by Tara Goedjen
She leaned forward and popped open the glove compartment, peering inside. A whiskey bottle, tobacco, cigarette papers. That was it—no pistol. But she knew he sometimes kept it by the driver’s-side door.
She felt shaky, ramped up with adrenaline. Maybe she should just come clean, try to talk him down. “Dad, I—”
He turned, and the look on his face silenced her. His knuckles were white over the wheel. “It’s gone on for too long, Mae.” His voice was raw as the truck shot forward.
“Slow down,” she begged, but he wasn’t listening. She steeled herself for the accusation: she’d been helping Cage, and he’d never forgive her. Trees were whipping past them, the shocks bouncing over the dirt. They veered to the right of the fork, heading uphill toward the barn. Mae’s heart was in her throat; they’d be there any moment. Panic welled inside her, she felt like crying. “Dad, please slow down.”
The truck lurched over another set of potholes and her mind flashed to Cage, sprawled on the raft in the barn. He was too weak to run, to defend himself.
“Elle!” she called out, too sharp, but her sister shook her head again, staying out of it. The barn was less than a half mile ahead. “You’re going too fast, Dad.”
He clenched the wheel tighter and she scanned the woods. There was movement ahead, but instead of Cage’s dark hair and lean height, she saw a glint of blond. Fern was standing at the side of the road, close to the edge. Sonny wasn’t slowing down, and then Mae realized he didn’t see her, he wasn’t going to—
“Stop!” she shouted, and she did the only thing she could: she yanked the wheel. She felt the sharp pain of slamming into the dash as Sonny hit the brakes and the rear wheels locked. Elle screamed as their whole world started turning, the truck spinning past Fern, impossibly close, the tires screeching as they finally jerked to a stop near a tree.
“What happened?” Elle asked, her eyes wide. “Is that Fern?”
“Goddammit,” Sonny swore, his eyes on her as she ran off into the woods. “Kid came out of nowhere.”
He opened his door, got out, and then walked to the front of the truck and kicked at the fender. Mae jumped out after him, found him bent over the hood.
“Please talk to me,” she said softly. If they could just talk…She braced herself, ready for his anger.
Her dad turned away, pulled his hat down. He fumbled for his pack of cigarettes. “Wanted the boat,” he muttered, and it took her a moment to catch up. “Wanted to do something as a family. Take you girls fishing like I used to.”
Mae leaned against the truck as it all sank in. Sonny hadn’t been going to the barn for Cage, he’d been going for the boat, and she’d almost confessed everything.
“Being at the house…” Sonny trailed off as he struck his lighter. “Jesus. I can’t even make it to the water anymore.” He took off his hat and ran his hand through his ponytail. “Fishing reminds me too much of her. Everything does. My mind’s messed up.”
“It’s okay,” Elle said, coming around the other side of the truck, “it’s okay, Dad.”
But Mae knew he wasn’t able to shut the pain behind a door in his head to mute it, and even then it built and built, always threatening to come out. She could feel the heaviness in the air. It was never going to be okay unless Ro was here again, alive and grinning.
Heat thrummed off the car, hit her in waves. She put her hand on the hood of the truck, felt the warmth travel up her fingers. She wanted to fix this, fix her dad, but she didn’t know how.
“Your grandpa, I should have taken him out more.” Sonny’s voice broke, his hand shaking as he inhaled. “He loved fishing. Taught me everything I know. But did I help him this year? Spend time with him when he was sick? No, course I didn’t.” He shook his head, almost dropped his cigarette. He was upset, agitated; she’d never seen him like this before.
“He was happy being at home,” Mae said, wanting him to feel better. “He liked being around us. You did the best you could, Dad.”
Sonny inhaled again, his hand with the cigarette still shaking. “No, I didn’t. Your grandpa, now, he was a good father, especially after what I put him through. Didn’t ever want to do a thing he asked, laughed at his ideas, told him he was an ignorant old man. He adopted me when no one else would, and I treated him like shit.”
