“Most of them,” he interjected dryly, “but they’ve always been too afraid of me to retaliate. I know where all the bodies are buried.” He sobered. “I’m not proud of that. Or of the other . . . sinful things I’ve done.”
That kind of candor was as unprecedented as Howe’s hotline to God. Still, she didn’t let herself get sidetracked. “We both know there are plenty of people who would jump at the chance to embarrass you, or our family,” she argued. “I can’t let that happen, Howe.
You
can’t let that happen. Whatever our shortcomings might be, our children don’t deserve to suffer for our mistakes.”
He looked away. “The sins of the father.” Then he faced her, regret in his eyes. “I have a lot of amends to make. Foremost, to you and the kids. But also to this town, and it’s time for me to start.”
Uh-oh. Making amends meant talking to people. About touchy subjects. No, no, no.
“Don’t you think it would make more sense to try going to church, first?” she proposed. “As a test, to see how you manage. Just in for the service, then out, then home. I’d be there to help you, make sure things didn’t . . .”—how should she put it?—“get out of hand.”
He regarded her with the same look he used on his mother when she gave him orders, but this time, it was softened by compassion. “God wants me to do this, Elizabeth. He won’t punish me for being obedient. I promise, it’ll be fine.”
Please. “Maybe you should talk to your counselor, first,” she suggested.
“Can’t,” Howe said, undaunted. “He’s out of pocket for the next week, and then it will be too late.”
Frustrated, she argued, “Howe, think of the children. I know you wouldn’t mean to, but surely you don’t want to risk embarrassing them.”
He chuckled. “We’re their parents,” he countered. “All we have to do to embarrass them is breathe.”
“I’m not talking about breathing,” Elizabeth countered. “I’m talking about cussing. And crying at babies in commercials. Crying in general. And blurting out . . . inappropriate things.”
Howe refused to be intimidated. “Why don’t you come with me, then? As my . . .
handler
.”
Howe might be a changed man, but he was still a man, and he’d clearly made up his mind, whether it was his right mind or not. She briefly considered drugging him, but she didn’t have anything on hand to use, and she didn’t think the psychiatrist would consider Rotary Club enough reason to prescribe barbiturates.
Damn. “All right. I’ll go. But you have to swear to me, on the Bible, that you will think before you open your mouth.”
He peered at her in mock challenge. “And what if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll be forced to tie you up and keep you here,” she said, only half joking.
He refused to take her seriously. “Well, I’m not supposed to swear anymore”—oh,
right
—“but I must say,” he told her with a glint of lust, “the idea of having you tie me up sounds intriguing. As long as you have your way with me afterward.”
“As if!” What was she going to
do
with him? “Stop acting like a sixteen-year-old and eat your dinner.”
He waggled his brows her way. “Stop acting like my
mother
and eat yours.”
Exasperated, Elizabeth sighed and took a big, comforting bite of warm shepherd’s pie and said a prayer of her own.
Please, God, if you do care about our ordinary lives, don’t let this Rotary thing go badly. Please, please, please, please, please.
Maybe she was going batty, too, because she swore she could hear the distant echo of a laugh . . . in her own thought-voice.
Elizabeth braced herself as they got out of the car at Pappy’s Restaurant. The parking lot was slammed, forcing them to go around back. Not a good sign.
She’d deliberately made them late so there wouldn’t be time for Howe to circulate before the meal, and he was anxious to be inside. “Come on, Lillibet,” he urged, shooting his cuffs from the sleeves of his Armani suit. “Hitch up your get-along.”
Hitch up your get-along.
“Since when do you speak
Hee Haw
?” she observed.
“Since I’m not a stick-in-the-mud anymore,” he responded. He took her elbow and speeded up their pace. “At this rate, the buffet line will be so long, we might not get any stewed corn.”
Pappy’s stewed corn, deviled eggs, and homegrown tomatoes were the reason the Kiwanis and Rotary clubs put up with the vintage-seventies, cheaply paneled meeting room.
Howe led Elizabeth between two of the many SUVs and deluxe pickups parked in front.
