Page 115 of Wicked Pickle

“So, you came to us.”

“We all knew about the Leaky Skull after Dad went there. Mom was proud and sent us pictures. Sherman, too. He was chuffed that you traded pickles for booze. Said your place was a definite hit.”

Sure, he did, especially if he had his way. But I don’t give Greta my problems.

“How did you find us? We scorched the earth after Dad and Sherman visited the bar.”

“I had help.”

Really? “Private investigator?”

“No. I can’t afford that at the moment. Jude locked all our accounts when I didn’t come back.”

I sit up. “He did what?”

She shrugs. “I guess he thought I’d drain his money.” Her finger trails through the sand. “I have a secret credit card. Sherman always makes sure the girls have a way out.”

He does? I didn’t know that. “That’s good, at least.”

She draws circles in the sand. “What happened to the bar?”

I wave off her question. “Irrelevant. What do you need us to do? Both Merrick and I have houses if you want to crash at one of them.”

Her head pops up. “You do? That would be so great. Hotels are hard on active kids. Not enough space.”

“Consider it done.”

Her shoulders relax, as if this is a big weight off her. “Did you re-enlist yet?”

“Nah. We were giving ourselves a few weeks before they drag us off.”

“And you’re sure that’s what you want to do?”

I lay back. “We need to save up again. The bar is a lost cause. We’re going to have a guy sell our houses for the capital and maybe offload the bar if he can find anyone. It was empty two years before we took it, so we’re not going to hold our breath.”

She nods. “Are you going to say what happened?”

“Just some wrong moves. We’ve learned.”

She waves at Caden, who is shooting his water gun in our direction, even though it barely gets past the waterline. Merrick hauls him up and flings him into deeper water like our dad used to do.

Greta sighs. “We’ve been here five minutes, and you two already relate to him better than Jude has in seven years.”

“Your kid is like us. Not a sniveling man baby like your husband.”

“Hey. He was all right for a long time.”

“I’m already ready to bury him in the woods.”

She pushes on my arm. “Not necessary. And who knows? Maybe this will wake him up, and he’ll change.”

I lie back and lay my hat over my eyes again to avoid the sun. “We don’t change. We just eject anyone who doesn’t like us as we are.”

She lies down next to me. “I ejected myself.”

“Good for you.” I reach out to clasp her hand, something I haven’t done with a family member in a decade. “We’ve got you. Whatever is ours is yours.”

“I think you’ve changed,” Greta says. “Maybe even since the wedding. Was it Symphony?”