Mae felt the air leave her chest. Adopted? She glanced at Elle and saw the shock on her face too. “What did you say?” Mae asked, her gaze darting back to her dad.
“He took me in.” He exhaled, his eyes far away, staring into the distance.
“You mean—” Elle started, and then gave up and just looked at him, waiting.
He’d gone silent, but after a minute he shrugged. “I was four or five then. My mom worked near the Childers place, helped out with the stables, did some cleaning around town, that sort of thing. She got sick and didn’t make it, and your granddad took me in.”
“We had no idea,” Elle said. She sounded as dazed as Mae felt. Adopted. He’d never said a word about it…but it explained a lot: Why he never talked about his childhood. Why he’d never wanted his portrait added to the family collection. Why he didn’t mind selling Blue Gate. Maybe part of him had always felt the way she did—like she didn’t quite belong anywhere, didn’t fit.
“Probably should’ve let you girls know.” Sonny stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “Just didn’t want to talk about it. Besides, it was a long time ago.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Too long. Figured it didn’t matter anyway.”
But it did matter. All the worry Mae had over telling Cage about the ring slipped away. He was more a Cole than they were.
“You could have told us,” she said. “You can tell us anything, Dad.” Then her throat clenched tight as she thought of the lies she’d stacked up lately. Maybe they’d all been doing the same thing this past year. The three of them, full of secrets.
Sonny’s eyes settled on Elle. “I know you want that hotel thing,” he said. “But we need to move. Nothing good ever happens here. Can’t take much more.” He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Dad, we’re here for you.” Elle put her arms around him. “We’ll always be here.”
Mae wanted to hug him too, she wanted to tell him that she loved him, but what would he think of her helping Cage? She flinched inside, felt shame run all the way down to her toes.
“You okay to go home?” Elle asked, and after a minute he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, watching the ash from his cigarette float down to the dirt. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. We all will.”
Mae squeezed his hand and he managed a half smile. He was far from fine; it was all over his face—he needed some good news to shake him out of his grief. They all did.
“Come on,” Elle said, “let’s go home.”
Sonny’s eyes narrowed on the trees, in the direction of the barn, and Mae felt her heart skip. “Hey, Fern!” he called. “Get on over here!”
“Hey, Mr. Cole.” Fern was running toward them now, her Invisible Man T-shirt tucked into her dirty shorts, her curls falling across her eyes. “What are y’all doing besides almost hitting me?”
Sonny scratched at his ponytail again. “We’re gonna go eat some lunch,” he said, his voice gruff.
“I’m pretty hungry,” Fern said, dancing from leg to leg.
“Thought you were. Fern and Mae in the back. Elle’s driving.”
Mae almost smiled. He was trying, he really was. She was still worried, but this was like the tiniest sliver of hope. Sonny tossed the keys to Elle as Mae got up on the bumper, holding out a hand to Fern.
“That was a pretty close call,” Fern said. The truck engine revved over her voice. “Also, you’re not a very good liar.”
The gun rack was digging into her back, and Mae tried to scoot over. “And I suppose you are.”
“Well, I can keep a secret,” Fern said. “I’ve kept yours, you know. And Lance’s too, since he needs my help.”
Mae tensed. “What secret?”
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Fern poked Mae’s ribs. “Wouldn’t be one if I said it out loud.”
So she was bluffing. Mae relaxed, leaned back against the truck, trying not to look too interested. They were closer to the house now, farther away from the barn. She needed some quiet to think, a slender paintbrush in her hand, but after a few minutes she felt sticky fingers grab her elbow.
“Here’s another secret, Mayday. It starts with I.” Fern edged closer, breathing into her ear. “Initiation.”
It was so unexpected that Mae couldn’t hide her shock. She fumbled her words, the question catching in her throat. “What do you mean?” she choked out. “Where did you hear that?”
Fern smiled. “I know another one too,” she said, “and it’s gonna come true tomorrow. On the beach.”
