Adelaide Upset (7 page)

Ben exploded off the
bench, moving quickly for one so old. “Piss off, Adelaide!” he
hollered. “He’s a guest at Sterling’s, paid up for a week! Room
seven,” he ground out, threatening, “so you’d best be
professional.”

I watched him stalk off,
his shoulders aimed forward as he left the lot, not lingering like
usual, but walking straight home. Something else occurred to me
then. Unlike Ben, I didn’t feel better after a fight, only
worse.

“
Hey,” the guy on the
picnic table said a bit awkwardly. “My name’s Tim.”

“Team?”

“Tim.”

Great
, I thought,
another Tim
.
“You’re from Australia, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m here on—”

“
I don’t care,” I
interrupted. “Just... shut up.” I turned on my heel and walked off,
heading towards the office. And that was how I started my shift,
and trust me, it only got worse. After the sun went down, Arnie and
Renee stopped by for their ‘usual.’ Rumor around town was that
Renee and her husband Patrick wanted to have a baby, and if
Francesca’s gossip was to be believed, then that meant Arnie would
be passing along his genes tonight in hopes of creating an Arnie
Jr.
Bleck
,
the baby would probably come straight from the womb covered in fur,
a little ape just like its father. But I didn’t put much stock in
gossip, I was still hoping for the best.
Choose artificial insemination
I
silently urged Renee as she waited for the room key. Patrick
wouldn’t spawn hairy monsters. No, his children would be attractive
and sensitive, with good taste in art... oh, and maybe gay. Patrick
was gay. He and Renee were really close though and they refused to
divorce. Some of the locals said Patrick had been spotted with
another male, another male with very clean hands. So as far as the
island was concerned he had a boyfriend, and Renee, she also had
a... an Arnie.

He noticed me glaring at his blunt nose and
blackheads with distaste. “What?” he demanded.

“I just hope it takes after its mother,” I
muttered.

“
What? What’d you say?” he
questioned leaning forward, his hairy knuckles pressed flat against
the counter.

I liked Renee alright, but
it was safe to say that Arnie and I never got along. “Just keep it
down,” I replied, trying not to lose my temper as Arnie’s
belligerence wafted forward. “The last time you were here I got
complaints, noise complaints.” He almost looked proud for a second,
but then I continued. “The room next to yours said they heard
barking.” That wasn’t strictly true, but so what?

Renee was already skipping
out the door with key in hand, our transaction complete. But Arnie
didn’t rush off behind her, though he was randy and tempted, he
stopped to glare at me first. “Never did learn why you’re such a
hag.”

“
You mean nag,” I
corrected. “Hag refers to an old woman.”

“
No,” Arnie spit. “I mean
hag! Harpy! Shrew! A cold-hearted bitch!” he bellowed, swinging the
office door so it slammed shut behind him.

It opened a second later.
“Whoa,” Stephen said, stepping inside, Smith misting in behind him.
“What did you say to Arnie?”

I ignored the question, asking, “Will you
take my Friday shift?”

“
What for?” Stephen asked,
plopping down in one of the faded blue chairs.

“
I just have this thing,”
I said, trying to sound breezy and not fidget. I didn’t want
Stephen or Smith to know I was going to the SL&S
celebration.

“Is Reed back?”

“
No!” I said, jerking
upright in my swivel chair to stare at him across the high
countertop. “What made you ask that?”

He propped his feet up on
the oval-shaped coffee table, his fingers busy plucking at the seam
of the seat where a few threads had come loose. “You only go out
when he makes you,” Stephen observed, not quite looking at
me.

“Actually, it has nothing to do with Reed.
I’m trying to save Mother Earth. I’m going to a tree planting
ceremony,” I admitted, unable to hold back.

He looked up then, his eyes sharpening.
“It’s at that place I told you about, isn’t it? That sawmill in
Brunswick where my dad used to work.”

