out on the place, or taking long rides with Jory up on the trails in the mountains.
She was a secure kid from a secure home. She knew her parents loved her and each other, and she loved them back.
She also loved Jory Hansen. They planned to go to Reno together and get married after they established their careers, she a medico of some type, he a crusading district attorney. Her parents didn’t disabuse her of her plans by telling her all of the things that usually happened to a relationship on the long trek through college. She was a level-headed kid and she’d take it all in stride.
She had clearly been told by her mother to suppress her natural curiosity about their house guest, and for the first twenty minutes avoided asking Neal the three thousand questions she had about the world outside of Austin.
“How was your afternoon with Jory?” Peggy asked her between bites of cherry pie, by way of rescuing Neal.
“Fine,” she answered.
Peggy picked up on it. For her exuberant daughter, “fine” was a barely positive description.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t know. He’s been a little quiet lately.”
“Jory Hansen’s never been exactly a chatterbox,” Peggy said.
Shelly hesitated. “He seems angry,” she said.
“Honey, I think he’s been a little angry since his mother died,” Peggy answered.
Peggy knew how he felt. She was angry too. Barb Hansen had been one of her closest friends. They had raised their babies together, helped each other through all of the childhood illnesses and injuries, sipped on a little wine together when the men were up in the hills cutting timber or hunting. They had spent long summer afternoons down at the creek, watching their kids splash around in the water and trading notes on marriage, business, cooking, ranching, and just plain stuff. She missed Barb Hansen too.
And Jory—short for Jordan—was such a sensitive kid. Much more like his mom than his dad. It was a hard loss for him.
“That’s three years, Mom.”
“I know.”
“He talks strange lately.”
“Strangely,” Peggy corrected, “and what do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Politics. How the country’s changing. He talks like a right-wing Republican or something.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked that boy,” Steve observed.
“He just seems angry,” Shelly repeated. “It scares me a little.”
“Maybe you ought to go out with other boys,” Steve suggested, ducking his head closer to his pie to avoid his daughter’s sharp eye.
“What other boys? Jory’s the only one around here who thinks that there might be more to life than roping cows,” Shelly answered. “Besides, I love him.”
“There’s always that,” Steve answered and the conversation turned to the local economy, politics, and the usual topics that people discuss when they’re getting to know one another.
And then the conversation turned to Neal.
He pretty much made the cover story up as he went along, letting it out little by little, playing at being shy and embarrassed but always observing the number-one rule of a good cover: stay as close to the truth as you can.
So he told them he’d been in graduate school in New York, that he’d fallen in love with a woman who broke his heart, and how all of a sudden life didn’t make any sense anymore and he just needed to get away to think.
So by the time he was into the second piece of pie and the third cup of coffee he was telling them how he’d flown to the West Coast, hadn’t found what he was looking for there, and decided to buy a cheap car and work his way back east.
All of which was technically true in its parts and a complete lie in its whole. The essence of a good cover story.
After dinner they repaired into the living room. Shelly went upstairs to take a shower and go to bed early.
Neal sank into the sofa and took the glass of scotch that Steve handed him. It smelled a little like the smoke from the charcoal fires in the monastery
She was a secure kid from a secure home. She knew her parents loved her and each other, and she loved them back.
She also loved Jory Hansen. They planned to go to Reno together and get married after they established their careers, she a medico of some type, he a crusading district attorney. Her parents didn’t disabuse her of her plans by telling her all of the things that usually happened to a relationship on the long trek through college. She was a level-headed kid and she’d take it all in stride.
She had clearly been told by her mother to suppress her natural curiosity about their house guest, and for the first twenty minutes avoided asking Neal the three thousand questions she had about the world outside of Austin.
“How was your afternoon with Jory?” Peggy asked her between bites of cherry pie, by way of rescuing Neal.
“Fine,” she answered.
Peggy picked up on it. For her exuberant daughter, “fine” was a barely positive description.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t know. He’s been a little quiet lately.”
“Jory Hansen’s never been exactly a chatterbox,” Peggy said.
Shelly hesitated. “He seems angry,” she said.
“Honey, I think he’s been a little angry since his mother died,” Peggy answered.
Peggy knew how he felt. She was angry too. Barb Hansen had been one of her closest friends. They had raised their babies together, helped each other through all of the childhood illnesses and injuries, sipped on a little wine together when the men were up in the hills cutting timber or hunting. They had spent long summer afternoons down at the creek, watching their kids splash around in the water and trading notes on marriage, business, cooking, ranching, and just plain stuff. She missed Barb Hansen too.
And Jory—short for Jordan—was such a sensitive kid. Much more like his mom than his dad. It was a hard loss for him.
“That’s three years, Mom.”
“I know.”
“He talks strange lately.”
“Strangely,” Peggy corrected, “and what do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Politics. How the country’s changing. He talks like a right-wing Republican or something.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked that boy,” Steve observed.
“He just seems angry,” Shelly repeated. “It scares me a little.”
“Maybe you ought to go out with other boys,” Steve suggested, ducking his head closer to his pie to avoid his daughter’s sharp eye.
“What other boys? Jory’s the only one around here who thinks that there might be more to life than roping cows,” Shelly answered. “Besides, I love him.”
“There’s always that,” Steve answered and the conversation turned to the local economy, politics, and the usual topics that people discuss when they’re getting to know one another.
And then the conversation turned to Neal.
He pretty much made the cover story up as he went along, letting it out little by little, playing at being shy and embarrassed but always observing the number-one rule of a good cover: stay as close to the truth as you can.
So he told them he’d been in graduate school in New York, that he’d fallen in love with a woman who broke his heart, and how all of a sudden life didn’t make any sense anymore and he just needed to get away to think.
So by the time he was into the second piece of pie and the third cup of coffee he was telling them how he’d flown to the West Coast, hadn’t found what he was looking for there, and decided to buy a cheap car and work his way back east.
All of which was technically true in its parts and a complete lie in its whole. The essence of a good cover story.
After dinner they repaired into the living room. Shelly went upstairs to take a shower and go to bed early.
Neal sank into the sofa and took the glass of scotch that Steve handed him. It smelled a little like the smoke from the charcoal fires in the monastery
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