The truck rocked onto the driveway, nearing Blue Gate, the spire on the roof jutting up through the trees. Tomorrow her granddad would be buried. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Ro’s death. Mae’s eyes welled up, and she couldn’t help but ask. “What?”
Fern held a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Shh,” she whispered, “he’ll hear us.”
“Tell me,” Mae said, sounding harsher than she meant to. “Tell me what you know.”
Fern smirked as the truck pulled in front of the house, wrenching to a stop as Elle parked and shut off the engine.
“Fern!” Mae hissed, but the girl only laughed as Sonny and Elle got out, slammed their doors. Mae knew she’d been played, and Fern knew it too. She couldn’t risk asking her anything more if they weren’t alone.
“You’ll see,” Fern whispered. “Tomorrow will be here sooner than you think.”
A WHISPERING NOISE WOKE HIM. He felt like he’d been sleeping for years. He opened his eyes and found he was lying on a blown-up raft in the barn. A gallon of water was beside him, some bread and saltine crackers. His stomach rumbled, and he tore open the package and ate half of the crackers in a minute, sucking on the beady grains of salt. Mae wasn’t in the barn, and the whispering noise was gone—maybe it’d been a dream.
He glanced up at the skylight and saw the haziness of almost-dusk and wondered how long he’d slept. He inhaled the rest of the crackers, liking their flaky weight in his empty stomach as he stood, unsteady on his feet. The boat was covered by the white tarp and he leaned against it, caught his bearings. He felt better. He felt, for the first time in a long time, hungry. It was a good feeling. The feeling of being alive.
I didn’t kill her. He knew that now, no matter what they said. The memory of the dream with Ro ripped through him and he held on to the boat. He hadn’t killed her. It’d been an accident. Probably no one would ever believe him, no one except Mae, but at least he knew the truth.
There was a bucket near the raft—Mae must have put it there in case he got sick again—and next to it was a blanket and a twisted rope of sheets. He remembered falling in and out of sleep with fever dreams so vivid he might have lived them. How many days had passed since he’d been sick, stuck in the barn? Mae had been here, taking care of him, and Ro had too, somehow. He’d been with Ro, and—
A smell hit him. He sniffed under his sleeves, got the foul stench of sweat. He peeled off the T-shirt, took it over to the sink near the fridge. Mae’s pocketknife was there, along with a bar of soap. The tap was working, so he scrubbed his face, his neck, under his arms—he’d gotten thinner. He glanced over at the door and then dropped his shorts and splashed water everywhere, running the soap along his body, dripping suds onto the concrete. Christ, it felt good to be clean. It felt like he’d died and come to life again. Hell, maybe he had. He didn’t know what to believe, the dreams were mixing into things, clouding his head, but he was alive and now he knew what had happened with Ro that day. He hadn’t lost his temper, hadn’t hurt her. It didn’t matter that she’d said no about marrying him. He’d only loved her, and he loved her now, and that was the truth.
He started washing the shirt he’d taken off, and his shorts too. He wrung them out as dry as he could and then slipped them back on, cool and damp. A creak came behind him and he grabbed the knife as the barn door swung open. A second later his grip relaxed. There she was, five foot and not much more, with that thick hair of hers and that pixie face he was glad to see. Mae was wearing cutoffs and a thin T-shirt, and the start of a smile was on her mouth.
“You’re awake.” Her feet were quiet across the cement and then she was in front of him, her bag strap slung across her shoulder, her brown eyes peering up at him with concern, like she was his Florence Nightingale or something, his guardian angel. He felt embarrassed. She must’ve seen him sick—throwing up, ranting with fever.
“I feel better,” he said, not sure what to say, not sure what she’d been witness to. Come to think of it, he didn’t recognize the shorts he was wearing. He cleared his throat, feeling jittery, like he’d just chugged a Coke. “Much better,” he said, “thanks to you.”
A corner of her mouth turned up. “It was nothing.”
“Are we…still safe here?” Was he still safe in the barn—that was what he really meant, because he was the one who shouldn’t be here.
