few requests for autographs, although those were coming with less frequency now that he’d spent more time here, and because most of Ronny’s clients were at least semi-regulars. There was a point at which a celebrity guest became just another guest, and CJ was happy to see that happening.
His mood was more sullen than normal. He’d committed to making the long drive to Albany tomorrow in order to stand on a podium with his family in support of a brother he didn’t much care for.
Artie had been fine with granting CJ the day off. He’d told CJ that he’d operated Kaddy’s with sporadic help for the better part of three decades, and so he could manage a Friday by himself. He’d also agreed to take care of Thor while CJ was in Albany, and as the dog had shown considerable affection toward CJ’s boss in the short time he’d been in town, CJ thought that would work out just fine.
The jukebox moved from a Grateful Dead tune to something by the Tragically Hip, which was a band CJ had grown up on but that he’d lost when he moved to the South. It was something he could really get into, and he found himself getting lost in it. And that was fine with him, because it kept him from thinking about the things he shouldn’t be thinking about—or maybe the things he should be thinking about; it depended on your point of view. And that was Julie, who happened to be another man’s wife.
He wasn’t sure what was going on in his head. He didn’t know if his feelings for Julie were a result of the dissolution of his own marriage, or if they spoke to something he’d left undone when they were both much younger, but he couldn’t deny that the feelings were there. And he’d learned enough at his church— even considering his sporadic attendance—to know that coveting another man’s wife was not something to be taken lightly. It was all very confusing, and he was the first to admit that he was in no position to sort things out. So he settled in and let the music wash over him, knowing that the proper time for moral introspection would show itself in its own time.
Julie pulled the chicken from the microwave, testing it with a finger to make sure that it was—as the microwave avowed— defrosted. Satisfied, she dropped the boneless breasts into the pan holding the melted butter, garlic, and onion, then set about pulling the other ingredients from their various spots. Ben had called to say that he would be late, but with Jack coming home later and later from football practice it didn’t make much difference in her dinner preparation. The only wild card was Sophie, and she was good with whatever snack Julie gave her to bridge the gap between school lunch and dinner. She flipped the chicken and then started the rice.
While the chicken browned on the other side she picked her copy of The Buffalo Hunter off of the counter, flipping through until she found the spot at which she’d left off, deliberately avoiding looking at his picture on the back cover. She liked this book—a lot more than any of his others. She wasn’t a literary critic, but she couldn’t see any validity in the criticisms people were levying against it. In her opinion, it was vintage CJ Baxter, with a tighter story and homage to theme.
The chapter she was reading had the main character—a man who had lost his daughter early on in the novel—coming face-to-face with the person responsible for her death. It was an energetic scene, and Julie had been forced to stop reading earlier in the day as the narrative had pulled tears from her eyes.
She’d read all of CJ’s books and, like everyone else in Adelia, she’d looked for those things which were principally Adelia. And, if truth were served, she’d been looking for anything that might have been her. She’d found hints, maybe—but those could have been her wishing something that just wasn’t there. The women in his stories could have been anyone, really.
It wasn’t until CJ had come back to town that she’d allowed those thoughts to do anything but simmer below the surface. It was the height of arrogance to think that she would find a place in his books. Even so, she liked to think that she was there during the formative years, during the time when he would have been