Chapter 18: Boyd's Verdict

Boyd's club was a dark wood room in a hotel older than the radio.

It had white tablecloths and a fireplace, and forty men who all looked up when we walked in.

Joanna wore her gray suit and her red lipstick.

I wore a yellow sundress and my brown boots.

I had decided that if I was going to be judged, I would be judged as me.

Boyd was at the corner table by the fire.

His Stetson sat on the empty chair beside him, and he had ordered three steaks without asking.

"Sit," he said. "Eat before it gets cold."

We sat.

Nobody spoke until the plates came.

Joanna cut her steak into perfect squares, which is what she does when she's afraid.

"Uncle Boyd," she said at last, "if you've called us here to say no, I'd rather you did it before the food."

"I'm not saying no."

She put down her knife.

"I'm saying something I should have said in Knoxville," Boyd said, "and I was too stubborn to."

Half the room had stopped pretending not to listen.

Boyd put both big hands on the tablecloth.

"That brunch in Knoxville," he said. "I asked you each a handful of questions, and I came to catch you out."

"I knew inside an hour that I'd lost the argument," he said, "and I kept quiet about it for a month."

I felt my face go hot.

"I was going to vote yes right then," said Boyd.

Joanna stared at him.

"Then why the date? Why the whole deadline? You made her pretend a wedding in thirteen days!"

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