. Last time, those hooligans tore up half my pasture.”

  “You get ahold of the sheriff?” Tuck stopped at the bottom of the steps. Rave stayed beside him.

  Trini was petite, about Tuck’s age, with her hair pulled back and her light-brown eyes framed with brackets of concern. “I did. He’s gone over to Shelby County. Deputy’s working an accident out on the highway. I let Sheriff Cogdill know you were handling things here.”

  Tuck closed his eyes. He clapped a hand on Rave’s back. “This here’s my grandson, Rave. He’s staying with me.”

  Trini stepped closer. “Is this Sharon’s boy? Goodness, he looks like her.”

  The woman came down the steps but stopped on the bottom where she could look Rave in the eye. She placed her hands on his cheeks. Her fingertips were soft and warm against his skin. She smelled like baby powder. “Welcome to Barton.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He itched to get away.

  “We’ll take a drive over to the pasture, Trini. Get those kids off your land.” Tuck hooked his hand on his pistol, very Old West, John Wayne style.

  Her gaze lingered on Tuck. “I’d be much obliged.”

  They got in the truck and bounced down a road that was little more than a path, but Tuck knew the way. More than once, he cranked the wheel to follow the road when it seemed like it would disappear in the tall grass that the headlights illuminated. This would be easier in the daytime.

  When they came to a large fallen tree blocking the way, Tuck shoved the truck into Park and got out, mumbling. Rave followed. Tuck inspected the road, the tree, and the edges of the path where dense foliage would prevent them from going around.

  Beyond the tree, he could make out several bodies moving around in the headlights. “They dragged this tree here. Blocked the path to Trini’s.”

  The oak was massive. Tuck pointed out a long fresh scar on the trunk. “Wrapped a chain around it. Probably got a vehicle blocking the main road. I told Trini years ago she needed a gate at the top of that road. It leads right to her hayfield.”