He took a deep breath. The faint odor of model paint hung in the air.
He exhaled. Mama’s picture had a way of soothing his soul. She had mixed Mexican ancestry, Spanish European and American Indian. Papa had called her his Spanish beauty. Her eyes sparkled like honey in the sunlight, and her Mona Lisa smile made Roland wonder about her thoughts, her secrets. Roland was four at the time of the picture. He sat in her lap and played with one of her long dark curls. That was two years before they lost her.
With a sigh, Roland reined in his thoughts. Mama was gone. Eight years to the day.
His gaze drifted to the red digits of the clock. Seven forty-two? That had to be wrong. He had set the alarm to go off at six-thirty. Papa would be gone by seven-thirty.
Roland pushed himself up and grabbed the alarm clock to check the settings. As his thumb landed on a button, he caught sight of something dark on his fingernail.
What the—
His nails, every freaking one of them, shone with black paint. His paint. The black gloss enamel from his model Studebaker buggy.
He gritted his teeth. Jarret. He threw back the covers and dashed from the room and down the steps.
Voices came from the kitchen. Maybe he hadn’t missed Papa.
He slid to a stop in the doorway, and his heart sank.
The twins sat at the table, hunched over plates of bacon and eggs. They were fully dressed except Jarret hadn’t pulled his hair back into a ponytail yet, like Keefe had. Papa’s coffee mug sat on the bar counter, next to an empty coffee pot. A pile of dishes filled the sink.
They must’ve had breakfast together. Without him.
“Where’s Papa?” He braced myself for the obvious answer.
Jarret and Keefe turned their heads in unison. As identical twins, they had the same olive skin and longish, dark curly hair, but Jarret had harsher features and a near permanent sneer.
“Where d’ya think he is?” Jarret smirked and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“He just left, Roland,” Keefe said. “Mr. Digby brought the car out front. If you run, maybe—”
Roland took off down the hall, half running and half sliding, his bare feet tingling on the smooth wood floor. He slid into the entry mat and yanked open the front door.
Papa’s silver Lexus rolled down the driveway. Nanny stood on the front porch, holding onto a porch beam and waving the way she always did when Papa left.
How could Papa leave without saying goodbye? He pushed past Nanny.
“Oh, good morning, dear,” Nanny said. “Jarret said you wanted to sleep . . .”
Nanny’s voice trailed off as he leaped from the porch and pounded down the driveway. His more reserved side told him to stop running and that Papa would be home in a couple of days. But his legs wouldn’t slow.
The Lexus crunched down the gravel driveway, steadily moving away.
Roland neared the end of the paved driveway, where the two-mile-long gravel driveway began. Now, common sense told him to stop. The rocks would kill his feet if he didn’t slow down.
Ouch! He took a few painful steps, rocks poking into his feet, until the momentum slowed enough for him to stop.
With a sigh, he watched the Lexus roll into the shade of the woods that bordered the lawn and the gravel driveway. Then it stopped.
Roland held his breath.
The car backed up, whining. Ten feet from him, it came to a stop. The passenger-side door swung open, and Papa jumped out dressed in khakis and his weathered Stetson.
Roland exhaled and headed for him, taking careful steps through the gravel.
Papa grinned and mussed his hair. “Hey, you’re up.”
“Yeah, I wanted to say goodbye. I always say goodbye.” Roland tried not to show hurt feelings, but his mouth twitched, so he threw his arms around Papa for a hug.
“Jarret said you were up late, wanted to sleep in.”
“No. My alarm didn’t go off. I think someone messed with it.”
Papa grabbed Roland’s shoulders, ending the hug. “You’re older now, Roland. You don’t need to see me off every time. I take a lot of trips. And I’ll be back in a few days.”
“How many days?”
“I’ll be back by Friday, maybe sooner.” He gave a squinty-eyed look at Roland’s clothes. “What, did you sleep in your clothes? Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”
Roland shrugged and stuffed his hands—with his black fingernails—into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Don’t worry, nothing’s gonna go wrong. I’ll see you in a few days. Then we’ll work out the details of the Italy trip. Okay?”
Roland nodded.
