In-between Hour (9781460323731)

by Claypole White, Barbara

  Her lunch breaks were stretching out, forcing her to slow down and eat. There were even moments when she caught herself thinking like a normal mother wanting to celebrate her son’s homecoming. But then the truth would body-slam her, and after Jacob left she would, once again, grieve for the sensitive little boy who had grown into an unknown man. Depression was a monster she knew well, but she’d spent many years praying that they would never meet again.

  The dogs rushed forward, tails wagging. Her girls were turning into such Shepard groupies. When confusion wasn’t spawning anxiety, Jacob had a calm way with animals. Will had the same gift.

  “Hey You!” Jacob raised his hand.

  “Hey you, yourself.”

  He nodded at her fistful of wild ginger. “You got an earache to cure, little lady?”

  “Not today.” The ginger was for an emmenagogue, but she wasn’t about to discuss her menses or recent lack of. Stress had been quietly taking its toll on more than her sleep cycle.

  “I saw some pokeweed over there.” Jacob pointed to where Miss Prissy was yanking up grass as if she hadn’t eaten in a month.

  “You, Mr. Shepard, are a walking, talking encyclopedia of local plant life.” Hannah slipped her arm through Jacob’s.

  The human mind was so cruel. Jacob could recall the smallest detail from his childhood on Occoneechee Mountain and sometimes not remember an action he had taken minutes earlier. Retreating into old memories was reassuring at any age, but without the reliable creation of new memories, how did you keep moving forward?

  They wove past the cottage, pausing to wave at Will. This, too, was part of their new daily ritual. Will would watch Hannah and Jacob establish contact, then disappear into the cottage. The first day it happened, she was concerned Will was either taking advantage or being irresponsible. Turned out he was simply avoiding contact.

  Will never left them alone for long. As if he’d set a timer, he would knock on the front door after thirty minutes, but he never crossed the threshold. “Come on, Dad,” he would call out, eyes lowered. “Hannah has work to do, and I need to give you the Freddie update.”

  Jacob’s face always lit up at the mention of his grandson, just as her father’s had done every time Galen walked into a room. She wasn’t sure anyone else noticed her father had a favorite, and he treated the boys fairly. But Galen and his granddad had a connection no one could penetrate.

  Today Will was pacing on the porch, his iPhone clamped to his ear. He looked a little rumpled. In fact, he seemed to be wearing clothes from the day before. But then everything he owned was so similar. All those muted tones—even his jeans. The kind of jeans money could buy. Did that sound snide? Hannah replayed the comment in her mind. Yes, it did.

  Think better, Hannah.

  Her new tenant spent a great deal of time on his cell phone. With his agent? His publisher? His cheerleaders? You couldn’t be that successful and not have an entire retinue of staff. And yet he seemed oddly adrift, as if he were barely able to manage his own life, let alone his dad’s.

  Will gave a clipped nod and bolted into the cottage. It was strange how he kept his distance, but people did what they needed to do. Will chose merely not to interact with her. Where was the harm in that?

  An idea began to form. A rough sketch but something to work through later with a glass of Irish. And she would have to talk with Poppy....

  “How about you join me on my lunchtime walk tomorrow?” she asked Jacob.

  “I’d like that, Hey You. I reckon the exercise’d be real good for me. Do a lot of sittin’ nowadays.”

  “Are you managing to read? I’d be happy to pick up some books for you at the library.”

  “My Angeline, she were always stoppin’ by the library for me. Don’t read like I used to. Get muddled and forget who’s who.” Sadness flickered on his face, then vanished. “Did I tell you where my grandson is today? London, England! Willie says they’re gonna see the crown jewels.” Jacob shook his head. “And last night Freddie ate fish and chips out of newspaper! I were still sleepin’ when he called, but he told his daddy all about it.”

  But fish and chips weren’t sold in newspaper anymore. Health was a topic that always caught her attention, and just the other night she’d been reading about European health and safety regulations on the web. Either Jacob had misunderstood or Will was telling tales. And why would anyone choose to lie about something so insignificant?

