Blue Moon Bay (38 page)

My eyes welled, and I felt the heat of tears on my cheeks. “You had us. You still had us, and we needed you.” The little girl in me, the one who'd been locked away during the months following my father's death, broke free, filled with desperation, unanswered questions, and unfulfilled needs.

“I couldn't find my feet,” Mom whispered, her face flushed and red, the tendrils of hair on her cheek damp now. She smoothed them away impatiently. “I couldn't find my feet, Heather. I was never strong the way you are, the way your father was. And Clay . . . he's like you in that way. He's like your father. When Clay came here, I didn't know what else to do but come along and help him put this case together.”

I swiped tears away impatiently. “What case? What happens now, exactly?”

“They bring the case against Proxica. A class-action suit,” Uncle Charley chimed in, as if that much were elementary. “Your brother and that law firm he's with are gonna make Proxica pay for all the people like Ruth, who're sick because of the chemicals. Looks like the Justice Department is gonna get involved, too. Amy and your brother could get a big chunk of money from the whistleblower law. Proxica has a whole lot to answer for and a lot of cleaning up to do around here.”

“Clay is with a
law firm
?” Of all the information that had just come my way, that was the only bit I could really grasp.

I heard my mother sniffling, and Uncle Charley offering his hankie. “Yer brother passed the bar three months ago. He didn't want anybody to know it, on account of the case.”

Something soft touched my hand, and Uncle Herbert said, “Here, dry your eyes now.” He pressed a button on the panel, and the elevator jerked and rattled as it resumed motion.

I was too exhausted for coffee, too exhausted to think anymore. I caught my breath and turned to Uncle Herbert as the elevator settled into position on the bottom floor. “So nobody is moving to Moses Lake, and you and Uncle Charley are actually looking forward to living in the retirement villas in Oklahoma? You're selling everything?” Suddenly my musings about staying for a while in Moses Lake made little sense. The family was leaving, scattering to the wind.

“Well, we got a buyer for the funeral home, and Clay said he'd help us put the restaurant up for sale online,” Uncle Charley stated. “No way I'm sellin' it to some broker, after this last mess. That restaurant has history. I want to pick the buyer so I know it goes to somebody that'll take care of it.”

Uncle Herb nodded, indicating his complete agreement. “We thought we'd keep the old farm—bring the grandkids down sometimes. And maybe Clay would want to visit, since he's working up in Fort Worth. It'll be a family place, like it's always been—for your brother, and our kids, and for you, if you want it. The little house is gone now, of course, but the two-story is still there.

“And when we asked you about doing the architecture work for the new school, that wasn't a smokescreen, either. We meant it. The fella who bought the house at Harmony Shores might need some work done, too. He took it on as an investment—wants to turn it into a wedding parlor and make the barn and the gardener's cottage into a bed-and-breakfast. Guess that old house has at least one more life in it, yet. Moses Lake isn't that far from Dallas. You could hang out your shingle up there and live down here, drive back and forth when you need to. There's the new fellowship hall at the church to build, too. They're gonna need an architect for that.”

Shaking my head, I stepped off the elevator, trying to imagine myself staying here with all of them gone. “Why would I stay in Moses Lake? Everyone else is leaving.”

Uncle Charley laid a hand on my shoulder, stopping me before I could turn toward the cafeteria. “Not everybody. Matter of fact, you might know the man who bought the house at Harmony Shores—some fella by the name of Underhill. He's had his man there all week, cataloging things in the house and running the calculations.” He motioned toward the chairs outside the reception area in the lobby, where a familiar pair of cowboy boots was sprawled across the green flecked tile, the jeans leading upward to a tall, lanky body crumpled in a vinyl chair, the face hidden beneath a felt cowboy hat that looked like it had seen better days. “It don't appear like he's goin' anyplace.”

