From my peripheral vision, I could see Celia open her mouth to protest. But I used the last of my pique to shut myself in the bathroom, closing out any objections she might have made.
15
There is a freedom you feel the closer you get to Austin.
—WILLIE NELSON
Callum
Phone in hand, I decided that enough was enough. Lila was missing, and it was time to act. As it turned out, hiring a private investigator was not hard. Didn’t even have to go to the guy’s office—I just had to pick up the phone and read off my billing information.
“Tell me everything you know,” the PI said.
His name was Clint.
So I told him about Roy, about Lila’s call asking for a job, about the missing persons case.
“You should know,” he said. “Some people just don’t wanna be found.”
“She asked for a waitressing job with the business her ex-husband once co-owned,” I told him firmly. “That’s not someone who wants to disappear. That’s someone who’s trying not to fall through the cracks.”
After that phone call, I left the house for my therapy appointment.
It was only the second appointment I’d had since arriving in Austin, and I was still deciding how I felt about it. I’d never seen a therapist, never paid a person to hear about my troubles or offer counsel.
But all things considered, now seemed to be the right time to start.
My therapist, Beverly, welcomed me into her office.
“How are you, Callum?” she asked, gesturing toward the loose-springed sofa. She wore a caftan, per usual, a pencil holding her curls back.
I sat awkwardly, unable to find a comfortable position for either leg. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“How are you sleeping?”
My jaw shifted as I looked for words. Words that might be truthful, but meant something other than the truth.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said, eyebrow lifted.
“I sleep some,” I said.
“Trouble falling asleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“Trouble staying asleep?”
“Sometimes,” I said again.
“Nightmares?”
“Fewer,” I said truthfully, grateful to have something positive to report.
“That’s good,” she said. “Are you still swimming at night?”
I regretted having admitted to the midnight swims. “I am.”
“And they help?”
“They do. I can move better.” Not the same—not by a long shot. But better. “And I walk during the day.”
“How about social engagements? Are you seeing people?”
“I’m still staying with my friend Ian. And Ian has extra guests too, so there are more people.”
“Oh? Tell me about them.”
I shifted in my seat. “Ian’s mother-in-law, but then she lives there most of the time. And then there’s Ian’s cousins.” Celia and Jane’s faces floated behind my eyes. “Three sisters. The older two are adults, the youngest is in her teens. The oldest is quiet, reserved. Self-possessed, but reserved. The middle sister…she’s different.”
“Different?”
“She grows tea,” I said. “And she brews tea the way musicians play music. It’s important to her. She’s serious until she laughs, and when she laughs all you want is to laugh too.”
Unless she was laughing with Sean. When that happened, I felt a little sick to my stomach.
“Do you? Laugh with her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Things are strained with her and her sister, so I guess she’s not laughing as much. I guess she just looks at the world differently. She’s interesting.”
“Are you interested in her?”
I shook my head. “She’s seeing someone else. It looks serious.”
“But what about you? Are you interested?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Look, the guy she’s with looks like he just walked away from the casting session of a superhero movie.”
She folded her arms and looked me over.
I got it. Sure, I was fit, though I ran wiry where Sean was broad. But it wasn’t a matter of musculature. “Superheroes have both legs.”
“Not Flash Thompson.”
“Pardon?”
“Classmate of Peter Parker, Iraq war veteran. Government put him in the Venom suit; he got a spin-off series in 2011. In 2016, he got prosthetic legs.” Her mouth quirked upward. “Women read comics too.”
I cleared my throat. “Of course, ma’am.”
“There are other people for whom I would say that yes, an amputation is a disability, but I’ll be honest. I don’t think you’re one of them, long term.” She leaned forward. “You’re strong, you’re athletic, and you’re a fighter. I think you have more of a choice than perhaps you realize. I think you have the ability to make it simply a trait.”
“I’m only connected to the ground with one organic leg.”
“But you’re also connected to the ground with a limb made from titanium. That’s sturdy stuff, isn’t it? Just…think about it. Some things aren’t necessarily better or worse, just different.”
I nodded, though on the inside I rolled my eyes. Being an amputee would never not be worse. That was all there was to it. Maybe if Beverly had fewer limbs, she’d understand.
“If you were to pursue this Jane—or any other woman—how would you do it?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” I leaned into the sofa. “When I was on active duty, romance wasn’t a part of my plan.”
“When were you last in a relationship?”
There had been women along the years, friends of buddies’ girlfriends. It had never gone past flirtatious dates. But relationships? Those took time, investment.
“It’s been a while,” I muttered.
But she had me thinking. Had there been anyone? Anyone other than Lila?
“When we first met, you described your relationship with your family as”—she flipped through the papers in my file—“ ‘not great.’ ”
“I remember.”
She lifted her eyebrows.
“I, uh, thought we were going to talk about the accident during these sessions,” I said. “The war and all that.”
“Consider looking at it this way,” she said. “If you drop a watermelon onto a mattress from twenty feet, what do you think would happen?”
