by Ellis Quinn
She said, “We were knocking on the door and there was no answer . . .”
He said, “I was watching my movies.”
“And you’re okay?”
He sat up now, tugging down his button front pajama top so his tummy wouldn’t show anymore, and hugged an arm around Buster, who plopped down next to him and panted, big pink tongue lolling.
Now Drew looked confused, looking from Bette to Sam, that sudden joy from having a dog tongue kiss your face fading and he said, “What’s going on?”
“We just didn’t know where you were.”
“I’m at home,” he said, looking more puzzled, eyes lingering over her shoulder on Sam. Sam was the man his father had punched for no apparent reason at the Crab Festival.
She looked over her shoulder at Sam and saw him standing with his narrow shoulders hanging down, a small sad smile on his face. Relieved to see the little boy was safe and the love-of-his-life’s brother hadn’t harmed him.
She said, “How long have you been alone?”
Drew said, “Daddy’s been in and out all day, but he bought me movies. He left a long time ago, but he said he’d be back soon.”
“And you’re just here by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“You hungry or anything?”
“I could eat,” he said in a cute mimic of a phrase he’d heard adults say. But his puzzlement grew stronger, his little brow furrowing, his gaze focused on Sam. He said, “You’re the man . . .”
Sam said, “I was at the park today . . .”
And Drew said, “No, you’re the man from the pictures.”
Sam asked, “What pictures?”
“The man from the pictures with my auntie.”
Jamie.
Bette watched now as Sam slowly fell apart. His face twitched, one cheek, then the next. His eyes grew glossy and sad. His mouth moved around, one shoulder lowered, the other one went higher. Then his chin dimpled, and a tear rolled his cheek.
“That’s right,” Sam said, his voice soft. “You would’ve been my nephew.”
He came to the bed, but fell on his knees at the bedside, like a little kid praying before bedtime. He put his hands together, then held one out for Sam, his palm up and trembling.
Drew put his little hand in Sam’s and Sam closed his grip. He said, “What pictures, Drew?”
“At my Grammy and Grampy’s.”
Sam sniffled and looked to Bette, puzzled. Drew’s grandparents were dead. At least the ones who knew who Sam would be.
Sam said, “Who’s your Grammy and Grampy?”
“Grampy Todd and Grammy Eleanor.”
Sam smiled and lowered his face, hiding it in the bedding for a second. When he looked up again his eyes were still teary, but he smiled. He said to her, “That would be Jamie’s Uncle Todd. Her dad’s brother.”
“My daddy’s dad died,” Drew said.
“I know,” Sam said and rubbed his thumb on the back of Drew’s knuckles. “I’m sure sorry about that.”
“But I have another Grammy and Grampy.”
“Todd and Eleanor,” Sam said and drew in a big breath, smiling now.
Drew said, “They have your pictures.”
“My pictures?”
“You and my Auntie Jamie.”
“You never met your Auntie Jamie, did you?” he said.
“No, but she was really pretty.”
“She was the most beautiful girl in the world,” Sam said, and more tears appeared.
“They have your picture in a bunch of places at their house. I like their house, because they have Coke. Not just Coke, real Coca-Cola.”
Both she and Sam laughed, and Sam said, “They have my picture there, me and Jamie?”
“Yeah, they do,” he said, then his eyes widened again, and he looked between them to the doorway.
A giant cop stood there, Jason Mitchum, filling the door frame. Lights flashed in the slim spaces on either side of him, his cop car lights reflecting off the eggshell paint.
Jason looked apprehensive. “Hey, Bette, what’s happening?”
She waved to Jason and said, “Everything is a-okay, Jason. Little Drew here is just fine.”
Sam looked to her now, concerned, and said, “What are they going to do with him?” nudging his head toward Drew.
“I’m not sure,” she said, and suddenly felt perplexed.
Jason said, “I guess he should come with me.”
They looked to Drew, and he looked frightened.
