Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2)

by Inglath Cooper

  She shimmies the top down her sides, revealing a lacy black bra. “How about here?”

  “You’re going to kill me, you know.”

  She giggles again. Nails on the chalkboard.

  She releases the front hook of the bra, slips free of it and drops it to the floor. “How much are you missing me now?” she asks.

  “You have no idea,” I say. Was it just a few days ago that I didn’t have to rely on a phone app to see what I very badly want to touch?

  “Are you really going to be there a whole year, Evan?”

  A year? It might as well be eternity.

  Attraction isn’t a choice.

  – David DeAngelo

  Bowie

  I WRITE EARLY. Five to eight if it’s a normal day.

  Three hours usually gives me ten to twelve pages. I’m happy with that. It makes me feel productive, and yet I have so much of the day left to do other things.

  But this morning, it’s just not coming.

  I’ve had three cups of coffee. It’s almost seven-thirty, and I’ve barely written a hundred words.

  Frustration rustles through me. By my own commitment, I have to sit here until the 2500 words are done.

  It’s been a long time since I had a day where the story wasn’t there. But then in all honesty, the reason isn’t hard to figure out.

  I’m distracted. By the constant refrain of Keegan Monroe in my head. Just what I need.

  I can hear Carson whine from the kitchen. I get up from my desk chair and go let him out, breaking my own rule and stepping outside into the June morning, where I immediately lose all desire to go back in the house.

  Carson runs to the edge of the lake where he tries to herd a flock of uncooperative Canadian geese away from the dock. I give him points for his determined bark, but the geese aren’t buying it and continue their bug hunting along the water’s edge.

  “A for effort,” I call out to him. He wags his tail and wades into the water before swimming out to the floating dock fifty yards or so away and climbing up the slanted ramp I built for him. He shakes water from his coat and plops down to soak up some morning sun.

  Most people would think that I’ve taught Carson a lot. He’s a smart boy, and I’ve shown him all the basics that seem to convince others that he’s “obedience-trained.” He sits when I ask him, fetches the ball when I throw it, and rolls over for a belly rub when I snap my fingers.

  But the truth is, Carson has taught me more than I’ll ever teach him. Gratitude for instance. When I moved here two years ago, I wasn’t sure if life would ever make sense to me again. I was lonely and alone, and it only took a few days for me to grow tired of hearing my own footsteps echoing in the house.

  So I looked up the address for the local pound and drove out one afternoon during the time the website indicated it was open. The shelter sat next to the county landfill, and the irony of this did not escape me as I drove down the gravel road and parked in the lot outside the obviously outdated, underfunded building. The only other vehicle in the lot was an Animal Control truck. The driver’s side door opened, and a uniformed officer stepped out.

  “We’re about to close for the day,” he’d said, using his thumbs in his front belt loops to hitch up his pants. It was clear he wasn’t happy to see me.

  “I want to adopt a dog,” I said.

  “Can you come back on Monday?” Phrased as a question, it really wasn’t.

  “Why?”

  “I’m the only one here, and I’ve got something in the back of the truck I need to take care of.”

  “I can wait,” I said.

  He definitely wanted to argue with me, but visibly forced himself not to. “Wait inside.”

  I did as he asked and walked into the building, leaving the door open for him. I heard the tailgate of the truck open and then slam shut. A few moments later, he walked in carrying a cardboard box.

  “Dead puppies,” he said, as if he wanted to shock me.

  “What happened?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

  “Found them in a dumpster up on Grassy Hill.”

  “Someone actually put them in there?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and I heard the weary note in his voice, as if this were nothing new for him.

  Just then, a whine sounded from the box, and a small black head raised up far enough that I could see it over the edge.

  “Great,” the officer said.

  “There’s one alive?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but he won’t last long. I’m going to put him out of his misery.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He won’t live through the night. Euthanasia is the kindest thing I can do for him.”

  The part of me that respected authority, that realized he probably knew what he was talking about urged me to let it go. But then I took a step closer and looked into the box where that tiny puppy lay in the middle of its four dead siblings, and I just felt this rage that I couldn’t explain. And I couldn’t ignore.

  “I’ll take it,” I said. “The puppy.”

  “It’s not available for adoption.”

  “You’re just going to end its life. Why can’t I adopt it instead?”

  “Because it’s going to die anyway,” he said with an edge to his voice.

  I had the feeling then that we had entered the pride zone, and that he was now going to feel the need to make a point with me. I didn’t care though. I wasn’t leaving without the puppy.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. “Let me just check with the sheriff’s office first. I’m pretty sure a willing adopter negates the option of euthanasia.”

  He let me get as far as hello, before he said, “Okay. The sick puppy is yours.” He lifted the puppy from the box and basically shoved it at me.

  The puppy whimpered, and I forced myself not to punch the jerk officer in the face. “Is there paperwork I need to fill out?” I asked, my jaw tight.