  Or maybe exaggeration was part of the author psyche. Inigo was a natural storyteller, and he could re-create an entire event that had never actually happened. Amazing what you could project with a little research and a lot of fancy. Was Will Shepard full of B.S., too?

  Her phone buzzed with a text. Hannah pulled it from her jean pocket. Galen.

  Dad booked ticket. Land @ 4 Tues. Can U pick up?

  Last week Galen had been like a bulimic—binging on anger, then vomiting despair. This new emptiness manifested as emotional evisceration. Three clipped sentences revealed nothing, told her nothing. To understand people’s mind-set, she needed to hear, to see, to touch. She could always tell when a pet owner was ready to let go from the way he or she responded to a pat on the arm or a soft sentence.

  Was Galen holding back, not wanting to cause worry? Or did he not care enough to share? Or did he not care, period? Once, conversations with Galen had been thought-provoking exchanges, and the ordinary became spectacular when Galen transcribed it into a poem. He could ignite hope, laughter, sadness. Now his words were flat, and she couldn’t read them.

  Hannah had always believed that what happened in life was less important than how you handled it. Every action, every reaction, was a chance to grow. But Galen’s depression had destroyed her safety net, annihilated her ability to interpret his world. Or hers.

  “Something wrong, Angel?” Jacob said.

  “My son’s coming home.”

  “There’s good and there’s bad in that.” Jacob turned toward the cottage where Will was pacing behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of the front room, still on his iPhone. “Don’t get easier, the parentin’. My boy, he wants to put me back in some institution. That last one were real bad. You know why they kicked me out?”

  “For brawling, I believe. But I have a hard time picturing you baring your fists.”

  “Yeah, I feel bad ’bout that. Security kid got caught in the middle. Never been one for violence, but it were necessary. Knew they’d have to kick me out. There were this new guy, see, loved to tell the world about his amazin’ grandsons. So I says, well, I reckon goin’ out for pancakes ain’t worth mentionin’ when I got a grandson that’s travelin’ all over Europe with his own passport. It were real easy to get Bernie riled up.” Jacob winked. “Didn’t want Freddie comin’ to some institution. Were hard on him the last time. Some of the residents, they was old and mean. Didn’t want a young’un bringin’ noise and life. You know where he is today, my grandbaby?”

  It was the longest speech Jacob had made.

  Hannah squeezed his arm. “London, isn’t it? Did he see the crown jewels yet?”

  “He sure did, Angel. And he’s been eatin’ fish and chips out of newspaper.”

  “Jacob, are you happy in the cottage?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He bent down and kissed the back of her hand. A sweet, gentle kiss that reminded her of her dad. If he were still alive, her dad would have just turned eighty. She would have thrown the biggest party—to hell with the cost—and persuaded her brothers and their families to come down from Vermont. Her dad would have liked Jacob. Her mom, too. Jacob may have been a grave digger and a high school dropout, but he was just as smart as her parents had been. Jacob’s doctrine of everyday life was pure gold; his nuggets of wisdom, polished gems.

  “You do know,” she said, “that you can
stay in the cottage as long as you like.”

  Jacob grinned. “Why, thank you, Hannah.”

  Twelve

  Trapped. Will was trapped in the role of good son without a dress rehearsal. Worse, he was establishing routines. Bad, very bad. Routines stank of permanence. For the first time in ten years, he was also living like the rest of the adult population, forcing himself to get up at eight and work during the day instead of falling asleep around four and setting his alarm for noon—unless, of course, he was heading out to the Thursday 10:00 a.m. P.R. session.

  Writing in the afternoon had never been more than a warm-up exercise, but with his dad’s long naps, it made sense to try. Although, yet again, he had failed to transcribe even the smallest amount of crap. Not one fragment of a thought.

  How was a parent meant to bury his child and resume his daily word count?