Papa got back into the car, and the Lexus rolled down the long driveway and out of view.
Roland gazed at the trees that hid the rest of the driveway until even the sound of tires rolling over gravel had ceased. With a sigh, he returned to the house.
Nanny still stood on the front porch, searching through her handbag. As Roland climbed the steps, she pulled her keys out and gave her short gray curls a pat. “I’ll be heading out, too, Roland. I made lunch and dinner. They’re in the fridge. You’ll have to heat them up. Heat some up for your brothers, too, won’t you?”
“Sure.” It annoyed him that everyone accepted that Jarret wouldn’t do anything for himself, if he could avoid it.
Nanny smiled and brushed at a wrinkle in Roland’s shirt. “Don’t look so downcast, child. Your father won’t be gone long. Just a few days.”
“Yeah, time will fly.” He only said it so she wouldn’t worry about his mood.
“You know I’ll be gone all day, right?” she said. “And Mr. Digby, too.” Ever since Roland could remember, she called him Mr. Digby. It was years before Roland realized their groundskeeper was her husband. “We’ll see you tonight.”
Roland nodded and watched her trundle down the steps. Then he yanked open the screen door and stepped into a foreboding silence.
Sunlight streamed in through the tall window next to the front door and threw a dusty beam of light across the polished wood floor.
Though he had no doubt that Jarret had messed with the alarm clock and painted his nails, he didn’t want to confront him. So he eased the door shut and tiptoed down the long hallway.
Halfway to the stairs, the twins’ voices coming from the kitchen broke the silence.
Roland slowed, waiting for the right time to sneak past the doorway. Maybe he could avoid Jarret entirely for the next few days.
“. . . Papa was going to, but his plans changed,” Jarret said in his know-it-all tone.
Roland stopped cold and pressed his back to the wall by the kitchen doorway. What were they talking about?
“You know he’s never liked taking us when he explores mines,” Keefe said. “Not since Mama—”
“Yeah, well . . .” Of course, Jarret wouldn’t let Keefe finish that sentence. It probably brought back memories too painful even for him. “. . . he’s planning on taking Roland somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else? Where?”
A barstool squeaked. “Overseas.”
Roland’s eyes popped. How did Jarret know? He must’ve been spying through the keyhole.
“Overseas? Really? Who told you? And why the sly grin? You aren’t up to something, are you?”
“You know me.” It sounded like Jarret slapped Keefe on the back. “I’m always up to something. Roland thinks he’s going with Papa to Italy.”
“Italy? Wow. Papa’s taking Roland to Italy? Just Roland? Why can’t we all go?”
“I don’t know. He said he had another trip in mind for us, but I want to go to Italy. Roland can go on the other trip.”
Roland’s face twitched and his body tensed. He pushed off from the wall and spun into the kitchen doorway. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not going to mess things up for me.”
Jarret and Keefe sat on bar stools at the kitchen counter, and they both cranked their heads to face him. Keefe whispered something to Jarret, probably
something meant to calm him.
Jarret slid off the stool, eyeing Roland as he approached. “You spying on us?”
“No, I-I heard what you said, though.” Roland forced himself to hold Jarret’s arrogant gaze. “How do you know about my trip? Were you spying on me and Papa?”
Jarret scoffed. “Papa wants to take you because he thinks you’re so good. You never get in any trouble. You’re his little pet.” He spit out the word ‘pet’ then perused Roland’s shirt with a narrow-eyed glare. “This came from Papa, from Italy, huh?” He ran the back of his fingers down the front of the shirt, then with both hands yanked the shirt apart.
Buttons popped off, flew, and bounced on the floor.
Keefe moved in Roland’s peripheral vision, inching closer. “Jarret.” His tone urged Jarret to go easy.
Roland’s heart sank. He tried not to show his disgust, his hurt, his anger. He struggled to master his emotions, but his mouth trembled. He took a deep breath. Jarret wouldn’t get the best of him.
“I’m not his pet. But I’m sure he has reasons for wanting me to—”
Jarret took hold of Roland’s sleeve, gripping it as he spoke. “Papa’s gonna see a new side of you. He’s not gonna wanna take you to Italy.”