I stood looking at Blaine, and my heart did that strange, queasy, fluttery flip-flop that was irrational, unpredictable, and completely undeniable. In spite of all the ways we were different and all the complications, the fact was that every time I looked at him, my pulse sped up and I couldn't catch my breath. He made me want to believe in all the dreams I'd been too careful to allow, too afraid to hope for. With him, I wanted to risk myself, to let go, to believe in the romantic notions of fairy tales. He had, after all, done what heroes do. He'd kissed the girl, asleep in her own life, and awakened her to a world she'd never seen before. He stirred, as if sensing we were there, and Uncle Charley leaned close to me, whispering, “We'll leave y'all alone to talk.” Then he gave me a nudge in the back, pushing me forward a few steps before he, Uncle Herb, and Mom continued on to the cafeteria.

Blaine yawned, clumsily lifting the hat from his face and blinking against the morning light streaming through the glass doors. For a moment, he seemed surprised to find himself in the hospital lobby.

“Hey,” I said, and he turned to look at me, his eyes warming.

“Hey, yourself,” he replied, stretching his neck side-to-side and sitting up in the chair. “Everything okay with your brother?”

I nodded, a smile tugging from the inside out. “Everything's fine.” For the first time in my adult life, I felt the truth of that. I felt like that little girl, leaping from the fire escape, filled with a faith that strong arms would catch me. “Everything's really . . . good.”

I sat down in the chair next to him. “Is Amy doing all right?”

Hanging his cowboy hat on his knee, he rolled his head toward me, still resting against the wall. His dark hair was saluting the new day in several different directions—evidence that he'd been sleeping in the chair awhile. “She's a little better this morning. Mama B finally kicked us all off the third floor so Amy could get some rest. She put up a pretty good fight when those guys hauled her and Clay out of the Proxica plant and put them in the car. She got away for a minute, but the guy caught up to her and knocked her down a flight of stairs. If I'd had any idea she and your brother were planning to sneak into Proxica last night, I would've put a stop to it. I never would have agreed to either of them taking a chance like that, even as bad as I wanted to see Proxica stopped.”

Even as bad as I wanted to see Proxica stopped.
When he said it, I could see the passion, the burn behind the words. It bothered me that he'd kept that hidden from me, that there had been a wall of secrets between us. What other secrets lay hidden? “I wish you'd told me what was going on.”

The soft, earthy brown of his eyes pulled me in. I wanted to fall, to let all the questions fade away, but if the last sixteen years had taught me anything, they'd taught me that the questions you don't resolve are the ones that hold you prisoner. “You made it hard not to,” he admitted. His hand lifted from the chair and the backs of his fingers brushed the side of my face. “But it wasn't my secret to tell. I made a promise, and I don't make promises I don't intend to keep. I never wanted to hurt you, Heather. I didn't set out to lie to you, or sidetrack you, or anything else.”

“What did you set out to do?” I tried to make it sound like a quip, but I felt myself hanging in air, waiting for the answer. Some small part of me was still afraid, still clinging to the past, still convinced that Blaine Underhill was too perfect to be real. Too good to be meant for me.

His fingers slid over my cheek, into my hair. “Just to spend time with the girl I missed out on in high school.”

My mind swirled with a heady mix of emotions. I knew he was going to kiss me, and I wanted him to. “I'm not that girl anymore,” I whispered against his lips, and in that instant, I knew it was true. This journey back to Moses Lake had brought me full circle, broken me open in a way that made all things possible.

“You're better than that girl.” Blaine's words slid over me, and then his lips met mine. The kiss transported me from the hospital, to a rock ledge by the water, and for a moment we were dancing.

When his lips parted from mine, I laughed softly.

Blaine's eyes narrowed, those thick, dark lashes forming a narrow slot. “What's that look for?”

“I was thinking about the Blue Moon,” I admitted. “About the two-step.”

“We could do it again sometime.” He grinned.

“Okay.” A tingle of anticipation lit up my body, chasing the weariness away. “I will if you will.”

A movement in the corridor, then a quick flash of darkness against the morning sun pulled at my attention. I looked up and saw a man in a dark coat crossing the hall to the stairway door. Even from this distance, something about him was unmistakable.

I stood up, moved a step closer to gain a better view against the light. My thoughts lost their misty edges, coming quickly into focus. Why was he here? What did he want? What questions could he answer?

“Heather?” Blaine shifted in the vinyl chair.