  Will closed his laptop with a snap, and stood. At least the old man seemed calmer, less muddled, and nothing his dad said or did fazed Hannah. That eased one worry. When his dad called her Angeline, Hannah merely laughed and grabbed his arm, which would have broken Will’s heart had there been anything left to break.

  The dogs appeared around the side of the main house, followed by Hannah. Except for that first day when she’d doctored him, he’d stayed clear of their landlady. He’d smelled lavender a few times and known she was close. And he’d watched her from a safe distance. People-watching was an old instinct. Hard to buck.

  Hannah disappeared from view, and Will leaned over the deck railing to track her with his eyes. As usual, she moved quietly—a woman who didn’t announce herself with loud behavior or shower naked in public. Impossible, though, to ignore those breasts straining under the white T-shirts she favored. White—an unexpected choice given her profession.

  Always busy but never harried, Hannah seemed to live heart wide-open. How could anyone be so at ease in the world, so trusting, so friendly? If she was in the middle of something and another person appeared—even the UPS guy—Hannah stopped whatever she was doing to chat. If he knew how to ask for help, Will might sound her out about dad-sitting. Clearly, she had the caregiver gene he lacked.

  Intriguing. She was clutching a clump of sweet flag. Despite staring down thirty-five, his eyesight was still twenty-twenty. He could recognize calamus root from any distance. The old man had always chewed it after a performance, swearing it was the best remedy for sore throats. When they were twelve, Will and Ally discovered the bitter taste also cured smoker’s breath.

  Using the back of her hand, Hannah pushed blond curls from her face. “Have you seen a trowel anywhere?” she called out.

  Nothing in her body language had suggested she was aware of him. So, someone else around here understood pretense.

  “It’s about so big.” Hannah gestured. “An implement used for digging.”

  “I know what a trowel is,” he said.

  “Aha, he speaks.” She tugged a dead marigold from a pot.

  “The trowel is sticking in the pot to your left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pulling himself up to retreat, Will turned toward Saponi Mountain. The porch on the front of the cottage might be small and functional, but the back deck extended down two levels and out into the forest like a tree house. Breathtaking—for anyone with a glass prison fetish.

  “I guess you don’t get to garden much in New York.” Her voice seemed to echo behind him—soft but strong.

  “I have a large roof garden.”

  “Good for you.”

  Did she misunderstand, think he was bragging when, really, he was just stating fact? He turned back to face her and wished he hadn’t. She was reaching over the plant pot, inadvertently displaying cleavage. Lots of cleavage with perfectly rounded, medium-size breasts spilling over a white, lacy bra. And a vining tattoo that curled from her shoulder down to her right breast.

  Now that was enthralling: the fact of a tattoo and its placement. Art designed to be hidden, exposed only to a lover. He swallowed the words, Nice ink.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” Hannah said.

  His eyes jerked up. Caught me?

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other night. I saw you—when Poppy was in the shower.”

  A red-tailed hawk swooped low through the space between them, something dangling from its beak. Behind him, dead leaves snapped and popped as squirrels darted through the trees. No one who’d lived in the forest could forget the sound of squirrels. And no red-blooded male could forget the sight of Poppy’s unclothed Marilyn Monroe curves.

  Despite the blush, he stood his ground. “I’m sorry about that. I never expected—”

  “Oh, no. I wanted to apologize on her behalf.”

  Hannah didn’t think he was a creepy, oversexed Peeping Tom?

  “We’re so used to being alone out here. She just didn’t think.”

  Will stared at the shower. Yeah, right.

  “I want to assure you that no one will use the outside shower again while you’re here. I would hate for anything to upset your dad.”

  “I don’t count?” he said.

  “I’m assuming you can look after yourself.”

  “You, too, I imagine.” That should have been an end, but while he picked at the green mold snaking along the wooden railing, his mouth kept moving. Words kept forming. “I’ve been having some problems writing since—since this business with my dad. I was looking for my muse,” he said, with more than a touch of irony.

