The Great Banditi working at Taco Bell.
No, that was something even he couldn’t foresee.
So, first things first. He had to find Pendland Street.
He turned and noticed a teenager across the street. She had long, dark hair and a steady gaze. She had stopped to stare at him. Not everyone could hold a stare that long and not seem rude. He quickly summed her up: too observant. He smiled to put her at ease.
“I was wondering,” he called to her, “if you could tell me where Pendland Street is?”
She pointed west and he thanked her, picking up his suitcase and hurrying away. Best to be a mystery to some. Confusion was always the best way out of an unfamiliar situation. Any magician worth his salt knew that.
He found the street easily and walked slowly past the rambling old houses. Decent enough, he supposed. But the neighborhood didn’t give him hope that he could make more money here than he’d already figured.
He had no idea where he was going to stay. He never did. Oftentimes it was in a park or a patch of woods somewhere. But his bones weren’t what they used to be. He longed for softer things these days. Softer bus seats, softer beds, softer marks. And there was a chill in the air here that he didn’t like. He wasn’t moving fast enough to avoid the cold touch of autumn as it marched steadily from the north, and it made his joints stiff.
Halfway down the winding street, he stopped. His feet were already aching because, even though his shoes were so highly polished that they made perfect star-point reflections in the sunlight, there were holes forming on the soles, and he could feel every pebble he stepped on.
He looked up and saw that he had stopped in front of a house with a large sign on the front lawn that read, HISTORIC PENDLAND STREET INN.
He looked at the address number. It was a mere nine houses away from where his latest mark lived. This was fortuitous, indeed. Perhaps things were looking up.
Instead of walking to his mark’s house to scope it out, which was better done under the cover of night, anyway, he walked up the sidewalk to the inn. The house was painted pink with brick-red shutters. The gingerbread trim along its arches was white, as was the porch. No fewer than four pumpkins were on each step leading up to the porch, each of varying sizes and colors; some pumpkins were even white, one was purple. Dried pampas grass was in an urn beside the door. Someone had put a great deal of effort into the autumnal decorations.
He opened the door, which had a wreath made of bittersweet on it, and entered.
It looked as most old houses turned into inns did, lots of shiny dark wood, a sitting room to the left, a dining area to the right, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. A check-in desk was in the foyer. More pumpkins were in here, too, and displays of dried silver dollar plants and Japanese paper lanterns. Someone had also taken their floral arranging class very seriously.
He set his suitcase down and looked around. There was no one here this evening. They must not offer dinner to guests. But the dining area hinted at breakfast or lunch, which meant there was a kitchen he could quietly raid. It had been hours since he’d last eaten. He tapped the bell on the desk and waited, studying the photos on the wall. Most were of a prissy, prudish-looking man in his sixties, shaking hands with people who appeared to be local bigwigs.
But the man in the photos wasn’t the person who appeared from a room behind the staircase.
It was an excruciatingly thin woman, someone who reminded him of a contortionist he once knew named Gretel. This woman was in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hair was dyed dark brown and her skin was the sallow hue of someone with a two-pack-a-day habit. Her eyes, probably her one beauty as a youth, were quite green. He sized her up right away. This was a woman who had long ago figured out she wasn’t getting her own happily-ever-after. But, like all disappointed women, she still believed in it, just that it was meant for someone else.
“May I help you?” she said, without much enthusiasm. She reeked of cigarette smoke.
He smiled at her, holding her eyes with his own. He was older than she was by twenty years, but he knew he was still attractive, in a genteel kind of way. His hair was thick and silver, and his eyes were an unusual bright gray. They were eyes that could hypnotize, which was the only reason he’d been allowed to stay on with Sir Walter Trott’s Traveling Carnival when his mother left. Well, one of the reasons. “I’d like a room, please.”
She turned to the computer on the desk and woke it up with a shake of the mouse. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Sadly, no.”
She looked at him with exasperation. “This is leaf-looker season. We’re booked. Sorry.”
He leaned in slightly, showing his appreciation for the small effort she’d made with lipstick by looking at her mouth. “Surely you could make an exception for this weary traveler? I’ve come a long way.”
She looked startled, as if this kind of attention was unexpected. Unexpected, but not unwanted. No, he had not read her wrong. He rarely did. “My brother would have a fit,” she said, her hand going to the collar of her white polo shirt with the Pendland Street Inn logo embroidered on the chest.
“But something tells me you know how to work around that,” he said with a smile. He let her know that he noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring by looking at the hand that was playing with her collar. “I’ve always found that the smartest people aren’t the ones in charge, it’s the ones who let them think they’re in charge. Older brother?” He could see from the photos on the wall that he was.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I had an older brother, too.” He didn’t, of course.
“Was he a prick, too?” the woman asked. Her use of the familiar, the colloquial, let him know he was already in.
He shook his head in solidarity. “The stories I could tell.”
“I do love a good story. What the hell,” she said, turning back to the computer. “It’s your lucky day. My brother doesn’t usually let me man the front desk. He says I don’t have front-desk qualities. I can cancel a reservation.” She typed something into the computer. “Credit card and ID?” she said, looking up at him.
“In my suitcase,” he said, gesturing to the banged-up leather case he’d set by the door. “If you don’t mind, could I be shown to my room first? I’ll rustle through my things and find them for you. Perhaps after a nap.”
