by Sharon Shinn
A gift from Cooper. A glimpse into the wolf’s world. A thank-you. And a promise of a return.
CHAPTER NINE
MELANIE
I’m at PRZ about an hour early Wednesday morning so I can clear out the e-mail, voice mail, and snail mail that’s accumulated in the past thirty-six hours. I know most people hate spam, but there’s something about it that I find calming. A few clicks of the mouse, delete forever, and you never have to think about it again. A single problem, a quick solution, move on. If only all of life’s challenges could be dealt with so cleanly.
I hear high-heeled shoes clicking across the tiled squares of the reception area, so I know Debbie’s on the premises long before I see her. The other women in the office wear clogs or slides or soft-soled loafers, but Debbie is incapable of dressing down in a professional environment; she hates the very notion of “business casual.” I admire her standards even as I make no effort to adhere to them myself.
She doesn’t even bother stopping at her office before she comes to mine. She’s still wearing her trench coat and carrying her briefcase as she steps in, closes the door, and drops to the comfortable chair pulled up close to my desk. “Okay, tell me everything about this guy, and I mean everything,” she says.
I swivel in my chair and just look at her. Instantly, her demeanor changes. “What’s wrong?”
“I think something’s the matter with Ann.”
“What? She’s sick? She’s hurt?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. She’s—tired. Maybe that’s all it is. But after she went to bed last night, her boyfriend wanted to tell me—”
“Wait—she has a boyfriend? Start from the beginning.”
I take a deep breath. “She got here Monday night, told me she’s fallen in love with a guy named William—”
“Does he know about her? About what she is?”
“Yeah. He’s one, too. And so is everyone in his family.”
“Wow, that’ll be interesting.”
“I’m sure. Anyway, Ann and I went to lunch and when we came back, there he was. She’d told him where I hide the key and so he was sitting inside the house. We all talked a while, then she went to bed.”
“Did you like him?”
I shrug. “I thought he was odd. I mean, he kind of looks like a homeless person—of course, he kind of is a homeless person—he’s scruffy, and his hair’s long and scraggly, and he was wearing these beat-up old clothes. You know. Not quite the upstanding citizen that you would want your sister to end up with.”
Something I’ve said has diverted her. She scrunches up her pretty features as she pursues a new thought. “Huh. Wouldn’t it be interesting if—maybe homeless people are all shape-shifters. And one of the reasons they don’t want houses or cars is because they don’t need stuff like that most of the time.”
“I think we as a society would be lucky if that were the case, but unfortunately I think they only represent a small minority,” I say in a tired voice.
She snaps back to attention. “But we digress. So William’s this weirdo—”
“No, no, I didn’t say that. He’s just odd. And almost—ill at ease. Like this isn’t a shape he’s very comfortable in. Like he hasn’t been human very long or very often.”
“So I guess that most of the time when they’re together, they’re not.”
“That’s what I gather. Anyway, everyone tried hard to be polite and get along, and as I say, Ann went to bed. And then William came to find me and told me he was worried about her.”
“Worried in what sense? What’s bothering him?”
“That’s the thing. He couldn’t be very specific. He just said she seemed to tire easily, her energy level was low, and she seemed to be forgetting things.”
“What sorts of things?”
I’m silent for a moment. “Well, she almost forgot how to find her way home, apparently.”
Debbie just stares at me.
I shrug. “She said she got lost because of all the new construction.”
“A valid point.”
“And she did find the house eventually. But William seemed to consider that another bad sign.”
“What does he suggest you do about it? Can you take her to a doctor?”
I give her an are-you-crazy look. “I’m not sure she’s ever been to a doctor. I mean, I guess when she was a baby she got all her vaccinations. And last time she was home, I took her to an urgent-care center to get a tetanus shot because I just shudder to think of all the rusty nails and bad water she’s exposed to. But I honestly don’t remember a time she’s seen a doctor for the flu, or an ear infection, or a broken bone, or anything.”
She’s surprised. “I never realized that. She must be incredibly healthy.”
I sigh. “Or she used to be incredibly healthy. Now—I don’t know.”
“Maybe William is just being overprotective. Maybe he’s creating a crisis out of nothing.”
“Maybe. Although he doesn’t seem like the type who panics easily.”
“Well, what did you think? Does she look sick to you?”
I consider. “I thought she looked thin. And like she’s aging faster than she should. You know, she was always so radiant. And now her skin looks a little dull, and there are more lines around her eyes than there should be on a twenty-year-old. But I attributed that to—well, it must be a hard life. It would age anyone.”
Debbie nods. “So maybe she’s just exhibiting normal wear and tear for someone of her type, and William is simply concerned because he loves her. And if she doesn’t appear to be in imminent danger and you’re not going to take her to a doctor for a physical in any case, I’m not sure there’s anything you can do.”
“Except worry.”