Roland met his gaze.
A crooked smile stretched across Jarret’s face. “That’s right. I know where you’re going. But you’re not gonna go.” He leaned in until their faces nearly touched. “I’m going, me and Keefe.”
With a jerk of his hand, Jarret ripped the sleeve off, yanking Roland to the side as he did it. He laughed and threw a mocking glance to Keefe. “So, there’s your favorite shirt. Maybe I can pick up a new one for you.”
“You’re not going!” Roland fought to keep himself under control. “Why would Papa ever change his mind about taking me?”
A devilish look crept into Jarret’s brown eyes. “You’ll see.”
Time stopped. In a moment of clarity, Roland knew what he had to do. Ignore him. The advice hung in his mind like a caption between scenes of a silent movie. Walk away.
A second later, something inside him snapped. He visualized the buttons popping off his shirt and sailing through the air, their threads like streamers. His sleeve ripping in slow motion, exposing his weakness. Jarret wanted to steal his trip to Italy, his salvation? No way.
Roland’s hands shot out and landed on Jarret’s chest. He shoved.
Jarret staggered back, shock in his eyes. Roland had never made the first move in a fight. He hardly ever defended himself.
Jarret’s expression morphed into a sneer. He lunged for Roland.
The impact—steel hands to a scrawny chest—threw Roland off balance. He smacked into the wall.
He shouldn’t have shoved first. He should just go. Before Jarret could lift a fist, Roland turned to make his exit.
“Keefe,” Jarret shouted, and Keefe obediently blocked the kitchen doorway.
With a ragged sigh, Roland faced his attacker. He should’ve taken karate when Papa suggested it last year. He should’ve—
Jarret’s fist landed hard in his gut.
The air shot from Roland’s lungs. His insides screamed. He dropped to his knees, struggling to drag in a breath of air.
Jarret’s curses and angry words flew over his head. “Get the basement door,” was all Roland caught.
“The basement?” Keefe said. “Why not his room?”
Roland labored to breathe.
Jarret latched onto his arm and dragged him to his feet. “I can’t lock him in his room.”
“Why do we have to lock—?”
Jarret shoved Roland forward and shouted, “Just do it!”
Finally dragging in some air, Roland’s strength returned. The basement? No. They would not get him down there. He yanked his arm from Jarret’s vice grip and bolted down the hall.
A split second later, hands landed on his back, and he crashed into the wall. The picture above him, Papa’s huge, framed print of Pompeii, slid at the impact.
Jarret jerked Roland backwards.
Roland pulled away, but his feet slipped, and the floor came up to meet him. Unable to throw his hands out in time, he turned his head to keep his face from hitting the hardwood floor. Something cracked down on him from above.
“Papa’s picture,” Jarret said to the sound of shattering glass. “This is your fault, Roland.”
Keefe mumbled something, but Roland couldn’t make sense of it.
Roland was forced to his feet. Hands held him under the arms and dragged him. He neared the open basement door. The light bulb that dangled over the steep steps seemed to swing repeatedly to the left. Roland’s stomach threatened to empty its contents. Not vertigo. Not now.
“Move,” Jarret said.
Roland avoided looking down the steps. Experience told him the view would increase the vertigo, maybe even make him vomit. He concentrated on placing his feet on the steps, on keeping up with their hurried pace.
The twins mumbled back and forth as they escorted him to the basement.
Roland reached the hard cement floor, and the cool air chilled him. He suddenly became aware of a wet spot on his forehead.
“Put him on the bench,” Jarret said, releasing his grip.
Roland latched onto Keefe’s arm to keep from falling. Even the blackness seemed to shift and tilt.
Keefe led him to the table near the dark fireplace. “I’ll make a fire,” he said.
“No,” Jarret said.
“How long are we gonna leave him down here?”
“I . . .” He hesitated. “I don’t know. I need time to think.”
Roland gripped the wide bench at the table and eased onto his side. Gazing at the dark fireplace, he hugged his aching gut.
His brothers mumbled over him, Keefe’s tone soft and pleading, Jarret’s tone harsh. Their voices faded. Footfalls on the stairs. The swaying lightbulb went black. The basement door closed with a bang, stealing the rest of the light.
