A Change in Altitude (12 page)

“That explains a lot,” Cassie said. “Not enough oxygen to your brain.”

Lucille raised her voice to be heard over the chuckles at Bob's expense. “I think the best approach is to keep stalling and pay as little as possible until we see some income from the mine,” Lucille said.

“I agree,” Paul said. “If Pershing wants a lot of fancy upgrades, he can pay for them himself.”

Lucille looked at Reg. “Do we need a formal vote on that?”

He shook his head. “No, since you didn't take any specific action.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath. Here was the moment she'd been waiting for all night. “Now, on to new business.”

“It just says movie.” Junior tapped his copy of the agenda. “What movie?”

“I've had a reply from the state movie commission.” Lucille had to hold back a grin as she made the announcement.

“Already?” Reggie said. “That was quick.”

“Apparently, they had a director contact them the same week they received our application. He thinks we'd be perfect for the movie he has planned.”

“Who's the director?”

“What movie?”

“Who are the stars?”

“What's it about?”

The questions came all at once, overlapping into gibberish. Lucille pounded the gavel, but no one paid attention.

“Silence!”

The voice of the librarian in the hall where she reigned supreme was enough to cut them off in midsentence. Cassie fixed them with an icy stare. “Remember where you are,” she said.

“We're in a town council meeting, not a ladies' club tea,” Bob groused. “Lucille, what's this about a movie?”

“The director's name is Chris Amesbury, and I don't know anything about the movie. But he wants to come to Eureka in two weeks to see the town and talk to us about his movie.”

“What's in it for us?” Bob asked.

“If the movie is a hit, it could mean more tourist traffic.” Paul, who owned the local gas station, looked pleased.

“The last thing we need is more tourists,” Bob said. Bob complaining about tourists was nothing new, so no one paid any attention to him.

“A movie takes several weeks to months to film,” Lucille said. “During that time, we'd have a whole movie crew staying in town, eating and drinking and shopping here. It could be a big boost for our economy.”

“And they would probably hire locals to work as extras in the film,” Cassie said. She wore a dreamy expression, her eyes bright and feverish.

“Thinking of trying out, are you?” Bob asked.

“Everyone did say I gave a remarkable performance in the Founders' Day Pageant,” she said.

“I never said it,” Bob grumbled.

“I think we should plan a real Eureka welcome for Mr. Amesbury,” Lucille said. “A dinner at the Last Dollar with the town council. A Jeep tour in the mountains. I'll ask Jameso Clark about that. And I'm going to ask Barb Stanowski to put him up at her new B and B.”

“But she isn't open for business yet,” Maggie said. “The house won't be ready for guests for another three weeks, at least.”

“It's almost complete,” Lucille said. “And all we need is one really nice room. Her place is by far the most upscale in town.”

“Put him up at the motel, send him to the Dirty Sally for a burger, and let him see what we're really like,” Bob said.

“Maybe we should buy Bob a ticket out of town for the duration of Mr. Amesbury's visit,” Paul said.

“I second the motion,” Junior said.

“We can't do that,” Lucille said, though she secretly agreed it was a good idea. “Now, who will help me plan a warm reception for Mr. Amesbury?”

Most of the hands in the room went up. “Great. I'll be in touch to make plans. Is there any more new business?” This was always a tense time in any meeting, as everyone held his or her breath, hoping someone didn't pop up with a problem or complaint that needed to be addressed right away.

Tonight, they were lucky. “I make a motion we adjourn,” Katya said.

“I second,” said Paul.

“Motion carries.” As soon as Lucille lowered the gavel, chairs scraped back and people stood.

Maggie headed straight for Lucille. “Do you know anything else about Chris Amesbury?” she asked.

“His Wikipedia entry shows a few documentaries for the Discovery Channel and a low-budget horror picture,” Lucille said. She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Maggie. “But for God's sake, don't put that in your article. Someone will start a rumor he's coming here to make a zombie picture.”

“How do you know that he's not?”

“We don't. And frankly, I don't really care what he wants to do—as long as it's not porn, of course. But anything would help our economy.”

“Maybe Gerald will find gold in the Lucky Lady and you won't have to worry,” Maggie said.

“That would be lovely, but in the meantime I'm going to do my best to impress this director. Will you help me persuade Barb to give him a room?”

“I'm sure she'll help if she can.” Maggie stashed her tape recorder and notebook in her bag. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“Lucille, I just had a wonderful idea.”

