Blue Moon Bay (18 page)

The Ladybug's toolbox seemed to be rusted shut when I attempted to open it, but muscle and determination finally won the battle. I pulled out Clay's frayed khaki cargo shorts first and quickly realized that his wallet and cell phone were in there. Apparently Amy was not only driving on the date, but she'd be paying for it, as well. Dropping the pants into the basket with my laundry, I reached into the toolbox again to grab the shirt. Something glass slid out of the pocket and clattered against the bottom, then rolled to one side. Behind me, Roger barked, and I jumped backward, the shifting moon shadows having set my nerves on edge.

“Roger, cut that out.”

He answered with a growl that was surprisingly menacing, for Roger, and he homed in on something near the corner of the house. The branches of the bushes moved in the breeze, and for a moment I thought I saw someone there. A man in a dark coat and a fedora hat. Heebie-jeebies crawled over my skin, drawing forth an uncontrollable shudder.

“Stupid dog,” I muttered, reaching into the toolbox and fishing around for whatever had dropped out of Clay's shirt. My fingers touched something small and round, roughly the size and shape of a prescription bottle, and a disquieting thought slid through my mind, fluid like the shadows. Why would Clay be carrying medication? Despite his reluctance to wear a coat and his strange eating habits, he was just about the healthiest person I knew. The object rolled in my palm as I lifted my hand and held it in the dim light fanning from the kitchen windows. It wasn't a prescription bottle, but it was a bottle of some kind—small and round, made of glass, with a plastic screw-on lid. There was a residue of something loose and silty inside.

Slipping it into my other hand, I reached in again and searched the floor of the metal toolbox. My fingers slid over a jumble of hammers and screwdrivers, some rusty nails, and a rubbery blob that felt like melted fishing worms. There was something else, but I couldn't quite reach it. . . .

Roger barked again, and nearby in the woods, a coyote howled. Roger took off to give chase, and it quickly became evident that no amount of hollering from me would bring him back. A sense of being watched slid over me again, causing me to give up the toolbox search and hurry inside. On the table in the laundry room, where casket draperies and curtains had always been folded, I laid out Clay's clothes and felt something in the baggy side pocket of his cargo shorts, then pulled out a dirt-encrusted ziplock bag. The plastic felt grainy, like it had sand on it or in it. Laying it on the table, I flattened it and looked closer. The residue inside the bag was powdery and white. A search of the other pants pocket turned up a small glass vial with a lid on it. The bottom of the vial had been charred. I held it to the light, looked inside. Empty.

A cold feeling traveled from my fingertips, through my arm, and into the center of my body. Setting the vial on the table, I pushed it to the corner near Clay's cell phone, raked all the clothes into the washer, dumped in soap, pushed the button, then stood with my hands gripping the corners of the washer, my back to the folding table. I didn't want to turn around. I was afraid to. I'd been living in the big city, in a high-pressure career field long enough to know what ziplock bags of powder and burnt test tubes meant.

What if that incident with Clay, the campus police, and the marijuana paraphernalia wasn't so innocent all those years ago? What if it was actually the beginning of something?

Was Clay into drugs? Was he using? Was that why his behavior was even more unpredictable lately? Could that be the reason he'd come to Moses Lake in the first place? Had he come here looking for an escape, a change of scenery, a chance to detox, far from whatever company he'd been keeping since he'd returned from the earthquake relief in the jungle? Could the problem have worsened there? Drugs were readily available in South America.

If it was true, did Amy know? Did she have any idea? Did Mom? Did the uncs? Did Blaine?

I turned around, looked at the bag and the vial. Clay wouldn't do something like this. He wouldn't. There had to be another explanation.

But the possibility that he had a problem could explain everything—his sudden hairpin life turn, my mother's willingness to support it, the uncs going along with some crazy plan for Clay and my mother to take over the restaurant, the canoeing business, and the house at Harmony Shores. Even Mom's willingness to be here made perfect sense now. She would do anything for Clay. Even pour all of her money into an ill-conceived business venture and a move to Moses Lake, especially if she thought his life depended on it.

I picked up Clay's cell phone, paged down the list of contacts. Blaine was on speed dial. So were Amy and my mother. The phone numbers for Harmony House and Catfish Charley's weren't even in Clay's address book. If you were really planning to take over a business, wouldn't you have the phone number logged into your cell? Wouldn't you be spending time there? A lot of time?

Was it possible that Clay didn't have any intention of following through with this deal? That all of this was some sort of scheme to take the money and run? I couldn't imagine my brother doing a thing like that. Clay had always been the kindest, gentlest person I knew. He never wanted to hurt anyone. I could picture him bringing about the family's downfall accidentally, through lack of planning, inadequate foresight, his usual pie-in-the-sky attitude . . . but on purpose? My brother didn't have that in him.

But people feeding a habit did strange things. Terrible things . . .

