Bob said, ever the peacenik, “perhaps he wouldn’t object to all of us inviting him to a meeting. He might share his plans with us. Perhaps you could arrange a forum, Marisa.” This morning’s meeting with Mr. Ledger had left her with a funny feeling in her stomach. Not enthusiastic about another encounter with him, Marisa grunted and opened her palms. “Look, y’all, I don’t know him any better than you do. But he won’t eat you. Just go knock on his door and ask him your questions.” Bob and Mr. Patel shook their heads. They had a lot to lose, she supposed, but they were in no worse position than her mother—or for that matter, than herself. Now she berated herself for not taking up her own problem with the new owner when she had the chance. Ben drained his glass, then reached into a pocket of his cargo shorts, pulled out a silver flask and poured himself another drink. “Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass what he does. If I have to, I’ll just pack up my shit and toodle my sorry ass back to Tennessee.”