Lucille closed her eyes. “What is that, Cassie?”

“We can ask the director to dedicate the park with its new name.”

“We haven't determined that the park is going to have a new name,” Lucille said.

“Then you'd better get busy if we're going to have everything ready by the time Mr. Amesbury arrives.”

“He's coming here as a guest, not to work,” Lucille said.

“These famous people always like to be recognized,” she said. “He'll be flattered.”

Flattered to be asked to cut the ribbon or raise a toast or whatever on the renaming of a small village park—named for a woman he never heard of. “I think we'll allow Mr. Amesbury to relax and get a feel for the town,” Lucille said. “Maybe some other time we'll give him the opportunity to participate more.”

“Honestly, I don't know how you've managed to remain mayor for so long,” Cassie huffed. “You're so obstructionist.”

“Trust me, I've been called worse,” Lucille said to Cassie's back as the librarian stalked away.

“If you make Eureka famous, you'll be called a hero,” Maggie said.

“That would be a nice change.” She gathered up her papers. “Come on. Let's get out of here before Cassie thinks of another great idea.”

S
haron pressed the phone tightly to her ear and listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. It sounded so far away—the way she felt. After the sixth ring, the call disconnected. No explanation. No message. Nothing.

She clutched the phone to her chest and pictured her son, Adan—all long limbs, knobby knees, and elbows, like a colt that hasn't yet grown accustomed to his size. He had inherited his father's height and his mother's slimness. He wore his hair long, falling into his eyes, which were the dark brown of polished chestnut. Girls watched him, and giggled behind their hands; he pretended not to notice, though the tips of his ears burned red.

Why wasn't he answering the phone? She'd bought it for him before she left, so that they could keep in touch. Joe didn't believe in cell phones; he was convinced the government used them to track people and to record their conversations. But Adan was enough of a teen that he was excited to have his own phone. She'd spoken with him a couple of times since they'd come to Eureka, but for the past two days he hadn't answered.

She stood and went into the living room, where Alina was reading, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa. Petite like Sharon, she had Joe's thick, dark hair and high cheekbones. Whatever else she thought of her marriage, Sharon had to admit she and Joe had made beautiful children. “Have you heard from your brother?” she asked.

“No.” She laid aside her book and looked up at her mother. “How would I have heard from him? I don't have a phone.” The fact that Sharon had bought a phone for Adan and not for Alina was a sore spot.

“He might have called the house when I wasn't here.”

“I haven't heard from him. Why?”

“I've been trying to reach him and can't.”

“Maybe Dad took his phone away.”

Sharon's stomach clenched. It would be like Joe to do something like that, though he'd promised that, as Adan's mother, she'd still be allowed to stay in touch with her son, and that Adan could visit whenever he liked. He'd never mentioned wanting to see Alina again, or have her visit, things Sharon had kept from her daughter.

The sound of tires on gravel distracted her from these thoughts. Alina jumped up. “Mail's here,” she said, and raced out the door. Almost everything that arrived was for Jameso—and most of that was junk that went straight into the recycling bin—but Alina still delighted in racing to the mail box, as she had when she was a little girl. Maybe today would bring a free sample or an interesting magazine or an offer that would change her life.

Sharon stared at her phone. Should she try again? Maybe Adan had forgotten to charge his phone or had misplaced it in his room. He was bound to discover the mistake sooner or later. But why couldn't she even leave a message?

The door banged open and Alina bounced inside. “There's a couple of things for you,” she announced, and held out two envelopes—one large and brown, the other small and white. A small thrill of anticipation raced through Sharon as she studied the white envelope. Neither of these looked like bills, so maybe that meant something good.

“Who's it from?” Alina looked over Sharon's shoulder.

“Barbara Stanowski.”

“That's Maggie's friend, right? The one with the bed-and-breakfast.”

Sharon nodded and slit open the envelope. A pink card shaped like a rattle slipped out. “It's an invitation to a baby shower for Maggie,” she said.

“How cute. What are you going to get her?”

“I don't know.” She didn't have the money to buy anything very impressive, and even though Maggie had been very nice to her, Sharon didn't know her well. Buying a gift for her felt awkward. “Maybe we'll find a cute baby outfit.” A new mom could never have too many bibs and diaper shirts.

“What's in that other big envelope?” Alina asked.

