“Straight through?” I ask, glancing at the plates.
“With a couple of short stops,” she says.
When she doesn’t elaborate, I say, “I’ll get my keys. Be right back.”
Carson follows me inside where I grab the key from the bowl by the front door. I lock the house and walk to the truck, waiting for Carson to jump in before saying to the woman, “Just follow us.”
“Thank you so much,” she says, looking truly appreciative, and adding, “It’s 4211 Walker Road.”
“Got it,” I say.
She gets in the Range Rover and waits for me to turn around, then pulls out behind me.
I don’t bother speeding on the narrow roads leading to the address. I think for a moment of how I used to drive in northern Virginia, nineteen miles over the freeway speed limit when I could get away with it. Twenty was a reckless driving ticket so I stayed just short of that. I had always been in such a hurry. Had to get there faster. So I could get more done. Faster, more. Faster, more. Until I finally hit a wall that made me question what the hell I had been in such a hurry for. Because it didn’t really matter when I got there. Whatever wrong I managed to semi-right, the next day would simply hold another one.
Carson sits up in the passenger seat, his nose pressing through the crack in the window, assessing the night smells.
We make the turn onto Walker Road, and I slow down to let my headlights glance across the mailbox numbers. 4201. Another half-mile to 4211. I flip on the blinker, intent on turning around to head back. She pulls in behind me, so I continue down the driveway looking for a place to pull over and let her pass.
There isn’t one until I get to the house, and, by now, it feels like politeness would dictate that I wish her luck or something.
The house is beautiful. Apparently new, judging from the window manufacturer stickers still on the glass panes. The style is something between French and contemporary, two stories with an enormous arched entrance. Definitely one of the pricier pieces of real estate currently on the market. But then if she moved here from California, this probably seemed like a deal.
She gets out of the Rover and walks over to the truck door. She stops at my lowered window and says, “I can’t thank you enough. It’s just so good to finally be here.”
I can hear the relief in her voice. And I see, now that she’s so close, she’s even prettier than I had realized. I feel myself fumble a little for words. Tongue-tied? Seriously.
“Ah, you’re welcome. Glad to help.”
The passenger door to the Range Rover opens, and a very tall teenage boy climbs out. “Mom?”
“We’re here, hon,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Come and meet—” She breaks off there and adds, “I’m sorry. We didn’t get each other’s name.”
“Bowie Dare,” I say.
“I’m Keegan Monroe,” she says. “And this is my son, Evan.”
Evan is standing by his mom now, towering over her, actually. He sticks out his hand, unexpectedly polite. “Nice to meet you,” he says.
“Mr. Dare helped us find the house. I got a little lost the last few miles.”
“You should have woken me up,” he says, the words accusing.
“You’ve got the keys to the place?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “We should be all set.”
“I’ll wait if you want to make sure you can get in. If your cell phone isn’t working, you might have trouble getting help if the key doesn’t work.”
Evan gives me a long look, as if he’s used to men hitting on his mother. Am I? Hitting on her?
“Or I can just go,” I say quickly. “I’m sure you’ll have it under control.”
“Actually,” she says, reaching out to put a hand on my arm. “If you don’t mind waiting a minute, that would be great. The thought of spending a night in the car is actually a little nauseating right at the moment.”
Evan settles his gaze on her hand, and she quickly pulls it back.
“Sure,” I say, cutting the truck engine. “I’ll just wait here.”
“Thank you,” she says, walking to the Rover and pulling her purse from the back seat.
She carries it with her to the front door, while Evan waits by the truck with me.
“What kind of dog?” he asks, ducking his head to look at Carson.
“The spoiled kind,” I say.
Carson thumps his tail against the seat, no doubt recognizing the label.
“That’s the best kind,” Evan says. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Noticed the California plates,” I say. “Not as easy to have one out there, I guess.”
“Not really. Lots of people have them. Mom’s just always been kind of scared of them.”
“Ah,” I say, as if I understand. “That’s a shame.”
“I’ll have one someday. When I have my own place.”
“The key works,” his mom calls out from the front door. She steps in and turns on the outside lights. The house looks instantly inviting.
“All right, then,” I say. “I’ll be heading home.”
“Do you know the lake pretty well?” Evan asks, as if he’s not ready for me to go.
“Yeah,” I say. “I spent a lot of time on the lake when I was a kid and moved here for good about two years ago.”
“From what I’ve read, there’s not an awful lot to do.”
“I guess that depends on what you like. Are you in school?”
“One more year of high school.”
“That should keep you busy,” I say.
“Mom wants to homeschool me,” he says, his tone exuding extreme disapproval.
“I’m sure she must have a good reason,” I say, even as I realize I have no way of knowing whether her reasons are good or not.
She’s back at the front door now, waving at us. “The Realtor left us a bottle of good champagne. Can you join us for a minute, Mr. Dare?”
