But before that she was still young and desperate and there was a dishwasher named Marco who flirted with her and made her feel beautiful despite the twenty pounds she'd put on in an unconscious attempt to keep Phil away from her. She moved in with Marco that summer, dropping out of high school and getting her GED. Shortly thereafter, she and Marco both quit the restaurant, despite Carlo's attempt to contact her. Marco made sure he couldn't find either of them in the first of his controlling moves.
Now, to her sweet little boy she said, “Your grandmother's boyfriend was a bad guy and I didn't feel safe there. I met Marco at my first restaurant job. He was handsome and charming and I was terribly lonely and desperate to get out of my mother's home. I didn't know until I moved in with him that he was dangerous. That's how abusers are. They're nice until they have you trapped and then the real person comes out.”
“It's weird that he's my dad.” Alder sighed and pushed some rice around his plate.
“I'm sorry, honey.”
“I mean he is, but he's not. Right?”
“Exactly.”
She heard movement from the doorway. It was Drake, freshly showered, looking handsome in light cotton sweats and a T-shirt. She felt a fluttering in her belly. What was this? Oh yes, her old familiar nemesis: desire. Great. That's all she needed—to want a man way out of her league with major psychological issues. Her taste in men remained intact, apparently. A complete disaster.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Drake, coming towards them. Annie jumped from her stool, ready to prepare his plate. He put up his hand. “Please don't get up. I can serve myself.”
“Oh, all right. Well, the rest is for you. We have plenty.” She got back on her stool, stealing glances at him as he scooped what was left of the stir-fry onto his plate.
How much had he heard of her confession to Alder? What must he think of her? She must seem like a mess to him. Although, he was the one with the anxiety attacks. Right. Keep that in mind, she told herself. There's no reason to feel inferior to him. But she did. She always did.
“Thank you, Annie, for dinner. What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”
“I usually go in at three on Tuesdays.”
“I'll see you both in the morning.”
He left the room. There's no reason to wish he stayed, she chastised herself. But she did, nonetheless.
Annie woke from a deep sleep, disoriented. The room was dark and smelled of freshly laundered sheets. It came rushing back to her at once. The phone calls, the subsequent invitation to stay at Drake's home. She rolled over, looking into the darkness, her eyes adjusting so that she could make out the contents of the room. And then a sound penetrated the darkness. It was an eerie, hollow, lonesome sound, unrecognizable for a moment until she realized it was the howl from some kind of animal. Was it a coyote? It had to be.
It came again, this time louder, closer.
Wide awake now, she put her bare feet onto the floor, the carpet soft between her toes, and padded to the window, opening the curtains wide. The stars were bright in the June night's sky, a billion shards of glass scattered across the horizon. There was a sliver of a moon, too, hanging there like an old friend. No matter where you were, the moon always followed. She told this to Alder when he was just a small boy. And it never ceased being a source of magic to him. “The moon follows me wherever I go,” he would say from the back seat where he was safely tucked into his toddler chair.
Now, at the edge of the yard, was a lone coyote, the light from the back deck illuminating him. He was lean, his fur thin. He lifted his head again, towards the sliver of moon, and howled, high and lonesome. Then, he shifted his gaze to where she stood at the window. She put her hand on the glass, mesmerized by the glow of his eyes that seemed to reflect the stars. After a moment, he turned and ran, disappearing into the thicket of trees just outside the manicured garden.
She heard another noise then. Bells? No, it was music. Like a child's lullaby. Was it coming from down the hall? Was Alder awake in his room and listening to music? Surely not? The child slept like the dead. Despite the mild temperature of the room, she shivered and wrapped a throw blanket around her shoulders, walking through the sitting area and opening the door to the hallway, careful not to make a sound. The strip under Alder's bedroom door was black. She went in; he'd left the curtains open so the room was dimly lit. He was sound asleep, curled on his side with the cover over his head. Same as always, regardless of all the houses they'd lived in over the years.
She stepped back into the hallway. Then she heard it again. Piano music. What was the tune? “Hush Little Baby.” Hush little baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. She'd sung it to Alder hundreds of times when he was a baby.
She looked down the hallway to one of the rooms Drake had forbidden them to enter. There was a strip of light under the door. She walked towards the light, stopping just outside the door. The music was clearer now. But then, abruptly, it stopped. She heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. Her heart in her throat, she ran on tiptoes back to her room. At her door, a floorboard creaked. It seemed loud, the sound reverberating in the now silent house. Her hand was wet with perspiration and slipped on the door handle but she managed to twist it open. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, her pulse beating wildly.
There were footsteps coming down the hallway. The same floorboard creaked as the footsteps stopped. She heard someone breathing and then a soft thump against the door like a forehead resting there. She held her breath. Please don't knock. Please just go away. She knew one thing. There was nothing good that could come from Drake Webber knowing she'd heard what she heard.
But he didn't knock. She heard his feet moving down the hallway until there was nothing but the sound of a cricket outside her window, chiming in as if to replace the mysterious sounds of the night.
She awoke the next morning to Alder shaking her shoulder. “Mom, it's past nine. You have to get up. Drake and I are hungry.”
