Page 1 of Kandie Shoppe

Prologue

Things that died in the fire…

“Just go to that fucking bitch, then.”

I hear the typical drunken screeching of Mom as soon as I enter the mudroom, shucking off my boots. The crash that follows is also predictable. Dishes clatter against cabinets causing a crescendo of noise as other items dislodged from their neatly placed home topple.

“Dammit, Marlene. Stop this nonsense,” my father growls. “U will be here any minute. You promised you were going to stop doing this.” The exasperation mixed with despair rings clear.

“I will as soon as you stop fucking your whore,” she hisses in return. “And as for our precious son, since when you gave a fuck about him? When you tried to make me get rid of him? Huh? Should I tell ’em about that? How you had to give up Lilly-Pearl Carrington for him and settled for being sheriff instead of a high-powered lawyer in Birmingham like your brothers?”

Dropping my cleats loudly stops the tirade. The silence is deafening as I trudge into the kitchen. The Wednesday nightspaghetti clings to the countertop and cabinets my mother has decorated with her fury.

“Hey,” I say, looking at the mess watching for the hundred thousandth time the shame that drops over my parents like a cloud right before a summer rain at a softball game.

“Hey, sugah,” Mom coos. Barely holding it together, she rushes over to place a soft, drunkenly soggy kiss on my cheek.

“You alright little lady?” I force a smile down into her hopeful, bleary gaze. I already know any type of upset on my part will only ignite the situation like napalm.

“I sure am, sujah plumb now that you’re here.” She shrugs. “Got a little theatrical with the spaghetti, but there is plenty left.”

Hurrying over to the six burner gas stove, she insisted on Daddy upgrading three years ago, she gets busy making us huge plates of pasta loaded with a four meat sauce, topped with freshly grated parmesan cheese. After sitting the plates and freshly baked garlic bread in front of us, her smile trembles as she looks at us both. “Y’all go ahead and eat. I’ll clean this mess up.”

“Nah, you come eat with us. I got it.” Dad grabs her wrist tugging her back. “Sit,” he reiterates. “You worked hard on this food, babe. I got it and the dishes.”

As usual, she blossoms under his praise. “Alright,” she concedes, getting a smaller plate.

“How was practice?” Daddy asks around mouthfuls of prosciutto, Italian sausage, ground beef, and Conecuh sausage laden tomato sauce so thick and yummy we’re all going to be threatening a sleep coma.

“Good. I don’t think I’m going to get quarterback this year though,” I say like watching the other kid outplay me on every call wasn’t my worst nightmare just a mere thirty minutes ago.

“Oh, yeah? Why do you say that?” My dad perks up and Mom's brows raise in alarm. I’d been starting quarterback sinceI was in ninth grade. There’s always been a Shelby quarterback since we founded the elite private Shelby Academy back in the late sixties.

“There’s a new transfer, Ozymandias. He’s good.” I leave his last name out, knowing already how that will go. “He’s earning his spot.” I turn the tines to load up my fork and shove the savory mix of sauce, meat, and pasta into my mouth. I can feel the tension spread between my parents.

The fallacy that every Shelby is wealthy has never been more evident than right now. That is especially true for my father. As the proverbial black sheep of the family, he’s barely tolerated, cut off by my uncle Mathias Shelby, Sr. He doesn’t fall in line, isn’t a racist, corrupt, or depraved. The Shelbys have no use for my father other than the position he holds as sheriff over the small-town epicenter of the origins of our power. Legacy means everything to Shelbys and being able to give the appearance that we still hold all the power in this town means more to the powerful matriarch, Grams in Birmingham and her favorite son, my uncle Mathias.

“Well, just do your best,” my dad says. “You’ll still get a scholarship,” he assures me. “If not, I’ll sign over my GI Bill over to you,” he adds with a wink.

“I will. I have another whole year of high school,” I promise solemnly knowing he’d go hat in hand and ask my uncle Mathias if he had to. But I’d never put Daddy in that position. My uncle is evil incarnate. It’s whispered about but my father knows firsthand.

“I got it,” I say when Daddy moves to start cleaning.

“You sure? Don’t you have homework?” He quirks a brow.

“I did it in the library before practice started,” I assure him.

“Well, alright then,” he says, looking into the living room before turning back to me. “What your mom said —”

“I know it was the Jack, Dad.” I turn away so I don’t have to see him lie.

There is a long pause. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me — she is, too. It took me too long to realize that. I fucked up a lot,” he sighs. “Some mistakes you can’t take back. Hurtin’ the people you love is the biggest one.” His voice is a gruff whisper right before his heavy hand squeezes my shoulder for a brief moment. “I love your mom and you,” he says to my back.

“Love you too, Dad.” A soft pat and he’s gone.

I run the water scrubbing away the wet from my eyes before attending to the task.

Blaringsirens have me sitting up and throwing on my clothes. There’s a fire, and it’s the hottest season of the year. Still summer, school started just last week. A drought has made fires more common this year than any other. Pulling on my jeans, boots, and a Henley, I head down the stairs where Dad is already starting the ignition of his Ford F-150.

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