Page 44 of Mountain Man
“Yeah. Let’s help Grandpa with his—”
Mr. La Rue waved them away with a snarl. “I’m not going anywhere. This wood has to be sanded.”
“Dad, this isn’t my house, and we—”
“I know it’s Jed Calhoun’s old dump. I bet his outdoor deck is in shambles. That guy was always trying to find a shortcut and make an extra dime doing diddly-squat. Did you hear he wants to retire and become a taxi driver?” The old man barked a laugh but didn’t meet his son’s gaze.
I had an eerie feeling Mr. La Rue knew something was wrong now and was hoping to be left alone.
Or with me.
“Go on. We’re fine. You can swing by to pick up your dad when you’re finished carpooling,” I volunteered.
Reg blew his cheeks out. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”
The kids left their birdhouses on the table, said their good-byes to their grandfather, and thanked me. And then…it was just me and Mr. La Rue.
I made idle conversation about whatever popped into my mind—the type of wood Viggo had included in the kits, DIY projects I’d done in the past, and yes…the deck was a mess, and I should talk to Jed about doing basic repair work and—
“So you’re Reg’s boyfriend.”
I almost choked on my saliva.
“Wh-what?” I sputtered. “I—no, we’re friends. We’re…no.”
Mr. La Rue’s shrewd gaze was perfectly lucid. Not a hint of confusion. This guy was a former policeman and most likely, a seasoned interrogator—not an old man with a compromised sense of reality. Shit.
“I know Reg is queer,” he said matter-of-factly. “Told me so himself a long time ago.”
Okay, I was reeling. “He did?”
“Yes, and I know what’s going on. My noggin is messed up, and they’re worried. I’m worried. It’s nice of you to help out, but I’m not a fool. The only reason you’re here is because Reg asked you. If he invited you, he likes you…as more than a friend.”
“Mr. La Rue, it’s—”
“Clark. At least that’s the name on my driver’s license.” He barked a humorless laugh. “Gallows humor. I’m not so far gone that I can’t remember my name.”
The “I might be someday” was implied though not spoken.
“Using a surname is a gesture of respect,” I reminded him.
Clark rolled his eyes. “You’re forty. I’ll let it slide.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m thirty-six. And second, Reg and I are friends. We’re not—”
“Bullshit,” he interrupted. “Pass me the glue. Where are you from, kid? I hear an accent.”
“Clearwater, Virginia. It’s a small mountain town in the Shenandoahs.”
“Hmph. You’re the mountain man. I’ve heard of you. What brings you to the Four Forest area?” He squeezed a dollop of glue along the edge of his well-sanded wood piece.
“A job. I work for Cooper at the Mill Depot.”
“That’s the store. Not the mill. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, watching him expertly construct the walls of the birdhouse.
“You know, I’ve started making notes for myself, reminders of little details I took for granted.” Clark’s gaze was fixed on his project. “Those details don’t always stick anymore. You’re Waylon from Virginia. You’re a mountain man. You work for Cooper at Mill Depot and…you have a nephew.”
