The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

“Just one?”

  “Ha. About your client, Calvin.”

  “He said you’re hot, by the way.”

  “Whatever. Listen, maybe you already know this, but you need to play to his mom.”

  Bruno flashed through the meeting highlights. The other day was his first sit-down with Calvin’s people. His high school coach (a guy named Max Benson), his parents, and two siblings.

  “His mom? No, trust me, he was taking his cues from his coach and his dad.”

  “Yes, but when she spoke, his posture changed. I arrested a hard-core perp once. I mean, you name it, he’d done it. No one could ever get him to talk. But we had him for a murder he didn’t commit. All he had to do was give up evidence, take a plea, and be on his way. He refused to deal. I knew his mother from the neighborhood, so I told the detective to bring her in. He broke before she even sat down.”

  “Calvin’s not a criminal, Beck.”

  “But didn’t you see his posture change every time she spoke? When his coach or his dad suggested something like being drafted by that team in New England—”

  “The Patriots.”

  “And how he wanted to be like the Brady Bunch.”

  “Tom Brady.”

  “He’d be puffed up, all jock-like. Then his mother would say, ‘What about his education?’ and Calvin humbled up, shrank down a little, and echoed her sentiments. ‘What about my degree, man?’ He wants to please her. Bruno, his mama is running the show.”

  “You’re crazy. He’s prime for a major NFL contract. I appreciate your cop senses here, but his dad and coach—” He stopped, seeing the scenes from the meeting from a different angle. “I guess he did look at his mom a lot.” How did he miss this? Reading people was Bruno’s super power. But desperation could wreck a guy’s strength. “Any advice, Officer Holiday?”

  “It’s Sergeant Holiday and yes. Send her the biggest bouquet of flowers you can afford and tell her you are committed to her son’s education. That you’ll make sure he goes to classes in the off-season. She seemed concerned about his money too. Tell her you’ll help him with his finances. She kept saying how Kobe Bryant put his first paycheck in the bank.”

  “Beck, I owe you one.”

  “You owe me two. I went with you on your little drive, didn’t I? And now I’m telling you who’s going to influence your player the most. I thought you said you were a top agent, Endicott.”

  He grinned. “One round of good advice and you’re talking smack? I was a top agent. I’ll be back on top again. Calvin’s my ticket.”

  “Just make sure you keep the main thing the main thing.”

  “What’s the main thing?”

  “If I have to tell you, you’ve already lost sight.”

  “What’s your main thing, Beck Holiday?”

  “Being a good cop, I guess. Being a good friend. Loving my family. Though it’s not always easy with Mom. More recently, doing what’s right for this baby.”

  “Worthy attainments. I guess mine would be to be a good son. A good agent. A friend. Try not to be a nothing.”

  “A nothing?”

  “Yeah, a nothing.” He sank down into the sofa cushion and propped his feet on the narrow coffee table. “I wanted to play football since I was ten. Wanted to be a big-time star.” Talking to her on the phone made it easy to be real. “But there was a disconnect between my ambition and my ability. I learned my lesson after one particular game when I fumbled the ball for the third time and my dad chewed me out afterward. He called me a nothing.”

  “In front of everyone?” By her tone, she was appalled.

  “Not everyone, but enough. When we got home I crawled under my bed and cried. Know the weird thing? You called me about five minutes later. Mom answered and passed the phone to me without a word.” He stopped, choked by the intimacy of retelling one of his darkest memories. “You told me how you wanted to play ice hockey but couldn’t skate.”

  “Really? I don’t remember. I do know I don’t have any ankle strength. What did I say?”

  “Within two minutes you had me laughing, something about doing the, what, Chinese splits, right on the ice? Twisting and sliding toward the opponents’ goal with the puck under your foot.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing I forgot this one.”

  “You scored their only goal, the game’s only goal. They won.”

  His laugh mingled with hers and released the tension of being a nothing.

  “Sounds like we had fun together,” she said.

  “We were best friends. At least for six weeks every summer.”

  “Was it fun?”

  “Yeah, it was.” He waited, listening.

