Moondust Lake

by Davis Bunn

  She found herself thinking back to her days before Jack. It was an indulgence she almost never permitted herself. But she knew what awaited her down the hall, inside the room with the door closed against the world. In a place meant to dissolve all the shields she used to keep her secrets safe.

  Her father’s father had been an unschooled preacher, a charismatic Bible-thumping firebrand at the pulpit. Everywhere else, he was as gentle as a summer wind. Ransom Brant had been a Central Valley farmer, never traveled more than fifty miles from his hundred-acre spread. He had raised almonds and tree fruit and strawberries and seven kids. Beth’s father had been the first of his family to ever go to college. Like a lot of country preachers of his day, Ransom was seldom paid for his troubles. He even laughed about one particular tent revival that had lasted three days, and when they passed the hat at the end, he had received a grand total of six dollars and seventy cents. Ransom claimed that given the quality of his preaching, he’d been overpaid. Everybody in Fresno County had taken pride in calling Ransom Brant their friend.

  That particular afternoon, Beth found her grandfather seated on the bench that ran down the shaded side of the house, replacing worn leather from a bridle and reins. She’d rehearsed the words all the way out from town, but when the time came, she simply announced, “Jack Helms has asked me to marry him.”

  The paring knife hesitated momentarily, then recommenced. “Are you asking or telling?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “What do you want me to say, granddaughter?”

  “That you’re happy, of course.” When the hand kept its smooth motions, she demanded, “Aren’t you?”

  “I want to be. I truly do. But there’s a shadow in that man. It concerns me.”

  “You baptized him, Granddaddy.”

  “That I did.”

  “He didn’t come forward because of me. We hadn’t even met.”

  “Oh, I know that, child. Jack Helms was chased by the same fiends that are plaguing him now.”

  She heard her voice go small. “I thought you’d be thrilled.”

  “I can see why. He’s quite a catch. Handsome and smart and well-off, all those things you already know about.”

  His measured response was as close as Ransom Brant ever came to criticism. And it burned her from the back of her eyeballs, all the way down her throat, to the deepest core of her being. Then and now.

  A voice drew her back to the day, the church, and the waiting room.

  “Mrs. Helms, hello, I’m Kimberly Sturgiss. Won’t you come this way?”

  But when she stood up, Beth was lanced by the same pain that had afflicted most of her recent nights. As though the memory had found a way to grip an unseen blade and slice it between her ribs.

  “Mrs. Helms?”

  She raised her hand. Breathed. Fit the pain back where it belonged. Where she could manage. And said the first thing that came to mind. “Sorry. I let my mind wander where it shouldn’t.” She forced a smile. “Well, perhaps I should say, where I don’t often let it.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Mrs. Helms.”

  Beth shook the young woman’s hand and thought the same thing she had when seeing Kimberly at church, which was, the woman was far too beautiful to be a good caregiver. As she followed Kimberly down the hall, she saw how the furtive glances tracked them. Beth realized, and said, “My husband has been here, hasn’t he?”

  “Indeed he has.” Kimberly might have smiled as she ushered Beth into her office. But her eyes flashed with remembered ire.

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, let’s see. He insulted me. Then he forbade me to serve as your therapist. And then he promised to have me fired.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? You are not your husband. Nor are you responsible for his actions. Won’t you have a seat?”

  “I was wrong.”

  “About what, Mrs. Helms?”

  “About you. And please call me Beth.” She looked around the room, took in the boxes of texts and the unhung diplomas and the woman’s gaze. It reminded her of Buddy, the strength and the fragility together in an impossible mix. “I had asked Jack to join me for couple’s therapy. But he’s not coming, is he?”

  “I have been surprised by people too often to say for certain. But if I were forced to guess, I’d say, probably not.”

  “Do you think it would make any difference if I made my appointments with Preston?”

  “Mrs. Helms, my one contact with your husband suggests that he is threatened by the very concept of counseling. He judges. He fears judgment from others. Or from himself.” Kimberly did not invite Beth to sit again. Instead, she leaned against the desk, allowing Beth to decide where she would be comfortable. “The question you need to ask yourself is, would you prefer to attend sessions with Preston?”

  “No. Actually . . .”

  Beth liked how Kimberly did not feel any need to press. Even when Beth remained planted in the middle of her office, staring about her, uncertain whether to sit down at all. Finally she said, “I am not certain I’m interested in therapy if Jack won’t join me.”

  “What is it you want, Beth? Forget your husband for a second.” Kimberly smiled then, but Beth had the very distinct impression that this woman had shed a great many tears of her own. “What is it you, yourself, would like most?”

  She did not need to think that through. “I would like a friend. One that is mine, and mine alone.”

  “I understand you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, Beth. I do. I went through my own dark time four years ago. And it seemed as though all the world was forced to choose between one side of the crisis or the other.”

  “That’s happening to me now, and I hate it.”

  “I did, too. What I wanted most was one person who cared enough not to need to take sides, or even think about choices. Who was just there. For me.”

  “Did you find someone like that?”

  “I did. My cousin.”

