Blue Midnight (Blue Mountain Book 1)

by Tess Thompson

  “No.” I scarcely breathed, hoping he would tell me more. The question itself was absurd, because he never told me anything about his past, present, or future, and he’d certainly never told me the dreams of his youth. He worked for the utility company and had since my birth. “A pencil pusher,” he described his job when I’d asked him once.

  “Never had the money for a camera when I was a kid and then I got too old to learn.”

  “You could start now,” I said. “Take pictures of Bliss and me. We wouldn’t mind.”

  His gaze moved from the table to me and then into the distance, as if there were answers farther up the aisle. He shoved his hands in his pockets and clamped his mouth into a line.

  “Why did you want to be a photographer, Dad?”

  He shrugged dismissively. “Just youthful fancy.”

  But I wasn’t about to let this moment of revelation go. I fixed on his face, hoping I might discern something deeper. “No, but what made you think you’d want to be that?”

  He sighed and took his hands out of his pockets, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. “Figured it was a way to see without being seen.” He moved closer to the table. Most of the frames were empty, but one, made of tarnished steel, held a black and white photo of a man in an old-fashioned suit and hat. My father picked it up and stared at it. “This guy’s long since dead but the photo remains.” The faded photo’s edges curled and buckled under the glass. If Bliss had been with us she would’ve immediately made up a story about him, this dead man in a dusty frame. “It’s a little piece of history right here.”

  “Do you want it?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment; his fingers brushed the frame like he was ridding it of dust. “I don’t suppose I have much use for it.”

  “It’s pretty. You could put a photo of Bliss and me in there.” I stopped, unsure if there were any photos of us. I couldn’t remember any, other than school photos.

  “Ah, no. Liddie wouldn’t like it.” I knew he was right about that. She was all about flower patterns in shades of pink. Her house smelled like dead roses.

  We moved along then, back to the silence between us to which we were accustomed. But the memory of him staring at that faded black and white photo and then returning it to the table when he so clearly wanted it stayed with me all my life. Choosing something and defending it to his wife was more than he could muster. I came to believe he lived like that black and white, faded photograph, viewing life from inside a metal frame covered with glass. Nothing penetrated him, not emotions, or even his own flesh and blood. I think of him this way now—just a faded photograph amongst old, forgotten items I wasn’t attached to because I never really knew him. Nor did he know me. My old nemesis, regret, was all that remained of our relationship.

  It would be the logical conclusion that my eventual interest in photography sparked to life that day but that isn’t correct. Another five years passed before I picked up a camera. A fluke in my schedule at high school did it. I had to take an elective, and only photography fit my schedule. The first time I picked up the camera and caught a moment in time, I understood it was destiny, and destinies cannot be denied. I learned to frame experience through the lens of my camera. It wasn’t until this last year that I understood I was more like my father than I imagined. Figured it was a way to see without being seen. All this energy spent on not being seen had occupied a large portion of my life, had dictated many choices or lack thereof, as the case may be.

  Of course I understood now what it was like to live as a faded photograph. I’d done it for at least a year now, if not for many years before Michael left me. I was there, behind the glass, with my mask on, going through the motions, checking items off the list, but never really choosing anything, including choosing to live.

  Kevan and Buttercup appeared in my vision. He led her by a rope toward me. She put her head in the breeze and whinnied, as if calling out to me. I shivered.

  When they were next to me, I looked into Kevan’s eyes. Buttercup’s sides moved in and out with her breath. She seemed larger in the pasture, which seemed odd. Shouldn’t she appear smaller under the Idaho sky? “You ready?” he asked.

  Could I do this? Yes. This pasture and this man and his horse were in full color. This was not a faded black and white photo but a living moment surrounded in every vibrant hue of the natural world. “Yes. I’m ready,” I said out loud.

  He handed me the reins. I caught a whiff of the leather saddle. “Put one foot into the stirrup and hoist your other leg over in one movement.” His voice was gentle and calm, as if he didn’t want to spook either of us. Buttercup’s tail twitched but she was still and steady.

