Melanie Krupa that a friend of my father had sworn with his hand on a bible that he’d seen Paul’s new fiancée out on the town in Athens when he was there on business, making out with some other guy outside a fancy hotel before going inside with him.
That’s what that last fight was about—my father asking Paul if he was really sure about his plans for marriage, and Paul yelling back that it wasn’t his business. Last night was again about his marriage to Lizzie and how my parents just want to sit down with them both and talk about it. Mama says it got pretty heated, too.
“Pass the lemonade, Delilah,” Paul grumbles.
I reach for it, but my father growls lowly.
“Please.”
Paul frowns and looks at him. “What?”
“Please,” my father grunts. “We raised you in a good, Christian home, Paul, and we use manners in this house.”
“I’m twenty-seven years old, dad,” Paul grunts. “I don’t need to be lectured.”
“Twenty-seven years old, living in the apartment above your parents’ garage—”
“Jeb,” mama says quietly, putting a hand on his arm. He grinds his teeth and lowers his book, looking at Paul.
“And marrying a girl we don’t get to meet, who doesn’t seem to want to even acknowledge you have a family. That sum it up, Mr. Grown-up?”
“You’ll meet her, okay? I’ve been busy, dad,” Paul hisses.
“And we’re proud of you, son,” Papa grunts. “We are, truly. I’m so proud that a son of mine is building a church! Right here in Canaan!”
My mother frowns. “We are, honey, but Paul, it’s also like you’re leading this double—”
“Leave it!” Paul roars.
My father bellows and lunges to his feet. “You will mind your goddamn tone when you speak to your mother!”
I shiver, because my father using the Lord’s name like that is no small thing. Paul just starts to laugh, though.
“I’m a grown man, dad. You don’t get to speak to me like that.”
“Grown man, huh? Then how about you start acting like one!”
“Fuck you.”
The porch goes pin drop silent. My mother pales, and heck, so do I. My father’s face turns red, and then crimson, and then purple, before he slowly blows air out through his clenched lips.
“You need to leave this table, Paul,” he says icily.
Paul rolls his eyes. “Gladly.”
He stands, picking up his laptop and files, and he reaches for his sandwich before my father suddenly reaches out and slaps it out of his hand. Paul swears.
“What the fuck was that for?”
“You didn’t say grace, and you disrespected me, and your mother who made you that food,” Papa growls deeply.
Paul looks livid and slams his stuff down. He jabs a finger at my father’s chest, his teeth bared. “You’re not God, you know.”
“Lord knows I’m not,” dad hisses. “But you will respect me as your father.”
“Good luck with that.”
Paul grabs his stuff and starts to shoulder past my father, but Papa grabs his arm and yanks him back. “We are not through here!”
“Yeah, we fucking are!”
Before anyone can even react, Paul suddenly shoves my father square in the chest. Rage like I’ve never seen flashes over Papa’s face, and with a roar, he shoves back. Paul gasps and stumbles back, and the files in his arms tumble to the ground, scattering papers across the porch.
Instantly, the fire goes out of my father’s eyes as he realizes what he’s done.
“Lord help me,” he whispers hoarsely, closing his eyes before he shakes his head and opens them again. “Son, I had no right—”
“Fuck you!” Paul screams.
Papa looks broken, and he frowns as he stoops and starts picking up the papers. “Let me—”
“Don’t touch those!” Paul yells. “Don’t—”
“Paul.”
My dad freezes, his eyes glued to the piece of paper in his hands. He blinks, and then picks up another paper, and his face pales. Slowly, he looks up, staring at Paul.
“What is this, son?” he whispers hoarsely.
“None of your business.” Paul goes to snatch the papers, but my dad pulls them out of reach and stands. He blinks as he stares at them again, and then looks at my mother, and then back at Paul.
“It’s just church stuff,” Paul mutters.
“The church going to be in Costa Rica, son?” Dad chokes out.
“Give me those.”
“Paul?” mama whispers. Her face falls as Papa hands her the papers, and she gasps sharply. “Honey, what… what is this?”
“It’s a land deal in Costa Rica, isn’t it,” Papa growls quietly, looking at Paul. “Son, what is this?”
“It’s nothing!” Paul snaps.
“Son,” Papa whispers quietly, his face pale. “You’ve told people—good, working people who