Blue Moon Bay (20 page)

Uncle Charley nodded, patting me on the shoulder. “Sure, help yerself to whatever's out there. The keys are on the pegboard by the washin' machine, where Herb always keeps 'em.” He thumbed in the general direction of the kitchen. “I'm glad you're gonna see Ruth. She can use the company. All the young folks are out working the dairy during the day or in school—or runnin' around after the chickens, like little Mary and Emily. As you get old, you sit by yourself too much, seems like.”

The words had an unusually somber quality, and I realized something I hadn't before: Uncle Charley was lonely, despite all of his connections to the community in Moses Lake. He had no kids of his own, his wife was gone, and the nieces and nephews he'd helped to raise were living far away now. Clay, my mother, and I weren't much of a substitute. Clay did his own thing, Mom kept her nose in a book, and I was only in town for a few days.

I couldn't come up with the right thing to say, so I changed the subject. “Listen, Ruth asked me to look for some sketches of hers. She didn't want them to end up in the estate sale, I think.”

Uncle Charley chuckled. “Oh mercy, if you find any of her pictures around here, don't tell Herb you're takin' them back to her. Ruth used to draw them things and then put them in the trash. Herb would fish 'em out and hide 'em away. You know that Herb can't stand to see anything good thrown out. One of the few fights I ever saw the two of them have was over those sketches. I don't know why Ruth didn't just take them home to throw away, but Mennonite folk can be kind of funny about pastimes like art. The older, stricter folks don't always approve. Guess maybe that's why she did her sketchin' here, and why she was a little embarrassed about it. Anyway, if there's any of her drawings still around, Herb would've tucked them away someplace where Ruth wouldn't know. You'll just have to look around.”

We said good-bye then, and he headed for the Waterbird. I made a cup of coffee for myself and began canvassing the house. Since I didn't want to go into the basement, particularly not first thing in the morning, with the light still dim, I concentrated on closets and bedrooms and did my best to ignore the creaks and moans of the old house. Footsteps passed by in the hall as I searched bedrooms. I assured myself that it was the floor joists creaking as the morning warmed.

In a quilt trunk in the bedroom where my mother was staying, I found a sketch pad. The cover lay crinkled with age and had been snacked on by a mouse, who quite fortunately was no longer present. An odd feeling settled over me as I slipped the pad from its hiding place, closed the lid of the trunk and sat on it, and then ran a finger along the edge of the pages. Only a few remained, just a sheet or two of paper tucked between the covers. If Ruth's sketches were private enough that she wanted to make sure they weren't left in the house, maybe I shouldn't be looking.

But I couldn't help it. I lifted the cover anyway.

The first page was blank, a faint image in charcoal having bled through from the page behind it, the ghost of a stranger, the hint of body.

I lifted the sheet, watched it flip over, saw the face of a young woman. She'd been captured, frozen in a moment in time, her eyes filled with life, her dark hair swirling around her waist in loose waves. She'd turned to look over her shoulder, as if someone had surprised her from behind. A friend or a lover.

Her essence had been preserved in charcoal, in confident strokes of gray.

Her floral print dress and her eyes were blue. Pastel.

I watched her, tried to imagine the moment Ruth had recorded. Who was the woman? Her dress was vintage, perhaps from the forties, but form-fitting and stylish—not Mennonite garb by any means. The barest hint of a smile played on her lips, as if she were toying with someone.

I wondered what secrets she'd been keeping all these years as she lay in the quilt trunk.

In this house, everyone had secrets.

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him

shall never thirst.

—John 4:14
(Left by Jack, glad to be back, found God on a battlefield in Iraq)

I
finished searching out-of-the-way places upstairs and netted nothing beyond the picture of the woman in the blue floral dress. When I came back down, Clay's cell phone was vibrating in my coat pocket in the utility room. Tucking the drawing pad under my arm, I slipped the phone out and took it to the family parlor, where Clay was still crashed on the settee. The phone buzzing near his head didn't seem to bother him in the least. An incoming text from someone named Tara was on the screen. Tilting my head, I read the first few words.
Hey, babe. I miss u bad . . .

I blinked, sidestepped, and touched the phone with one finger, swiveling it toward me. This technically amounted to snooping, but I couldn't help myself. Who in the world was Tara?

 . . . come home soon, K? Not fair leaving me here alone for Mimi's party, BTW. . . .

The text went on from there, but I resisted the urge to scroll down. The area code was 817—Fort Worth, like Gary the dentist. Clay had a girlfriend in the Metroplex? One who expected him to go to
Mimi's
party with her? Who was Mimi? Who was Tara? She was waiting for him to come home sometime soon? Where was
home
?

He'd left some girl behind and not even told her he planned to move to Moses Lake?

