Mark lifted the three pizzas and twelve-pack. “I’m your room service tonight.”
“Sweet.” Casey looked very relieved as he tossed aside the phone book. He stretched and winced. “There’s no whirlpool. No hot tub. No spa—”
“Nope.” Mark took the sole chair in the room, turning it around to straddle it. “There’s no amenities at all.”
“Then why are we—”
“Because you two screwed up and are lucky to still have jobs.”
They sighed in unison.
“And,” Mark went on, “because the couple who owns this place lost their home in the fire last year. Business is down, way down.”
“Shock,” James muttered.
“You both agreed to this. The alternative is available to you—suspension.” Mark stood. “So if this isn’t something you can handle, don’t be here when I come to pick you up in the morning.”
He turned to the door, and just as he went through it, he heard James say, “Dude, sometimes it’s okay to just shut the hell up.”
AFTER DROPPING OFF THE pizza and ultimatum, Mark picked up his brother and drove the two of them up the highway another couple of miles, until the neighborhood deteriorated considerably.
“He’s been looking forward to this for a long time,” Rick said.
“I know.” Last summer’s fire had ravaged the area, and half the houses were destroyed. Of those, a good percentage had been cleared away and were in various stages of being rebuilt. The house Mark and Rick had grown up in was nearly finished now. Still small, still right on top of the neighbor’s, but at least it was new. They got out of the truck and headed up the paved walk. The yard was landscaped and clearly well cared for. Before they could knock, the door opened.
“So the prodigal son finally returns,” Ramon Diego said, a mirror image of Rick and Mark, plus two decades and some gray.
“I told you I was coming,” Mark said. “I texted you.”
Ramon made an annoyed sound. “Texting is for idiots on the hamster wheel.”
Rick snorted.
Mark sighed, and his father’s face softened. “Ah, hijo, it’s good to see you.” He pulled Mark in for a hard hug and a slap on the back.
“You too,” Mark said, returning the hug. “The house looks good.”
“Thanks to you.” Ramon had migrated here from Mexico with his gardener father when he was seven years old. He’d grown up and become a gardener as well, and had lived here ever since. Forty-eight years and he still spoke with an accent. “Don’t even try to tell me my insurance covered all the upgrades you had put in.”
“Do you like it?” Mark asked.
“Yes, but you shouldn’t waste your money on me. If you have that much money to spare, give up the job and come back to your home, your roots.”
Mark’s “roots” had been a tiny house crowded with his dad and brother, living hand to mouth. A one-way road for Mark as he grew up. A road to trouble.
Ramon gestured to the shiny truck in the driveway. “New?”
“You know damn well it is,” Mark said. “It’s the truck I bought for you for your birthday, and you had it sent back to me.”
“Hmm,” Ramon said noncommittally, possibly the most stubborn man on the planet. Mark knew his dad was proud of him, but he’d have been even more proud if Mark had stuck around and become a gardener too. Ramon had never understood Mark not living here in Santa Rey, using it as a home base.
“You should come home more often,” Ramon said.
“I told you I wouldn’t be able to come during the season.”
“Bah. What kind of a job keeps a son from his home and family.”
“The kind that makes him big bucks,” Rick said.
They moved through the small living room and into the kitchen. “If you’d use the season tickets I bought you,” Mark told his dad. “You could see me whenever you wanted.”
“I saw you on TV breaking up that fight. You nearly took a left hook from that Ducks player. Getting soft?” He jabbed Mark’s abs, then smiled. “Okay, maybe not. Come home, hijo
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