  Taking a deep breath, I did as instructed. And suddenly I was on her, both my feet in the stirrups. She was tall; I was tall now too. I felt her muscles through my legs, even before she moved.

  Kevan, squinting up at me, smiled. “See? Nothing to it. I’ll walk her for a bit on the lunge line. When you’re comfortable, I’ll let you two take it from there. Just squeeze her sides lightly with your calves when you want her to move. She can feel a fly land on her so you don’t need much pressure. Buttercup knows what to do. Sink deeper into the saddle and tighten the reins if you want her to stop.”

  My heart pounding hard, I squeezed her gently with my calves. She set out at a slow gait.

  “Just relax and match her rhythm. Keep the reins loose and your elbows soft so you don’t hurt her mouth,” he said. We continued to walk, reaching the far end of the pasture after a few minutes. “You ready for me to let go?”

  “How do I get her to turn?”

  “Use the reins to tell her whether to go left or right and match the movement with the same leg.”

  He took off the lunge line. I squeezed with my calves once more. Buttercup went forward until we reached the fence. I put pressure on her right side with my leg and tightened the right side of the reins, as instructed. It worked. She turned right and we headed back toward the barn. We continued to walk for several feet. I squeezed a little tighter with my legs and she picked up the pace. We trotted, the breeze in her auburn mane and my honey-hued hair. She was glorious. I was glorious. I laughed and turned my head to search for Kevan. He leaned against the fence, watching us, his arms folded over his chest. He grinned and waved when he saw me looking at him. “You’re doing great,” he shouted, just loud enough for me to hear despite the wind rushing in my ears.

  It was enough, that moment in time. I fell in love with the man and his horse. I didn’t fully realize it then. It had not yet occurred to me how deeply I’d fallen for the man and all the components of his world, for I was completely there—exactly in that moment—without thought of the past or future. I knew only the feel of Buttercup’s muscles under my legs and the smell of wild roses and the gaze of Kevan’s peregrine eyes. And it was enough. I was enough.

  CHAPTER 16

  AROUND FOUR THAT AFTERNOON, I dressed in the yellow cotton halter dress Bliss had picked out for me and applied my makeup carefully. I wore flip-flops for now, leaving my high-heeled sandals in the house. I would change into them before I went to the main house for dinner but first I wanted to take some photos. I took my new camera and went outside, yearning for a photo of the tree and that table. I snapped away, thinking of nothing but the composition and the lighting, stopping frequently to look at my shots in the LCD monitor. I’d gotten a couple of good shots when I heard the crackle of something behind me. I turned to see Rori approaching. She wore a skirt and tank top, the tattoo on her arm the color of blood under the late afternoon sun. Black combat boots encased her feet. Apparently this was her idea of dressing for dinner. I greeted her with a wave and a smile.

  “So, it’s true? You’re staying here.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down.

  “Yeah, for a week or so.” I wanted to ask how she felt about my staying but I knew better than to ask a teenage girl a direct question about her feelings.

  “You wanna see the creek?
” she asked.

  “Isn’t it time to go inside?”

  “Twenty minutes. I don’t plan on going in a minute sooner.”

  “Sure, then. I just don’t want to get in trouble.” I smiled so she knew I was making a joke. I lifted one of my feet. “Don’t let me forget to change into my sandals before we go inside.”

  “Will do.” Unsmiling, she nodded at me with her chin. “Nice dress.”

  “You too.”

  She rolled her eyes and pushed one side of her hair behind her ear. “My grandmother thinks of herself as the matriarch of a noble family or something. She doesn’t seem to know it’s 2014 in fucking Idaho and our family hates one another.” She followed this up with a quick, “Sorry.” I assumed it was for the curse word but she needn’t have worried. I’d stifled my immediate instinct to correct her. This was not one of my daughters, I reminded myself. It’s none of your concern how she talks. But my mother reflexes pulsated. You don’t have to make everything so hard on yourself, I wanted to say to her. Just play a little bit of the game and soon enough you’ll be on your own to decide how and when to eat dinner and what to wear while doing it. But youth makes it impossible to see anything but the present moment. I was the same when I was young. All I wanted was out. Out of my mother’s shack of a house that smelled of incense and the latest boyfriend. Out of the town so small everyone knew me as Hippie Sally’s daughter.