My stomach sank. The cell message lent credence to a theory I still didn't want to entertain—that my brother really was scamming everyone in Moses Lake, and he had no plans to stay. What about poor little Amy? She seemed completely smitten with him. Was he planning to dump her and move on whenever he was done here? Was he two-timing her with another girl? Did Amy have any idea? Could Clay do something like that? He'd never been the kind of person to intentionally hurt someone. Could he possibly have changed that much?

But a drug addiction could change people completely, make them do things they wouldn't normally do. . . .

A floorboard squeaked, and I jerked back. My mother was in the doorway. She looked from the cell phone to me, as if
I
were the one doing something nefarious.

I didn't bother defending myself. We'd played enough verbal chess already. “Who's Tara?”

She blinked, remaining silent for a moment, then shrugged, indicating that she had no idea. “You'd have to ask your brother, I guess.” A curious glance angled toward the drawing pad I'd unearthed upstairs.

“Clay's not answering any questions right now.” I glared at him in a way that should have fried him on the spot. “He was out all night. With Amy.”

Mom only smiled pleasantly, rolling her eyes a little, as in,
Boys will be boys,
then she gave Clay an adoring glance, indicating that he could do no wrong. “He
is
an adult, Heather.” Another glance targeted the drawing pad with a hint of suspicion.

I flipped a hand in the air, frustration taking over. Again. “You know what, I've got to get out of here for a while.” I wasn't about to show her the sketch of the girl in the floral dress. In a game where everyone seemed to be one step ahead of me, there was a small but perverse nugget of satisfaction in the fact only I knew about Ruth's request. “I'll see you later.”

An idea popped into my mind, lightning fast and strangely alluring. Amy was Blaine's cousin. Blaine was probably at work at the bank. How much did he know about Clay and Amy's relationship?

Mom's lips pursed, as if she suspected that I was up to something. “Where are you going?”

What do you care?
I wanted to answer, but instead, I just said, “I have some things to do, and then I'm eating lunch at Ruth's.” I vacated the room without giving her a chance to formulate any more questions, then moved through Uncle Herbert's office, the kitchen, and the utility room at a good clip. I didn't stop until I'd commandeered a funeral sedan and rolled out the driveway, leaving Mom and Clay to continue their codependent dance without me.

If Mom wasn't willing to be forthcoming about Clay's issues, other sources of information would have to fill in the blanks. A little background about Clay's previous visits to Moses Lake and his relationship with Amy might be helpful. How long
had
they known each other? How often did he visit? What did he do when he came? What was his motivation for visiting?

A sickening possibility nibbled at my mind. Even back when we lived in Moses Lake, Chinquapin Peaks and the remote areas along the river were known drug havens. Far from any paved roads, up in the timber country, marijuana patches grew in secret and meth labs operated in the woods. Maybe Clay was coming to the area for . . .

Stop it. Just stop. That's ridiculous.

I had to quit jumping to conclusions. My sources of information in Moses Lake being few, Blaine was a logical choice. Surely, Blaine wouldn't want his cousin setting herself up for heartbreak. He would want to protect her, wouldn't he?

Aside from the need for information, the idea of seeing Blaine was alluring in a way I didn't want to contemplate. It wasn't until I reached the bank that I realized I had no idea what I was going to say or how I'd broach the subject. I couldn't just walk into Blaine's office and blurt it out. Somehow I had to work my way around to it. Delicately. Tactfully.

Was there a tactful way to say,
My brother is cheating on your cute little cousin, and I found what looks like drug paraphernalia in his pocket, and I'm wondering if she's involved, too?
Blaine would think I was some sort of a paranoid crazy person, obsessed with my brother's life.

I tried to come up with an opening line as I walked through the lobby and tracked down Blaine's office. The blinds were closed over the tall plate-glass windows with his name painted in gold letters, and the blonde who'd been whispering in his ear at church sat poised behind a desk in front of his door.
Marilyn
, the nameplate read.

Marilyn's face narrowed in a way that told me she knew who I was, even if I couldn't place her. Folding her nicely manicured hands on the desk, she gave me an unhappy look when I asked to see Blaine. “He's in a meeting.” After tongue-swiping her teeth for lipstick, she flashed a quick, plastic smile, her gaze sliding toward the exit and back, as if to sweep me through the lobby and out into the street like a stray dust bunny. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I'll wait.” I moved to one of the maroon-and-gray tweed chairs opposite her desk.

My continued presence rated an eye roll, her irises forming unnaturally blue half moons beneath her lashes, which were unnaturally blue, as well. I remembered the blue mascara and the peeved expression from high school algebra class, and suddenly the name clicked, too.
Marilyn Hill.
When I was at Moses Lake High, she was a second-year senior who'd transferred in from some other state to live with her grandparents. She was finishing up a few credits in order to graduate. She was tall, blond, and well developed, even then. All the boys were fascinated with her, including the algebra teacher. Marilyn didn't like algebra. The teacher cut her a break every chance he got, which I found irksome at the time.