“We should be going,” I say, tipping my head at Carson, who’s standing in the truck seat and wagging his tail in disagreement.
“Come on,” Evan says. “One toast, and we’ll let you leave.”
I consider arguing, but find myself at least a little curious. Maybe I’m more in need of human company than I realized. “Okay,” I say. “One toast.”
I get out of the truck, telling Carson I’ll be right back.
“He can come in,” Evan says.
“Your mom might not like that. New floors and all.”
“She doesn’t dislike dogs. She’s just scared of them.” He turns to his mom and calls out, “Okay if he brings Carson in too?”
She nods, and I’m not sure whether her expression is one of politeness or fear, but rather than argue, I open the door and Carson hops out.
We follow Evan inside, stepping onto the marble floors of the foyer. “I think the kitchen is this way,” he says, taking the hall to our left. He’s right, and his mom is already there, opening a very large bottle of champagne with a French label. The Realtor must have been extremely appreciative of the sale.
“Beautiful house,” I say, glancing around the room and taking in the mahogany cabinets, Viking stove and refrigerator.
“Thanks,” she says, popping the cork. The sound makes Carson bark, which in turn makes her jump.
“Carson,” I say. “Come here, boy.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m a little jumpy, I guess.”
She opens the sleeve of plastic champagne glasses, pulls out three and lines them up on the counter. She pours two full ones and a half one, which I’m guessing is for Evan.
“Mom,” Evan says.
“I could get arrested,” she says. “You’re not legal.”
He rolls his eyes and reaches for the glass.
“Hold on,” she says. “We have to make a toast.”
There’s something in her voice I can’t quite put my finger on. Determination? Resignation? Those two things don’t have a lot in common, so I’m guessing I’m off the ma
rk.
She passes me a glass and holds hers in the air. “To forging new paths. Making a fresh start. Looking ahead instead of back.”
She taps her glass against mine and then Evan’s.
Evan doesn’t meet her gaze but downs the contents of his glass in a single gulp. She throws him a worried glance before taking a sip of her own.
I try mine, and the taste lives up to the label. “Very nice,” I say and then finish it, setting the plastic cup on the counter. “Thank you. And I have to be going. I hope you both get a good night’s sleep.”
“Thanks,” they say in unison. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it feels as if they’re both searching for a reason to keep me here, but neither voices it.
“Come on, Carson,” I say. “Better get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“Maybe we’ll see you around the lake,” Evan says, and I’m thinking he’s lonely. Which leads me to say, “Drop by the dock if you’re out and about.” Which is not something I am prone to saying.
“We will,” Evan says.
“Thank you again, Mr. Dare,” his mom says.
“It’s Bowie,” I say. “And you’re welcome.” And then I think Keegan. That’s her name. Keegan.
It’s not until Carson and I are a mile or so down the road toward home when the full name comes to me. Keegan Monroe. And the television series. Aimless. Keegan Monroe. The actress.
I look at Carson and say, “She probably thinks we’ve been living under a rock, huh?”
Carson barks and wags his tail.
“Yeah, I agree. I like our rock.”
It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.
– Laura Ingalls Wilder
Keegan
WE HAVE NO furniture yet, but I don’t even care. I’m just so glad to finally be here.
I unpack what food we still have in our cooler, put it in the refrigerator and then go outside to get the blankets I brought along from the back of the car. The moving truck is supposed to arrive tomorrow, but a makeshift bed on the floor tonight actually sounds like heaven.
I pop the back of the Rover and reach inside for the blankets, and then go still for a moment at a sound I don’t recognize. It’s chirping. Crickets? Birds? Frogs? Frogs, I think. I remember reading about the frogs you can hear at night around Smith Mountain Lake when I was researching the area and deciding whether this was the place for Evan and me. I liked the idea of hearing them at night. I’m so used to the sound of traffic and the constant noise of a city. The thought of singing frogs seemed pure and innocent.
I lower the tailgate and sit on it, closing my eyes and listening until it begins to sound like actual music. There’s a rhythm and a cadence, and it just hits me how ready I am for this new life. How tired I have become of chaos and competition and criticism.
I stare out into the dark night, another thing I’m not used to. In the city, there’s always light. Streetlights. Skyscrapers with lights shining from every floor at all hours. There’s never total darkness. Unlike here. It felt strange driving along the country roads and going a mile or more without seeing a single house lit up. This isn’t a life I’ve ever lived, and I wonder if I’ll end up regretting what I’ve done. Moving my son across the country. Backing out of a contract for a still successful series.
From here on an early summer Virginia night, with nothing but crickets and darkness surrounding me, it’s easy to start thinking that maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe I should have stuck it out. Gambled on Evan turning out nothing like Reece. But then a year ago, would I have dreamed that Reece would take the path she’s taken?
No.
Did I see any of it coming?
No.
It’s not as if I really had a choice about leaving L.A. I’ve lost one child to something I’ve hated my whole life. The thing that destroyed my childhood and made me vow that my own children would never know what it was like to live that life. And now Reece has chosen it. I can’t lose Evan to it as well.
