by Beth Andrews
“What can I do for you, little lady?” His tone intimated that the “lady” part was probably a stretch.
She clamped her jaw on her own attitude. “I understand you have Beau Tripp here? I’d like to know what the charges are, and if I could see him.”
His lips pursed. “Mr. Tripp is our guest due to curfew violations. Are you family?” He looked over his cheaters with a steady stare that made her want to confess to something.
“I’m his employer. Can I post bail?”
“He will be cited. We only release minors to parents. I left a message for them two hours ago.”
Sam pasted on what she hoped was a sincere smile and used her very rusty charm. “Can’t you cut the kid a break? I’ll see that he gets home. Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”
“As a repeat violator, the term ‘second chance’ doesn’t apply. And the rule dictates that I release him to a parent or guardian.”
I’m sure the rules dictate that you shouldn’t be fifty pounds overweight, but that’s obviously not an important one. God, she wanted to say it. “Could I at least see him?”
“I’ll get him.” The swivel chair squealed in relief when he stood and lumbered through a door behind the desk.
Ten minutes later, the cop returned, Beau slouching behind him. He looked more disheveled than usual, his hair hanging limp on his shoulders. His usual uniform of black appeared slept in, and probably had been.
“Sam, thanks for coming. I—”
She cut him off with a raised hand. “Just tell me what happened. And if you value your job, it had better be the truth.”
He stuck out his jaw and tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Some friends and I were hanging out. That’s it. We weren’t drinking, we weren’t causing any trouble. We were walking home when a cop stopped us.”
“So your friends are here, too?”
“Um, no.”
“Why is that?”
“Perhaps his attitude had something to do with his dispensation,” the officer offered.
She turned and glared. “You’re not helping.” She turned back to Beau. “Is that true?”
Beau stood, eyes defiant. “He just wanted to hassle us. They push us around, just cuz they can. They get off on it.”
She raised her hand again. “Were you out after curfew?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then you gave him a perfect reason to hassle you. I’m not saying the cop didn’t have an attitude.” She ignored the officer’s snort. “But you put yourself in that position. Shifting blame is the last resort of irresponsible people.”
Beau’s shoulders slumped and his face crumpled. “I know.”
“I don’t waste my time on losers. There are too many talented kids out there who are responsible, and want to learn. Clear?”
“Yes’m.”
The front door slammed open, admitting a woman who, at first glance, looked like a high-society matron. A soft pink sleeveless silk shell was tucked into expensively tailored buff linen slacks. Her well-cut hair, with perfect subtle tones of blond, screamed exclusive hairdresser. Her face suggested good breeding, with high cheekbones and a refined nose. She was tanning-bed brown and society thin.
And drunk. Not the falling-down variety, or even the speech slurring version, but Sam knew the subtle signs. Her linen slacks were rumpled, and a watermark stain darkened the silk blouse. Her hair pressed flat on one side, and her makeup was smeared. All these could be attributable to the late hour, but Sam knew better.
At Beau’s sharply indrawn breath, she glanced at him. His face showed lightning flashes of emotion: anger, embarrassment and a small boy’s disappointment, before a stony mask of disgust fell into place.
“What is it now?” the woman asked in a reedy, high-pitched voice. “Have you graduated to shoplifting? Doing drugs? How many times do I have to be called down to this place?” The woman moved within inches of Beau’s face. “Look at you. You’re slovenly, sullen—”
“Mom, please. I only...” Beau sputtered and backed up.
Sam could tell he was mortified—for his mother, for himself.
“Excuse me. Mrs. Tripp, I’m Samantha Crozier.”
For the first time, the woman seemed to notice she was not alone with her son.
“And what are you?” She looked down her perfect nose. “You’re old to be with a high-schooler. And frankly, bikers aren’t his style.”
An ugly drunk. Poor Beau. “I am your son’s employer.”
“Mom, please, let’s just go home,” Beau soothed. “I didn’t want to bother you, so I called Sam to take me home.”
She reared back, nostrils flaring. “What are you saying? That I shouldn’t be bothered when the police pick up my son? What are you insinuating, young man?”
“Mom. Please.”
“Not another word. You will get out to the car. Now.”
“Ma’am?” The desk cop used an official voice. “Have you been drinking this evening?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and her lips pulled to a thin, bloodless line. She tucked her chin and threw her shoulders back. She looked like a cobra about to strike. “How dare you?”
The front door opened again, and a man in a suit stepped in. He looked ready for a business meeting, except his thinning hair showed that he’d been running his hands through it, and the knot in his tie was pulled down, the top button of his shirt undone. “Carol, what’s taking so long? How hard can it be to pick up one delinquent?” He didn’t even look at his son. “I’ve got a plane to catch in—” he checked a gaudy Rolex “—five hours.”
The cop gave Beau’s dad an assessing look, then said, “I take it that you’ll be doing the driving, sir?”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I’ll be driving.” He turned to his wife. “I’ll be in the car. Can you move this along?” He stomped out.
“I’m sorry for bothering you, Sam,” Beau said.