Smith, a swirl of milky
white streamed forward, expanding, yet compressing into the shape
of a six foot something man, with lanky frame and messy hair to
match his son’s. I didn’t bat an eyelash, pretending not to see
him, though I knew he’d be in my face once Stephen had
gone.

And Stephen, that brat, he
was too smart by half. I had hoped he wouldn’t make the connection.
Well, the best I could do now was lie. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about. My only priority is to help our planet, going green,
that stuff...”

“
I saw you litter two days
ago.”

“
That was an accident,” I
said, recalling the incident. “Besides, gum wrappers don’t count,
they’re biodegradable.”

“
It was foil,” Stephen
said, and he sounded rather judgy. “And I saw you at the fair,
talking at that booth, Southeastern Logging and Sawmill. You’re up
to something.”

Smith had been watching
our conversation play out, head swinging back and forth as we
talked, but something about what Stephen just said upset him
greatly. He seemed to strain under the words, worry eating away at
him, almost literally. His image wavered, the transparency giving
way to the unstable flicker of his hologram-like image.

I watched him from the
corner of my eye, his worry catching. But to Stephen I flung the
words “You’re mistaken.”

He shrugged. “I saw you talking to Reed,
too.”

I felt caught, as if he’d
seen me doing something bad. It wasn’t like that, but I’d be damned
before I explained myself to anyone. “Fine, Stephen. You’re on to
me. But you’re going to cover my shift on Friday, and if you tell
Francesca that Reed was in town then I’m going to make sure she
finds out that you still wet the bed.”

“
I don’t wet the bed,” he
replied, a bit confused.
Obviously he
had never been blackmailed before
.

“
It doesn’t matter,
Francesca will
think
you do.”

“Fine,” he said, looking very disappointed
with me.

I had to resist the urge
not to make him go away. It was on the tip of my tongue,
go clean something
. But Smith was already frothing from our argument; he hated
when I was anything less than lovely to his precious boy. What I
hated was when his
precious
boy
turned things around, taking on
the adult role while I appeared immature and childish by
comparison.

So yeah, that was my Monday...

I did nothing but wait for
the rest of the week. I waited for Friday afternoon, the SL&S
picnic. And I waited for Friday evening, when Lucas was due back.
In the meantime I didn’t read Demidov’s diary—it was just a little
too disturbing. I still wanted to know the rest of his story, but
when I took a hiatus from the book the nightmares went away, and I
didn’t miss them.

Francesca called every day
while I was working behind the front desk, continually pestering
me, but mostly encouraging me to tear apart Luke’s house while I
still had the chance. I should have confided about the picture, but
I didn’t. And Stephen, he was suspicious of me, but not
distrustful. He maintained that I was up to something, but didn’t
push the topic.

When Friday finally did
roll around I woke up in Luke’s bed, used his shower, and then
tidied up a bit. Having lived with my brothers, I knew how filthy
men could be. But Lucas wasn’t bad, no reeking socks or crusted
dishes. He was neat, to the point of being stark. A real
minimalist, only keeping what he used and nothing more, not even a
spare spatula. I’d seen him wipe off his counters and sweep the
floor, but I sort of liked doing it for him. I liked making his
home feel like mine. I liked leaving my mark. So I gave everything
a going over before I climbed the fence to my place.

I found no sign of Smith
there. I called out, but he didn’t appear, so I gave up and got
ready. Donning jean shorts and T-shirt I kept it simple, braiding
my hair to the side before lathering on some mascara. I knew from
every romance novel I had ever read that beautiful women were
supposed to have naturally long, curling dark lashes, even if their
hair was blonde. Well, I must be part albino, because my lashes
were not any of those things and I needed a bit of help in that
department. But other than that my morning routine, or toilet
(something else I’d learned from my romance novels), was very
simple, which I knew for certain after spending hours watching
Francesca primp on numerous occasions.