“Except worry,” she echoes. “And you’d do that regardless.” She wriggles in the chair to resettle herself and unbuttons her coat. It’s a dark purple microfiber that most people wouldn’t have the nerve to wear, but of course it looks fabulous on Debbie. Everything does. “So now that we’ve settled that, let’s get to the good stuff. Tell me about this guy! This reporter. He’s writing a book about—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Both of us have caught the sounds of voices in the anteroom as the other two employees drift in more or less on time. In fact, a second later Chloe knocks on the door and sticks her head in. She’s braided her brown hair and wrapped it around her head so she somewhat resembles a homesteading farmwife, but the look sits well with her general air of competence and serenity.
“Hey, Mel. Everything all right?”
“Sure. Did I miss anything important yesterday?”
“Just a couple of phone calls. I left messages on your desk.”
“Go away,” Debbie says. “I’m trying to worm top secret information out of her, and she’s being difficult.”
Chloe grins and withdraws, shutting the door with a deliberate click. Debbie faces me again. “So? This guy?”
“Used to be a reporter. Now writing a book. Yes, on that topic. He had a lot of information on my family from when we used to live in Kirkwood. He had stories from some of our neighbors at the time, talking about how they would see a little white dog in our yard.” I glance at the door. Chloe is not the type to listen at keyholes—Em is, but she usually spends the first hour of the day on the phone with her mother—but even so, I speak in code. Debbie knows how to translate. “And he had some basic information on our lives once we moved down here. He knows, for instance, that Ann was homeschooled and generally considered sickly. I’m not too worried about the people he’s already talked to—they’d only have the most general information about us—but I think he’s going to keep talking to people. Keep digging. And then—I don’t know what he’ll learn.”
Debbie lets out her breath in a long, gusty puff. “Well, I can totally see why you’d be alarmed, but I’m not sure you have anything to worry about. I mean, no one knows the truth, do they? Except me. And you know I’m not going to say a word.”
“You never told Kurt, did you?”
I give her a look of scorn. “We barely talked, let alone about important things.”
She giggles, momentarily the high-school girl again. “You didn’t talk because you were too busy making out.”
“Oh, like you were sitting there with your legs crossed like a good little virgin.”
She laughs even harder but returns to the main point quickly enough. “So no one knows. So you’re safe. And you didn’t tell him anything—”
“And I’m not going to tell him anything. I don’t trust him.”
“So why did you have dinner with him the other night?”
I give her a lopsided grin. “And lunch with him yesterday.”
“What? How’d that happen? Wait—was Ann there? Did he actually meet her?”
“Oh, yeah. She invited him.”
“Seriously. You are so bad at telling stories. Start from the beginning.”
I fill her in on every detail of my two encounters with Brody Westerbrook. It seems to take a long time; I seem to have spent more hours in his company, or filled those hours with more meaningful conversation, than you would normally expect from a new acquaintance. She listens intently, asking for clarification now and then, but at the end it’s clear that, not intending to, I’ve drawn a portrait of someone that she is prepared to endorse wholeheartedly.
“The more you say, the more I like him,” she decides after I recount the conversation at Slices when he passes up the opportunity to talk about his book.
“Ann thinks he likes me.”
She laughs in disbelief. “Well, duh!”
I make an exasperated sound and sink back against my chair. “He doesn’t like me. He’s being nice to me so he can trick me and trip me up and make me tell him stuff about my sister.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But he sounds more genuine than that. And let’s just look at all the things we’ve learned about him.” She enumerates on her fingers. “He’s cute. He’s curious. He’s comfortable. He’s kind. Change kind to caring, and they’re all C words. Good ones. The combination just doesn’t get better than that, chica.”
I sigh again. I didn’t get much sleep, and I am, this early in the morning, already exhausted. Maybe William should start worrying about me, too. I say, “You’ve forgotten one C word. He’s catastrophic.”
She ignores that, as if it’s not the most important of all Brody Westerbrook’s attributes. “So are you going to see him again?”
“I’m guessing it’s going to be impossible to avoid it, since I’m guessing he’s pretty tenacious when he’s working on a story and one of his sources is recalcitrant.”
She taps her lip with her index finger. Her lipstick and her nail polish are a perfect match. “I’d like to meet him. Can we arrange that?”
“Sure, he’ll ask me which of my friends he can interview, and I’ll point him right in your direction.”
“I thought maybe a more lighthearted, fun, social occasion? We could have the two of you over for dinner one night.”
“Debbie, we’re not in high school. Brody and I are not double-dating with you.”
She grins, unrepentant. “Well, it was fun then. It ought to be even more fun now if Kurt’s not the fourth person in the car.”
“Everything’s more fun if Kurt’s not around.”
“I think you should bring him to our house for dinner one night. That has the added advantage of letting you see how well he interacts with my sons so you can decide whether or not you’d want to have children with him.”
“Debbie!” I wail, but she’s gone off in peals of laughter. I start pelting her with all the unfortunately not-very-deadly objects on my desk—a windup plastic cow, a stress ball, a mostly empty box of Kleenex. Still laughing, she fends them off with one hand and pushes herself to her feet.