  “He won’t live long enough to justify paperwork,” he said, walking down the hallway toward the back of the shelter and through a door, which he slammed behind him.

  The puppy began to shiver, and I lifted up the bottom of my shirt to cover him. I used my phone to find the nearest vet, where we both spent a good part of the next two weeks. Him fighting to live. And me willing him to.

  Watching him out on the dock now, rolling over to scratch his back on the rough wood, his paws up in the air, I think what a waste it would have been for his life to have been taken that afternoon.

  But then innocent lives are lost every day in this world. Who knows this better than I? A man who walked away from a career where he could no longer witness it firsthand. A man who could now get no closer than writing about it.

  There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear.

  – George S. Patton

  Keegan

  THE MOVING TRUCK arrives at ten. I’m still on California time, and I don’t wake up until I hear its engine growling up the driveway.

  I drag myself out of my blanket cocoon and over to the window where the big white truck filled with everything I had thought meaningful enough to bring with us sits waiting.

  I manage to run to the bathroom and brush my teeth before the doorbell sounds. I shimmy into jeans and a T-shirt, slip on a pair of Vans and run down the stairs. I open the door and find two burly men staring back at me through eyes that look in need of sleep. They are wearing uniform shirts with a name tag above the left pocket. Ted and Darren.

  “Ms. Monroe?” Ted says.

  “Yes,” I say. “So glad you made it.”

  “Glad to be here,” Darren agrees. “We can start unloading as soon as you’d like us to.”

  “Could I get you some coffee first?”

  They both perk up at the question and thank me.

  “It’ll just take me a couple of minutes to get it going.”

  “We’ll start opening up the truck then,” Ted says, and they head back
outside.

  I manage to find the French press coffee maker I’d packed in the car, along with the ground coffee. The sink has a hot water dispenser, so I use it to fill the pot. I decide to call Evan down even though I know he would rather sleep. I remind myself that one of the reasons we moved here is so that he can live a more realistic life, one that doesn’t include other people waiting on him all the time. Which means I need to ask him to help the movers rather than sleep while they do all the work.

  “Evan?” I call from the bottom of the stairs. No answer. I call again. And then walk up to his room, cracking the door. “Evan?”

  “What?” he responds in a grumpy voice.

  “The movers are here. Time to unload the truck.”

  “Isn’t that what they’re here for?” he asks, raising up on an elbow to look at me if I’ve lost my last strand of sense.

  “It is. And we’re helping.”

  “Oh, for crap’s sake, Mom! Can I just promise not to turn out like Reece? And if I do, will you stop making me the object of your parental experiment?”

  “Your big toe is about one inch from being across the line,” I advise him as sternly as I can manage. “Hop up, and let’s get busy.”

  “Do I even get to eat first?”

  “Coffee’s ready. There’s some food in the fridge.”

  With that, I head back downstairs, forcing myself to draw a deep breath and remember that he’s seventeen. And acting out the same way he had when he was a toddler and I told him it was time for bed. Somehow, it was just easier to take from the toddler.

  I pour coffee in paper cups for Ted and Darren and take it outside to them. They seem grateful to have it and sip appreciatively.

  “That’s awfully good, ma’am,” Darren says, tipping his head in thanks.

  “I’m glad.”

  “You sure are a long way from L.A.,” Ted says, glancing out at the view of Smith Mountain in the distance.

  “I am that,” I agree.

  “My wife sure enjoyed your show,” Darren says. “She hated to see you leave it. Especially in that car wreck and all.”

  I smile. “Grisly, wasn’t it?”

  “Wondered why they didn’t just have you leave town for a while or something.”

  “I asked the writers to give me a permanent exit so I wouldn’t be tempted to come back.”

  “Ah,” they say, but look as if they have no idea what I’m talking about.

  “It would have been tempting,” I say. “Sort of like bringing that slice of cheesecake home from the restaurant where you have to look at in your refrigerator. If I leave it at the restaurant, no temptation.”

  “Most people wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to leave an opportunity like that,” Ted says.

  “It’s all in the motivation, I guess,” I say, and then add, “I’ll get my coffee, and we’ll get started in a few minutes?”

  “Sure thing,” Darren says.

  My motivation is leaning on the kitchen counter with his elbows locked and his eyes closed.

  “Coffee?” I ask.

  I take his mumble as a yes and pour him a cup. I make my own then and take a grateful sip.

  I walk through the lower level of the house, opening windows in an attempt to release the smell of paint and newly finished floors.

  “This house isn’t as nice as the one we had in L.A.,” Evan calls out from the kitchen.

  “I like this house,” I call back. “It’s comfortable. Not overwhelming.”

  “Small?”

  “It’s not small by most people’s standards.”

  “So now we have to be most people?”

  “Evan.” By now I’m back in the kitchen. “You sound like a snob.”

  “I’m not a snob. I just very much happened to like the life we had in L.A. The life I had in L.A.”

  “It’s one year, Ev. If you want to go back after that, I’m not going to stop you.”

