“What?”
“Never mind. Is Clemmie doing okay?”
“She cries before we go to bed but during the day she’s having too much fun to miss you.”
“That’s good. Tell her I’m taking good care of Belinda Bear.” I hesitated, wanting to ask about the wedding and what it felt like being there with the new stepmother but I didn’t. They would tell me details in the weeks after their return, as children do, in their own time and ways. Pressuring them for details was the sure way to keep them quiet. “Can I talk to her?”
“She’s not here, Mom. She went with Liza to the pool. Liza’s nice, Mom, but I can tell she likes Clemmie better than me.”
“No. It’s just that Clemmie’s younger and Liza probably thinks she needs more attention.”
“Yeah, maybe. But you know how it is, everyone loves Clementine.”
“Daddy loves you both the same, just as I do.”
“I know, Mom.” But I could tell she didn’t believe me.
After we hung up, with my music player strapped to my arm, I set out at a medium pace down the main street of town, thinking of my children. My daughters now had a stepmother, something I had wanted desperately for them to avoid. When I was just a little older than Lola, my mother and father had been divorced for five years already. My mother and father had met in southern California during their senior years at college in what my mother describes as a “whirlwind romance.” They became pregnant with me, and after my father finished his degree that spring, they moved to southern Oregon, buying a two-acre piece of partly wooded land outside the small town of River Valley. In the months before my birth, they built our ramshackle house that my sister and I grew to hate. All during our childhood we were too embarrassed to invite friends to visit, given the lack of an indoor bathroom. It wasn’t until I was out of the house and in college that Sally had a bathroom installed.
Our upbringing didn’t touch my sister in the same way it did me. She always had a way of protecting herself, of making a world inside her head that did not allow the outside world to touch her. When she was four years old, she begged and berated me until I taught her to read, using a book I found at the library about phonetics. A month later she could read. “Once you know how to sound things out, you can read anything,” she told me with eyes too old for her face. “And then you can go anywhere you want. Far away from here.” She sat next to me on the easy chair in our mother’s house, gesturing with her hands to indicate she meant away from our house and our mother, before resting her head on my shoulder. “People in books live in real houses.”
I knew what she meant. My mother’s house was a pile of boards loosely nailed together rather than a home. A main living area consisted of a small kitchen and an additional two hundred square feet with an old couch (my mother found it on the side of the road and I refused to sit on it all my life, thinking of nothing but the dirty people who may have sat on it before me) and a tattered easy chair, which had been in the family for at least thirty years, where Bliss and I spent many hours snuggled together.
Two bedrooms, both only big enough for a double bed, made up the back of the house. We made shelves for our clothes with concrete cinder blocks and rough boards. The outhouse, about twenty feet away from the house, was dark and scary in the middle of the night. We learned to never drink anything past seven in the evening so we wouldn’t wake and have to use the bathroom. Bliss and I slept together in our double bed, cringing on the nights our mother had various boyfriends over; the walls were thin.
When I was nine or so, we saved our pennies from walking Mrs. DuPont’s dog and bought a portable tape player and some tapes. Mrs. DuPont lived down the road from us in a well-kept rambler with tall rhododendrons lining the front of the house. Her golden retriever, Roxy, licked Bliss from head to toe every time she saw her. I assumed I remained unkissed not because I was inherently unlickable but because Bliss often tasted of peanut butter and honey sandwiches. After we’d saved ten dollars, I found a used tape player and four music cassettes at the swap meet one Sunday. A woman—a recent widow, she told my father—had covered a table with her deceased husband’s things, including the player for eight dollars and stacks of tapes for a dollar each. I’d learned from my father how to bargain. “I have ten dollars. Can I get the player plus ten tapes?”
She licked her lips. Blue eye shadow, smeared thick on her upper lid, shimmered in the light. “Nope. Just the player. It’s practically brand new.”
I turned as if to walk away. “Fine,” she called out. “The player plus four tapes for ten dollars.”