Please, God, I’m begging, don’t let this be a disaster.
They weren’t even halfway up the front stairs when a delegation came out to greet them, headed by Harve. “Howe! So glad you could make it!” He shook Elizabeth’s hand. “And your lovely bride. Y’all come on in.”
“Harve,” she acknowledged as Howe did the same. “Tom. Good to see you, Adam. Phil.”
The others said their hellos and shook hands, but Elizabeth had no illusion that the open curiosity in their expressions was sparked by concern. They were there to find out if the rumors about Howe were true.
Not that she’d heard any—she’d be the last one to know—but she knew Whittington.
Steeling herself, she gripped Howe’s left hand in case she had to extract him quickly from a thorny situation.
The minute they walked into the restaurant, all conversation ceased and every eye turned to watch them.
Feeling as if she’d woken up naked in church, Elizabeth forced herself to smile as if nothing were amiss, but Howe said a cheerful, “Hi, everybody. Good to see you all.”
The openly friendly remark from the same man who’d rarely granted anybody so much as a nod prompted a spattering of
hi’
s in response, and a rush of whispered comments.
Harve hustled them into the private dining room, where the same thing happened, only this time, the president, Frank Clopton, rapped his gavel loudly from the head table, then announced
over the PA system, “Hi, everybody! Let’s all give Howe Whittington a big Rotary hand to welcome him back.”
As applause broke out, Elizabeth caught the irony and bold assessment on most of the expressions turned their way. But Howe acted like a gubernatorial candidate, calling out names, shaking hands, and greeting everybody he could get to. He tried to free his left hand from her grip more than once, obviously tempted to hug the few genuinely interested friends they encountered, but she refused to let go, sparing him that, at least.
Frank left his place at the head table and came back to welcome them personally. “Howe, great to see you looking so well. Back down to your fighting weight.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I see you’ve been taking good care of him.” He patted Elizabeth’s back, patronizing. “What would we do without our little Rotary Annes?” he gushed.
Elizabeth managed not to snarl at the old blowhard.
“Come on,” Frank insisted, taking hold of Howe’s elbow. “Got a place for you both at the head table. You two are guests of honor.”
Elizabeth shot Howe a panicked glance. She’d planned on sitting in back. By the door, in case they had to make a quick escape.
Howe registered her concern, then bent close to Frank’s good ear to murmur, “Thanks. I appreciate that, but I’d rather keep a low profile, if that’s okay with you. First time out, you know. We’ll just sit back here.”
Frank eyed him with skepticism, practically bellowing, “Since when does Howe Whittington turn down a spot at the head table?”
Uh-oh.
Elizabeth’s mouth opened to respond, but Howe was quicker, leaning even closer to Frank’s good ear. “Since Jesus and I had a little welcome-back meeting at the end of a coma. So cut me some slack, okay?”
Frank was struck dumb for at least ten seconds—a world record. Then he recovered with a flustered, “Well, at least let us get you to the head of the line.” He tried to pull them forward, but Howe dug in, a hint of his old menace returning.
“We’re just fine where we are.” Howe extracted his elbow from Frank’s grip with a jerk. Then he saw Robert Harris come in.
“Sorry to cut this short, Frank,” Howe said, “but I need to talk to Robert about something.” Eyes on Robert, Howe dismissed the president with a nod. “Thanks for making me feel so welcome.” He pointed in Robert’s direction and barked a loud, “Robert! Wait up.”
Everybody in the room went still. Howell Whittington never yelled. Ever. Much less chased anybody down. People came to him, not the other way around.
Shocked, Robert stopped in his tracks with a smile. “Howe. Great to see you.”
“Thanks for rescuing me from Frank,” Howe murmured.
“Anything I can do, you name it,” Robert said quietly. “It’s small enough repayment for—”
Howe cut him short, turning his back to the rest of the room to murmur, “Whoa, now. None of that. Remember, it’s our little secret.”
Robert colored. “Sorry. I just . . . Just thanks, for everything.”