  “Hey, I should go. Lorelai Gilmore just ran out on her wedding to Max.”

  “Poor Max.”

  “Poor Lorelai. And, Bruno, you’re not a nothing. That’s the main thing you can’t forget.”

  After hanging up, Bruno closed the fireplace doors and reached for his laptop, feeling the good residuals of talking to Beck.

  He’d just settled on the couch when his phone beckoned again. Bruno winced to see Coach Brown had texted.

  Are you going to call Tyvis back?

  In a few days.

  Don’t forget.

  Come on, Coach. Be realistic. The man had to know Bruno took the meeting with Tyvis to win Calvin’s allegiance. Signing the JUCO player was never on his agenda.

  He searched the internet for a florist near Calvin’s Texas home town and ordered a big bouquet for his mama. Then he texted Beck.

  Order flowers. Check.

  She returned with a thumbs-up.

  I feel so bad for Max!

  Max who?

  Gilmore Girls!

  Oh right. I’m sure he’ll survive. It’s in the script.

  Haha.

  He did a little bit more work, but his thoughts kept drifting to Beck. A little after eleven, with the fire dying, he shut off the lights and headed to bed.

  He’d plugged in his phone to recharge when it rang, this time with an unknown number.

  “Endicott,” he said, slipping from his jeans and tossing them into the laundry.

  The caller cleared his throat but said nothing. Voices murmured in the background along with the clink of glasses.

  “Hello?” The caller didn’t answer. “Can I help you?” Bruno glanced at the screen to see if the call was still alive.

  “Tyvis? Is this you? Hello?”

  The line died, and Bruno’s attempts to call back went to a mechanized voice mail.

  “The person at this number . . .”

  He deleted the call and switched off the lights, then fell into bed, picturing Beck as she slid across the ice toward the goal, the hockey puck stuck under her skate.

  * * *

  Don

  On the green of the Dallas country club, Don leaned on his putter, waiting for Standish Dewey to line up for his shot. The angles of the course ran parallel to a clear blue sky and the late-February temperature soared into the low sixties.

  Three feet away, Carol Ann, dressed in a plaid shirt and tight sweater, chatted with a group of women playing behind them.

  Standish knocked the ball with his putter and Don watched it curve toward the hole. Only Standish. His ball broke toward the cup at just the right time.

  “That’s par.” Standish slapped him on the back. He was a Texas-size man with a Texas-size pride and Texas-size clout.

  Until now Don had only worried about Dad’s response to his alternate career plans. But for the first time, he considered his boss. Standish would be a force.

  “Darling? Don?” Carol Ann waved her hand in front of his face. “Your shot.”

  Don walked toward his marker and set down his ball.

  “You’re distracted, my boy.” Standish hovered over him, puffing on his cigar, tinting the air with tobacco.

  “Thinking of work.”

  “Well don’t. Take a load off. I own the place and I’m not thinking of work. Carol Ann, can’t you get this b
oy to have some fun?”

  “I try, Daddy, I do. But he’s so serious. Ever since he came back from Waco I can’t get five words out of him.” Carol Ann traced her finger down Don’s arm as he tested his swing. She was a charmer, well trained by her Southern-belle mama, a former Miss Texas herself and Miss America runner-up.

  Don gently tapped the ball, but it found a divot in the pitch and rolled left of the cup.

  “Too bad, Don.” Standish prattled on, giving him a wordy lesson on how to sink a putt.

  “Carol Ann, let’s see what you can do.” Standish waved her forward, the smoke from his cigar swirling like a locomotive.

  The man was always in charge. At the dealership, on the golf course, with his family. And it would be no different when Callahan Cars merged with Dewey. But Dad couldn’t see it.

  While she busied herself with her putt, Standish turned to him, the jovial cheer gone from his voice, his eyes glinting.

  “Carol Ann said you left her alone Valentine’s weekend.”

  “I sent flowers, took her to dinner before I went to Waco. It was my niece’s christening.” He resented this accounting. Resented Standish trying to command his personal life.

