A Spanish Sunrise by Boo Walker

Author:Boo Walker [Walker, Boo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

LONELY HOMBRES

Once it was morning in the US, Baxter walked down the road, crossed over the creek, and locked in a signal. He sat down with his computer on his lap and made the call to John Frick.

Frick picked up on the second ring. “Baxter.”

“Hey, John.” He could feel the tension in the man’s voice. “Thanks for taking my call. I just wanted to talk to you about that change order. I know you’re upset.”

“You’re damn right I’m upset,” he spat.

Baxter breathed through his own anger. “Look, you and I sat down and looked at the expenses. You were fine with it. I wanted to slow things down to make sure we were on the same page financially, but you and Nancy wanted to get into that house. I was trying to help you out.”

Frick was silent for a moment. “Maybe so, but I don’t recall agreeing to an additional $82,342. I remember it being more like thirty-five.”

Baxter began to run through everything, the complete change in cabinetry in the kitchen, the upgraded tile floors, the wine fridge. Frick’s wife had suddenly wanted Vetrostone after the granite had been delivered.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m gonna pay you, Baxter. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“A little.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Give me a couple of days. I don’t do people wrong.”

Baxter took the sincerity he heard in the man’s voice as assurance, and when they hung up, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he’d survive this trip.

He dialed Alan and jumped right into business. “I talked to Frick. He says he’s gonna pay. So keep me posted on that. What else is going on?”

“We got this, Bax. You just sit back and drink your sangria and watch them bulls fight.”

“If only . . .” Baxter ran through every single project, and Alan gave him a fairly competent rundown, which gave Baxter a bit of a reprieve. Then Alan asked, “You ever read Hemingway?”

“Back in the old days,” Baxter admitted.

“I like him, man,” Alan continued. “Dude knows how to write. You know he loved Spain. Loved the bullfight. I think it was . . . was it For Whom the Bell Tolls? I think so. Pick you up a copy of that and pour a glass of that vino. You’ll be in heaven.”

“Yeah, okay,” Baxter said, but his attention was caught by the neighbor—or el vecino, as he’d learned was the translation—staring at a chessboard on his table overlooking the vineyard.

“Look, Alan, I believe in you. I know I don’t show it sometimes, but I know you got this.” He wanted so badly to believe what he was saying.

“I appreciate that. You know what this reminds me of, Bax, speaking of good writers? Wasn’t it Twain who said that thing about spending a whole life worrying about stuff that never happens?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Mull that one over. All’s good here.”

After saying goodbye, Baxter ended the call and sighed, trying to let some of Alma’s tranquilo mindset settle him.

Good lord, he needed to relax.

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