“I'll be right back.” My heart sped up and I hurried down the hall, walking, then running as the stairway entrance slowly closed, the hydraulic cylinder hissing softly. I caught the knob just before the latch could click into place.

“Wait,” I called, pulling back the door. “Wait. I want to talk to you.”

The man paused at the bottom of the half-flight of stairs, his thumb and fingers resting on the handle that would allow him to exit. For an instant, I had the sensation of being with my father, but I knew it wasn't him. The stranger turned slightly, so that I could see the profile of his face beneath the shadow of his baseball cap.

“Everything's taken care of,” his voice echoed against the stairwell. “The men who took your brother and Amy will be prosecuted, and Proxica is finally going to get what has been coming for a long while. It won't matter how many congressmen their CEOs take on island vacations. They're not getting out of this one.”

“You caught those men—the two from last night?” I asked, anxious to confirm that the men who had come after my family were locked away somewhere. “Are we safe now? Is my brother safe?”

He nodded, his fingers relaxing on the door handle. “Your brother did a good job. Your father would be pleased. This was what he wanted.”

The mention of my dad left me numb. “I saw you the day . . . when my father was killed. You were there with my mom, earlier that day.”

His head dropped forward, his cap and the collar of his coat hiding him again. “I shouldn't have let it go as far as it did. I wanted to crack Proxica. I was driven, ambitious. I just needed a little more. He wanted out, you know—your dad. He wanted out that last day. He was a family man. Said his wife and his kids came first. I should've just let him go, but we needed someone on the inside, so I squeezed a little harder. I told him there wasn't any way back to the life he had before—the only way out was through Proxica. Then, of course, we lost him, and we lost Proxica.”

The question that had plagued me for sixteen years pressed to the surface. “He didn't . . . Did my father . . . ? It was an accident . . . wasn't it? He didn't mean to . . .” Air seared my throat. I heard each heartbeat inside me, the tempo seeming to slow, bending the seconds into impossible, painful spans of time.

The latch on the street door clicked, and the stranger pulled it open, letting in a gush of winter air. “Like I said, your father was a family man. He wanted to do what was right, but you kids mattered to him more than anything else. He was just trying to keep all of you safe. He wanted to protect you, and that's why he had the shotgun. What happened in that cellar wasn't intentional. Just a tragic accident, but it was my fault it got to that point. It was my case.”

He opened the door then and stepped out, his words playing again in my head as he disappeared against the glare.

My body felt light and numb as I turned to walk away, uncertain how to process, after all these years, the answers I'd waited so long to hear. My father had loved us more than anything else. He'd only been trying to protect us. His death was an accident. Neither I, nor my mother, nor his job had pushed him to it. In spite of the ways I'd been difficult, immature, self-centered, and unkind, he'd loved me and was willing to sacrifice anything to protect me. He wouldn't have left us willingly, no matter what.

Looking up, I saw Blaine coming from the lobby, closing the distance between us in confident, even strides. I moved toward him one step, then two, then three, freedom settling over me with each one—as if the burden I'd carried for so many years was being cleared away, like a cache of debris trapped in an inlet along the lake, swept clean when a good rain finally comes along. At last I'd found the answers I needed. God had brought me to them, to Moses Lake, to the only place where He could lead me through the fire into everything that lay beyond.

“Who were you talking to?” Blaine craned to see through the stairwell window as we met.

“Just someone who knew my dad,” I answered, waiting as we turned to walk back up the hall. Slipping my hand into Blaine's, I felt myself walking into life, a new life that was like nothing I had ever imagined. Suddenly I knew the answer to the tinker's riddle. I understood it in a way I never had before.

The future is a blank page, but not a mystery.

The truth of that small phrase, of that plain-spoken proverb from the wall of wisdom was so clear to me now. Though we only read the story in due time, the books of our lives have been already written. God has drawn us in shades of charcoal and pastel, known our hours, seen our days, laid down our paths, created each of us as unique and uniquely loved. Our lives come as a blank canvas only because we cannot see as He sees. Before we can conceive our stories, He has watched them in His mind's eye, and not the stroke of a pen happens at random.