her a pitying look. “Whatever you say. That’s $32.79.”
Ellen handed Peggy the money with her teeth clenched. It was a mistake to let Peggy bait her. The woman had a nose like a bloodhound for people’s weak points, and defending Simon was as pointless an exercise now as it ever had been.
Ellen grabbed her bags and stalked out of the Shopping Kart without so much as a polite nod of farewell. The damp from the recent thunderstorm closed around her like a smothering embrace. She looked around, lost and blank. She’d forgotten where she’d parked her pickup.
Simon Riley. Back in LaRue. Her heart thudded. Her face had gone sweaty and hot. She fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses with jittery hands. She was light-headed. Dizzy. Maybe she had sunstroke.
Duh. There was her pickup, up the block. She’d opted for the shade in front of the insurance office instead of the blazing sun of the Kart’s parking lot. A sensible choice. She was a sensible woman.
She had to remember that. Hang on to that.
She hadn’t thought about Simon Riley for years. Dreams didn’t count, she had finally conceded, not even the feverish, erotic ones. She didn’t choose them, and therefore she couldn’t possibly blame herself for them. Neither did those thoughts that sneaked up whenever she wasn’t keeping herself busy. Which wasn’t too damned often anymore. Her life was rich and full and complete, and, of course, there was Brad, her boyfriend. No, not boyfriend. Fiancé, she corrected herself firmly. He was now her fiancé, as of two weeks ago Sunday, and a very nice fiancé he was, too. And in not too long a time, he would be her husband. She waited for the quiet, contented glow that reflection ought to give her.
It refused to show itself.
There had been a time when not thinking about Simon had amounted to a full-time occupation. Now she was an old pro. Now it was no big deal. She was halfway through the crosswalk before she realized that she’d walked past her own truck.
She marched the half block back to it, tight-lipped, and packed her perishables into the cooler. When Simon’s uncle Gus Riley had shot himself a few months back, the shock had briefly revived old gossip. People had wondered out loud about what happened to that wild boy who’d run off so long ago. Some speculated that he’d gone to the bad and was leading a life of crime in some big, nasty city.
Not Ellen Kent. Been there, done that. She had better things to worry about. She shoved plastic ice packs around the food, sealed the cooler and climbed into the truck. She wasn’t picturing Simon Riley, all big and dirty and sweaty in black riding leathers, his black hair blowing wild and loose all the way down to here. Huh uh.
She’d moved on.
The motorcycle bumped and jolted over the rutted logging road that snaked along the McNary Creek Canyon. Simon had braced himself in every way he could. He’d eaten a meal, he’d drunk strong coffee, he’d washed his clothes, he’d scrubbed himself in the waterfall’s icy pool. He could think of no other excuse not to face up to Gus’s house, other than the fact that the prospect made him feel sick and faint.
He cut the motor and coasted down towards the house. It was smaller and shabbier than he remembered, and it had been plenty shabby seventeen years ago. The paint had peeled away, and the house had taken on the eerie silver shade of a prairie ghost town. Everywhere he looked, time collapsed. He felt younger, angrier. Scared and confused. Fucking up every time he turned around.
He wasn’t a fuckup anymore, he reminded himself. Not at his work, at least. He was a seasoned professional, excellent at what he did. He’d achieved a certain amount of fame in the journalism world for his brazen fearlessness. More balls than brains, his colleagues said, but that was what sold, and everyone knew it.
A golden eagle swooped low, checking him out. The shadow of its huge wingspan brushed over him. A swift, quiet benediction.
He took courage from that and approached the house. The rotten porch boards sagged beneath his weight. The unlocked door creaked open. The smell of dust and mold filled his nose as his eyes adjusted.
Gus had never been much of a housekeeper in the best of times, and it was evident that these had been far from the best of times. Dishes were heaped in the sink, encrusted with dried, molded food. A cast-iron skillet thick with grease sat on the filthy propane stove top. Empty bourbon bottles covered the counter, crowded the floor. The pattern of the peeling linoleum was barely visible beneath the dirt.
He walked into the kitchen. A clutter of miscellany covered the tables. Dishes, silverware, paper, and, incongruously, a laptop computer. No electric lamps or appliances. Gus must have hooked the computer to his gas generator. It was connected to a phone jack, but he saw no phone. Gus had gotten a phone line just for the Internet.
He walked slowly through the broken-down house. Dirt and junk and cobwebs. Dead flies and liquor bottles. The desolation made his throat tighten. No guilt, he reminded himself. Gus had brought his loneliness on himself. Simon would have been glad to love his uncle.
Gus had driven his nephew away with his fists.
It made him sick. He wanted to fling something against the discolored wall, just to hear it shatter. One of those bourbon bottles would do just fine. He breathed deeply and let the impulse pass.
That was the past Simon, young and dumb and full of come. He had a handle on his temper now, and he hung onto it with both hands, but it was time to get out in the open where he could breathe.
Hank’s letter had said they had found Gus in front of the house. He waded out into the meadow. The grass was thick and high, a waving blaze of gold so deep the rusted cars seemed nearly drowned in it.
He couldn’t say goodbye to Gus like this, with his mind shut up tight against grief and memories. He closed his eyes, unclenched his fists, and let the tension relax. He opened his mind as if he were about to take photographs. Softening, widening, until he merged with what he was observing, until he and it were one.
He reached down deep, for his best memories of Gus.
The image blindsided him the moment his guard went down. Fire roaring up, just like his dreams. Greedy, raging, consuming violence. For an instant, the waving grass seemed an inferno of licking flames.
Just as suddenly, the perception was gone. He stood in a fragrant meadow humming and buzzing with life under the blazing August sun. Doubled over and shaking, his forehead wet with cold sweat.
He pressed his hand against his belly and willed the queasiness to pass. He knew this feeling all too well. A premonition of disaster.
He knew the impulse that followed it, too. The only thing in the whole world that would make him feel better.
He had to find El.
Ellen pulled into the Kent House driveway and parked in her own spot under the maples. She ran a practiced eye over the cars of the guests in residence in the small parking lot below the house.
The Phillips family’s Rover, Phil Endicott’s silver Lexus, Chuck and Suzie’s Jeep, bristling with sports equipment, Mr. Hempstead’s massive baby blue Chrysler. Everyone here for tea today. Then her eye fell on an unfamiliar silver Volvo sedan. A new guest, she hoped. She’d had an unexpected cancellation this morning, so she had a free room. She hoped that Missy, her part-time help, had mustered up the nerve to check the new guests in. She was trying to teach the girl to be less timid, but it was uphill work.
A