I pushed my ten dollars across her table and looked through the stacks of tapes, finally choosing four from their covers, knowing nothing of modern music. The widow slid them to me, shaking her head in what looked like disgust. “My man liked the hillbilly music. Played it night and day for twenty years.”
His hillbilly tapes did not go to waste in our house. We played them over and over, adding more tapes to our collection later but for at least a year it was the original four: Gram Parsons’s Grievous Angel, Gordon Lightfoot’s Don Quixote, Tammy Wynette’s Greatest Hits, and Emmylou Harris’s Quarter Moon in a Ten Cent Town. We only had one set of headphones, so we snapped the plastic between the two earpieces and each took one, my left ear and her right. The music drowned out both the noise from our mother’s bedroom and the thoughts in our heads. My lifelong love affair with music began then. I often think of the widow’s “man” and send him silent thanks. His hillbilly musical leanings gave my sister and me countless hours of pleasure, as only art in its purest forms can.
I left home for art school at eighteen. Since then the visits to my mother became less and less frequent. When Bliss was still in high school (she graduated at sixteen and went to Stanford on a full scholarship) I made sure to come home as often as I had breaks. But after she was gone, I visited once a year and then less and less. After my girls came, I took them to visit my mother once when Lola was almost four and Clementine a baby, but after waking to the noises of critters inside the walls, I decided it was enough exposure to my mother’s rustic life. She could visit me if she wanted to see the children, I told myself. But she didn’t. Children weren’t interesting to her, even her grandchildren. She hadn’t been interested in us so it wasn’t a surprise. Unfortunately, expected or not, people’s behavior still wounds. I wore my mother’s absence like a dirty undershirt, felt but not seen.
My grandparents, neither of whom I’d known well, were wealthy and, apparently, according to my mother, were everything wrong with America’s capitalistic society. They’d had a falling out when my mother left Los Angeles to pursue life in the counter culture but in later years they reconciled, just in time for my grandparents to pass away. Despite their differences, they’d left my mother a modest inheritance, which she now lived on comfortably. She’d made small changes to her house, like adding a bathroom. But still, I didn’t care to visit. My mother’s choices were examples of everything I’d run from.
After my parents’ divorce, my mother went through a series of men, most of whom lived with us for a period of time. None of them were what anyone would describe as a catch but my mother never worried about whether or not someone had an actual job and could contribute to the grocery bill. No, she was more interested in the man’s aura and astrological sign. It didn’t seem to occur to her that money allowed you to buy groceries and surely led to a connection to one’s aura.
Now, I shook off these memories as I entered the Bed and Breakfast and went up to my room. I showered and dressed in one of my new sundresses. Downstairs, I found a plate of blueberry scones and bruised apples on the breakfast buffet table. I drank another cup of coffee and ate a scone; it was dry but satisfied my hunger. Thankfully, no other guests were around so there was no need to make small talk.
I ate the last of an apple as Moonstone appeared. She smiled when she saw me. “Blythe, I have a message for you. Robin said it was on the front desk when she came back from showing so
meone their room.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and came up with a pink slip of paper folded in half, then handed it to me.
The message was written in loopy handwriting. To: Blythe. From: A concerned friend. “If you’re smart, you’ll stop asking about Finn Lanigan’s death. Leave the dead alone.”
I looked over at Moonstone. She tidied the coffee station, using a damp cloth. “Did Robin see the person who left this message?”
“She didn’t say, but I assume not. Like I said, she found it on the desk.”
“Is Robin still here?”
“No, she left about twenty minutes ago.”
“When you see her next, will you ask her if she remembers seeing anyone?”
Moonstone set aside the cloth she’d just wiped the counter with and turned to observe me with her spacey eyes. “Something has you scared.”
I handed her the note. Perhaps, with or without psychic ability, she could give me some insight. She read it and then put her hand on the paper and scrunched her eyes shut. Chanting something softly under her breath, her face went calm for a moment and then twitched. When she opened her eyes they were more alert than I’d previously seen them. “Someone knows something they don’t want you or anyone else to know.”
“Do you remember anything about the death of Finn Lanigan? He and his sister-in-law died in a car accident here about three years ago.”