Drake. Drake Webber.
She opened her eyes. Alder's brown eyes were excited as he perched on the side of her bed. “We've been up for hours, Mom. We went for a walk already. A nature walk. He has a book of southern Oregon plants and we're making a field book of our discoveries.”
“A field book?”
“Yeah. He's great at sketching what he sees in nature. Just like Lee. Isn't that weird?”
“Yes. Super weird,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“Why are you so tired?”
Because I couldn't fall asleep after my discovery about our mysterious benefactor. “I didn't sleep well, honey. Sorry. Give me a minute and I'll get dressed. What do you guys want for breakfast?”
“Well, he'll pretend like he doesn't want anything but he told me that pancakes are his favorite. Isn't that crazy, Mom? Those are my favorites too.”
Her chest twisted, watching her son. He was falling hard for Drake Webber. Hopefully she would not follow in her son's footsteps. Remain detached, she ordered herself. This was the only way to stay sane in this house of mystery.
She dressed in workout clothes and forced her unruly curls into a ponytail before making her way into the kitchen. Drake was at the table reading something on a laptop. He didn't meet her eyes. “Morning,” he mumbled.
Keep it light, she thought. Just pretend like last night never happened. “Good morning.”
“There's coffee, if you're interested,” he said, without looking up.
“Alder tells me you like pancakes.”
“Did he now?” He sounded amused.
She glanced over at him. He was smiling.
“I actually haven't eaten a pancake in a while,” he said. “I told him that. He was properly appalled. I think he's made it his mission to bring back the pancake.”
“You know I take food very seriously. So I have to know. Why haven't you eaten a pancake in years?”
His face sobered and his eyes
turned dead and icy blue. “Just haven't.”
Stifling a shiver, she turned away. “Well, I'm a good pancake maker. And I have blueberries. Nothing better than blueberry pancakes. Not that I eat them anymore, either.”
“You should,” he said, staring at the surface of the kitchen table like there was a holy grail written there.
What did that mean?
He went on. “I noticed you have your workout clothes on.”
She froze, near the coffee maker, feeling self-conscious. Perhaps she shouldn't wear something so tight and revealing in front of him. It wasn't like she really lived here. She basically worked for him. “Yeah?”
“I have a gym.” He pointed to the north side of the house. “It's a separate building. You might have noticed it already?”
“I did, actually.”
“There's a gym and the other guest quarters. Feel free to use the gym. Anytime.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know. As a former fat person.”
He peered at her, narrowing his eyes. “Former fat person? That's funny.”
“Maybe to you. Not to a former fat person.”
She poured a cup of coffee and added cream she found in the refrigerator. “Sorry I slept so late. I do that sometimes after a long shift at the restaurant in the summer when I don't have to get Alder up for school. He has to eat cereal on those mornings and watch television. One of Alder's many issues he'll probably have to work through in therapy later in life.” Stop talking. Just stop talking.
“Well, there's always something,” said Drake. “None of us escape unscathed.”
She looked at him. He was staring out the window. “I suppose that's true. It's just as a parent you want to have everything be perfect for them. But it never is, no matter how hard you try.”
He shifted his gaze to meet her eyes. “You're a good mother. Don't doubt yourself there.”
“Despite the fact that his biological father is a madman?” She tried to make it sound funny but instead it came out strangled, the back of her throat aching with unshed tears. It was that he was kind to her. Telling her she was a good mother—it unleashed all this emotion. She swallowed and turned to the stove. Dammit. Just hold it together. Make pancakes. Drink your coffee. Don't think.
The tears came, unhindered and hot on her cheeks. She grabbed a paper towel and wiped under her eyes, taking in deep breaths. And then, there he was standing next to her. His hands twitched at his sides as if he wanted to touch her. She stared at his neck. There was a prominent vein that ran from his ear to his collarbone: a sign of a man who exercised a lot. He was freshly shaven but he'd missed a spot just under his chin. She smelled his aftershave, something subtle and old-fashioned with hints of lime and something else she couldn't place.
“Please don't cry,” he said, his eyes soft and sympathetic and pained. “I can't stand to see a woman cry.”
“I'm sorry.” But then she cried harder, hiding her face in the paper towel. “I didn't sleep well.”
“It's all right. You're safe here.” She felt him shift, almost as if he might put his arms around her, but then he went still. “I'm going to keep you safe,” he said, softly. “It's the only thing I have left to do in this pathetic life.”
She went cold. What did he mean? “Only thing left?”
He looked into her eyes. “Yes.”
“Why, Drake? Why are you hiding up here on the side of this mountain? Why did you leave your life in Seattle?”
“I can't talk about it.”
“Surely you can trust me? Look at everything you know about me so far?” She said it in a quiet voice, like she was talking to a wild animal she didn't want to spook.
“It's nothing about you.” He paused, putting his hands in front of him like a shield. “You're lovely.” The vein in his neck pulsated. “But I'm not well. Not whole.”
Then he stumbled back from her, yanking at the collar of his shirt. His face went tense and turned bright pink. He moved to the sink and leaned against it. His breathing was heavy like it had been the afternoon of his anxiety attack. Was it another?
