Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(85)

But he did. He put the sack of sandwiches and drinks on the bench between them. “Still pretty unsure if this is a good idea, I guess. Cold cuts okay with you?”

She accepted the tea first. “Sorry,” she said. “Trusting is such an issue with me.”

“Met a lot of people along the way you couldn’t trust?”

“I’m not even sure if that’s it,” she said. “I’m not real relaxed about my program yet. I’m always on the lookout for something that can trip me up, make me decide to take a drink. Because if one thing made it through all the cement in my head, it’s that if I have one drink, I’m probably going to die.” Then she smiled a very contrite smile. “It was nice of you to do this. But I still can’t figure out why, and that makes me tense.”

“Cheryl, I’ve been divorced over six years. I’ve had my own rocky time. I grew pot and went to jail. I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m just starting to make a few in town. And they’re cautious, as they should be. I’m probably not the safest bet. I mean, I know I am—because I’m totally clean. But given my history…I’m not surprised that people…you know…”

“And did you think that I would be a good gamble, given I’m the town drunk?” She bit into her sandwich.

He grinned at her. “First of all, you’re not anymore. Maybe you were, but you’re not. Haven’t been for a good long time. Second, I didn’t know squat-diddly about you when I suggested we share a meal sometime. I just plain liked your looks. Not your beauty—although you really do have that. I liked that you looked sturdy. Solid and sensible. I know—you explained, you don’t necessarily feel that way. But you look it. I thought I’d take a chance.” He ate part of his sandwich, rinsed it down with tea. “When I was a younger man, before a bad marriage and other things, I had a lot of friends. I haven’t for a long time. I’d like to get back to that. Have purpose. Friends.”

“You have purpose now?” she asked.

“I do,” he said, nodding. “I’m determined to take that old house from shit hole to quaint. I can do it, too.”

“Is that enough of a purpose?” she wanted to know.

“For now, it is.”

“Okay, let’s cut right to it. What the hell were you doing growing weed? Just explain that.”

“Oh hell, that’s almost the end of the story….”

“I have a whole sandwich to eat,” she said. “A big one, by the way. You must have thought I looked hungry or scrawny.”

“I thought you looked healthy,” he said. “We have to go back a ways to get to all the whys. I’ll try the condensed version. I worked construction for my dad south of here—tough old son of a bitch, but a damn fine builder. I went in the Marines, for a change of lifestyle and benefits and…I thought I’d like the life. I married a girl way younger—I was twenty-seven and she was eighteen. Anyone with a working brain would look out for the problems with that, but not me. ’Course, being doubly stupid, I got her pregnant right off. I was sent to Iraq, where I was wounded and medically retired. By the time I recovered, she was already moving on.”

“Do you have a child?”

“Had. A son. He got sick when he was four. An unusual and fatal heart condition—he was on the transplant list. My wife had already remarried and divorced a second time and in a stupid and desperate move, I decided I’d grow pot for a fast-money turn and buy the kid a heart if I had to. I wasn’t exactly rational. I didn’t just grow a couple of rooms full of cannabis— I set up several grow sites with caretakers to watch ’em. I made a lot of money, just like I intended to, but it didn’t do anything to help my boy. Cash,” he laughed. “We named him Cash. What irony.”

Cheryl was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said, regaining his composure and eating more of his sandwich. “So, I got caught. And I cut a deal. For a couple of years I fed the local cops information about growers I knew. By the way, if you tell that part around here, it could get me some attention from bad people. It’s entirely up to you, what you decide to say, but that’s a fact.”

“I might be able to keep a lid on that. Maybe.”

“Thanks. So, I got them some serious arrests, but I knew all along I was eventually going to have to either run or do time. I actually tried to run at the last minute, but I waited too long. I wouldn’t have been good on the run—that was never what I wanted. What I wanted was a real life. I’d had an eye on a real life for years—since I was eighteen or so. I wanted to bring home a paycheck, meet my buddies for a beer some Friday nights, throw the ball out front with my kid, have someone soft and cuddly next to me in bed and maybe even bring her home flowers for no reason once in a while. I was going to be a better builder than my dad, but what’s more important, I was going to be a better husband and father. I mean, my old man thought it was real sharp to be strict and stern, but I got the idea early there might be a better way. I lost sight of that goal for a while. I was kind of screwed up and just practiced being a badass—way worse than anything my dad ever was.”

He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper.

Cheryl was quiet for a while. She ate a little more, then folded what was left of her sandwich very neatly inside its wrapper. “Good story,” she said. “I bet it took you months to make that up.”