She shook her head. “I bought this place a little over a year ago so I’m not familiar with that, no.”
“They say it was an accident. Icy roads.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
I shrugged, resisting the urge to rub my eyes, feeling suddenly weary. “I have no idea but I don’t know why anyone would write me this note unless there was something not right with their deaths.”
“I’d have to agree with you there.” Moonstone’s eyes returned to dreamy instead of alert. “I’ll meditate on it and see if my spirit sisters from the other side can give us any insight.”
Spirit sisters? For heaven’s sake.
Shaken, I went back upstairs to my room. Who would send such a terrible message? What didn’t they want me to uncover? Was Rori right? Had Finn and Meredith been murdered? Was Kevan responsible?
I packed the rest of my things. Then I grabbed my suitcase, purse, and camera bag and headed downstairs. Moonstone sat at the front desk, writing on a pad. “Blythe, I’ve got something.”
Stifling a sigh, I approached.
“I keep getting an image of a baby.”
“A baby?”
“Yes. A little girl.”
“Well, I do have two little girls.” I stopped. What was wrong with me? Suddenly I was engaged in conversation with a fake psychic like it was real?
“No. This is something to do with Finn’s death. And there’s something in his house. I think you’re supposed to find a way in there.”
“I’m sure it’s locked up. Or something. Right?”
“Right. It doesn’t make sense, yet. I’ll continue to meditate on it.”
For some reason I couldn’t explain, Moonstone and her promise of meditation soothed my nerves. I gave her a smile and headed upstairs to finish packing.
CHAPTER 13
IT WAS NEARING NOON when I put my bags in the car and headed down the street to the hardware store. Kevan waited near the bubble machine, leaning against the brick building with his eyes closed and his face toward the sun. He held Shakespeare’s leash; the yellow Lab lay curled in a ball at Kevan’s feet, his eyes also closed to the sun as if in solidarity with his master. In his other hand Kevan held a bottle of water. He wore khaki shorts that came to just above his knees and tennis shoes. His calves were muscular, his torso lean in a loose-fitting T-shirt. Something came to me, like warm milk on a cold morning; it traveled through my torso to every limb and finally to the tips of my nerve endings. It was the sight of him, so like his surroundings, grounded and dry and peaceful, that filled me, that made something dormant come alive. I couldn’t name it then; I was too flustered to call it by name. But I know now. It was desire. It was the moving of emotion inside me. It was the making of room for love.
I walked toward the man and his dog, until I was there next to them, armed with nothing but my soft underbelly.
Kevan patted the dog’s head. Shakespeare opened his eyes and looked up at his master, his tail wagging hard and fast. A dish of water was set near Shakespeare, in the shade of the building’s awning.
I leaned down and rubbed Shakespeare’s neck with both my hands. “Ah, you’re a good boy, Shakespeare.” He put his head on my foot and sighed.
Kevan squatted and cupped his hand, pouring water into it for a makeshift bowl. “He likes water this way, don’t you, boy?” Shakespeare lapped up the water, his tail wagging in response. When the old dog finished, Kevan wiped his hand on his shorts. “We’ll be out in a jiff, buddy.” He wrapped Shakespeare’s leash around a post. But he needn’t have. This old lab wasn’t going anywhere.
Shakespeare, groaning softly, closed his eyes and sank back to the sidewalk, like his joints ached. For the second time in less than a minute, my heart expanded and made room for love.
***
The hardware store held more than just hardware. A lot more. I hadn’t been in one like it since I was a child. In the city and suburbs we didn’t have such stores any longer. Items ranging from nails in bins, gardening tools, bird feeders, cute signs, toys, and pet treats were stacked on shelves. In the back, behind rain slickers, inflatable rafts, and water shoes, rows of boots lined the wall, including the cowboy variety, hiking boots, and work boots. Except for the young man at the register, there wasn’t a clerk in sight. I glanced at Kevan. “Do I really need boots?”
“Unless you want to step in horse dung wearing your sandals, yes. What size are you?” His gaze turned to my feet and then seemed to drift up my bare legs. I went hot in an instant. “Eight?”