“It’s going to bounce and break.”
“Probably, yes. But what if it were dropped straight onto concrete?”
I didn’t like where this was headed. “It would probably shatter. Don’t know. Haven’t dropped any watermelons from a third-story window lately.”
“You might try it sometime,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Obviously this is a metaphor.”
I worked my jaw, my patience wearing thin. “You don’t say.”
“Stick with me. Some people have lives and backgrounds that have created a protective barrier. They absorb emotional impact differently. That doesn’t mean there isn’t damage, but there is a difference.”
“You’re saying that because of my dad and my brother, I’m concrete and I shatter watermelons?”
“I’m saying it’s going to hit you harder than someone with a different, more supportive family of origin.”
“There is no ‘more supportive.’ That implies that there was support to begin with.” I took a deep breath. “Look, ma’am, with all due respect, growing up with my family was tough, but others had it tougher. My dad didn’t beat me or anything. I learned to be self-reliant, take care of myself—learned it sooner than my peers.”
“You’re not solid concrete,” Beverly clarified. “You’re right; you have an impressive skill set. But I do think you learned that you can’t rely on people and have difficulty building and maintaining relationships.”
“I’ve got Ian. We’ve known each other fourteen years.”
“Which one of
you picks up the phone most often?”
I frowned. Of course it was Ian. He was always the one sending e-mails while I was overseas, encouraging me to stay in his home when I came back stateside.
I hadn’t, of course. Ian lived in Austin, and Austin was what I’d been working to get away from. And yet, we remained friends over the years, with him making sure we stayed in touch. Had I ever called him first?
“How many of your colleagues from your unit have you been in contact with lately?”
I thought about the e-mails in my in-box, the texts, contact requests on social media. “There have been some.”
“That’s good.” She glanced at the clock. “Let’s wrap things up today. Just keep this in mind—your father and brother didn’t treat you as though you had value. But you do. And you continue to, despite the amputation, despite having to leave the marines. You matter.”
Despite my resolution to remain stoic in the face of watermelons, I still felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very kind of you to say.”
I drove to Roy’s house and pulled into the driveway beside his Cadillac. His wife, Betsy, opened the door. “Ma’am,” I said, reaching up to remove a hat that wasn’t on my head. Still hadn’t gotten used to being bareheaded all the time. “Is Roy around?”
“He’s at the smokers, out back,” she said with a smile. “He’ll be glad to see you.”
“I’ll be glad to see him.”
“You tell him I’ll be glad to see him too, when he can pull himself away from all of that dead cow.”
I felt my face crack into an unfamiliar smile. “I forgot you’re a vegetarian, Miss Betsy.”
“Mmm hmm.”
My eyes darted to the backyard gate before returning to Roy’s wife. “That…ah…that work out okay?”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Are you asking how I put up with him?”
“I…ah…” I hadn’t meant to, but…
She leaned forward. “It’s not easy. I do pray a lot. But he’s a good man, and he smokes tofu for me.”
“Really? That any good?”
“You come over for dinner next week. Decide for yourself.”
I ducked my head. “I’ll do that, ma’am.”
“Run along, now. Go find him.”
Being a good southern boy, I did as I was told, following the stone pavers around the side of the porch-lined house to the gate.
I found Roy where Betsy promised I would, in the middle of tending to gigantic cuts of brisket.
He lifted a hand when he saw me approach. “What brings you to my office?”
“Your wife reminded me she’s a vegetarian.”
He shook his head. “I keep praying for her.”
“She says the same thing about you. Do you really smoke tofu for her?”
“When you have a wife, you’ll understand. Love makes you do crazy things. And…I like to think of smoked tofu as a gateway to smoked pork belly.”
I sucked in a breath. “I could do pork belly around now.”
“Couldn’t we all.”
“Except Betsy.”
Roy chuckled.
Standing next to him, I felt a dozen questions buzzing at the tip of my tongue.
Was my dad really that detached? Did my childhood break me?
Instead, I asked if he’d join me as I looked over the books for the food ordering at Smoky Top. I’d been able to arrange for repairs and fresh paint at various locations, but the calculations involved in ordering for a restaurant were still something I was working to get a handle on.
“Of course,” he said.
“I don’t know anything about the restaurant business,” I said. “I’m not Cameron.”
Roy harrumphed.
I told him about Lila’s disappearance, about the private investigator I’d hired.
He closed up the smoker, set his tongs down, and gave me an approving nod. “That’s real decent of you.”
Without meaning to, I stood taller. “We’re all she’s got left, far as I know.”
As I made the statement, I thought back to my therapist’s words. Who did I have left? I’d been so concerned about Lila—and rightfully so—but had I missed the fact that maybe I wasn’t any less alone? I had Roy and Ian…
There were the guys I’d been overseas with, but so many of them had homes and wives and families, entire lives. The ones that were still alive, that is. The ones I hadn’t failed.
I did my best to shrug it off, to do what my therapist told me to do, to live in the moment. A deep breath, an assessment of my surroundings. Roy’s backyard, the scent of smoking beef. Betsy inside.