  “He seems like a very nice man. Jack was rather hard on him at lunch, I’m afraid.”

  “Preston can take care of himself.” Kimberly tilted her head slightly, so that her roan-dark hair fell over one shoulder. “I think I would like to be your friend, Beth. If that’s what you meant by your comment.”

  “Can I ask why, since you don’t know me at all?”

  “I’ve met Jack. And I’ve met Buddy.” She seemed to hesitate over the second name. “You have a wonderful son.”

  “He’s so much like my grandfather.” The pain in her side blossomed again, and Beth used one hand to smash it back into place. “I was worried that Buddy wouldn’t realize what needed doing in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Beth was very tempted to tell her. Though she was drawn to this woman, Beth believed there was a certain order to such events. And it did not start here. So she said, “Buddy recently left Jack’s company. He needed to make this move while he was still young enough to redefine his place in the world.”

  “You show a remarkable insight.”

  The words threatened to release the pain. Beth mashed down harder still. “It’s easier to apply such ability to my children than to myself.”

  Kimberly watched Beth compress the flesh below her heart. “So true. Unfortunately.”

  “I love Jack still. Nothing has changed in that regard. But I fear he has lost his ability to love. And I blame myself, at least in part.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I’m not so sure.” She eased herself into the nearest chair. Not so much because she felt comfortable in this place, rather she needed all her strength to speak aloud what she had buried for too long. “I have spent thirty-nine years loving Jack Helms. Much of that time was truly wonderful. But Jack has always carried shadows I don’t understand. Then we went through a difficult period in my family, and my husband went off the rails. The shadows rule him now. I feel as though he’s lost to me. I’d never be
strong enough to do what I’ve done for me alone. But the children need him to be the man he once was.”

  Beth suddenly found herself overwhelmed by the struggle to simply not cry. She leaned over her knees, which was good, for it relieved some of the pressure in her chest. She stayed like that for a few moments, taking shallow breaths. When she straightened, the pain was gone. What was more, she felt lighter. As though the simple act of speaking had released her from unseen burdens. Only then did she realize that Kimberly had seated herself across from her.

  Beth went on. “For years I thought if I worked hard enough and prayed hard enough and loved hard enough, I could change Jack. Help him grow through whatever secrets tormented him. I had the children to love and nurture. But they’re gone now, and I know it’s time. Jack needs to see that he’s no longer in control. I’m not talking about his family, though that is true enough. I’m talking about the darkness he’s always carried. Day by day its hold on my husband grows stronger.”

  Kimberly took her time responding. When she did, her voice had gone flat. “Where do you want to go with this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What happens now? How do you want to apply this new realization?”

  Beth studied the lovely young woman seated across from her. This new companionship she had with pain offered its own bitter fruit. Perhaps she was able to see others more clearly. Or perhaps it was simply that there was so much less of Beth Helms to get in the way. The sudden realization caused her to draw in a sharp breath, which was a mistake. She spoke around the pain. “Kimberly, are we friends? I mean, truly.”

  The woman blinked slowly. “I’d like that. Yes.”

  “Then I have the impression you weren’t asking about me and my own situation, were you? It was about you. You’ve married the wrong man, too, haven’t you?”

  The therapist rose from her chair, walked over, and shut her door. Beth had not even realized until that moment it was still open. Kimberly stood there, her hand on the knob, and said, “This is terrible.”

  “What is, being friends?”

  “You were right. I didn’t ask about you, the patient. I asked for me. That is so wrong. It goes against every conceivable—”

  “Kimberly, come back over and sit down. Please.” When she had done so, Beth went on, “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “I married my college sweetheart. I got pregnant. He left me for my roommate and best friend. I lost the child. They’re happily married and have two kids.” Her voice had the detached tone of an automaton. “He left me four years ago. I thought moving down here would help me start a new life, free from my past. But here you are, my first patient, and our first session takes me right back to where—”

  “I am not your patient.” Beth’s tone was sharp enough to draw Kimberly back. “I did not enter therapy for myself. I’ve known the truth for years. I am doing the best I can, the absolute best, by my husband. I’m here today for Jack. If my husband refuses to join me, why bother?”

  “So you can move on.” The words carried an abject forlornness. “So you can define a new future.”

  Beth might have laughed, had it not been for the pain in Kimberly’s features. “That’s a nice idea,” she said gently. “Why don’t we meet together and talk about that . . . a future. But not here. Somewhere else. So that you don’t feel confined by what you expect to have happen here in the office.”

  “Now you’re doing what I should. Setting boundaries.”

  “I’ve spent my entire life doing precisely that.” She eased herself up in stages, but the pain did not reappear. Instead, Beth found herself needled by yet another insight. One so strange she tried to ignore it entirely.

  This woman was in love with her son. Only she did not know it yet.