At the shame in Beau’s eyes, her heart cracked open and let him in. He should be enjoying his teen years, not dealing with crap like this. “We’ll talk later. It’s going to be okay, Beau.”
Carol Tripp stepped between them. In her twisted patrician features, Sam glimpsed the beast of Beau’s home life.
“Are you supposed to be helping?” she screeched. “We pushed him to get a job to stop things like this from happening. Now he’s calling you instead of me when he needs help. This job is not having the effect we anticipated.” She looked Sam over, from the motorcycle boots on up. “Seeing his ‘employer,’ I understand why.”
Sam fisted her hands and bit her tongue. Matching wits with the witless was hopeless. Even when you won, you lost.
Beau took his mother’s arm and steered her to the door, murmuring in a quiet, conciliatory tone. He held the door open and his mother strutted through it. Beau threw a last worried glance over his shoulder, and was gone.
* * *
LATER THAT DAY, Sam sat on the hall stairs, making a list of supplies when Beau knocked on the screen door. Worry ground deep into the planes of his face. She put her clipboard down and motioned him in. “I didn’t mean for you to take a trip out here on a Saturday. You could’ve waited til Monday, after school.”
“I wanted to talk.” He took a seat on the step below her and turned sideways, his back against the wall.
She waited.
Finally, he said, “Sam, about this morning.” He took a breath.
She waited.
He stared at the wall, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Okay if I say something?”
He nodded.
“You have no control over what your mom is, or what she does. So you do things that will piss her off, just to make her feel the pain you do.”
He frowned down at her
.
“And then you look at other kids, who don’t have to deal with any of this shit. That makes you madder still.”
Red spread up from his T-shirt, staining his cheeks. “How would you know?”
She looked out the window to her unkempt yard. “I was sixteen. Our class put on the play, ‘The Glass Menagerie,’ and by some miracle, I earned a part. It wasn’t a big role, but I was so excited that I memorized lines until I knew everyone’s parts.”
She smiled. “I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but I didn’t quite fit in at my high school. This was my chance to be a part of something, not just watching from the outside.”
Beau sat, elbows on his knees, and listened.
“The night of the performance, the show had sold out. Everyone was there. I was onstage, well into the second act, when the door at the back of the auditorium banged open. Everyone in the audience turned to look. My dad stood there, drunk.”
Beau winced.
“He started down the aisle, muttering to himself, every eye on him. I tried to ignore it and just go on with the scene, but I was so embarrassed that my mind just went blank. I forgot my lines.
“My dad pointed to me and said, ‘That’s my Sam up there. Isn’t she beautiful? Hey Sammie, I’m here. I told you I’d come!’” She shifted on the stair, still uncomfortable all these years later. “One of the teachers sitting in the front row got up, took my dad’s arm and tried to lead him away.
“My dad was a happy drunk, but that night, he wouldn’t go quietly. He got louder and more belligerent when they tried to walk him out. He stumbled, and a few other men got up to help. There was my little disheveled dad, surrounded by all those men in business suits. They led him away, him yelling at the top of his lungs about how he wanted to see his daughter act.”
“I’m not going back there.” The steel in his voice brought her head around.
“I’m not. I told her today. I’m quitting school, finding a full-time job, moving out.”
His mind was made up. But she had to try. “Beau, that makes no sense. You have a month of school left until graduation. And you’re not going to get a contractor’s license without a high school diploma.”
“Then I won’t. Doesn’t matter, anyway. They threw me out.”
“Your parents?” Surely his father would have interjected some sanity? “Both of them?”
“Yeah. Tough love. They’re big fans.”
“Shit.” She stood and stepped around him, pacing the hallway, trying to think past the red haze in her head. How could parents give up on their child that easily? He wasn’t a drug addict, for Chrissake. “Hang on. Just let me think a minute.”
“Sam, this isn’t your problem. I’ve got it under control.”
She stopped in front of him. “Oh, do you? Where are you sleeping tonight?” He looked away. “And you are not quitting school.”
“Bullshit.” His chin lifted. “You can’t tell me what to do, either. If you don’t want me to work here, fine.” He stood. “Who needs this crap, anyway?”
She put her hand on his arm. “Beau, stop.” A tremor ran through the corded muscles under her fingers. This kid was a bomb waiting to go off. “You’re right. I have no hold on you. You can leave. If you want to.”
The screen door hit the wall as he slammed through. Bugs barked in the backyard.
She rushed to the door but then forced herself to slow down, and lounge against the frame. She raised her voice. “Just one thing, before you go.”
He took the porch steps in one leap.
“If you give up your dream to punish your parents, who wins?”
He stopped but didn’t turn.
“Ever heard the saying that success is the best revenge?”
She could almost hear him thinking.
“Beau, give me ten minutes. Then I’ll let you go.”
He looked at his car in the drive, then exhaled a grumbling sigh and sat on the last step of the porch.
Her heart pinched when his taut back slumped. She crossed the porch and leaned against the porch railing.
God, I know that pain.
She ached to sit down and hug him. She wanted to hug herself. Instead, her hand stole to touch his head. When he didn’t shrink away, she petted his hair while she thought.