Jason approached, trying to appear peaceful, like a big old friendly grizzly bear. But the guy was six-and-a-half feet tall and over three hundred pounds, and Drew recoiled.
Bette said to Drew, “He’s the giant crab, don’t you remember?”
Jason made a displeased face.
She laughed and said, “Don’t you remember he was there yesterday, he was the man who helped your daddy. Remember when your daddy was going to hurt Sam?”
This was too much information for Drew’s little brain, and his uncertain eyes darted to each of their faces.
Jason tried to make it better saying, “Don’t you remember, little guy? I was the big crab.” He held his two big meaty hands up in pincers, and came toward the bed with a lurching sideways crab motion, his big fingers and thumbs snipping together, open and closed.
Jason wasn’t making it any better, and Bette stuck out a foot so he couldn’t get any closer. She said, “What are you doing? You’re scaring him.”
“No, I’m not,” he said in a baritone sing-song, “I’m trying to remind him I’m the big friendly crab.”
“You’re dressed all in black and you look like you’re going to pinch him with your fingers.”
He stood up huffily. “I’m not going to pinch him with my fingers, Bette.”
“You’re coming at him with your hands all in pincers.”
“That’s what a crab does.”
“You’re not dressed like a crab right now, Jason— And, hey, why were you dressed like a crab?”
Jason stepped back, vexed by her, and he shoved his meaty hands in his pockets and looked away, surly. He said, “Marcus made me. He was mad I shared that video of Charlotte Dawson going in the dunk tank.”
“That’s outrageous,” she said.
“I know,” he said guiltily, like a scolded boy.
She said, “No—I mean, outrageous I never got a copy.”
* * *
Out in the fresh air, she drew a deep breath. The evening light had faded to blue-gray, but the front of Miranda and Pete’s Tudor-style bungalow was bathed in a blue-red doo-wop from the lights atop Jason’s police cruiser.
She folded her arms and bundled herself into her jacket. The run from Julie’s home to Miranda’s got her overheated and sweating, and a chill began, her body heat leeched by her cotton clothing. Up the driveway now another set of headlights came racing, a billowing cloud of gravel dust behind it, lit up in red by the taillights. A police cruiser in black and white, lights flickering with no siren, two cops in the front seats.
The driver’s door was open before the car squelched to a stop in the loose dry rock. Marcus leapt out and raced around the brush guard nose of the cruiser, lit up in brilliant white light a moment as he passed through the headlights’ glare. She took a step toward him, compelled, and he grabbed her as they came together.
“You’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and with no sense of protocol or worry of witnesses’s eyes, she fell against him and Marcus held her.
She breathed with her cheek on him, her head rising and falling on his chest. His powerful arms held her tight.
The moment was long and filled with a glowing ardor. A feeling of safety and a feeling of being cared for.
When the time was right, she asked him, “Did I make your palms sweaty tonight?”
He had no retort or quip, only chuckled, his laugh a rumble in her ear. He squeezed her.
“How’s Drew?”
“He�
��s good,” she sighed. “He’s taken to Sam. How’s Pete?”
“A mess. Stacy took him down to the station.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“That’s up to the lawyers now, Bette. We did our job.”
“We certainly did.”
He set her back so he could see her face. She looked up into his blue eyes, lit up on the sides by the flashing lights, and smiled. A calmness wormed through her; the more it spread, the more she felt her anxiety and tension leak out the soles of her feet and into the ground.
He said, “Were you scared?”
She fell against him, smiling, eyes closed, and her hands went around him now, too, slipping above his gun belt and hooking fingers together at the small of his back.
“I was so scared, Marcus,” she said, smiling wider as her words had him hugging his arms around her again, comforting her. “So scared I was gonna die, and you never told me your crab cake recipe.”
