Page 138 of Highball Rush
Gibson gathered me in his arms, crushing me against his chest. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”
Closing my eyes, I melted into him. I’d taken the final step and told the world who I was. A potent sense of relief washed over me. I could finally be me again.
“I never could have done that without you,” I said quietly.
“I don’t know about y’all, but I feel like a wrung-out washrag,” Scarlett said, plopping into a chair. “How’re you holding up, Callie?”
Gibson’s arms loosened enough for me to turn toward her. “I’m okay, actually. I think it went well.”
“It was perfect,” Cassidy said.
“Any word on the Kendalls?” Gibson asked.
“Not that I know of,” Cassidy said. “Dad was up half the night talking to the FBI. They’re taking it seriously, that’s the good news. But they’re not exactly texting him the play-by-play. I don’t think we’ll hear anything until they make an arrest.”
A low growl rumbled in Gibson’s throat.
“I think it’s working,” Leah Mae said, looking up from her phone. “Bits of your statement are already being reported at some of the smaller news sites. It’s only a matter of time before the big ones pick up the story.”
“You know what we need now?” Scarlett asked. “A platter of bad-for-you food and a couple pitchers of mimosas.”
That sounded perfect to me.
* * *
An hour and a half later,we’d all soothed our rough nerves with a good meal. Jayme declared the situation stable and left. I wondered if the Bodines were going to need a family lawyer anymore. The civil suit the Kendalls had filed would be dropped. Jonah Bodine Sr. was no longer a person of interest in a missing-persons case.
The truth was in the open now.
Jameson, Leah Mae, Jonah, and Shelby went out on a quick walk through town to see what was happening—if anything. They returned to report the crowd at Gin Rickey park had disbursed. Shelby saw the local news crew packing up their van. It looked like most of the reporters and bloggers had left, probably back to their offices or laptops in a race to be among the first to break the news.
They said the town seemed its usual self. A little quieter than summer. But they’d spotted Gert—Cassidy and June’s Gram-Gram—having a heated argument with her frenemy, Myrt, on the corner outside Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. Wade Zirkel’s fancy new four-by-four had broken down in the middle of Lake Drive and he’d been walking laps around it, scratching his head like he had no idea what to do. Mona Lisa McNugget had somehow gotten stuck on the roof of her coop and Bex and Fanny Sue had been busy trying to coax her down.
Just a typical Bootleg Springs afternoon.
Gibson leaned back, his arm slung over the back of my chair. He absently ran his fingers through my hair while we listened to Bowie spin a tall-tale style story about great-grandaddy Jedediah Bodine and his famous bootlegging shenanigans.
With our meal wrapped up and the press conference over, it was time to go home and wait. Gibson seemed reluctant to put more than two inches of space between us, even standing guard outside the ladies’ room while I went in. His family wandered out onto the sidewalk, still chatting. He led me outside with an arm around my shoulders.
I couldn’t wait to get back to Gibson’s house. To the space and solitude. I wanted to get in bed and hunker down with him beneath the covers. Close my eyes and lose myself in him. Shut out the world and pretend it didn’t exist for a little while.
Angry voices across the street made me turn. There was a commotion outside Moonshine. At first I wondered if Gram-Gram and Myrt’s little spat had spun out of control. But then I saw the beige Lexus with Virginia plates parked down the street.
“It’s them,” I said. “They’re here.”
Gibson’s arm shot around my waist, like he was about to pick me up and carry me to his truck. The chatter around me faded, a ripple running through our little group.
And then I saw them.
Judge Kendall stood outside Moonshine, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt. He looked so much older than I remembered. His hair was thinning, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. When I was young, he’d only worn glasses for reading.
And her. She’d aged as well. The lines around her eyes were deeper. Not smile lines. Imogen Kendall hadn’t smiled enough to earn the pleasant-looking marks of a life well lived. Hers angled downward, both from her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
They were both well-dressed. Impossibly tidy without a wrinkle or a hair out of place. And in the moment that our eyes met—when they saw me for the first time in thirteen years—neither of them smiled. Not in that half-second of recognition. Not until the shock appeared to wear off and they seemed to recall they had an audience.
My mother gasped, clutching her chest. My father stepped close and held her shoulders, as if she needed him to keep her upright.
The world seemed to go silent. Conversations among neighbors on the street ceased. The people who’d started to gather around my parents halted, their eyes darting around, as if they weren’t sure what to do. Even the air felt still, like Bootleg Springs itself held its breath, waiting to see what would happen.