By the time my heart rate seemed to return to normal, I sensed Roy’s gaze on me.
He didn’t say a word, but I could feel him assessing my body language, my face. Did he think I might be dangerous?
Some days, I couldn’t say I wasn’t. At least my squirrelly sense of balance made me less of a threat than I was in my active-duty days.
“If the PI doesn’t find anything on Lila, I’ll look myself,” I said after too long.
Roy nodded. “You’re a good man.”
Hearing Roy say so, it seemed almost possible.
Betsy wouldn’t hear of me not staying for dinner, despite my protests that it was late notice.
“What?” she asked, eyebrows high and querulous. “You don’t think we’ve got enough barbecue prepared?”
I couldn’t argue.
The Vandermeide house was lit when I returned, and I wondered if everyone was downstairs. My heart thudded in anticipation and dread. I didn’t feel up to being social any more than I had to, but if Jane was with them? I’d muddle through.
I parked in the garage and let myself in. The door from the garage dropped me into the middle of an expansive hallway.
Shrieks of laughter echoed off the stone tiles. I listened for Jane’s laugh. She gave it sparingly, but when it arrived I always found it worth the wait.
None of Jane’s laughter, but plenty of Nina’s—not much of a surprise. The woman gave a whoop of delight when she saw me, and despite my plans to be antisocial for the rest of the night, her enthusiasm brought a smile to my face.
“Mr. Beckett! We were just eating cake, would you like a slice?”
I couldn’t fathom eating anything more after my dinner with Roy and Betsy, but I knew better than to refuse. “I could eat some,” I said when I was close enough to scan the room. Celia, Margot, Lyndsay, Mariah, Nina, and Ian.
But not Jane.
Was it too late to turn down cake? Even as I wondered, I knew the answer.
Mariah handed me a delicate plate of Texas sheet cake with a smile; I took a seat in one of the few remaining chairs.
“What’s your sister up to tonight?” I asked Celia, who sat beside me.
Celia’s face flushed. “She’s out tonight.”
“Out with Sean Willis!” Nina called out with a hoot. “My, those two have been joined at the hip. It’s been many years since I’ve seen a couple so attached.”
“How long have they been together?” Lyndsay asked.
“A couple weeks,” Celia answered, her smile tight at the corners.
“It’s a good story,” Nina said. “He rescued them when their truck broke down on the freeway. Made sure they got here safe and sound.”
Lyndsay pressed a hand to her heart. “That is really romantic,” she said with a sigh.
“Must be romantic,” Ian said. “We’ve not seen much of either of them for some time.”
“Have they moved in together?” Lyndsay asked Celia. “That’s very quick.”
“No, not at all,” Celia said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s true Jane spends a good deal of her time with Sean, yes, and that’s her right to do so. But she’s also home, you know,” she said, eyes wide. “We have an online tea business, and she fills orders, gets them sent out, or tries new tea blends. She’s just more introverted.”
Lyndsay tipped her head. “Bless he
r heart.”
My eyes shot to Celia, whose expression I couldn’t read.
I already had a low opinion of Lyndsay Stahl, but it managed to sink still lower; Celia might not know southern women, but I did. Lyndsay wasn’t blessing Jane’s heart. She was casting deep doubt on the veracity of Celia’s words.
Anger rose in my chest on behalf of both sisters. How long did Nina’s shrew of a cousin plan to be in town? I placed my cake plate on the accent table nearest my chair. “It might not be football season,” I said, “but I think we can find something else to talk about rather than Jane, especially while she’s not here to weigh in.”
Lyndsay flushed but said nothing.
“I agree, Beckett,” Nina said. “Better to wait until she can join us. I think we’d all enjoy an update about the delicious Mr. Willis from the source. And Lyndsay hasn’t had Jane’s tea.” She leaned toward Lyndsay. “Jane makes the most delicious, authentic tea.”
“That sounds…so nice,” Lyndsay said, her nostrils flaring.
Celia finished her cake and handed her plate to a waiting Pilar. When she rose, announcing her and Margot’s departure for the evening, I offered to walk them back to the guesthouse.
She surprised me when she accepted; I’d anticipated a protest that the guesthouse wasn’t far at all. Margot sprinted ahead, eager to get back to her computer, Celia explained.
Celia and I walked across the wide lawn together, the lights from the house providing just enough glow to show the way to the tiny guesthouse.
“Is everything all right with you and Jane?” I asked as we crossed the lawn.
“Well enough,” Celia answered.
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
“I’m beginning to think we shouldn’t have left San Francisco. There have been changes I didn’t anticipate when we came here.”
“Any luck looking for a tea…shop…place?” I asked awkwardly, trying to find the right words. It wasn’t a café, at any rate. I knew that much.
Celia shrugged. “Still looking for the right place. There aren’t a lot of suitable places at the moment, locations that don’t need a lot of remodeling. We’re looking at more locations soon, maybe we’ll find something.”
Jane of Austin Page 13