TWO DAYS LATER
With the weekend over and all the tourists and extra residents returned to their respective homes, the last few days in the Cove had been peaceful. And now she stood, early morning on the beach out the back of Whaley’s fortune, with her hands in her pockets, smiling at her approaching aunt whom she’d missed this weekend.
Prissy walked her way, coming from her estate, The Promise, gardening shoes held in two fingers, walking barefoot with her cotton pants rolled up mid-calf, just like she had done as well. They smiled at each other, then came together with the waves lapping around their ankles.
“Some weekend, Bette.”
“Some weekend,” she agreed. “You all wrapped up with the festival now?”
“All wrapped up. We were there till midnight last night, putting away all the tents and tables in the storage lockers. I still gotta tow that dunk tank back to the town yard, but after that . . . How about you? And how was your weekend?” She tried not to smile but couldn’t help a devilish curl going to one side.
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.”
“Never a dull moment with a Whaley woman.”
“You got that right,” she said, and came in for a hug.
“Come on now, pet,” she said, patting Bette’s back. “Don’t you get all emotional on me.”
“I’m not sad one bit,” she said, “I’m the opposite. Well, except . . .”
“Oh, that’s right,” Pris said, letting her go, and they both strolled up the beach toward the grassy edge of the Fortune’s back yard. “I guess your houseguests are heading out this morning.”
Bette said, “I really wish they could stay.”
“I’m sure you offered.”
“Endlessly,” she said. “But look, Drew is good for Sam, and Sam is good for Drew. Wait till you see this kid, see how bright he is now.”
“After what’s happened to him, I’d sure love to see it.”
“Drew really took to him. Funny how some pictures hanging up in your grandparents’ place’ll be a great introduction for when you finally meet somebody, build up that bridge of trust.”
“Now where’s he headed?”
They strolled barefoot through the grass, cold and wet under their feet, heading clockwise around the Fortune’s back face, toward where they could hear a child laughing and a dog barking.
Bette said, “I talked to Drew’s grandparents. Well, it’s not his grandparents, his grandparents are dead. But his grandfather’s brother was close with the family. They all lived in the same town, and he told me they were heartbroken when Sam disappeared from their lives. His wife said it was like Sam had died with their Jamie.”
“And Sam didn’t know this?”
“No. I think his grief warped his memory of their affection and their consideration of him. They still think he’s part of the family, and they took it hard when he disappeared on them all. Even his girlfriend’s parents worried about him, before they passed.”
“And he’s going to take Drew up there to stay with them?”
“Sam’s going to take Drew to live with them, and I think he’s going to stay at their place for a little while. I’m happy for him, he’s a young man who needs a home. A young man who needs some care. He’s been on his own long enough, and I’d sure love to see someone looking out for the boy.”
Now they came around the side of Fortune, out where Sam’s camper pickup truck was parked. The camper’s back door was raised up on its hydraulic arms, the tailgate was down, and both the front door and passenger door were open like wings. Sam was loading things inside, almost done now.
Running around the truck was Drew, the poor boy who had a long road ahead of him. His mother murdered, his father guilty of the crime. His father part of some elaborate scheme of impersonation devised out of his own swamp of grief. Losing his sister had done things to him. Compounded then when his brother died and his mother and father. But he would pay for the murder of two innocent women.
Sam loaded a cooler—a cooler she’d given him, packed with some of her own baking, and sandwiches Cherry made—in the pickup bed, slamming the tailgate and bringing down the camper’s door. They came up behind him to wish him his farewell.
The moment she dreaded had arrived. It was poignant that they were leaving, but filled with hope for them both. They were moving toward a brighter future.
She said, “You all packed up now?”
Sam patted the back of his old pickup truck, smiling, his hair pulled back from his face, clean-shaven and bright eyed. He’d been well fed these last few days. They’d painted on the back porch, played with Drew and Buster, taught Drew how to sketch, played Hearts together and drank a lot of tea. There was a rosiness to Sam’s cheeks, a gleam in his eyes she liked to see. It was impossible he’d gained much weight in just a few days, but he didn’t look so gaunt anymore.
