Just Like Home(17)
Still, she didn’t have to be hospitable. She got into the driver’s seat and backed out of her parking space without a word.
“So,” he said. “That was awfully unfair of those people.”
“It’s not a fair town.”
The man reached forward and swiped at the dashboard of the car, leaving an uneven dark streak across the gray dust that had collected there. His other hand lifted to his mouth, tucking something dark between his full pink lips. “What was that woman so mad at you about?”
Vera hesitated. “She’s Brandon Gregson’s mother, is what.”
“Well, sure,” he said. “But it’s not like you did anything to him.”
“Me and him were best friends when I was a kid. Not a lot of people know that.” Vera flinched inwardly—she hadn’t meant to give this man anything of herself. “She still … she’s mad at me. She holds me responsible. For all of it. Not like you can blame her for how she feels.”
“Seems she doesn’t mind blaming you for how she feels,” he mumbled.
Vera glanced over and immediately regretted it. The man’s face was carefully arranged and pointed right at her. His eyebrows were raised significantly, his lips pursed around a gas-station cigarillo. He was making a significant point and she was supposed to respond to it with appreciation.
She squeezed the steering wheel a couple of times, just hard enough to feel the stitching dig into her palms. “Sure,” she said, not looking over as his lighter clicked. “Sure. What happened wasn’t my fault. But it’s not like that matters. Dad’s not here anymore for them to be mad at. Daphne is. And now I am, too.” She glanced at him again. “We’re still here for them to hate, because of people like you.”
He pressed a hand to his heart, dramatic. Performing. “Me?” A little plume of smoke escaped from between his teeth as he exhaled the word. It smelled like burnt grape flavoring and shitty tobacco.
“Daphne would have had to move away a long time ago if people like you didn’t keep her lights on,” Vera said, a little edge of acid creeping into her voice. She wanted to tell him not to smoke in her car but she didn’t want to let him know that it bothered her, that anything bothered her. “She couldn’t have afforded to keep the place without renters. How much did you shell out to sleep in that ‘cottage,’ mister…?”
He held the cigarillo perched between his index and middle fingers, leaving a trail of smoke wherever he gestured; the thing was cheap enough to keep burning whether he was smoking it or not. “I didn’t pay a dime. It’s all grant money. And the name’s Duvall,” he added. “James Duvall.” He said it with the cadence of importance, like people who ran in the right crowds would gasp with recognition at the sound of his first and last names side-by-side.
Vera wasn’t in the right crowd. Still, her mouth flooded with saliva. “Duvall,” she repeated, her voice low with the weight of memory and fury. It wasn’t a question.
“That’s me.” James Duvall ran his free hand through his hair too slowly. Vera refused to look over to see if he was showing off a bicep or a wristwatch. “Your mom charges a fair price for access to real, raw, honest inspiration. And of course, I bring some history along with me. Some legacy. It’s only fair.”
There it was again. Your mom. Had Daphne not disabused him of that language yet? Or was he trying to needle a reaction out of Vera by reminding her of their failed relationship? That had to be it.
“I’m glad you’re getting inspired, James,” Vera replied evenly. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m sure your father is very proud.”
She didn’t know whether or not he’d been waiting for the acknowledgment of who he was, of who his father was. Of how his father had consumed hers. But she couldn’t stand to pretend that she didn’t know. She couldn’t let him think he was getting away with something.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Duvall said easily. “Doesn’t know I’m not twelve years old, these days. Alzheimer’s.”
“Rough,” Vera snapped. “What a loss.”
What kind of person snaps at someone about that? she asked herself—but the thought was quickly absorbed into her growing anger at this man, this legacy, who was in her car and sleeping outside her childhood home, this man who dared to speak to her after what his father had done.
James Duvall laughed long and low. “He told me you were a pistol. Back in the day, I mean. When my father was writing your chapters, he’d laugh to himself, and one day I asked what he was laughing about, and he said, ‘That Vera Crowder, she’s a real caution.’” He reached over and brushed her arm, let his touch linger for a moment. He wore a ring on every other finger.
“I’ve been wanting to get to know you for as long as I can remember.”
She shook him off. “No thanks.”
“Come on,” he said, and the weight in his voice drew her gaze for just long enough to see the frank invitation waiting there. “It’s kind of inevitable, isn’t it? You and me? It’s worth considering.”
“I don’t date men.”
“Men like me, you mean.”
“Men as in men,” she replied. “But you can tell yourself that it’s about you, if that’ll make you feel better.”