Sharon's previous elation vanished, incinerated by the return address stamp with the name of the law firm she'd hired to handle her divorce. Heart pounding, she slit open the flap and eased out a sheaf of papers. She flipped through to the bottom of the last page:

 

The bonds of matrimony now existing between the Plaintiff and the Defendant are dissolved on the grounds of irreconcilable differences, and the Plaintiff is awarded an absolute decree of divorce from the Defendant.

 

Alina had been reading, too. “So you and Dad aren't married anymore,” she said. Sharon tried to gauge her daughter's mood. Was Alina happy? Sad? She sounded more stunned. Exactly the way Sharon herself felt.

“When your father and I married, we meant our vows,” she said carefully. “I'm sorry we weren't able to keep them. It's not easy to split up a family, but I think, in this case, it's for the best.”

“I know.” Alina plopped onto the sofa and hugged a pillow to her stomach. “Lots of kids don't live with both parents,” she said. “Lucas's parents are divorced. He hasn't even seen his father since he was really little.”

Sharon sat beside her daughter. She wanted to gather Alina to her and hold her close, but resisted the impulse. Either Alina would pull away or they'd both burst into tears, and neither outcome she wanted right now. “I'm glad you've made friends,” she said instead. “I know moving to a new place can be hard.”

“I like Eureka,” Alina said. “I like going to school again, and the kids are mostly okay. Some of them are really nice. And Uncle Jameso is nice.”

“Yes, he is.” She hadn't known what to expect from her brother. They'd been apart so long, separated by physical distance and their own problems, and a past neither wanted to remember. At first, she was sure she'd made a mistake coming here; that Jameso didn't want them in his life. She hadn't pushed him, and her patience had been rewarded.

Or maybe she should say Alina's impatience had been rewarded. She'd sought him out and he'd responded. “Last night was fun,” Sharon said. At dinner, Jameso had been warm and funny, gently teasing Alina and making them all laugh. She'd felt such a surge of warmth and love, confirmation that she'd made the right decision, coming here.

“Uncle Jameso had a friend who sounds a lot like Dad.” Alina pushed the pillow aside. “He was Maggie's dad, but he died. He lived by himself in a cabin in the mountains with no electricity or running water. Uncle Jameso took me up there. It's a really neat place, perched on the side of a mountain. And there's a tame bighorn sheep that likes to eat cookies.”

“So Maggie's dad was a kind of hermit?”

“I guess.” She shrugged, and cast a sideways, questioning look at her mother. “Is Dad crazy?”

The question startled Sharon, and she fumbled for the right answer. “I don't think your father is mentally ill, no,” she said slowly. “He just has different ideas.”

“But they're not normal ideas. Normal people don't refuse to talk on the phone or let their kids go to school or think the government controls the weather and is putting stuff in our food to make us sick on purpose.”

Sharon realized how naïve she'd been, believing she'd done a good job of shielding her children from the worst of Joe's paranoia and conspiracy theories. Maybe Joe
was
crazy. “You're right,” she said. “I don't know why your father does the things he does.”

And without her there to serve as a buffer, Adan was getting a steady diet of Joe's slanted worldview. Would he turn out to be as bad as his father? In trying to protect her daughter, had she failed her son? The guilt almost made her double over in pain. She clutched her phone. “Maybe I should try to call your brother again.”

“You could call Mrs. Phillips and ask her if she's seen him,” Alina said. “Maybe she knows what happened to his phone.”

Eden Phillips was their closest neighbor; she'd sometimes bought eggs from Sharon, and she'd delivered soup when she'd learned the kids both had the flu. Joe thought she was a nosy busybody, but Sharon had appreciated the woman's efforts at friendship. “That's a great idea,” she said.

She had to call directory assistance for the Phillips' number, then she punched it in with shaking hands. She thought her heart would leap out of her chest when Eden finally answered the phone. “Hello!” she said, too loudly. Then, more calmly, “This is Sharon Franklin. Is this Eden?”

“Sharon?” Eden sounded startled. “Are you all right? How are the children?”

Was she alarmed? Relieved? “I'm fine,” Sharon said. “I guess you know Joe and I split up.”

“I knew you weren't around anymore. I thought maybe you'd decided to leave—at least I hoped it was voluntary.”