Pris said, “It was a shame I didn’t get any time to spend with you here in the last couple days. I’m quite the Hearts player.”
“I imagine you’ll see me again,” Sam said and held out his hand.
Pris shook it, then pulled him in for a hug. “You make sure you take care of yourself. If you need anything, you let us know.”
Sam winced sheepishly, said, “Maybe . . .”
“Like I said, anything you want you let me know,” Pris said, holding his hand now and patting the back of it with her other palm. She looked him dead in the eye. In one moment a tender, loving, matronly woman, but also a fierce negotiator and crafty businesswoman in a former life. She held Sam’s gaze, and told him, “You want to be a chef, you let me know. Here in the Cove, anywhere you go, I bet I can fix you up. Just give me the word.”
“I can’t believe how kind you all are. No wonder Julie loved the Cove so much.”
“Well, you will always have a place to come and stay,” Bette said. “The Cove will still be a place for you. My door’s always open and—”
She was interrupted by a light giggling monkey weight thrust against her leg—Drew coming to her as a place to hide from his buddy, Buster. He laughed and grabbed her around the knee, peeking out between her legs where Buster came skittering around the back of the truck through the gravel. When he saw Drew had safety with Bette, he trotted happily to her side, sat down like a good boy and thrust his chest out, putting his chin up and panting with his big, wide tongue hanging out.
“You’re going to miss your buddy, aren’t you?” she said to Drew, tucking hands under his armpits and hoisting him up to sit him against her hip. She brushed under his eye with the pad of her thumb, then caressed his silky brown hair.
He said, “Grampa and Grammy have a dog, too?”
“Is he as much fun as Buster?”
Drew’s puckered little mouth wriggled around, then he laughed. He said, “No way!” then hid his face away in her shoulder.
She hugged him and stroked his back. “I’m going to miss having you around here, Drew. You promise you’ll come visit me?”
“I promise,” he said.
Drew He
adley was a resilient little man. She didn’t know what would be in store for him, or what turmoil might rage within, but hoped in time his rough seas would quell. He seemed to have a strident enough demeanor he may get through this okay. He may just have been too young to comprehend how his life had changed this weekend. On the phone, his Grampa Todd and Grammy Eleanor seemed like supportive and trustful people. She had no problem surrendering Drew to Sam so Sam could take the boy to live with his family.
“You get your grandma and grandpa to send me pictures of you with their dog, okay?”
Sam held out both hands to take Drew now saying, “And you make sure you send me pictures of Buster. Anything else that’s going on around here, especially your paintings.”
“You don’t have a phone, my man,” she said and passed Drew to him.
“I can get it on Todd and Eleanor’s computer,” he said, hefting Drew and cradling him under a forearm, setting him in the car seat she’d bought for the trip. She’d gone out shopping yesterday, bought a bunch of things for Drew and for Sam and for their trip. Sam clipped Drew into his car seat, made sure everything was okay with the little guy, then closed the passenger door.
He turned to them, said, “I guess this is it.”
“Not forever, and you know it.”
“I know,” he said, nodding, a pursed-lip smile dimpling one cheek.
Pete Headley wasn’t likely to get out of prison for a very long time. Probably never. Drew could use a pseudo uncle, and he couldn’t have a better one, she figured, than Sam. There was something about that moment in the bedroom at Miranda and Pete’s where Sam had dropped to his knees with the realization of what Drew could have meant to him if things had been different. If Jamie hadn’t died that day, Drew could be his nephew. The profoundness of that moment would stay with her forever.
No more words between them, because she’d already expressed the lamentation of his departure endlessly the last twelve hours. But there was no sense in denying that he would do what was right, and it would be crazy for her to stop him. So instead, she hugged him. Hugged him hard, thumped his narrow back. “You take care,” she said, “take care, and I better hear from you soon.”