“Mom?”
“Out here, Ev,” I call back.
He walks from the house to the car, barefoot and shirtless. “What are you doing?”
“Just listening for a bit.”
“To what?”
“The night sounds.”
“I don’t hear anything,” he says, looking at me as if he’s wondering about my mental health.
“Frogs,” I say.
“Is that what that is?”
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
“I guess. I prefer the purr of Maseratis on Sunset Boulevard.”
“Ev.”
“Just sayin’.”
I pat the tailgate, inviting him to sit. He does so, reluctantly. “Are you going to give this place a chance?” I ask.
He shrugs a defiant teenager shrug. “You know I didn’t want to move here. You didn’t give me a choice.”
“And you know why I did that.”
“Because you think I’m going to turn out like Reece. Why can’t you just trust me to be me?”
I glance off for a moment, before forcing myself to look at him. “I do trust you, Evan. But the life we led out there, it just does something to kids your age. It’s not real. It’s like we lived in a plastic bubble, where it seems like you can get away with making bad choices. ”
“That’s rich, you know, coming from you. You’ve made a career creating worlds that aren’t real. Worlds that people wish they lived in.”
My son’s accusation stings. I wish I could deny it, but I can’t. Even so, I say, “Playing a role on TV and living one in real life are two different things.”
He shrugs again, and I can’t tell if he agrees or not.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” he says, looking at me now with something softer in his face, and I know he’s talking about Reece.
“Yeah. It is.”
“She’s making her own choices. How can you be responsible for that?”
“I’m apparently something she utterly despises. And never wants to be.” My voice breaks here, and I hate myself for the emotion that is always at the surface of anything related to Reece’s rejection of me. I wish I could harden myself to it, find a way for it not to hurt so damn much.
Evan reaches out and puts his hand over mine. He’s not one to show physical affection, so the gesture has extra meaning to me.
“I don’t think it’s you, Mom. She’s just consumed with lashing out at the world in general.”
“Don’t worry about it, Evan. Your only job right now is to be seventeen, finish your last year of high school and make some new friends here.”
“How am I going to make friends if you homeschool me?”
“We’ll look for activities you can get involved in.”
“Activities? That sounds like I’m in first grade.”
“Sports then. How’s that?”
“You can’t play football unless you go to the public high school.”
“There are other sports.”
“You know I love football.”
“Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices, Evan,” I say, instantly regretting the sharp note in my voice.
“Shouldn’t Reece be the one making the sacrifice, Mom? She’s the one who’s blown our family to hell.”
“Evan.”
“Well, hasn’t she?” He slides off the tailgate and faces me, rigid with anger. “And what are the repercussions for her? She’s off doing whatever the hell she wants to. Exactly who is being punished?”
I reach out to put a hand on his arm, but he shakes me away.
“I get why you’re so pissed at her,” he says. “She’s being a class-A bitch. But the problem is that everyone is paying for that except her.”
He turns away then and walks back to the house, ignoring me when I call after him.
I jump when the front door slams behind him. I want to deny everything he’s just said, but I can’t. Because he’s right.
Damn it. He’s right.
– German Proverb
Evan
SHIT. HOW AM I supposed to sleep on this wood floor with no pillow, no blanket?
I am NOT going back outside to ask Mom for them. I’ll sleep in the bathtub first.
I lean against a bedroom wall, slide to the floor and close my eyes, trying not to think about how hard it’s going to be to get through this next year. How unfair it is that I should even have to. I am suddenly so angry at Reece that I swear if she were in front of me right now, I’d have trouble stopping myself from strangling her.
Our whole life she’s been the perfect child, and then she hits eighteen and decides to turn into Miss Queen of Rebellion. And because she’s eighteen she can do whatever the hell she wants. While I’m here reaping the consequences of her behavior because Mom suddenly feels like she has to put a moat around the castle.
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my shirt pocket. Mandy on FaceTime. I start to refuse the call, not sure I’m up to talking to her right now, but the need to hear a familiar voice trumps.
“Hey,” I say, looking into the phone screen.
“Hey, babe,” she says. “Are you in the sticks yet?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “Stuck in the sticks.”
She giggles. It’s the only thing I don’t like about her. That giggle. It’s like she’s not completely in control of it, and every once in a while, it just slips out, even at times when a giggle doesn’t seem entirely appropriate. I focus on her face, her very pretty, California-tan face. “I miss you,” I say, wanting it to be true.
“Not as much as I miss you,” she says.
“Want to bet?”
“You’d lose.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“That’s sweet. In fact, so sweet that I think you deserve a reward.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
She lowers one side of her tank top, and then the other, until her shoulders are bare. “Should I stop here?” she asks, innocence underlining each word.
“No,” I say, feeling that familiar catch in my throat. “Definitely not.”
Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Page 2