“I'll tell him you stopped by.” She wagged a finger in my direction, as if to indicate that she was searching her memory banks for my name. “Uhhh . . . Don't tell me. I know it starts with an H. . . .”

The door opened behind her, and both of us jerked toward the sound. Blaine poked his head out, saw me there, and smiled, seeming not the least bit surprised by my presence in his bank. “Well, hey,” he said.

A fluttery feeling flitted around my chest, touching here and there at random, like a cleaning lady with a feather duster. I forgot all about my brother. “Hey, yourself.” The words came out sounding throaty, flirtatious. Embarrassingly familiar, actually.

Marilyn drew back in her chair, her chin tucking into her neck, creating an accordion of flesh that looked like it belonged on someone much older. Clearly, she liked me even less now than she had a few minutes ago.

Leaning out the door, Blaine handed her a folder with papers askew inside it. “Make sure Charlotte gets these.”

Marilyn's long, red fingernails closed over the file, her fingertips brushing his in a way that indicated . . . well . . . something. “All right.” The words came with a scrunchy playful sneer. “But you'll owe me.”

“Always do.” He was smiling when he said it, but there was a hint of weariness in the undertone, as if he was tired of whatever game she was playing.

Blaine turned his attention my way. “You here to see me?” He blinked, his eyes brightening with curiosity, and for a minute, all I could think about was what gorgeous brown eyes he had. I couldn't even remember why I was there.

Brother. . . . What brother?

“Ummm . . . well . . .”
Yes. Yes, I am. Either that, or I stopped in to see Marilyn, since she likes me so much and all.

He knew I was there to see him. He just wanted to hear me say it, or else he wanted me to say it in front of Marilyn. Maybe the two of them had a thing going. Were they dating in high school? I couldn't remember for sure.

“I just had a quick question. If you're not busy.” I craned to the side slightly, trying to see whether there was someone in his office. He was “in a meeting,” after all, or so I'd been told. I could feel Marilyn's gaze making a radar sweep back and forth between Blaine and me, trying to discern any hidden connection between us. Rumors would probably be all over town about two-point-five seconds after I vacated Marilyn's space.

“Nope. Not at all.” A push opened the door wider, and a friendly hand motion invited me to enter his office. “Come on in.”

Marilyn showed her irritation with a soft, passive-aggressive snort as I circumvented her desk. I pretended not to notice, but trailing along behind me was the feeling that coming to the bank had been a bad idea in more ways than one.

If Blaine was worried about his secretary spreading information around town, he didn't show it. Offering me a chair slightly larger and more cushy than Marilyn's maroon-and-gray tweed ones, he shut the door, then hooked a leg over the corner of the desk. He sat-stood, his arms crossed comfortably over an open blazer with a pink polo shirt underneath. It takes a confident man to wear pink. “So what's on your mind this morning?”

If he only knew. Right now, I was looking at him, propped there in his starched jeans, blazer, and cowboy boots—a strange outfit for a banker, but I had to admit that it really did work—and I was thinking,
Is he trying to flirt with me, or am I imagining that?

The imagination scenario seemed more likely, but I found myself hoping for the first idea.

“Well, first of all, I wanted to say thanks for the firewood and the heater. That was really thoughtful.”
Am I blushing a little or is it just hot in here?

“Least I can do for a good customer.” He winked. “Let me know if you change your mind about those cricket-killers.”

“I'm still considering it, but . . .”

The door rattled in its frame just as I was thinking about playfully haggling the price. The movement was probably just caused by pressure equalization when someone came or went through the street entrance, but I pictured Marilyn leaning against the wood with a coffee cup to her ear, or perhaps listening in on an intercom.

“Can she hear us from out there?” I nodded toward the door. The transom over it was open, for one thing.

Blaine blinked, his lips forming a quirky, slightly startled twist, as if he thought I might be suggesting a need for closed doors and privacy. A need of the intimate sort, so to speak.

The flush pushed upward and outward, toward my ears and my forehead. All of a sudden the room felt close, and he seemed way too near. I could smell his cologne—something leathery, musky, slightly woodsy. Nice.

Leaning back in my chair, I tried to clear my thoughts. What in the world was wrong with me? I couldn't remember the last time I'd lost my head and stumbled all over myself around a guy. Sometime shortly after leaving Moses Lake and the high-school me behind. “I mean, I had something I needed to talk to you about, and I wouldn't want it all over town.”
Ooch.
That sounded bad, like I was accusing Marilyn, whom I really didn't even know anymore, of being a gossip. Not too nice of me, considering that she sat right up front in church on Sunday.

Smooth, dark brows knotted in Blaine's forehead, and he traded the relaxed posture for one somewhat confused and slightly suspicious . . . with perhaps a hint of disappointment. Had he been hoping this was purely a social call?

Twisting to swivel the phone around on his desk, he punched the button, said, “Marilyn, can you go ahead and take those loan applications over to Charlotte now?”