  “Why not invite her to Waco? Our families will be bound together in more ways than one soon enough.”

  “She didn’t want to go.”

  Carol Ann twirled her putter like a baton as she pranced over to the men. “I sank the putt while you two gabbed.” She draped her arm over Don’s shoulders.

  He smiled down at her. She was picture perfect with her dark hair and green eyes, skilled and polished in social etiquette.

  “What was Daddy going on about?”

  “Nothing,” Don said, glancing around to see Standish had moved ahead to the next hole.

  “Did he bring up Valentine’s Day? I told him you took me to dinner and sent a beautiful arrangement of pink alstroemeria and white daisies. Know what he said?”

  “I can only imagine.”

  Carol Ann pretended to puff on a cigar and lowered her voice. “‘What, no roses?’ Don, it’s okay. I-I told Daddy you were saving up for my birthday. It’s only a month away, and well, shiny things do cost money.”

  There it was—the Rubicon. And Carol Ann invited him to cross it. Engagement. Marriage. The beginning of his end. The loss of his soul. To be honest, he was pretty sure Carol Ann didn’t love him.

  “Shiny things do cost money.” He withdrew his arm from hers. “Come on, your dad is teeing off.”

  “When the two dealerships merge, everyone will expect a wedding.”

  “Then I’ll give them a wedding.”

  At the next hole, as Carol Ann prepared to tee off, Don approached Standish. “So, this merger with Callahan. Did you and Dad agree to terms?”

  “We’re working it out. Carol Ann, adjust your grip.”

  “Standish, Dad’s building Mom a big new house. I don’t want him to get lost in the shuffle. Nor the Callahan employees.”

  “Don, what are you implying? I’ve known your dad for twenty-five years and he’s built a great business. I intend nothing but the best for him and Callahan Cars. Plus, look, I’m angling to have his prize possession marry mine.”

  Carol Ann swung, sending her golf ball arching into the water.

  “Ah, baby, call a mulligan. Do it again.” Standish patted Don on the shoulder. “Your parents have worked hard all their lives, and I aim to give them a share of my gold. That’s just how I am, Don. Plus, your dad could sell a car to an Amish man.” He chewed on his stogie and leaned toward Don’s ear. “It goes without saying a lot of this rides on you. You and my little princess over there. Carol Ann, tighten up your grip.”

  Rides on him? Precisely as he feared.

  “I’m not sure Carol Ann wants to marry me, Standish.”

  “Posh, she’s crazy about you.” Standish walked over to his daughter and tried to give her a lesson, but she wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she made faces behind his back, and Don laughed.

  Friends. That’s what they were more than lovers. And she deserved more. A man who loved her outside the pressure of a car kingdom. One who could stand up to her father.

  In the six months they’d been together, neither had mentioned love. Just marriage. Carol Ann was sucked into her father’s vortex, same as Don.

  He felt guilty, really. What man his age wouldn’t want the kingdom he was offered? But he didn’t. He wanted the opportunity George Granger dangled in front of him.

  And he just might want Everleigh Applegate, the girl with the sensible shoes trying to find her way back to happiness, to take the leap with him.

  “Darling,” Carol Ann called, “are you playing or staring?”

  “Playing,” he said, striding forward. “Playing.”

  chapter fourteen

  Beck

  She jolted awake to the sound of a motor. Stumbling from the bed over to the window, Beck shoved back the lacy curtain and gazed down to the yard.

  A crew of three worked the yard. One on a riding mower, one with the buzzing weed whacker, and another with the blower.

  The guy on the mower finished in, like, two seconds and parked the machine in the back of the truck before inspecting Everleigh’s flower beds and the shrubbery, bending to eliminate an errant weed.

  When they packed up and drove off, she sat in the rocker to study the day. She could bend and see Bruno’s mother’s carport beneath the tree branches. Her car was gone so she must be at work.

  The women had talked again yesterday when she was out with Beetle Boo. Natalie didn’t ask a lot of questions. Bruno must have filled her in on everything.

  Tomorrow marked her first week in Fernandina Beach, and the mystery of Everleigh Callahan remained.