I heard the door slam in the foyer, and I jumped, my heart bolting into my throat, my body caught in a moment of indecision. Should I leave the evidence on the table, confront Mom and the uncs about it? Should I wait and ask Clay in private? If I kept it private, would I be helping Clay to hide it, enabling him?

Uncle Charley was turning the corner into the kitchen. Sweeping Clay's things into a towel, I folded it up and tucked it on the top of the dryer behind a laundry basket.

“Well, there you are.” Uncle Charley set a Styrofoam container on the counter. “We stopped off at the restaurant for a bite. Didn't have any way to get ahold of you, but we brought you some fried catfish and hush puppies. Good eats.” Pausing, he directed his full attention toward me, scratching his head as if I'd confused him in some way. “You all right? You're pale as a Sun-dey shirt.”

“I don't feel so well.” I caught the scent of fried food either coming from the box, or wafting off Uncle Charley's clothes. My stomach roiled. “I think I'm just going to head down to the cottage and get ready for bed early. I started some laundry, but I can finish it in the morning.”

“We could put a movie on while you wait,” Uncle Charley suggested. “Sit up a little till you're feelin' better. Your mama's got a whole bunch of them teas she makes. Her and Herbert'll be here in a minute, I reckon. We ran by the church, and I picked up my truck. Must be they got tied up talkin' to somebody. The associational music meetin' was just letting out. I scooted before all them old hens could waylay me. Good-lookin' single fella like me has to be careful.”

He winked and smiled, but I could only shake my head and stumble back a step, my mind on Clay. “I think I'm just tired. It's been a long day.”

“A good day, though.” Uncle Charley's soft brown eyes, so like my father's, met mine, and for an instant I imagined my father standing there. He would hate seeing our family this way. He'd be worried to death about Clay. “It's good you're here, Heather.”

“Thanks.” Emotion choked the word. I hugged him, and he held on for a minute, rocking me back and forth. I closed my eyes and imagined I was hugging my dad. What would he do, if he were here right now?

“Good to have family back in Moses Lake.” His voice was rough and gravely against my ear, his hands so dry and weathered they scratched over the fabric of my T-shirt like sandpaper. “The older you get, the more you realize that's what matters. I love you, darlin'. You're the spittin' image of your daddy, and I always loved all my brothers' kids, since I couldn't have any of my own. I love you younger ones, too.”

I felt sick again. Did Uncle Charley have any idea what was going on with Clay, what was hidden in the towel just a few feet away? “I love you, too, Uncle Charley.” I meant it, but all I could think was,
Grab the towel. Don't forget to grab the towel.

The tender moment ended as quickly as it had begun. Uncle Charley handed me the Styrofoam container and a to-go cup of iced tea, just in case I wanted it later. I slipped the towel with Clay's belongings on top of food, then escaped out the back door and hurried down the hill. Overhead, an owl hooted in the trees and the wind clattered among the branches, sending a shudder across my shoulders. I didn't catch my breath until I'd rounded the corner of the cottage and stepped into the glow of the porch light.

A small stack of freshly-split firewood had been left in the rack by the steps. On top of it was a box. I picked it up and recognized the picture of a woman in a snuggly blanket toasting her feet in front of a brand-new electric heater. A note had been tucked into the edge of the box.

Cold night ahead,
it read. There was no signature, but I knew who'd left the heater and the stack of wood there on my porch.

If there is magic on this planet,

it is contained in water.

—Loren Eisely
(left by Kat and Rhee, gal pals on a girlfriend weekend in Cabin 3)

W
hen I woke in the morning, a solitary loon was singing to the rising sun. In the misty hinterland of sleep-waking, I realized I was baking alive under my pile of quilts, thanks to last night's load of firewood and the new handy-dandy electric heater, which wouldn't have to remain a freebie now that Roger had returned my wallet. Throwing off the covers, I peeled my pajamas away from my sweaty skin. Outside the window, the pile of firewood was just visible, and with it came a warm feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. It really was nice of Blaine to bring the firewood and dig up an electric heater for me while we were gone to Ruth's . . . thoughtful.

Now, did I want to admit that to him, or not?

I pictured him giving me that wickedly confident smile—overconfident, really—those big, boyish eyes twinkling. How many times, while slaving over the high-school-yearbook layout, had I dreamed of those eyes? I gave Blaine the prime spots on every page—in the feature about the guys who had lettered in more than one sport, in the article cataloging debate team awards, on the page with the homecoming court, and the section about the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. He became the poster child on the page listing football stats. I added him and his Hampshire hog to the feature about the county fair, bumping some other kid and some other pig, who had actually won the blue ribbon.

