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Wait until they got in the car.
Cynthia breezed back to the table, setting a couple of napkins by Gene’s plate and a stack in the middle of the table. “There you go.”
She sparkled in Gene’s presence, a gentle glow Tick’s soul recognized because, damn it, that was how Caitlin lit up around him. He recognized the appreciation in Gene’s “thank you, honey” and his smile, too.
Son of a freaking bitch.
Hell, he’d adapt to this, too, be glad for the old man because he knew loneliness too intimately to wish it on anyone, especially the man he loved best.
“Tick, what part of Texas do you live in again?” Cynthia smiled at him across the table, her expression open and friendly. Her soft red hair — not quite as vibrant as Louise’s favorite dyed shade had been, a gentler tone — fluffed a little in the heavy humidity, waving to her shoulders.
“Houston.” He reached for his tea and ignored Virgil’s pained frown. He wasn’t moving back here. Eleanor would absolutely wilt without Woodfield, and Eva . . . well, she needed a solid, consistent dose of Sister Mary Louise because she was just like her mama. “The northwest section.”
“And you have two girls, right?”
“Yes.” He replaced the cup, ignoring Del’s secret grin. He refrained from kicking his brother’s ankle under the table. “Eleanor is fifteen, and Eva will be seven this month.”
And we would have had a baby the week of our anniversary in September. He kept that to himself, swallowed the tightness in his throat.
Cynthia turned a rueful look on Gene, touching his wrist. “I guess I’m never getting grandchildren. Drew just isn’t interested.”
With a sympathetic noise, Gene covered her hand a moment, then returned to his pineapple casserole.
Still wearing that earnest smile, Cynthia leaned toward Tick. “What does your wife do?”
Now, that he could talk about all day.
“She’s an analyst with the Bureau.” He laid his fork tines down on the plate. “She writes research on law enforcement issues, and sometimes she teaches a course at the University of Houston, does guest talks at other colleges around the country.”
She’s the strongest person I know. My girls couldn’t ask for a better mother, a better role model. And he was so proud of her it made his chest ache.
He ignored the look that bounced from Virgil to Talley to Gene and landed on him. They could look at him all they wanted. She’d risen above being limited by his dumbass choices, the ones that left her pregnant and alone at eighteen, a single mother derided and abandoned by her grandfather at nineteen. She played that shit down — he wouldn’t.
He loved Chandler County, missed it with a visceral ache sometimes, but all it would offer her was him . . . and hell, no. He would not bury her in the back of beyond.
Gazing at him, Cynthia smiled wider, her features softening. “You’re proud of her.”
Glad someone got it. He grinned and saluted her with his tea cup. “I am very proud of her.”
“That’s important, for you to feel that way about her.” Cynthia buried a pleased hum of approval in a sip of iced water. Louise had gotten how he felt about Caitlin, too, how fiercely he loved and guarded her. The moment of connection with the new woman in his grandaddy’s life buoyed him.
The club president, Jesse Everson, hefted to his feet, calling the meeting to order while exhorting everyone to “just keep on eating” before interrupting their consumption by calling them to stand for a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance.
As people settled back into seats, well-used chairs creaking in protest, Jesse called for happy bucks, a tradition that allowed members to toss a bill on the head table and offer their good news — a new grandbaby on the way, a child graduating from college, an aging parent released from the hospital after an illness. A couple of new members received their pins and certificates, then Jesse turned his attention on Tick.
“Tick, son, you want to come on up here?” Jesse waved him forward. Rickety chair protesting each movement, Tick rose, aware of Gene’s proud smile all the way through him. He shook Jesse’s proffered hand, the weight of speaking before Gene like that of his suit jacket, comfortable but still a little heavy in the heat of the room. “Y’all might remember Tick here . . . he’s Gene’s grandson, Lamar and Lenora’s boy. Played a little football at Chandler-Haynes before he went off to UGA. Tick works for the FBI, in Houston, Texas, am I right, son?”
“Yes, sir.” A flow of small murmurs rippled through the room, some impressed with his big city credentials and his federal law enforcement status, some not so and a little dismissive.
Yeah, he was moving his girls, all three of them, back here for that.
“Before that, he was at DCPD—” That tidbit elicited a stronger ripple of approval, and he bit back a grin. “—and he’s bringing our program today, talking to us about human trafficking here in Georgia and the southeastern United States. Tick, son, the floor is yours.”
With a nod, Tick waited until Jesse took his seat. He didn’t adjust his suit coat, but swept a quick, easy smile over his audience. “Good afternoon, it’s good to be home . . .”
He launched into the talk, aware of the speaking habits he’d picked up from Caitlin along the way, appreciating how she was woven into him, into all the aspects of his life.
While he wrapped up, his phone vibrated in his suit pocket. He answered questions for several minutes, then turned the floor back over to Jesse, returned to the table, Gene’s slap on his back a warm, stinging seal of approval. “Proud of you, boy.”