  I followed her across the green lawn and away from both houses. The stables, on the other side of the house, opposite from where we were walking, shone brightly in the afternoon sun. Along the creek that fed into the egg-shaped lake, sapling trees with light green leaves swayed gracefully in the breeze, like young ballerinas. I never knew the names of trees or plants. It was one of my small acts of rebellion against my hippie mother.

  A simple wooden bench looked out at the creek, which was about two feet deep but clear enough I could see the pebbles and moss under the water. Rori sat near the bank of the creek, taking off her boots and white socks and setting them beside her. She plunged her feet into the clear water. “Freezing,” she said. “It was snow a minute ago. At least that’s what my dad always says.”

  I sat on the bench so as not to get grass stains on my dress. “I didn’t think they had white socks in Idaho.”

  She smiled for a brief moment before arranging her hair over her eye in that way she did. I wasn’t sure if this instinct to cover her eyes, the windows into all feelings, was voluntary or involuntary. “No, it’s just Peregrine. They have a thing about green socks here. No one knows why.”

  I laughed.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, glancing up at me with her one visible eye.

  “I don’t know exactly. It’s something to do with Finn, I guess.”

  She turned back to the water. Dunking one hand in the creek, she then lifted it, letting water trickle through her fingers before shaking her hand dry and resting it in her lap.

  “Or it might have something to do with your dad.” I remained quiet for a moment, waiting for her to say something, but she put her hand back in the water, repeating the same scooping motion. “Is it weird to you?” I asked her. “Me being here, that is.”

  “No, not weird. More nice. You’re kind of like that.” She pointed to where the sunlight filtered through the saplings. “Bright.”

  I smiled. “I always say that about my youngest daughter. She’s like sunshine, especially when she smiles.”

  “That must be nice. My dad doesn’t smile that much. Especially now.”

  “What about you?”

  “Some. I’d like to smile more.”

  “Me too.”

  “I knew I’d see you again.” She picked up a stick and dug, ferociously, into the dirt. The ground was soft and damp here near the water. The scent of recently turned dirt always reminded me of my mother. “My dad likes you.” She tossed the stick into the creek. “He never likes anyone.”

  I flushed, although the statement didn’t exactly sound like a compliment. Rori was like my sister. Their outer personas appeared deceptively distant but in reality they were insightful.

  We sat in silence for a moment before I told her about the note I’d received earlier.

  Her slender back rose and fell. She turned her head to look at me, her hands on either side of her legs, fingers splayed against the dirt. “Why would someone write that to you? What do they not want you to know?” She rose to her feet, grabbing her boots. Joining me on the bench, she patted her wet skin with the socks and then slipped them over her feet before gliding into the boots. Gazing at the grass, she spoke softly. “Maybe it would be safer for you to go home.”

  I touched her shoulder. “Rori, are you scared of something? Are you scared of your dad?” I don’t know why I asked her this. I hadn’t planned to. These Lanigans made me bolder than usual or, at the very least, capable of asking scandalous questions.

  “I don’t know. Everything I thought I knew turned out not to be true.”

  She was so young. Girls this age appeared grown but they were still children. Suddenly, a shiver slid up the back of my spine. I glanced over my shoulder. All was still, no one lurked about, and yet I felt as if someone watched us. I turned back to her. Rori watched me, alert, like a deer you come upon in the woods. “Blythe, are you all right?”

  I nodded and whispered, “Yeah, it’s nothing. Let’s just go inside.”

  In silence, we both rose to our feet and headed toward the house. It was then I saw a peregrine, circling high above the lake.