I wondered if Blaine ever noticed that he was the center of yearbook fame that year, if he knew who was behind it, or if he was even aware that the quiet girl in the dark clothes worked on the yearbook. I was only in the journalism class because I had to be somewhere, and it was a good place to hide out. Journalism was during the athletics period. The room was filled with nerds and misfits who didn't talk to anyone. It was a fairly comfortable way to spend the hour, and I could moon over pictures of all the kids to whom I was invisible. I could fantasize that, because I'd put them in the yearbook, they would suddenly decide to invite me to their secret parties at Blue Moon Bay and ask me to share lab tables in chemistry class.

There was no end to the rock-star status of Blaine Underhill back then. He was always the center of a crowd, cracking jokes and handing out high fives. Too cool for someone like me. Too self-important to even look my way. Could it be that, all that time, he really was a genuinely nice guy, and I was the one with the attitude problem? Had I been largely the cause of my year of Moses Lake High School misery—the big, fat chip on my shoulder and the secrets at home causing me to reject everyone before they could reject me?

Was I still doing it?

Was that why my life was stuck in the same place? Was I really still the girl who lived in the shadows, coming home and locking myself in my room so that I would never again become close to anyone, because people could be gone in a heartbeat? Had I forgotten Richard's birthday, maintained unusually long lag times between our dates, resisted calling him on nights when I actually could have . . . because I was trying to establish a certain separation? Was it all a subconscious effort to keep my distance, even as I fantasized about engagement rings and told myself I wanted a life with him?

Was I really that big of a coward? That much of a mess?

Sighing, I rested my elbows on my knees and combed a mop of tangles from my face. I felt like my hair looked—twisted up, tied in knots. Either the heat in the cottage or this place, Moses Lake, was making me insane.

The towel and yesterday's clothes stacked nearby on a wooden chest caught my eye, breaking the morning reverie. It looked harmless enough, an innocent still life of sloppy housekeeping. But through the white terrycloth, Clay's cell phone flashed lazily, and of course, I knew what else was wrapped in the towel. Evidence. Hints of something terrible.

The reality descended on me, heavy and hard to manage so early in the day, like a death you forget about overnight, and for the first few glorious moments of waking, it doesn't exist. Then your mind engages, and it hits you like a slap, turning life upside down again.

There was no way I could leave Moses Lake now—not considering what I'd found in Clay's pockets last night. I had to get to the bottom of things, make sure my brother received whatever help he needed. I'd have to call Mel and let him know I'd walked into a family crisis. I would need a few more days.

Just a few? What if it took longer? I couldn't imagine hopping a plane and going home without proof that my brother was all right, but part of me wanted to run, to retreat to my own life. Anything could happen with the Itega project next week. Beyond that, the problems here, this issue with Clay, were far beyond the scope of my experience, far beyond my control.

Back home in Seattle, life was structured, manageable. In Seattle, I didn't wake up freezing, or sweating under a pile of quilts that smelled like old fabric and humidity off the lake. I didn't find strange things in people's pockets. My apartment was a peaceful shrine to furniture designed by some of the masters and procured from eBay. There were no dusty corners or leaky windows plugged with wads of Kleenex, or people doing things that were unpredictable, dangerous, impossible to face.

I loved my life in Seattle. I loved my apartment. I'd always loved that apartment. It was modern, clean, spacious, located in a concept building I'd helped design. There were retail stores on the bottom, then two floors of income-assisted apartments designed to help homeless families get back on their feet. From there on up, the higher you went, the nicer the apartments got. I was about three-quarters of the way to the top. Not bad for a girl only thirty-four years old.

My days in Seattle were mine to manage, mine to control, mine to schedule. Here in Moses Lake, the days tacked back and forth with the whimsy of a poorly-rigged catamaran, buffeted by the winds and the water, propelled by forces I could neither anticipate nor direct. This place, my family, made me crazy. Challenged everything I knew about myself.

Crawling to the edge of the bed, I leaned across and reached for Clay's cell phone. In an hour or so, I could call Mel and try to beg off for a longer stay. Mel was always in a better mood first thing in the morning, before the office came to life. Not a good mood, especially lately, but he was slightly less likely to breathe fire and render me to ashes.

The phone was cool in my hand, chilled by its proximity to the window, where the war of hot and cold air had formed diamond-like patterns of frost on the glass—tiny masterpieces that caught the morning sun in a dazzling array of facets. The surface felt grainy beneath my fingertip, the frost slowly melting, a dewy hole forming.

A memory struck me, old, and misty like the frost. Dad and I were studying the crystals on a windowpane, watching the sun illuminate its intricate designs. I was fascinated by their complexity, their beauty, their geometric structure. That so much detail could be laced into something so small, so insignificant as frost on a windowpane stretched my mind, pulled me toward a belief my father shared that day, in his quiet, unassuming way. The very proof of God's infinite power was in the details of life—those things we often looked past. His work was everywhere. In people. In nature. In the sensations that traveled through human contact, in the pleasantness of a loved one's voice.