I left the house, not
bothering to lock it, and started my car. It felt like CPR every
time, forcing the dead Chevy back to life. I never locked my car
either, because if someone was stupid enough to try and steal it,
they’d never manage. You had to pump the gas pedal just right and
sometimes, when the weather was cold, flood it, before it’d turn
over. Even Lucas, the car genius, had trouble with it. Lucas. I was
nervy to see him, the anticipation sort of eating away at my
middle. But I had a feeling about the picnic. There were answers
there, Smith’s answers, and I’d just have to endure it to get them.
So saying, I drove for the F. J. Torras Causeway, leaving the
island behind as I sped towards Brunswick.

Southeastern Logging and
Sawmill was a forty-five minute drive inland. According to the
internet they owned a great deal of property. It stretched all
along the eastern coast. I knew the moment I’d driven onto it
because the trees became a uniform blanket, the pines mapped out in
a grid of tidy rows.

Situated some distance
away from the mill itself, the festivities took place under a large
pavilion. The picnic was going full swing by the time I arrived. As
I parked inside the gravel lot I could smell burning charcoal and
grilled hot dogs.

I was singled out by the
PR lady even before I reached the crowd. “You made it!” she said,
striding over as if we were the best of friends. Her hair was
pulled back in a loose ponytail, relaxed to match her flowing
blouse and Capris. “I’m sorry, but I never caught your name
before.”

“
Adelaide, Adelaide
Graves.” The second I said it I wanted to unsay it. I had meant to
take on a secret identity for safety’s sake. Oops, too late
now.

“
I’m Samantha Phelps, but
everyone calls me Sam.”

“
Everyone calls me Laide,”
I blurted, trying to fix my mistake.

“
Laide? Oh, I would have
guessed Adele.”

I contained my wince.
Admitting, “That would have been better.”

“
Uh, are you going to
plant a tree?” she asked tactfully, changing the subject as she
waved toward the tract of land behind her. The freshly turned soil
was rich and dark. Evenly spaced stakes protruded from little
mounds of earth, each tied off with an orange ribbon. Children were
racing around, kicking up dirt as they hurried to pull out each
marker and drop a seed down in its place.

“
Actually,” I said,
avoiding the question. “I was hoping for an interview.” I had
thought about my approach on the car ride over, and while the
journalist thing hadn’t worked for Raina Thompson, it worked on TV.
Good enough for me, plus Sam was a lot less suspicious than Reed
Wallace. “I write for the local newspaper and I wanted to do a
small piece on SL&S.”

“
I had no idea!” Sam
gushed, excited by the news. “Which paper do you write
for?”

There was more than
one?
“I do freelance work, so I write
for them all,” I lied.

“
Wonderful!” she said,
twining her freckled arm through mine. “For years I’ve been trying
to get a good word out, and here you’ve fallen into my
lap!”

She ate up my story,
swallowing it whole, not even a whiff of doubt. Jeez some people
were stupid. I mean, if there was one lesson I’d learned, it was
that things too good to be true usually weren’t. But she was an
optimist, always looking on the bright side and expecting the best.
Being so close to her upbeat attitude was driving me mad. You might
think it would be nice to feel that way, to temporarily be one of
those people, the kind that wakes up with a smile on their face,
but think again. The feeling only lasts so long, and once it’s gone
the lack of it can be a bit baffling, leaving one to acutely feel
their own shortcoming.

Sam gave my arm a gentle tug, pulling me
along toward the food tables. “Have you thought of an angle for
your piece?”

Since she’d already
assumed that whatever I wrote it would be flattering to the
company, I was tempted to tell her my article would be titled “Our
Murdered Earth.” But I continued with my lies, delivering the
conversation right where I wanted it. “Geared more for locals than
tourists, it’ll be a verbal vignette, a glimpse into the life of a
logger. Lumberjacks have always had a starring role in Americana.
Men admire their masculinity while women are attracted to their
strength, but that’s the glory of the job. I want to capture the
grit of it, a real slice of a day in the life of a logger. It’d be
best if I interviewed someone who’s been working at SL&S for
years.” I hadn’t meant to pontificate, but Sam’s beaming approval
and friendly regard had egged me into elaborating.