Hidden Riches by Felicia Mason Page B

at her. “I like you too.”
    Eula Lee wasn’t so convinced, but Bertie had a question that couldn’t wait.
    â€œWould you tell me something? I’ve always wanted to know, you know, if it hurts. Back there. When you . . .” Her words trailed off, but she continued to look him in the eye.
    Eula Lee gasped, jabbed Bertie hard with her elbow. But then looked at Archer expectantly. She too wanted to know the answer.
    Archer remained nonplussed. His gaze shifted from one woman to the other, then a slow smile started at his mouth. He waggled a finger toward Bertie, indicating for her to come closer.
    She leaned forward. Archer cupped a hand over her ear and whispered something.
    Bertie guffawed. Loud. So loud, heads turned toward them.
    â€œWhat?” Eula Mae demanded. “What’d he say?”
    â€œI’m gonna have to try that,” Bertie said.
    Archer winked at her and walked away.
    Eula Lee grabbed her friend’s arm. “What’d he say? What are you gonna try?”
    But Bertie’s only answer was a lingering chuckle and a self-satisfied smile.

    Hours later, long after the funeral and the meeting with Everett Rollings, instead of anticipating their imminent departures from Drapersville, the Futrells and their spouses sat around Ana Mae’s house, looking glum.
    From among Ana Mae’s five hundred plus TV channels Lester found an ESPN network he didn’t know existed. Archer and Winslow—two men with less than zero in common professionally, culturally, or socially beyond their relationships with a Futrell sibling—tried to find something to talk about.
    Archer eventually gave up.
    â€œI’m going to go make some tea. Would you like some?”
    â€œTea?” Winslow asked, as if Archer had offered him crack cocaine. “No, thank you. But I’ll bet there’s some coffee going.”
    He, clearly, also wanted to escape Lester’s play-by-play and dismal company.
    â€œHey, Archie, will ya grab me a beer while you’re up?” Lester called.
    Archer didn’t deign to reply but made his way to the kitchen where JoJo, Delcine, and Clayton sat at the table, grumbling.
    â€œWe’re stuck for days in this backwater swamp. Kill me now,” Delcine said.
    â€œI thought I’d be halfway back home by then,” JoJo said.
    â€œHey, guys,” Archer said in greeting to all of them. “Lester wants a beer,” he told JoJo.
    â€œHe can get it himself,” she said.
    â€œMy sentiments exactly,” Archer said, heading to the kitchen counter to survey the cakes and rolls and casserole dishes in an array of plastic containers and Pyrex bowls.
    Not seeing what he was looking for, he started opening cabinets. A few moments later, “Ah, here we go.”
    After filling a kettle from the tap and turning on a burner, he leaned against the counter.
    â€œSo, what’s the plan?” he asked.
    Winslow, who had apparently grown weary of Lester’s running commentary on NFL game highlights, appeared at the kitchen doorway. “I was wondering the same thing,” he said, then to Marguerite, “We’re on a timetable.”
    â€œI know that,” she snapped.
    â€œWe have open tickets,” Archer said.
    â€œBut I hadn’t planned to be here for more than three days,” Clayton said.
    They all grumbled for a few minutes, speculating on how much lottery money might be left for them to split.
    When the kettle whistled, Archer made tea. “Anyone want a cup?”
    â€œI’ll take one,” JoJo said.
    â€œHoney or sugar for sweetener?”
    â€œWhatever you’re having,” she said.
    â€œWell, the service was nice,” Winslow said. “You did a nice job, Clayton.”
    JoJo playfully hit Clayton in the arm. “I cannot believe you told them about that carnival day.”
    Clayton got more compliments about his storytelling, and in the way of families across the