We sometimes don't see God because we're so busy looking for something more complicated than frost on glass
, my father had told me that day.
If God could put that much effort into something that only lasts a few hours in this world, think about how much He pondered you.

A sigh pressed my throat. I couldn't remember the last time I'd studied the frost on a windowpane—given it, or God, any real thought. These days, I got up on Easter and Christmas and went to church because it was something I'd always done with my dad. I was afraid he'd be disappointed in me if I didn't, and showing up at church a few times a year was a way of apologizing for the wretch I'd been before he died.

Last Christmas, Richard and I had even gone to midnight mass at one of the historic churches downtown, but that was about as deep as my thoughts went. Most days I had enough on my mind. I was running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. The rush of daily existence didn't leave time for contemplating frost. But sitting here in Moses Lake, I felt the lack of connection in my life, the lack of contemplation of something larger. In the years of working for Mel, of trying to earn my stripes under his tutelage, I'd become like Mel. Mel had no life. His wife had left him. His kids never called. He was living in a big house. Alone.

At the very least, I had to be sure that my family was all right before I left Moses Lake. At the very most, I might find some of what was missing inside me. A connection. But how could I explain that to Mel? Spirituality and emotion meant nothing to him. Family was not a permissible excuse for lack of work performance. A day or two extension of this trip was bad enough, but a potentially open-ended leave to see to the care of a brother who might be struggling with a drug problem? There was no way.

If I wanted to keep my career intact, I had to find a solution to my family issues—and quickly. The real estate papers that had been so important a day ago hardly seemed to matter now. That issue paled in comparison to my little brother's future.

Setting the phone back on the windowsill, I decided to opt for a detailed email later that morning. I exhaled a warm breath to create a fog on the glass, drew a little heart in it with my fingertip. Somehow everything would work out. It had to work out. . . .

Please, God, show me how all of this works out . . .

A movement on the porch pulled me close to the glass again. Barely visible in the bottom corner of the window, a blond tail lay curled over a rubbery black nose.

Roger was sleeping on my doormat?

The chill of morning slipped over my legs as I found my slippers and crossed the cottage to the other side, to look out the kitchen window toward the house. It was awfully cold last night; not very nice of Clay to leave his dog outside.

Rolling my eyes, I went to the front door, opened it, and surprised Roger, causing him to scramble on the icy decking. The tips of his fur were covered with frost, and miniature icicles clung to the ends of his whiskers.

“What are you doing out here?” I whispered.

With a soulful look my way, Roger walked past me into the cottage like he owned the place.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” I muttered as Clay's dog proceeded to investigate the living room, his tail sweeping and swatting various pieces of furniture, stirring up dust moats.

“Where's Clay?”

Roger paused to look at me again, both brows lifting, as in,
Search me?

Crossing the room to the cabinet filled with free promotional mugs and treasures from estate sales, I took down a '40s-era jelly glass with yellow flowers and a picket fence painted on it. It reminded me of my grandmother. She'd had an entire collection in the house at the farm. I loved to look at the various designs. Grandma was, in general, particular about her things, but she always let me select my own glass, even the ones from her good china. She was trying to build a rapport with me, I understood now, but in general, I resisted her offers to teach me how to crochet or can pickles or bake nut bread. I'd heard countless arguments between my parents about visits to
that house
with
that woman
. I knew I wasn't supposed to like it there.

Filling the jelly glass with water, I poured some in a bowl and put it down for Roger, and he drank like he was dying of thirst. Either his water dish at the house was empty again, or it was frozen over. Poor thing. Maybe even he didn't feel like traversing the frozen mud at the edge of the lake to get a drink. I was tempted to take Roger's water dish, march it into the big house, and put it in bed with Clay. If he was going to be out until all hours of the night, the least he could do was to make sure someone looked out for Roger. . . .

Headlights pressed through the murky fog on the driveway, slowly growing brighter in the mist. I watched as they drifted closer, cutting the fog, disappearing into the low area where the driveway crossed a small watershed, then appearing again. Who would be visiting so early? Grabbing a dish towel, I wiped the condensation from the window and leaned close to gain a view of the parking area beside the house, where the family cars were kept. The approaching vehicle looked like Amy's, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. I watched as the passenger door opened, and Clay climbed out. He stood talking a moment, his hand on the doorframe, then he leaned in one more time, like he was going for a good-bye kiss before closing the door.

A blush traveled down my neck. I felt like a voyeur.

He stood in the driveway watching as the car made the loop and retreated into the fog, then he tiptoed toward the house and, of all things, stole down the cellar stairs like some sort of miscreant. I wanted to go up there, catch him sneaking in, and smack him. Twenty-seven, and he was staying out all night, then slipping through the cellar door? How involved were he and Amy, anyway? Did she have any idea that he had ziplock bags and unmarked vials hidden in his pockets?