It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to stay here, even though she had room.
But wait. She wasn’t the only one with a spare room. “I’ve got an idea. Don’t move.” She jogged to the kitchen and picked up the phone to call in the cavalry.
Two hours later, it was solved. Tim had talked to Beau, and they’d worked out a deal. Beau could stay in one of Tim’s cabins, rent-free, provided he stayed in school and graduated. One disaster averted.
* * *
WIDOW’S GROVE HAD changed with the times, but the old-fashioned post office remained, where patrons’ mail nested in cubbyholes along the back wall. Nick reached the front of a long line and stepped up to the counter. “Hey, Harve, what’s the news?”
The old man rolled his tall wheeled chair to the box the Pinellis had owned for forty years. “Well, let’s see...the country’s going to hell, the kids are a mess, and...” He rolled his chair back and placed one letter on the counter. “You have this.”
Nick glanced from Harve’s somber wrinkles to the official-looking envelope. The California State Seal on it smacked him like a thug’s sap.
California didn’t have a prison system. It was the “Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections.” As if lipstick made that pig sexy.
“You okay, Nickie?”
Realizing he’d stood staring too long, Nick shook off his daze. “Yeah.”
“Screw that, Nick. You can’t pick your family. You do good things in this town. You have people who care about you.”
“Yeah. I know.” He slid the envelope off the counter, and into his back pocket. “Thanks, Harve.” He turned away, held the door for a spandex mommy with a jogging stroller, then followed her out.
He walked hard and fast, dodging tourists, his past burning like a sheet of acid. Most people looked forward to April—the grass in the hills transitioning from green to gold, the cloudy mornings, the warm afternoons that hinted summer’s heat.
Nick dreaded April. Mainly because it was the anniversary of his mother’s death. The second reason rode in his back pocket. Inside the official envelope was a personal letter from his father. Nick knew, because every year on The Anniversary, his father sent a letter. Not that Nick had ever read them.
Just read it. How could he hurt you more than he has? The sun hammered his head, and his black T-shirt worked as a magnifier, intensifying the heat.
Yes. Open me, his father’s deep, rumbly voice ordered.
The envelope crinkling taunts with every step, he turned off Hollister to get away from the crowds.
He winced. Shame rubbed flesh left already raw by the acid bath of guilt. He’d lulled himself with his new life. He could now go a day without seeing his father’s swarthy face around every corner. He no longer saw his mother’s willowy shape among women in a crowd. Forgetting was a good thing. Life became day-to-day simple. It allowed him to pretend he was like everyone else.
But it gave reminders like the one in his pocket.
Oh, hell, what’s the use? He could pretend the rest of his life, and he still wouldn’t fit in. His past made him separate—apart. Always.
His parents’ love story was the stuff of local legend. His father’s family moved to Widow’s Grove midyear. When his parents slapped eyes on each other in high school, they became the talk of the town. The D.A.’s daughter and an immigrant from the bad side of the creek. A Cinderella story in reverse.
No “happily ever after” there.
Jesus, he was thirsty.
His fee
t stopped. To discover why, he looked down at them, then up. Conversation drifted through the open door of the Bar None. Squinting, he could see the hot pink Schlitz sign through the gloom. Pool balls clacked. The husky laugh of Rhonda, the bartender, was a “welcome home.”
Nick didn’t always want a drink. In fact, after the first year or so of AA, the physical need faded. And he didn’t want a drink now. He craved it. When the bar blew a beery breeze into his face, the need grew teeth. And claws. Nick knew the crazed animal in his chest would lie down only before the comforting oblivion of booze. Need sang in his head.
The past lay always, coiled in the back of his brain. Days like today it struck, fast and hard.
Before he could give in to the need to medicate, he did an about-face and strode down the sidewalk, not sure where he was headed. Until the door of the Farm House Café came into view.
He walked in, the smell of onions and bacon grease washing over him, loosening the knot in his gut.
Jesse looked up from her math puzzle, her face lit with delight. “Nick! It’s good to see you.” Her eyebrows drew together. “What’s the matter?”
He eased down onto “his” stool at the counter, pulled the envelope out of his back pocket and slapped it on the speckled Formica.
Jesse chewed her lips a moment. “Damn, I hate him. You want some pie, honey?”
* * *
SAM SAT WITH a cup of coffee at the card table that constituted her entire dining set, supposedly reviewing the blueprints spread before her. But she wasn’t. The dream last night was the worst yet. It had left her dragged down and hopeless at the edge of dawn, frantic to get on her bike and travel—anywhere.
She looked around the tired kitchen. What had she been thinking? Settling in at Widow’s Grove had been a bad idea. Very bad. The past had been gaining ground, even when she kept busy, every day. Now here she sat, in the middle of a huge project.
The dreams were escalating—eating up the years between her and—What Happened. She felt raw, as though her skin was being peeled back. Exposed.
She’d told.
The mug thumped when she set it back on the table. How do you take that back?
Nick, that was a story—I made it up. Oh, yeah, he’d probably buy that.