“It definitely hits the wow factor. They—we—were gypsies with no Romany heritage and my parents glommed on to a lot of bizarre beliefs that came and went.”
“And this has to do with Jerry Garcia how?”
“He appealed to their freedom factor—no rules, no being bound by traditional ideas or values, crusaders of antisocial thinking, protesting the status quo. They were also very fond of Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley. My father favors dystopian literature like Brave New World. My mother, on the other hand, is a very sweet lady who adores him, agrees with everything he says, likes to paint and weave and is really a brilliant but misguided soul. She usually homeschooled us since we were wanderers.” He took a breath and dug around a little bit. “My father is undiagnosed schizophrenic. Mild. Functional. And my mother is his enabler and codependent.”
“It sounds so interesting,” she said, kind of agog. “And you’re an only child, too?”
He shook his head. “The oldest of four. Two boys, two girls.”
“Where’s the rest of the family?” she asked.
“Here and there,” he told her. “My youngest sister was on the farm with my parents last I checked. There’s a sister back East living a very conventional life with a nice, normal husband and two very proper children. My brother is in the military. Army. He’s an infantry major. That’s taken years off my mother’s life, I’m sure.”
She laughed and it was a bright, musical sound. “You are no ordinary camper! What are you doing here?”
He leaned on the spade. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking after Sully,” she said.
“Oh, but that’s not all,” he said. “Neurosurgeons don’t just take weeks off when duty calls.”
“True. Not weeks off, anyway. I was already here for a vacation. My practice in Denver shut down because two of my former partners are not only being sued but being investigated by the attorney general for fraud and malpractice. I am not being indicted. I had no knowledge of their situation. But I can’t float a practice alone.”
“And that’s not all, either.”
“My father had a heart attack,” she said indignantly.
“I know, but there’s something else. Something that made you run home, run to your father, who is a remarkable man, by the way. There’s at least one more thing...”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“That little shadow behind your eyes. Something personal hurt you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“A man,” he said. “I bet there was a man. You had a falling out or fight or something. Or he cheated. Or you did.”
“There was no cheating! We just parted company!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, grinning at her.
“That’s just plain rude, prying like that. I didn’t do that to you. I was only curious and I asked but if you’d said it was none of my business, I wouldn’t have pushed. And I wouldn’t have given you some bullshit about something behind your eyes.”
“I think I’m getting a name,” he said, rolling his eyes upward as if seeking the answer in the heavens. “Arthur? Adam? Andrew, that’s it.”
She got to her feet, a disgusted smirk marring her pretty face. “Oh, that was good, Calhoun,” she said.
“Frank told me,” he said. “You weren’t thinking of keeping a secret around here, were you?” He laughed, very amused with himself. “And it’s not Calhoun.”
She brushed off the butt of her jeans. “You’re going to pay for that. I don’t know how yet, but trust me...”
“Someone has to teach you how to have a little fun, Maggie,” he said.
“Well, it’s not going to be you, Carlisle.”
He just shook his head and laughed. Then he worked on tilling the garden plot.
To find yourself, think for yourself.
—Socrates
The days were getting just a little longer, a little warmer. Flowers were starting to sprout along roadsides and trails. It was turning beautiful in and around Sullivan’s Crossing. Sully wasn’t able to plant his bulbs around the house but Maggie did it for him, with his relentless supervision.
Maggie and Sully had been back for five days and she’d driven to Timberlake as many times. First for some fresh vegetables and salmon, then for seedlings for Sully’s garden along with fertilizer, then for some fish and chicken breasts. She went ahead and stocked up on frozen shrimp and ground turkey and she spent a lot of time on her laptop looking up heart-healthy meals.
This was not how Maggie envisioned her escape from reality. She’d been hoping to relax and empty her brain of all those disappointments and worries. But this? She was working her tail off. She was not used to cooking, for one thing. When she was working she typically ate hospital food which, paradoxically, was not the healthiest. It was so starchy, cafeteria quality. It wasn’t the food they served patients, either. If not eating at the hospital, she’d grab something on the way home, something light—there was a conveniently located grocer and deli that sold prepared meals for one. And then there were the times she went out with friends or some of the staff for a meal and they were partial to either sushi or Italian.
But now she was working hard at feeding Sully delicious things to at least intrigue him rather than bore him to death. Before, when Maggie was at the campground, they’d decide what they were having for dinner and meet at about seven, throw a steak, burgers or maybe some chicken breasts on the grill. And they’d eat their meat with fries or potato chips.
She was already tired of this new routine.
She also watched while Cal got the garden ready. This was not his first garden. He created neat, straight rows of slightly raised dirt, ready for planting.
There were two fishermen in the campground and one older couple in an RV. The couple was interested in getting pictures of the wildflowers that were springing up all over, some even popping through the snow at the higher elevations. Because there was still so little traffic there was a sign on the front door of the store—Winter Hours, 8-5.
After dinner one evening, she walked over to the store to pilfer a beer and she saw there was a campfire on the beach, one lone man enjoying the mild evening. She grabbed two beers and walked down to the lake. He was sitting on top of a picnic table, feet on the bench, his elbows on his knees. His short brown hair was wet, as was the collar of his sweatshirt. He’d had a shower and shave.
“Evening, Caldwell,” she said.
He turned toward her in surprise and she handed him a beer. “Caldwell?” he asked. “You’re