  “Meanwhile, it’s Homeschoolville for me in the boonies.”

  “If you choose to look at it that way.”

  “What other way is there to look at it?”

  I hear my therapist’s voice in my head. Do not engage. Do not engage. I drain the remainder of my coffee and head outside to the moving truck.

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, the last piece of furniture has been brought into the house and put in place. Amazing, that in such a short time, the rooms have been completely transformed.

  I only brought the pieces I really loved, things that have some sort of emotional connection for me. The house in L.A. had a contemporary feel to it. What I’ve put together here is much warmer, color a theme in every room. It feels more like a home, and I wonder why I let myself go along with the designer who had insisted on all that modern furniture and glass tables.

  I walk to the window at the far side of the living room, staring out at the wide water view of the lake. Boats dip and dash across the surface. A MasterCraft pulls a skier who cuts back and forth across the wake with the skill of an expert, her shoulder nearly touching the surface with every turn.

  It seems to be a theme of mine. Going along to get along. I hate conflict. Fussing. Upheaval. And so I guess I’ve made a habit of agreeing when I don’t really agree. Except with Reece and this last battle of ours. My stomach grips with the thought, and I shut my eyes in an attempt to prevent it from hijacking my brain.

  “Mom?” Evan calls out from the front door.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve finished loading up all the packing stuff. The mover guys want to know if you need anything else before they go?”

  “No,” I say, “but hold on a sec.” I walk into the kitchen and pull four $100 bills from my wallet. I take them through the foyer where Evan is waiting with obvious impatience. “Would you give each of them $200?”

  “I thought you paid the bill before we left,” he says, looking down at the money.

  “This is extra. For them,” I say.

  “Oh. Do I get extra?”

  “Evan,” I say, beginning to grow a little weary of his constant needling.

  “Okay,” he says and charges out the door, leaving attitude in his wake.

  I knew when I made the decision to move us here that he would not make it easy for me. I wasn’t wrong.

  I go back in the kitchen and target the dishes on the counter as my next project. I unwrap the plates, then the cups and bowls. I’m stacking them in the cabinet next to the sink when Evan walks through, headed for the stairs.

  “Do you want a snack?” I call after him.

  “I’m not five, Mom.”

  “I didn’t say you were five. I asked if you wanted a snack.”

  “I’m going for a run,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “Just down the road,” he says, stopping at the foot of the stairs to throw me a glare. “Is that okay?”

  “It’s fine, Evan. Just be careful.”

  He takes the steps two at a time, and then I hear his door slam. I flinch at the sound, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck and sighing.

  My phone buzzes on the countertop. I walk over and glance at the screen, start to pick it up, pull my hand back and then reach for it again.

  “Hey, Joseph,” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

  “Have you reached the edge of the earth yet?” he asks, with notable sarcasm.

  “Virginia is hardly the edge of the earth,” I say.

  “For all intents and purposes, it might as well be.”

  “In case you really were concerned, I am in my house, furniture in place.”

  “You don’t waste time.”

  “I’m ready to be settled. The last few months have felt anything but.”

  “No one made you uproot your life and drive it across the country.”

  “Joseph, if you’re calling to badger me—”

  “Chill, dill pickle,” he interrupts. “I actually do care that you arrived there safely. But yes, I am looking forward to the day you point that Range Rover
back in this direction.”

  “You need to forget I was ever your client. That would make all of this easier for you.”

  “I have three new offers on my desk for you. Two that came in yesterday. And one this morning. Should I just ignore them?”

  “I’m not taking on new projects. I don’t want to fire you as my agent, but I might have to for you to believe me.”

  “Ouch. That smarts.”

  “It’s not personal. You know that. This is about my life. I’m at a crossroads, Joseph. In the past, I’ve driven straight through without considering what other directions I could take. I’m not going to do that this time.”

  “Not even if there’s another hit series at the end of the straight road?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s what my mother always said.”

  “She was right.”

  He sighs, and I can picture him leaning back in his chair, feet on his big walnut desk, the L.A. cityscape his view. “I wish you would tell me what happened, Keegan. I might have been able to help.”

  “It wasn’t anything that you or anyone else could help me with, Joseph. I’m in a place I arrived at all on my own.”

  “You sound like you think you’ve done something terrible,” he says.

  I hesitate, and then, “I didn’t mean to.”

  “And I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “I’ve spent the entirety of my children’s lives working, trying to reach the next rung on the ladder. And now I have two children who basically can’t stand to be around me.”

  “Keegan, that’s not you. It’s their age. All teenagers hate their parents.”

  “I don’t believe that. When I was their age, all I wanted was parents who loved me and to be a part of a family.”

  “Okay, so they’re rotten. They don’t appreciate you. Or all that you’ve done for them. One day they will.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I say. “Reece . . . she feels lost to me. I couldn’t let the same thing happen with Evan.”

  “I get it,” Joseph says. “I just wish you would leave some doors open.”