“ ’Nuff said.” Howe clapped him on the back. “Let’s get in line while there’s still some corn left.”
“I need to speak to Phil Mason first,” Robert deferred. “Y’all go ahead.”
Elizabeth relaxed a little as they got in the buffet line. So far, so good. Howe hadn’t self-destructed. Yet.
He let out a happy laugh, which was enough, by itself, to make half those present think the end times were upon them. Then he sobered abruptly.
Elizabeth followed his line of sight to see their ophthalmologist, Mark Leonard, come in, late as usual, and cut in line—as usual.
“Wups.” Howe pulled free of her grasp. “Be right back. I need to have a word with Mark.”
Uh-oh! Elizabeth hurried after him. “Wait for me,” she whispered through a fixed smile as she chased him. “Remember. You promised.”
Howe turned to her, his manner serious. “I know, but this conversation needs to be private.”
“Then make an appointment,” she shot back beneath a benign expression.
“I tried,” he retorted. “He’s booked solid for weeks. Just give us a minute. It won’t take long.”
No way was she cutting him loose. “Howell, you promised I could stay with you through this.”
Nostrils flaring, he shot her a brief glare. “Damn, Lizzie—sorry,” he muttered tightly. “I hate when you call me ‘Howell.’ You sound just like my mother.”
“And I hate when you cuss and call me ‘Lizzie.’ ” She leveled a quelling look at him. “I rest my case.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, but relented. “Oh, all right. Come on.” He took her hand. “But try to act like you can’t hear what I tell him, okay?”
This did not bode well. “We’ll see.”
“Mark!” Howe hailed, drawing away from the line to where the doctor stood. “A quick word?”
Mark sniffed—a constant affectation—glanced longingly at the fast-disappearing deviled eggs, then reluctantly came over, partially loaded plate in hand. “Just have a minute. I’ve got to eat and get back to the clinic. Got twelve lens correction surgeries this afternoon.” He sniffed again, lifting a bent finger to his nostrils.
Howe placed a staying grip on the man’s shoulder and didn’t release it. “This won’t take long.” His voice dropped to a confidential tone as he drew Mark out of earshot of the others, with Elizabeth in tow. “I’d like to talk to you about canceling your appointments for a while and taking a vacation. You’re not well. I know this. And I know why.”
Elizabeth stilled. She’d heard rumors about Mark and cocaine, but he’d always seemed fully functional to her.
“This is total bullshit,” Mark scoffed under his breath.
Howe’s expression firmed. “You shouldn’t be operating on anybody, Mark. We both know it. Take time to go get help, and I’ll suspend all your payments—on the clinic, and the house. And the condo. They’re all overleveraged, and there’s no sense denying the reason. I pulled your credit reports. It’s just a matter of time before this hits the fan,” he said without a trace of gloating.
Mark glared at him, but didn’t argue.
Howe regarded him with genuine compassion. “I got a second chance to put things right, and I want to give you one, too.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “There’s a good facility near Asheville that specializes in doctors. Once you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss getting you back on your feet financially.” He proffered the envelope. “What do you say?”
“You bastard,” Mark hissed. “That’s blackmail.”
Elizabeth agreed with him, but that was nothing new for the old Howe, which was ominous. But the new Howe was doing it for a good cause, which was confusing.
Howe smiled. “Call it whatever you want. I’d call it an offer you can’t afford to refuse.” He motioned to the Rotary banner. “Put it to the four-way test. What do you say?”
Mark turned his back to the roomful of curious men and muttered, “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Go to hell.”
“Sorry,” Howe answered. “Too late. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’ll go to the medical board if I have to. We hold the mortgage on their place, too.”
Mark went beet red. Trapped between his addiction and what Howe was forcing on him, he stood there quivering faintly, muscles flexed and bloody murder on his face. Then after what seemed like eons but was probably only a few seconds, he snatched the envelope and shoved his plate at Howe, spilling tossed salad on the worn carpet. “Here. Take my plate. I can’t stay. I have to cancel my appointments. I feel a serious illness coming on.”