witch.”
“What’s this about frying a local witch?” Ruby asked. Andrew pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
“In a manner of speaking,” McQuaid said with a grin. He held out his hand to Andrew. “Mike McQuaid.”
“Andrew Drake.” They shook hands and Andrew took the chair next to mine, casually splendid in pleated slacks, a cream-colored Dior polo shirt, suede loafers, and that absolutely perfect nose that made McQuaid’s look like it had gone fifteen rounds with the world’s heavyweight champ. He gave me a smile that aimed to charm.
“Congratulations on your opening,” I said. “Is this your first photography studio?”
“Not really,” Andrew said, signaling Bob to bring a pitcher of beer.
I waited for him to go on. But he didn’t, and Ruby spoke up. “I’m sure Andrew’s going be a success,” she said. “He’s already got one big assignment. Arnold Seidensticker has asked him to shoot his daughter’s wedding.”
“Shooting a Seidensticker isn’t a bad way to get started,” I said, and McQuaid snickered. Arnold Seidensticker is not my favorite person. For a while, he tried to get the Austin-San Antonio Regional Airport located near Pecan Springs. That idea went extinct when the U.S. Wildlife Service told him he couldn’t destroy the habitat of the golden-cheeked warbler. Now he’s backing the high-speed monorail project, which aims to shoot bullet trains every fifteen minutes through one of the most fragile ecosystems in Texas. At the same time, he’s supporting a scheme that will moor a flotilla of horse-drawn buggies at the courthouse square, to ferry tourists to the town’s attractions. There’s no contradiction. Both ideas have one thing in common: money.
“You don’t sound like a Texan, Andrew,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“You know the old phrase—places too numerous to mention. I’ve never really settled down.” He smiled at Ruby. “Until now.”
Ruby flushed. She had traded the oriental pajamas for a simple white shift. With her coppery hair, creamy complexion, and the sprinkle of gingery freckles across her nose, she looked gorgeous—and very much in love. Obviously flustered, she grabbed a menu. “What are you having?” she asked McQuaid.
“Chicken-fried, what else?”
People who live north of the Texas-Oklahoma border think chicken-fried is fried chicken. It isn’t. It’s smashed cube steak dipped in batter, deep-fried, and smothered with well-peppered cream gravy. Served with chunky fries, thick slabs of toasted and buttered white bread, and a cold beer, it’s the national meal of Texas. It’s also fat city, so I only eat it twice a month. A doctor I know swears she can tell chicken-fried people just by checking their cholesterol.
While Bob took our orders, I studied Andrew curiously. He’d avoided my questions. Was he hiding something? Or was my concern for Ruby making me too suspicious of a man with a natural reserve about his personal affairs?
Another pitcher of beer arrived, and more nachos. We talked about Billy Lee and the pickets, the sad ending of Leroy the goat, Bubbas odd discovery of wolfsbane, and the cult panic that seemed to be sweeping the town like a prairie fire. Dinner came, and we moved on to larger topics— the economy, the number of women who’d won a seat in the legislature in the last election. But apart from learning that Andrew was left-handed (he bumped my right arm when he picked up his fork), that he had a hint of New Orleans in his speech, and that he held politically correct opinions on just about everything, I wasn’t able to satisfy my curiosity about him. By the end of the meal, all I knew for certain was that Andrew Drake was a smooth and charming man with my best friend’s heart tucked into the pocket of his expensive designer shirt. And that I had developed an unqualified dislike of him.
After dinner, McQuaid headed to the campus for his meeting and Andrew drove off in his red Fiat. Ruby and
“What’s this about frying a local witch?” Ruby asked. Andrew pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
“In a manner of speaking,” McQuaid said with a grin. He held out his hand to Andrew. “Mike McQuaid.”
“Andrew Drake.” They shook hands and Andrew took the chair next to mine, casually splendid in pleated slacks, a cream-colored Dior polo shirt, suede loafers, and that absolutely perfect nose that made McQuaid’s look like it had gone fifteen rounds with the world’s heavyweight champ. He gave me a smile that aimed to charm.
“Congratulations on your opening,” I said. “Is this your first photography studio?”
“Not really,” Andrew said, signaling Bob to bring a pitcher of beer.
I waited for him to go on. But he didn’t, and Ruby spoke up. “I’m sure Andrew’s going be a success,” she said. “He’s already got one big assignment. Arnold Seidensticker has asked him to shoot his daughter’s wedding.”
“Shooting a Seidensticker isn’t a bad way to get started,” I said, and McQuaid snickered. Arnold Seidensticker is not my favorite person. For a while, he tried to get the Austin-San Antonio Regional Airport located near Pecan Springs. That idea went extinct when the U.S. Wildlife Service told him he couldn’t destroy the habitat of the golden-cheeked warbler. Now he’s backing the high-speed monorail project, which aims to shoot bullet trains every fifteen minutes through one of the most fragile ecosystems in Texas. At the same time, he’s supporting a scheme that will moor a flotilla of horse-drawn buggies at the courthouse square, to ferry tourists to the town’s attractions. There’s no contradiction. Both ideas have one thing in common: money.
“You don’t sound like a Texan, Andrew,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“You know the old phrase—places too numerous to mention. I’ve never really settled down.” He smiled at Ruby. “Until now.”
Ruby flushed. She had traded the oriental pajamas for a simple white shift. With her coppery hair, creamy complexion, and the sprinkle of gingery freckles across her nose, she looked gorgeous—and very much in love. Obviously flustered, she grabbed a menu. “What are you having?” she asked McQuaid.
“Chicken-fried, what else?”
People who live north of the Texas-Oklahoma border think chicken-fried is fried chicken. It isn’t. It’s smashed cube steak dipped in batter, deep-fried, and smothered with well-peppered cream gravy. Served with chunky fries, thick slabs of toasted and buttered white bread, and a cold beer, it’s the national meal of Texas. It’s also fat city, so I only eat it twice a month. A doctor I know swears she can tell chicken-fried people just by checking their cholesterol.
While Bob took our orders, I studied Andrew curiously. He’d avoided my questions. Was he hiding something? Or was my concern for Ruby making me too suspicious of a man with a natural reserve about his personal affairs?
Another pitcher of beer arrived, and more nachos. We talked about Billy Lee and the pickets, the sad ending of Leroy the goat, Bubbas odd discovery of wolfsbane, and the cult panic that seemed to be sweeping the town like a prairie fire. Dinner came, and we moved on to larger topics— the economy, the number of women who’d won a seat in the legislature in the last election. But apart from learning that Andrew was left-handed (he bumped my right arm when he picked up his fork), that he had a hint of New Orleans in his speech, and that he held politically correct opinions on just about everything, I wasn’t able to satisfy my curiosity about him. By the end of the meal, all I knew for certain was that Andrew Drake was a smooth and charming man with my best friend’s heart tucked into the pocket of his expensive designer shirt. And that I had developed an unqualified dislike of him.
After dinner, McQuaid headed to the campus for his meeting and Andrew drove off in his red Fiat. Ruby and
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