“Seven and a half.”
“They don’t have half sizes here.”
“Eight then.” I sat down on the small bench and took off my sandals. Kevan yanked a pair of dark green socks from a rack behind us, tearing open the package and tossing them to me. “We better get some socks while we’re here too.”
“Do they have any that come in another color?”
He grinned. “Come on now, city girl. You’ll be fine.” He held the ugly green socks next to my face. “These match your eyes.”
Next, he took a box of eights from the stack. I hoped for cowgirl boots but these were work boots, drab brown with green laces, which matched the socks. I laced up one of the boots, conscious that my dress gapped when I leaned over. If he wanted to, Kevan could peer directly down my bodice, but he seemed not to notice, leaning against the wall and busying himself by lacing up the other boot.
After they were on, I stood, feeling ridiculous.
“Cutest ranch hand I’ve ever had,” he said, smiling.
I turned to look at myself in the mirror behind us. The boots looked strange with my sundress.
“You’ll need a pair of jeans, I think, too,” he said.
“I have a pair of jeans.”
“No, you’ll need jeans you can get dirty, not the city variety.”
“The city variety?”
“You know, the ones with the pockets that make it so a man is unable to take his eyes off women’s butts.”
I laughed, sitting down and untying the laces. “Is that what those pockets are for?”
Shrugging his shoulders, he put out his hand to take one of the boots. “That’s what my sister told me.” He tucked the boot into the box and waited for me to hand him the other.
We found a pair of Levis, the old-fashioned kind I hadn’t seen in years, hanging on a rack near the rain slickers. They were 501s of the Springsteen era; all the boys in high school had worn them. I never thought there was a boy who didn’t look good in them. They were in boy sizes still, the waist and length in inches. I had no idea what size I nee
ded, but the clerk from the front desk suddenly appeared, eyed me up and down and handed me a 29, 33. The clerk led me to the shop’s one dressing room, a cramped space with nothing but a thin curtain.
In the dressing room, I looked at myself in the mirror, taking in a couple of deep breaths. What was I doing? Ranch hand? Kevan’s ranch? Kevan? In a series of forty-eight hours, I’d completely lost my mind. Or had I lost it when I found Finn’s number in my drawer just over a week ago? Yes, that was the beginning and now here I was, buying 501 jeans and work boots and practically falling into the arms of Kevan Lanigan. I slipped the jeans on under my dress. They fit perfectly, loose in the hips and legs but fitting well enough around my waist to stay put while I shoveled cow dung or whatever it was I was about to do.
By the time I arrived at the register, Kevan had piled the counter with the boots, a pair of gloves, a half-dozen T-shirts in various colors, a dozen pairs of socks, all green (did they only have green socks in Idaho?), and a gray fleece jacket. “Did the jeans fit?” he asked me.
I nodded, setting them on the counter.
He looked at the clerk, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “We’ll need two more in the same size, please.”
I put my hand on his arm. Again, that electrical current sizzled. I pulled my hand away. “Please. I can pay.”
“No. You’re my guest. I pay.” He peered at me with those eyes that could penetrate a building or a numb woman. I did not protest further. At least I know when I’ve been beat. No use to fuss and fight against this man. No, he was a force, like the mountains and rivers, like the capacious sky. An image came to me then of the peregrine soaring above me, its wings outstretched as if to mock the sky, as if to say, I own you.
We went out to the street. Shakespeare spotted us and creaked to his feet, tail wagging. Kevan went to him, untying his leash and petting him. The sun was high, with several cotton ball clouds low on the horizon. Our friend the sliver of moon was visible too, as it sometimes is during the day. Clementine had asked me recently why we could sometimes see it during the day. I’d had to look it up on the Internet. The answer surprised me. The visible moon is merely a reflection of the sun’s brightness, both day and night. I looked up at it now, this slice of the sun’s mirror, and thought of my daughters. What did they see in the sky at this moment? Perhaps the reflection of the sky against blue water? Was everything merely a reflection of its counterpart? The ocean and the sky? The sun and the moon?
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