Midlife Mountain Moonshine: Paranormal Women's Fiction by Renee Brume

Author:Renee Brume [Brume, Renee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hot Mess Express Publishing
Published: 2024-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

DUCHAMP AND SONS

Ipulled up at the curb, not really believing I just drove off Buster’s lot with a brand new shiny white Ford 250. It was smooth, didn’t sound like a dump truck, and the AC worked.

Literally, Buster grabbed the keyring off a large board, handed it to me with a wink, and then walked out to the lot. No papers to sign—nada.

His salesman did give me the stink eye, probably mad he had lost out on a commission. I drove off the lot and spied them moving my trade-in to the back. Farewell, old truck. You served me well. But then I drove through town with one last errand to run before the wedding.

Parking in front of the building, I looked at the window, painted in gold. The lettering read: “Duchamp and Sons.” As far as I knew, Chad only had two small children. Certainly neither of them were old enough to partner with him.

I went into the office and spied his secretary, typing away at a keyboard.

Glancing up at the clock, I saw that it was nearly 10 am. I had talked to my mom on the way over here and assured her I was working on getting my brothers out of the clink, and still would be there by noon for the nuptials.

“Can I help you?” she asked briskly. She seemed a little harried as she tucked a pencil into her brown hair. She wore no makeup, and a plain blouse and brown slacks with a hideous green sweater over it all. Her name plate read Terri Quinn.

“Hi, Terri!” I said, smiling with more enthusiasm than I felt. “I have an appointment with Chad Duchamp!”

Terri glanced at me sternly and then checked her schedule. She nodded and picked up her phone, “Your appointment is here.”

I waited a moment, and Chad bounced out of a closed door. His face was red and he was sweating heavily. His blond hair was thinning on top, and he had a pot belly. He wore a white shirt and a tie already loosened around his neck.

“Sam Silverthorn,” he said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm as he offered me his hand and then shook it heartily. “Come in.”

I went into the office, taking a seat on a highly polished leather and wood sofa. He eased down into his chair with a grunt. The desk was covered with papers, the computer screen off.

I spied a mason jar, certainly Silverthorn shine, tucked behind a picture of his family. His wife, Lucy, and their two little kids, captured in the flash of a camera. The oldest looked to be about one. Lucy was holding a newborn baby boy in the picture. She was smiling at the camera, but her eyes looked tired.

Beth proudly told me she had a new little grandson, but I had not met him. “You have a beautiful family,” I noted, nodding towards the picture.

“Yeah, kids are a lot and Lucy is a bitch when she’s pregnant. Two and done.” He chuckled and I felt repulsion at his statement.

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