Sycamore Row

perfect those jury instructions or just sit here and bad-mouth Lucien all morning?”
    Harry Rex stood and began lumbering away. “Later. You got a cold Bud Light?”
    “No.” When he was gone, Jake opened the envelope and studied the check from the insurance company. On the one hand, he was sad because the check represented the end of their first home. Sure it went up in flames more than three years earlier, but the lawsuit against the insurance company gave Carla and him hope that it might be rebuilt. That was still possible, but unlikely. On the other hand, the check meant cash in the bank; not much by any means, but after paying off the two mortgages they would net close to $40,000. It wasn’t exactly unrestricted, but it did take some pressure off.
    He called Carla and said a small celebration was in order. Find a babysitter.

    Lucien sounded normal on the phone, though normal for him meant the usual scratchy voice and the pained delivery of a drunk trying to shake off cobwebs. He said their man Lonny Clark had a rough night; the infection would not subside; the doctors were more concerned than the day before; and, most important, he was not receiving visitors.
    “What are your plans?” Jake asked.
    “Hang around for a while, maybe take a road trip. You ever been out here, Jake? Pretty spectacular, with mountains on three sides andthe Pacific right here at the door. The town’s not a big place and not that pretty, but, man, what scenery. I like it. I think I’ll get out and explore.”
    “Do you think it’s him, Lucien?”
    “I know less than I did when I left Clanton. Still a mystery. The cops don’t care who he is or what’s happening back there; they’ve got a drug ring to break up. I like it here, Jake. I might stay awhile. I’m in no hurry to get back. You don’t need me in that courtroom.”
    Jake certainly agreed but said nothing.
    Lucien continued, “It’s cool and there’s no humidity. Imagine that, Jake, a place with no humidity. I like it here. I’ll keep an eye on Lonny and chat with him when they let me.”
    “Are you sober, Lucien?”
    “I’m always sober in the morning. It’s ten at night when I run into trouble.”
    “Keep in touch.”
    “You got it, Jake. Don’t worry.”

    They dropped off Hanna at Jake’s parents in Karaway and drove an hour to Oxford, where they drove through the Ole Miss campus and soaked in the sights and memories of another lifetime. It was a warm, clear spring day, and the students were out in shorts and bare feet. They slung Frisbees across The Grove, sneaked beer from coolers, and soaked up the sun as it was disappearing. Jake was thirty-five, Carla thirty-one, and their college days seemed so recent, yet so long ago.
    A walk through campus always triggered a wave of nostalgia. And disbelief. Were they really in their thirties? It seemed like they were students just last month. Jake avoided walking near the law school—that nightmare was not distant enough. At dusk they drove to the Oxford square and parked by the courthouse. They browsed for an hour in the bookstore, had a coffee on the balcony upstairs, then went to dinner at the Downtown Grill, the most expensive restaurant within eighty miles. With money to burn, Jake ordered a bottle of Bordeaux—sixty bucks.
    Returning, at almost midnight, they took their customary turns and slowly drove by the Hocutt House. Some of its lights were on, and the grand old place beckoned them. Parked in the driveway was Willie Traynor’s Spitfire with Tennessee plates. Still a bit loose from the wine, Jake said, “Let’s check on Willie.”
    “No, Jake! It’s too late,” Carla protested.
    “Come on. Willie won’t care.” He’d stopped the Saab and was shifting into reverse.
    “Jake, this is so rude.”
    “For anyone else, yes, but not for Willie. Plus he wants us to buy this place.” Jake parked behind the Spitfire.
    “What if he has company?”
    “Now he has more. Let’s go.”
    Carla reluctantly got out. They paused for a second on the narrow sidewalk and took in the sweeping front porch. The air was rife with the fragrant aromas of tree peonies and irises. Pink and white azaleas burst forth from the flower beds.
    “I say we buy it,” Jake said.
    “We can’t afford it,” she replied.
    “No, but the bank can.”
    They stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, and heard Billie Holiday in the background. Willie eventually came to the door, in jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled it open