  Kimberly walked her down the hall, through the reception area, down the stairs, and out into the cold gray day. When they were isolated from the clinic’s many unseen mirrors, Kimberly said, “Everything I’ve heard about your son suggests that Buddy is a remarkable man.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Beth hugged the younger woman, then swiftly departed. Walking away was the only means at her disposal to hide the sudden tears. When Beth arrived at her car, Kimberly was still standing there. The young woman unwrapped one arm and offered a farewell wave. Beth opened her door and slipped slowly inside, breathing easy enough to almost chant the words, “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The sun had set by the time Buddy arrived in downtown Santa Barbara. He drove on autopilot, not so much going anywhere as avoiding his empty town house. He cruised along State Street, past the crowds spilling from restaurants and bars. He found a parking space and started walking, listening to the nighttime chatter, wondering if he had ever in his entire life felt as carefree as they sounded.

  As he approached the nightclub where his sister’s current lover was playing, Buddy realized he had left one crucial matter undone. He turned on his phone, and was instantly awash with shame over the number of calls from his office, nineteen spaced over the entire day. He phoned Serena at home and said, “I can explain.”

  “It’s too late for that” his secretary replied. “Your team left frantic behind around noon.”

  “Pop has been on the rampage?”

  “Not at all. He passed through every hour or so. He looked in your office, glanced at me, and walked away. Never spoke a word.”

  “I imagine it was awful.”

  “Jack’s silence bit like acid,” she agreed. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “I’m won’t be coming in.”

  “Jack won’t like that. At all.”

  Buddy did not respond.

  “What do I say?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Not a single thing.”

  “Jack went out yesterday afternoon. He said he was going to the church. When he came back, he looked ready to explode. Did he go looking for you?”

  “No.” Buddy debated telling her about his parents separating, then decided there was no need to add to the woman’s concerns.

  “When are you coming in?”

  “Serena, I want you to pass on a message to the team.”

  “Is that your answer?”

  “It’s the only one I can give you right now.”

  “All right. My pen is poised. Fire away.”

  “Tell them to hold tight.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe a couple of weeks. A month tops.”

  “You’re asking them not to jump ship, is that it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you?”

  “I need to talk with Pop before anyone else. I owe him . . .” Actually, Buddy decided, he didn’t owe his father a thing. “Do you understand?”

  “No, not really. But I suppose . . .” She hesitated, then asked, “You’re not leaving us alone here, are you?”

  “If I go, wherever I wind up, it will be with an open door to anyone who wants to join me.”

  She breathed long and steady. “Can I tell them that, too?”

  “All right. Yes. But not that I’ve left or am leaving. You understand? This is important, Serena.”

  “I understand, Buddy. Listen, I heard from Lexington just before I left. They want to come in for a preliminary—”

  “Put them off.”

  “They won’t like it.”

  They would like hearing Buddy had left even less. But that was going to be his father’s problem. A big one. “Do it, Serena. It’s important.”

  “Well, if you put it like that. Tell me something, Buddy. Why am I smiling?”

  * * *

  The Soho Music Club was gaining a reputation as the premier jazz locale between LA and San Francisco. The owners had taken over a defunct department store and transformed it into a venue known for its fine acoustics and very knowledgeable audience. Recently the LA Times had done a piece on how the Soho Music Clu
b was the place to hear the next hot thing.

  Ricardo’s band played fusion jazz. Fusion was a catchall phrase for combining jazz complexities with other popular music—rock, folk, pop, and electronic. Ricardo’s group specialized in soft-rock fusion. When Buddy entered, they were wowing the crowd with their rendition of an old Al Jarreau hit. Ricardo’s voice was powerful enough to lift many in the crowd to their feet and draw them forward. Buddy found a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a Coke from a passing bartender.

  His sister was ensconced in a mini-balcony on the room’s far side. Carey’s perch held the band’s mixing board and light controls. Carey had loved music since childhood. Through a string of early boyfriends, she had gained a deft hand at the mixing process. She spied Buddy and waved, then pointed at her headphones and lifted one finger, indicating she would join him soon. Ricardo had a powerful voice, and could imitate George Benson’s voice-and-guitar riffs with a masterful hand. But fame had eluded him, because none of his own songs ignited the audience. It had turned him sullen. He only came out of his brooding shell when he was on stage, when the smile flashed and the dark eyes hunted. Buddy neither liked nor trusted the man. The feeling was mutual.

  Soon as the set ended, young women crowded the stage. Ricardo slipped the guitar strap from his shoulder, set his instrument in the stand, and flashed a magnificent smile to the waiting throng. He laughed and he shone as he lowered himself from the thigh-high stage. Many had bought CDs from the bartender and held them out with pens for him to sign. The rest of the band faded into the shadows, heading for the ready room while Ricardo played the front man, the star.

  He laughed and he flirted and he flashed with gemstone brilliance as he moved toward the balcony and Carey. She slipped the headphones from her ears and leaned across the board to smile a welcome. But Ricardo had no smile for her. The closer he came, the tighter his scowl grew. Buddy had seen this change in Ricardo before, and did not like it. When Buddy had tried to complain to his sister, Carey had shut him down. She said he didn’t understand musicians, or their need to drop the stage face with the person they were closest to. She said Buddy didn’t know the pressures they lived under, the strain and the fear of missing a chance that might never come. Buddy had been hearing the same litany for years. Only the faces changed.