“Do you need a pill?” she asked, searching for the bottle she'd noticed on the windowsill last night.
“Yes. Please.”
She grabbed them and put one in his outstretched hand. He swallowed it without water but she poured him a glass anyway. “Come sit,” she said, taking his arm.
“Please. Don't touch me,” he said, yanking away from her as if her touch hurt. “Please.”
“I'm sorry.” Her stomach lurched.
“It's not your fault. I just. I just can't bear it.” He didn't meet her eyes. “I'm going to my room. Don't worry about breakfast.”
And then he was gone. She looked around the expansive kitchen, the morning light soft through the windows, and felt displaced and uncertain. She stepped outside to the deck. The air was warm already, the sky blue and cloudless; it would be hot and dry. Alder was near the large fir, tossing a ball in the air and catching it in his baseball mitt. She called out to him and he raised his hand in greeting. How did one go from a happy ten-year-old to tortured man? How would she keep her boy from the same fate as poor Drake Webber?
“Ten minutes until breakfast,” she shouted.
“Sounds good, Mom.”
She turned to go back inside and saw Drake at the front room window, watching her. Flushing, she averted her eyes. But her hand twitched in his direction, just a flicker of a movement, as it had earlier. What was this—an instinct to touch, to reach out, to gather him into an embrace? And yet, even as she did so, she knew he'd be gone by the time she looked back in his direction. She was right. There was nothing but the sky and trees reflected in the great glass windows, making her wonder if he'd been there at all.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS CLOSE TO THREE in the afternoon when Drake pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant. “I'll go in with you,” he said. “Make sure all's clear.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thank you,” she said as Alder followed closely behind.
Otis was in his usual spot, sitting cross-legged, reading a newspaper. “Hi, Miss Annie.”
“Hi, Otis. You remember Alder.”
Otis, eyes squinting in the sun, looked first at Alder. “Surely do. How you doing, Alder? Still reading all those books?”
“Sure am,” said Alder.
“And this is our friend Drake,” said Annie.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Otis said in his southern drawl. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
Drake reached for the stair railing, gripping it tightly, his knuckles white. “What?”
“Pains me to look at you, knowing what you've been through.”
What did Otis see?
Drake turned away, going the rest of the way up the stairs, with Alder right behind him.
“You hungry?” Annie asked Otis.
“A little peckish.”
“I'll bring you something later.”
“Thank you kindly.”
Once inside, she dead-bolted the door. The kitchen was empty, but Billy's apron was not on its usual hook. Perhaps he was already in the front? She took Alder's hand. For once he did not drop it.
“I'll check the front,” said Drake.
“We'll come, too,” she answered.
They went through the swinging doors into the dining room. Around a large table were: Mike, the owner of Riversong; Linus; Tommy; Lee; Ellen; Cindi; and Billy. Ellie-Rose played with blocks on the floor. My gang, she thought, feeling a pang in her chest where her heart lived.
“Momo,” said Alder, kneeling next to her chair and wrapping his arms around her waist. “I missed you today. How's Goldie doing?”
Ellen kissed the top of his head. “She's just fine. Sat on the darn front steps all day waiting for you to come over, though. Kept looking up at me with this question in her eyes, like, where's my boy?”
“Tell her I'll be back soon. You weren't too lonesome, were you?”
“I was a lit
tle lonesome but then Verle came over and ate almost an entire pie and made me play Scrabble with him all blessed day. I didn't get one useful thing done.” But Annie knew she didn't really care. She loved her boyfriend, Verle, like a schoolgirl might. They were always giggling and touching like they'd just met instead of being together over two years now. Although, despite how much she loved him, Ellen insisted he keep his own place. “I don't need to be taking care of some old man every day of my life,” she said to Annie one time. Annie had kept the obvious question to herself. Well, then, why does he sleep over every night? Regardless, she didn't like to think of seventy-something Ellen actually having sex with seventy-something Verle.
“What're you all doing here so early?” she asked the table at large.
Mike got up from the table and pulled her into a hug. He was pushing sixty years old but was strong as a man half his age, having worked for years at the sawmill he owned and operated. “Well, we heard you're having a spot of trouble and Lee thought we'd better have ourselves a little pow-wow. Get a plan together. Because that's what we do here.” He glanced over at Drake with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “Take care of our own, that is.” Lee often said Mike reminded her of one of the models in the old cigarette advertisements, rugged and handsome, dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy boots most days.
“Oh, hell yeah,” said Cindi. “This piece of shit ain't gonna last two seconds if he comes up against us.” She patted her purse. Everyone knew she kept her pistol in her bag at all times. Annie had thought it a superfluous thing when she first met Cindi but after all the trouble Lee had two years ago, the gun had certainly been useful. Cindi put her hand over her mouth, as if she just saw Alder and Drake standing there. “Shoot, now, sorry about my potty mouth. Alder, honey, you want me to make you a Shirley Temple?”
“With a cherry?” Alder asked with hopeful lilt to his voice, as if Cindi didn't give him a cherry every time.
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