Maybe Joe had been telling people the divorce was his idea, that he'd kicked Sharon out. That would be just like him, to save face. “It was for the best,” she said. “Alina is here with me and Adan stayed with Joe. He wanted to stay and since he's fifteen . . .” She let the sentence trail away. She'd tried to persuade Adan to come with her, she really had. But his refusal, coupled with Joe's insistence on keeping the boy with him, had tied her hands. If she wanted to get Alina away, she had to leave Adan.

“Oh, that's too bad.”

Sharon wasn't sure whether the sympathy was over Sharon having to leave her son behind, the end of her marriage, or the situation as a whole. “Adan's the reason I'm calling really,” she said. “I've been trying to reach him on the phone, but he's not answering. Have you seen him recently?”

“Not in a couple of weeks, since they all moved out.”

Sharon wasn't sure she'd heard Eden right. “Moved out of where?”

“Their place. They're not living there anymore. Didn't you know?”

“I talked to Adan last week and he didn't say anything about moving.”

“Probably his father told him not to say. You know how Joe is about people knowing his business.”

Yes, she knew. “Where did they go?” she asked.

“I don't know. If you don't either, then I doubt anyone knows.”

“They're all gone?” Her brain refused to accept this. “Everyone?”

“I went down there two days ago to make sure they hadn't left any animals behind, but they took it all—chickens and dogs and goats and the pigs that Russian couple was raising. All they left was a lot of trash, and the buildings are a mess. Whoever buys it will probably have to tear down the house and start over.”

“Oh, God.” Sharon clutched her stomach and sank into a chair, her legs too weak to support her. “I didn't know. And he has Adan.”

“I'm sorry,” Eden said. She sounded as if she meant it. “If I find out anything, I'll call you. Is this a good number?”

“Yes. Yes, call me if you find out anything.”

“I will. And I'll pray for you, dear. And for all Joe's odd ideas, he does think a lot of the boy.”

“I know. Thank you, Eden. For everything.”

Alina had been watching Sharon and as soon as she hung up the phone, she launched herself at her mother. “What's wrong?” she asked. “What's happened to Dad and Adan?”

“Eden said they moved away. They moved and didn't tell us.”

“Where did they go?”

Sharon shook her head. “She doesn't know.”

“That must be why you can't reach Adan—his phone doesn't work wherever they are.”

“Joe should have told me. I have a right to know.” Anger was edging out panic and fear, making her feel stronger.

“Maybe he wrote you a letter and you haven't gotten it yet.”

She didn't believe that, but for Alina's sake, she nodded. “Yes, maybe that's it. Would you bring me my purse, hon? It's on the dresser in the bedroom.”

While Alina fetched her purse, Sharon tried to think. Surely Joe was breaking some law, not notifying a mother of her son's address. Even if Sharon didn't have custody of Adan, she still had rights, didn't she? Had he done this to spite her—as revenge for the divorce? Is that why he'd waited until the papers were signed and everything was final, so she'd know that she'd brought this on herself?

Or had something else driven them away—a new paranoia or real trouble with the law?

Alina returned and handed Sharon the bag. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I'm going to call Deputy Miller.” She found the business card in her wallet and punched in the number.

“The sheriff?” Alina wrinkled her nose. “Dad isn't in trouble with the police, is he?”

“I don't think so, but maybe Deputy Miller knows someone I should contact.”

He answered on the second ring, his voice pleasant and calm. “Deputy Miller.”

“This is Sharon Franklin. I . . . I have a problem and I'm hoping you can help me.”

“Of course, Sharon. What can I do?”

“My son . . . he's fifteen and he lives with his father. In Vermont. I've been trying to reach him for a few days and he doesn't answer his phone. I just spoke to a neighbor and she tells me Joe—my ex—moved a couple of weeks ago. He didn't tell me and I don't have an address or . . . or a way to contact my son.” Her voice broke and she struggled to maintain control. “I'm worried.”

“I'll be right over. Just hang on.”

“Oh, thank you.” She hung up and leaned back against the sofa. Only Alina's tense presence beside her kept her from bursting into tears. “He's coming over,” she said.

“Does he think he can help us?”

“I'm sure he will.” She patted her daughter's leg. “Of course he will.” She couldn't afford to think otherwise. Her son couldn't be lost to her.

 

Lucille had always liked living alone. After a day of dealing with customers at her store and the demands of running a small town, her little house on Fourth Street offered a quiet retreat. The Victorian cottage had three small bedrooms, a cranky furnace, and scarred wood floors, but she'd fixed it up to suit her, and it was neat and peaceful.