“I’ve got to make some calls,” she says when she’s able to speak again. “Think about dinner.”
“I’m not making plans with anybody while Ann’s in town.”
“Bring her along,” Debbie invites. “Bring the boyfriend—what’s his name? William. I’m dying to meet him, too.”
I am momentarily diverted by the image of that dinner table. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I say. “Let me get some work done. See you at lunch.”
I slog through the day without much enthusiasm, resisting the impulse, every half hour or so, to call the house and check on Ann. I don’t want to wake her if she’s repairing bones or tissue with restorative sleep; I don’t want to disturb her if she’s talking or—whatever—with William. Just in case she’s forgotten them, I’ve left my office and cell-phone numbers on a piece of paper in the kitchen. She’ll call me when she has time.
But she doesn’t call.
I’m fighting back a sense of unease when I leave work about fifteen minutes early and speed down Bonhomme Highway toward home. Clouds are threatening to turn the chilly March air into disagreeably cold March rain, but the streets are still dry as I take the hilly road to my house a little too fast for optimum visibility around blind curves. There’s one scary moment when I top a rise from one direction as an eighteen-wheeler barrels over it from the other. He blares his horn and I wrench the Jeep to the shoulder as we charge past each other, my tires churning up rocks at the edge of the road. Okay, okay, slow down, I tell myself. I won’t be much use to Ann if I’m dead.
Still, I’m traveling way too fast and have to stomp on the brakes as I skid onto my front lawn. Against the dreary pewter of the sky, any light from the house would make a bright contrast, but I can tell before I’m even out of the car that no lamps are on. “Ann?” I call as soon as I’ve unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Ann? Are you here?”
The house is silent in that eerie, echoing way that a building only has when it’s been unexpectedly abandoned. It’s as if the bricks and the flooring and the furniture and the walls are still waiting to be stepped on and leaned against. They haven’t quite accustomed themselves to solitude yet; they’re holding themselves in readiness.
“Ann?” I call again, but the hopefulness has evaporated from my voice. I hit the wall switch at the door and quickly take in the fact that there is no one in the kitchen or living room, then I check Ann’s room. The bed is unmade and there are shoes on the floor—signs of recent occupation, but no guarantee that the last tenant plans to come back anytime soon. Ann usually leaves a mess behind whenever she goes.
I retrace my steps, looking for evidence that she plans to return. She’s only been here a day. Surely she can’t have left already, without a word of good-bye. I find it in the kitchen, on the counter, next to the note that holds my phone numbers. She has had so little need to write throughout her lifetime that her handwriting is still girlish and round; you’d think the note had been penned by a child.
Mel—don’t worry. William and I decided to try to find the nearest park and spend the afternoon. We’ll be back tonight or maybe tomorrow. Don’t hide the key someplace new! See you when we get back.
A
The emotions that flood me are half relief, half resentment, and in both cases they are intense enough that I know I’m overreacting. She has her own life; she cannot be bound to me so tightly by my affection that she strangles. Even if she were my daughter, not my sister, I should not experience this extreme level of painful loss. I can’t explain it—I’m a little embarrassed that I feel it—and I don’t know what to do with all the grief and anxiety and anger that are percolating just under my skin. I slap my open hand against the plaster of the kitchen wall, so hard that I bruise my palm.
Then I plunge through the house and fall to my knees on the couch, punching the back cushions with all the force I can muster.
The whole goal is to stave off the tears, but it’s no use. As soon as my arm tires, I cover my face with both hands, as if, here in the empty house, I’m afraid someone will see me. I’m already crying.
CHAPTER TEN
That’s the way it goes for the next three weeks.
Ann and William come and go like eccentric ghosts who make appearances based on some opaque algorithm of their own. They might be sleeping in her room when I go to bed at night, but gone when I wake in the morning. They might have breakfast with me in the morning, then disappear before I return from work. Sometimes they’re home for only a few hours before vanishing for two days. During one forty-eight-hour period, they never leave the house.
I’m starting to get used to William though I still don’t find him easy or comfortable to be around. He is obviously attempting to be a thoughtful guest, rinsing out any dish he touches and never leaving clutter in the main areas of the house. He hauls the garbage out on trash night and fixes a leaky faucet in the bathroom—which surprises me no end, as I hadn’t expected him to possess stereotypical masculine skills. But I don’t quite know how to interact with him when Ann’s not around. He doesn’t make idle conversation. He doesn’t watch television. He’ll play games if we drag out the Chinese checkers board or the Monopoly box, and he’s unexpectedly adept at putting together the old thousand-piece puzzle of Neuschwanstein Castle that Ann unearths one evening. But he has no social graces. He makes no attempt to be entertaining. He can sit for hours in a silence so absolute I would swear he was sleeping except that I can see his eyes move to track my progress across the room. I’m working on learning to like him, but I have to confess I find him spooky.