  Bruno turned out to be a nice surprise. She hadn’t planned on making any friends while she was here, but he made her feel . . . known. There was something comforting about being remembered. He possessed pieces of her childhood she did not.

  And he’d wanted to marry her. The idea made her feel light and fuzzy.

  “Come on, Beetle Boo. Let’s go.” Where? She didn’t know except away from that feeling.

  Cradling the dog, she walked him outside, let him do his business, the air fragrant with newly mown grass.

  He’d filled out this past week and a shine had returned to his coat. His eyes no longer pleaded for someone to love him.

  Funny thing about love, real love—it filled every soul with courage.

  She fixed eggs and bacon for herself, then sat on the back porch steps, eating breakfast while layers of sunshine fell through the morning chill and over her bare feet. The air was crisp and promised a perfect day.

  Last night Mom texted a photo of their snowy backyard.

  Flynn went out to shovel and never came back. I think a snowbank ate him.

  Ha!

  How’s it going?

  Good. The house is huge. In great shape. There’s money too, Mom. Still wondering why Everleigh left me this stuff.

  Just embrace it. Got to go.

  Beck may have lost her memories, but Mom lost her sentimentality. She did what was required by the counselors and therapists, but she found her own unique way to deal with Dad’s death and move on. She rarely strolled with Beck down memory lane.

  Munching on the last piece of bacon, Beck set her plate down for Beetle Boo to wash and laid back in a patch of yellow sun.

  Maybe it was the freezing-cold road trip to Tallahassee with Bruno, singing oldies at the top of their lungs, or possessing this old house all to herself, or perhaps it was merely the consequence of blue skies and sunshine, but Beck felt different. Changed from when she’d arrived.

  Beetle finished his chore and leaned against her side. She stroked his ears, her eyes filling up. Two weeks ago he was a weak, abused, and starving pup, moving drugs instead of real sustenance through his bowels, his dirty, matted fur wrapped around his protruding ribs.

  Today he licked plates and attempted to chase sq
uirrels across the lawn. And she was on the edge of big changes in her life.

  Beetle barked at a bird, then tumbled from the porch steps, hop-running toward a mossy tree.

  The sun had moved and the shadows on the porch caused Beck to shiver. “Beetle Boo, let’s go inside, see what the Gilmore girls are doing.”

  She’d finished season three and so far tolerated the fast-talking mother-daughter duo. Maybe she would be a Lorelai and Baby Girl a Rory. Only Beck would be the stalwart but tender cop, and Baby Girl the athletic and musically gifted genius.

  After collecting the dog from where he’d collapsed by the garage-barn door, Beck headed inside.

  She’d had no more flashes of memory like that day beside the Studebaker, and she was relieved.

  The boards on the second-floor landing creaked under her footsteps as she crossed to the living room.

  Beyond the window, a low thunder rumbled and Beetle hid under the ottoman. Beck moved to the window. Sunlight still drenched the backyard despite the dark clouds in the distance.

  She had just sat down when she heard laughter. She leaned forward, listening.

  When she heard it again, she peered out the window into the front yard. Seeing no one, she walked to window seat at the end of the hall.

  The sunlight dimmed as the storm moved closer with thunder and lightning.

  There was no one in the backyard either. Even so, Beck listened a moment longer. She was about to return to her TV perch when she heard the laughter again, bouncing against the window. Beck dropped to the window seat and peered out to see children sitting at a table in the yard.

  Despite the clouds they sat in a bowl of sunshine, and a woman in a house dress passed around Popsicle sticks. Two of them, a boy with sun-kissed brown curls and a girl with dark pigtails, clashed their sticks like swords, laughing and falling backward off the bench.

  “Beck, Bruno, are you all right?” The woman helped them up. “Thick as thieves and twice as ornery. Come on now, we’re going to make Fruit of the Spirit sticks. Now, grab the marker and, Beck, sweet girl, give poor Bruno a chance. Bruno, give up, she’s knocked your stick to the ground twice. Now, tell me what the Fruit of the Spirit are.”