A shiver ran through Roland’s body. His head throbbed, his gut ached, and he couldn’t keep the darkness from tilting. He surrendered to the vertigo, to pain and semi-unconsciousness.
Chapter 5
Peter squatted by the tackle box and dug through bobbers and plastic worms. He couldn’t find the hook he wanted, so he settled for a bent J hook and tied it on his line.
“I caught a big one,” Toby shouted.
Peter chuckled. How big could it be? The stream wasn’t that deep. He turned to see.
Toby’s tongue hung out the side of his mouth, and his whole body rocked as he reeled in the line. The toes of his tennis shoes hung off a flat, wobbly rock at the stream’s edge.
Peter tensed then jumped to his feet. “Hey, back up a little.” He dropped his fishing pole and jogged over as Toby’s catch emerged from the water.
“A big one.” Toby’s eyes grew round. Instead of a fish, a water-bogged sandal and a clump of plants hung from the hook.
A fit of laughter rose up and escaped Peter. “What . . . kind of a . . . fish is that?” He leaned too far and lost his balance, so he stepped back to steady himself. His foot collided with the tackle box, throwing him completely off kilter. As he toppled over the box and his backside hit the dust, more laughter rushed out.
Toby cracked up, too. No one could laugh without Toby laughing. He didn’t even need to know the joke.
Regaining composure, Peter stood and wiped dirt off the seat of his jeans and tears from his eyes. Toby’s laugh had turned from a genuine gut-buster to a fake hold-onto-the-moment one.
Yeah, Caitlyn was right. They needed this, some good old, brotherly-bonding fun. Toby sure got a rush out of fishing. And what trouble could he get into out here? He couldn’t disturb or embarrass anyone with his bizarre behaviors and outbursts. They could both have fun, just being themselves.
Toby stopped laughing and started picking at his catch, his fingers close to the hook.
“Wait,” Peter said. “I’ll get it. You just
caught an old sandal and some yucky ol’ plants.” He unhooked the sandal, dropped it, and got a grip on the dark, dangling slime.
“Cast again!” Toby grabbed the fishing pole, and the hook poked Peter’s thumb.
“Ow!” Peter winced and jerked his hand back. He rubbed his thumb, glad he didn’t see any blood. “Wait. Let me clean your hook.”
Toby whined, but he stopped tugging long enough for Peter to drag the last of the slimy crap off the hook.
“There, it’s—”
Toby yanked the fishing pole back and, with a quick flick of the wrist, cast again.
Peter grinned, shaking his head. Toby looked like the dudes on the fishing videos he watched over and over again. For being only nine years old and autistic, he was good at fishing.
“I’m gonna fish from over there.” Peter wiped his fingers on his jeans then gestured toward a four-foot-high outcropping of rocks farther down the stream. Toby didn’t bother looking.
Once Peter had climbed to the top of the rocks, he found a spot in the sun and sat down. He cast into a shady part of the stream, set the pole down, and lay back. The sun warmed his face. He sighed. Was there a better way to spend a Saturday morning?
Before allowing himself to relax completely, he glanced at Toby. Toby hadn’t moved from his original spot. His line dangled in the stream, but he paid no attention to it. Head cocked to the side, eyes wide, he stared at Peter.
Peter sat up. “Come on up, if you want. You can cast good from up here.”
Toby reeled in his line fast and galloped to the outcropping. His foot slipped twice as he climbed, but he made it safely to the top. Then he stood there, head cocked to the side again, staring down at Peter with another curious look. The sun shone behind him through the trees.
“Something wrong?” Peter squinted up at him.
“Peter has shiny hair.”
Peter ran his hand through his hair, thinking something was in it. It felt hot from the sun. “Oh, you mean it shines in the sunlight.” He smiled. “Yeah, yours does, too. Why don’t you cast your line and sit down? This is a perfect fishing spot.”
Still standing, Toby cast and his line crossed over Peter’s.
Peter rolled his eyes, sighed, and reeled in his line. “Watch where you cast, will ya?”
Roland West, Loner Page 3