  “Did you find her?”

  “Not even close.”

  The chip of a cardinal’s song filled the air.

  “Since it’s Friday, I thought I’d be a wild woman and have a cocktail before supper,” she said. “You’re welcome to join me. I’m not well stocked with alcohol, but Poppy left some red wine here, and I keep gin and tonic for my ex. Otherwise, it’s Bushmills.”

  Irish whiskey? He would have pegged her for vodka tonic. And she kept gin for her ex. How very mature. She looked to be around his age, and yet she wore the confidence of someone much older. Someone who, unlike him, was all grown up.

  She pushed the sweet flag into the pot and pressed soil around it, working as if time were elastic and could expand to her whim. Then she wiped her hands down her jeans and headed inside the house.

  Will raised his face into the long shadows that crept from the forest. Vapor trails slashed the sky, and the tops of the trees blazed molten gold. He used to love this hour, when the light connoted hope. Hope that his mom would seek help, and when he abandoned that fantasy, hope that he could escape. Now the gloaming was simply a reminder of his son dying at the close of day.

  Yes, he wanted a drink. It was the only thing he wanted right now. Tucking his laptop under his arm, Will walked down the back steps and followed in Hannah’s wake.

  Her screen door creaked as he eased it open and entered a white hall filled with light.

  “I’m in here,” Hannah said.

  Several dogs appeared through a doorway ahead; the small, ratty-looking one bounded up and slobbered over his hand. Will pushed his way through the animals and into a long, thin kitchen and breakfast area.

  Her kitchen appliances weren’t top of the line—labels did matter when you were talking ovens and refrigerators—but everything was orderly and functional. Lots of bleached wood and stainless steel and a large butcher’s block, its shelves clogged with a hodgepodge of cookbooks, their spines cracked. No dishwasher.

  At the far end of the room there was a fig tree strung with white Christmas tree lights, a round pine table with matching chairs and a window seat piled with pale cushions. A tabby cat sat upright in the middle of the cushions, giving the dogs the evil eye.

  “You don’t like cats?” she said.

  “How did you know?”

&nb
sp; “Your expression.” She smiled her easy smile. “Bad childhood experience?”

  Was that a lucky guess or was she really that perceptive? Either way, she didn’t seem to miss much.

  “Our family home was feral cat central.” Will cleared his throat and laid his laptop on the counter.

  Hannah moved to the sink filled with several dirty plates, a teapot for one and a mug of what appeared to be leftover tea—ginger, according to the label hanging over the side. She washed her hands—shutting off the water with her elbow as she lathered the soap, then flicking the tap back on to rinse. Sensible water-saving gestures. Exactly what he would have expected of Hannah. Everything about her was expected. Although...there was the white T-shirt thing. And the tattoo he wouldn’t mind seeing again.

  “We should sit out on the porch.” Hannah dried her hands. “That way your dad will know where we are when he wakes up.”

  Jesus. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  She stepped forward; he stepped back. She crossed one foot over the other and moved to the left; he moved to the right. Then she circled ninety degrees around him to open the fridge.

  “Bushmills okay?” She pulled a wedge of Brie from the deli drawer.

  “Sure.”

  “With ice?”

  “Please.”

  Hannah took two tumblers from an overhead cabinet and then stuck one of them under the ice maker. “I’ve had some wonderful conversations with your dad about your son. What an adventure he’s on.”

  Ice cubes fell slowly. Clonk. Clonk. Clonk.

  “I believe he’s five?”

  Will clawed at his thigh, nodded. Didn’t answer.

  “Only child?”

  Will nodded again.

  “Off-limits?” she said.

  Will exhaled. “Sorry, I’m very private.”

  “I imagine you have to be when you’re famous.”

  “I’m not that famous.”

  “I think your fans would disagree. But it’s okay, we can chat about the weather until your dad wakes up, and then he’ll talk enough for both of us.”