She nodded. “I’ve seen Fern around, but no one else,” she said. “And my dad’s out hunting right now, trying to keep his mind off things.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Probably it’s fine.”
“Probably,” he repeated, and he guessed that had to be good enough.
And then Mae’s hand was on his shoulder—so gentle. It was her touch that made him really look at her, and he found himself staring. Her brown eyes were distant sometimes, lost in thought, but when she glanced his way it was like the sun on a boat after being caught in a storm.
He looked down, remembering the garden. The night he’d gotten sick. He forced himself to examine the dust on the floor, and then the sink, the wet bar of soap. He could feel her standing beside him; the air was charged with her so close.
“How long was I out?” he asked.
“A few days.” She searched in her bag and then pulled out a package wrapped in tinfoil. “I would’ve made more but didn’t expect to find you awake.”
He opened it. Three homemade chicken sandwiches with the crusts cut off. His mouth watered just looking at them.
“Thanks,” he said. “I never eat the crusts.”
A hint of a smile on her lips again, and it warmed him to see it. Her face was smaller than Ro’s, and he liked the way it looked. No makeup, no earrings. She was just herself, and though she didn’t talk too much she had a presence to her, a quiet that made him wonder what she was thinking.
“I know you took care of me,” he said. “Don’t remember too much else.” Except the dreams; he remembered them.
“You scared me.” Mae ran her hand over his discarded shirt on the counter. She touched it tenderly, same way she’d done to him when he was sick. It was all coming back now, how she’d taken care of him. She’d brought him water, and painkillers, made him sit up to swallow them. “You wouldn’t go to the hospital.” She was still holding his shirt and he looked away, not wanting to stare.
After a moment she reached up and tilted his chin so he was facing her. He let her—unsure of what she was going to do. Her fingertips were soft and she held his gaze as she reached up with her other hand.
There was the lightest brush against his forehead. “You feel normal. Not as hot.” She leaned in again. “Stand still,” she said, and then she was dabbing near his temple with a tissue. He winced as red blossoms spread across the whiteness.
“Your cut’s bleeding again. Did you scratch it?”
“Must have.” He steadied himself on the counter as she wiped at his head.
“I’m glad you’re better.” The tissue was wet with his blood, and she looked worried. “Do you remember what I told you? When you were sick?”
That was when he saw her worry for what it was: she was hurting too. The pain of it was all over her face, her narrow shoulders. A heavy sadness underneath her skin. And then he reme
mbered the thing she’d told him—what, an hour ago, a day? He’d been lying on the raft; she’d been holding a cold washcloth to his forehead. And she’d told him her grandfather had passed.
Christ, it wasn’t fair. Some people had to deal with so much death and others only their own. His heart ached for the girl in front of him. Mae Cole was something special. She didn’t deserve all this pain. No one did.
“Hey.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. About your grandfather.”
The light in the barn was fading fast, but he could still see her eyes flood before she spoke. “It’s okay,” she said. “The doctor told us he went fast, that he wouldn’t have felt much. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
He didn’t know what to tell her. What he wanted to do was just hold her, but that didn’t seem right either. “You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. Tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you remember what else I told you? When you were sick?” She reached into her bag and pulled out the green book. “I got it back. We have everything we need.”
He thought he’d be excited to see it, but instead a wariness filled him. He stared at the coffins on its cover, wondered if the ritual could do what Ro had sworn it could.
“Only I need to show you something first.” She nodded at the ribbon. It was marking a place toward the back and he turned to it, and then nearly dropped the book.
The drawing looked so real, like the ring might just slide off the page. The cut of the stones, the shape of them, the detail—it matched the one he’d given Ro, he knew that for sure. The worry snake slithered in his gut.
“Ro couldn’t have drawn this,” he said. “I gave her—”
“I know,” Mae cut in. “Your ring came from the same place as this book.” Her eyes moved between him and the sketch. “Which means…” She let out a nervous laugh.