Jimmy finally arrives at the Stetson Farm and meets an old friend from his past.
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Chapter 11
Jimmy’s Fiat crept up the gravel drive like it knew it didn’t belong. The Stetson farm was all rugged sprawl and aggressive masculinity, the kind of place where even the trees looked like they did CrossFit. His rental, bright red and insultingly small, might as well have been a clown car at a monster truck rally.
He parked behind what he assumed was the pool house, trying to hide the Fiat like a guilty secret. From here, even the pool house looked studied, curated: the rustic-glam child of a Pottery Barn catalogue and a glamping fever dream. Everything was hand-hewn beams, distressed leather, and strategically placed antlers, expensive casualness, which was the most expensive kind of all.
Jimmy slipped inside the main house, aiming for invisibility.
“Well, as I live and breathe. Is that Jimmy August trying to sneak in after curfew?”
He froze. In the cavernous kitchen, haloed under the glow of a farmhouse chandelier the size of a small island, stood Reba Morton, tiny, grinning, and somehow sharper than ever.
“Reba? What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, honey.” She leaned against the marble island as if she owned it. “Took a meeting with T. Bob and Matthew Mark, and next thing I know, someone’s telling me to whiten my teeth for a reality show.”
Jimmy’s relief was almost embarrassing in its intensity. A familiar face, and not just any face, but Reba’s.
He thought of how his father had spoken of her: part theologian, part political tactician. She hadn’t survived in the evangelical boys’ club just by quoting Proverbs and baking casseroles. She survived by outthinking and outmaneuvering them, but what Alan had admired most was her restraint; the instinct to know when to use sharp elbows and when to offer a soft touch.
“It’s good to see you,” Jimmy said, setting his bag down. “When was the last time? The funeral?”
“Guess so.” She shook her head lightly in reverence to that memory. “How’ve you been holding up?”
Jimmy thought about telling her the truth; about Bunny, about his crisis of faith, the new pain hobby he’d picked up to cope with the hollowing out of his heart. But it was late, and she was just being courteous.
“Eh, you know. Some good days. Some bad ones.”
“I sent meals,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
Jimmy patted the faint swell around his midsection. “This right here is all thanks to your biscuits and poppyseed casserole.”
“My mama always said there ain’t much in life you can’t fix with some Ritz crackers, a couple of sticks of butter, and chicken.”
She put her arms around Jimmy’s neck and squeezed him, saying nothing but also everything. It was all Jimmy could do to keep from tearing up at this moment of maternal affection and his realization of how alone he felt.
Reba had this effect on everyone. She was internationally renowned for her folksy charisma and her Bible-study and women’s-ministry empire. Though she never received the respect she was due, she was one of the biggest evangelical power players and the only evangelical of note to speak truth to political power when it wasn’t immediately advantageous to her.
“I’d ask how they tricked you into this,” Jimmy said, breaking the moment, “but I’m guessing Matthew Mark Lukejohn was the bait?”
Reba grinned. “I’m not too old to be starstruck.”
She lifted a decanter off the counter, the bourbon inside gleaming like brown ambrosia in the low light.
“You look like you could use a drink?”
Jimmy opened several cabinet doors, wood-stained vaults, really, searching for a drinking glass. He finally settled on a silver Yeti Rambler from what had to be the most aggressively stocked cabinet in Tennessee: hundreds of Yetis, a whole rainbow of them, every shape and size known to man.
“You know, it kind of feels like you’ve never been to your future in-laws’ before,” Reba teased as she poured.
“That’s because I actually haven’t.” Jimmy tried to keep the embarrassment out of his voice and failed.
Reba didn’t push, just handed him his glass.
“I would have guessed Bunny would be here with you.”
Jimmy couldn’t tell if she was making conversation or fishing. “She’s drowning in logistics. Network calls. Sponsors. Basically mainlining coffee and Red Bull these days.”
He sipped in her companionable silence, the bourbon smooth and strong.
“Anyone else here yet?”
“Pretty sure.” Reba shrugged. “I got in late myself. I don’t even know who’s on the roster.”
“Yeah, Bunny wouldn’t tell me either,” Jimmy said, finessing the truth. He hadn’t asked, given their relational complication, but he knew if he had, even if they were still together, that Bunny would’ve played it straight. She was good at compartments. He both knew and had learned abruptly in Greece.
Reba leaned back against the counter. “Only name I’d bet my tithe on showing up is Hezekiah.”
Jimmy almost choked. “As a contestant?”
Reba snorted. “No, Lord no. Can’t be contestant to replace yourself. But T. Bob and him are thicker than thieves. I’d be shocked if he’s not lurking around, blessing things with his special brand of humility.”
The idea of running into Hezekiah made Jimmy’s skin itch. He stared into his bourbon, swirled it once, and knocked it back.
“Well, I guess I should get some sleep,” he said, forcing a smile.
Reba smiled back, warm but knowing. “Best be rested. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long, strange trip, honey.”
She gave him a soft pat on the shoulder and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. Jimmy lingered in the dim kitchen, alone.
He set his empty Yeti in the sink and walked down the hallway to his assigned room, the bourbon warm in his gut but doing little to quiet the heaviness in his chest, knowing that whatever was coming for him had already begun.
NEXT TIME ON SUNDAY NIGHT LIGHTS…
We meet the rest of the cast of Sunday Night Lights. All the contenders, pretenders, and dark horses vying to win the crown of First Church’s pastorship.