  ***

  We made our way to the dining room in the main house. I hadn’t seen it during my previous visit but it had the same clean lines and simple décor as the rest of the residence. A rectangular table made of dark walnut was set with formal dishes and small white cards inscribed with perfect calligraphy. Eight chairs with a 1960s feel to them, with wood frames and leather seats, surrounded the table. Rori and I were seated next to one another on one end. Thank goodness for that. We sat, waiting for the others to arrive. The house was quiet and felt empty except for the sound of pots rattling in the kitchen. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Where’s Shakespeare?” It occurred to me I hadn’t seen him all day.

  “He hides in my room whenever Grandmother comes out of her room. He whimpers, literally, and runs to my room at the first sight of her.”

  “Oh, that can’t be true.”

  “Oh, it is. Trust me. It’s like he sees the devil or something.”

  I started to laugh, silently. Rori joined me, also without sound. We giggled like that for a moment until Rori, with a nervous glance toward the front of the house, sobered.

  “Not sure where the rest are.” She had a guarded look in her eyes as she fiddled with her set of silverware, moving the salad fork an inch to the left and then straightening it with a guilty-looking glance toward the doorway. I was about to ask her if the family was typically late, when the matriarch herself entered the dining room. Petite in frame and weight, she had surprisingly straight posture, given that today was her seventy-third birthday. White hair, cropped short, framed her still beautiful face despite its map of lines and creases. She wore a silky pink dress. An expensive looking, light, long sweater of soft cotton draped over her shoulders gave me the feeling of another era, perhaps the 1920s.

  I stood, as did Rori. I stifled a doggie-like whimper of my own and the great desire to run as fast as I could to my guesthouse. When Kevan’s mother reached us, she first put her cheek near Rori, who, dutifully and with a subdued countenance I wouldn’t have suspected she had in her, kissed it. Then, she held out her hand to me, her bright blue eyes piercing through me. The nerves at my temple twitched. “I’m Riona Lanigan.” Her face was made up carefully, with pink lip gloss and foundation, defying her age. What was it with the wealthy that afforded such graceful aging, I wondered? As if she were inside my head, my sister muttered, expensive products and spas.

  “I’m Blythe Heywood,” I said.

  “Good to m
eet you.” She shook my hand; her handshake was firm but brief. The skin, although appearing like crepe paper, had the texture of a child’s, soft and unblemished. She waved her hand toward the table and then touched her perfectly manicured fingers to my forearm. “But we’re not sitting yet, dear. We always start with cocktails. Especially tonight, since it’s a birthday celebration.” This was said with a slight smile, but her eyes were cold and judgmental. All of which gave me the embarrassed feeling that started with a few pricks under my armpits and moved down my arms until the palms of my hands were damp. Riona motioned to Rori to come closer. “You can escort me into the other room, Rori.” She tucked her arm under the girl’s. “You know the protocol of the Lanigan family, Rori. I expect you to help our unexpected guest learn our ways.” Her voice was quiet but had an eerie feeling of danger. Rori glanced at me apologetically as they headed out of the dining room. I followed, feeling like nothing short of the hated orphan child in an English novel. Would someone smack me with a book next like I was poor Jane Eyre?

  The formal sitting room, which I also hadn’t yet seen, was as spectacular as the rest of the house. The room looked out toward the small lake, with Blue Mountain beyond. A wide brown and white striped rug, two leather chairs, again with the 1960s vibe, a modern wood-burning fireplace tucked into a distressed cement wall, and a long couch completed the rustic yet modern decor. An oddly shaped coffee table made from the trunk of a large tree nestled between the couch and chairs.

  Ardan and Kevan stood near the bar in the corner of the room, not speaking, holding tumblers of an amber liquid, probably scotch. They both turned to greet us as we entered. Kevan’s eyes darted to me and then just as quickly went to his daughter and then his mother. Again, I had the image of the peregrine and the vision that could penetrate walls, grass, and women’s hearts with a mere glance of steely eyes. “Ah, Mother, where’ve you been hiding today? I haven’t had a chance to wish you happy birthday.”