If that tripped her up, she didn’t show it. He was fairly certain that she was past the point of caring if her brother got paid or not. “Room six, then. Breakfast starts at eight and there’s tea at four.” She handed him a key. “Don’t mention this conversation to my brother.”
“My lips are sealed,” he assured her. “Thank you, Mrs…?”
“Ainsley. Anne Ainsley. Miz.,” she said pointedly. “And you are?”
The Great Banditi smiled and gave her a half-bow. “Russell Zahler, at your service.”
* * *
The next morning, Sydney Waverley-Hopkins sat at the kitchen table while Bay ate Cocoa Puffs and reread her worn copy of Romeo and Juliet. She was already dressed for school, wearing a T-shirt that said, COME TO THE DARK SIDE. WE HAVE COOKIES.
Sydney looked at Bay pointedly, but Bay didn’t look back.
“Ahem.” Sydney cleared her throat and lowered her head, trying to meet Bay’s eyes over the book.
Nope.
Sydney sighed and got up to refill her coffee cup. She didn’t have to be at work until ten, but she didn’t want to miss this opportunity to be with Bay. She was determined to be around when her daughter finally decided to confide in her about what was bothering her, about what was making her so distant and miserable lately.
Whatever it was, it was making Bay want to spend more and more time with her aunt Claire. But Sydney wasn’t going to give up these mornings. She would just sit and wait. One day, Bay was going to need her advice. Sydney could remember her teenage years here in Bascom with a clarity she wished she didn’t have. Sometimes it made her lose her breath,
remembering how those years had felt like drowning. She knew what her daughter was going through, even if Bay didn’t believe it.
It was just before daybreak and the window over the kitchen sink was dark. Sydney could see Bay’s reflection behind her in it. She tied her red kimono robe tightly around her, feeling a hollow in her stomach every time she realized that her only child would be an adult in just a few short years. She had an unnerving suspicion that there was a void Bay was standing in front of, and as soon as Bay moved, Sydney would get sucked into the blackness. Sydney had always assumed she would have more children by now. She tried not to think of it every month. She thought if she acted like she wasn’t watching the calendar, that maybe fate would laugh and surprise her. But it didn’t. Sydney had been almost frantic about it these past few weeks, taking her lunch hour and surprising her husband, Henry, in his office, and jumping on him the minute she got in bed at night.
She’d had no experience in mothering before she had Bay, and she’d not always made the right decisions. She wanted another chance. She’d stayed with Bay’s father, David, far longer than she should have. It was one of those things women simply assume about themselves—that they weren’t the kind to stay after the first hit, that they would never let their child live in that kind of environment. But a woman’s ability to surprise herself is far stronger than her ability to surprise others. Sydney had stayed, not knowing where else to go. She’d left her hometown of Bascom when she was eighteen, burning bridges with the fire of her resentment, never intending to return. She’d hated her Waverley reputation, hated all of her teenage peers who had rejected her, hated that she was never who she really wanted to be here. But the person she’d been with David hadn’t been who she’d wanted to be, either. She’d fled Seattle and David when Bay was five. She’d finally realized, if she’d been so wrong about life outside of Bascom, maybe she’d been wrong about leaving Bascom in the first place.
There were times when she would still wake up in the middle of the night and feel a remembered fear, aches like bruises along her sides and cheekbones, thinking that David was still alive, that he was going to find her and Bay here. But he was long gone, she would remind herself. Ten years now. The Year Everything Changed, Claire called it. He’d died suddenly in prison after Sydney had finally pressed charges.
Yes, she’d made a lot of mistakes. And she so desperately wanted to get it right this time.
Maybe then she would feel like she was finally forgiven.
She was startled out of her thoughts when she heard Bay’s spoon clatter against the bowl. She saw Bay’s reflection stand up from the table.
“The last Halloween dance decorating committee meeting is this afternoon, isn’t it?” Sydney asked as Bay came up beside her and put her cereal bowl in the sink.
“Yes. But I’ll be done in time to baby-sit Mariah while you and Claire go on your double date.”
That made Sydney laugh. “You make it sound so distasteful. Dating. Bleh. What a horrible thing to do. You should try it sometime. You’d like it.”
“No one has asked me,” Bay said, zipping up her hoodie. “Can I spend the night at the Waverley house tonight, since I’ll be there anyway, baby-sitting Mariah?”
“If Claire says it’s okay. You know, you could do the asking. I mean, you could ask a boy out.”
Bay rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“No, really,” Sydney said, pulling Bay’s long hair out from under the hoodie and smoothing it down around her shoulders. “Ask Phin. I see you two talking at the bus stop all the time.”
“We’re fellow outcasts. That’s all.”
“You are not an outcast. The more you say it, the more it becomes true in people’s minds.” Sydney looked her daughter in the eye. “I wish I could make you see yourself the way I see you.”
“Five years old with an apple tree for a best friend?” Bay asked, putting her copy of Romeo and Juliet in her back pocket.
“No.” Although it was true. Sydney would always see Bay as a black-haired, blue-eyed little girl, the summer they’d moved back and lived with Claire. Bay would lie under the tree in the Waverleys’ backyard for hours, daydreaming.
“Fifteen years old with an apple tree for a best friend?” Bay asked.
“Bay, stop it,” Sydney said, following her through the farmhouse to the living room. “That apple tree is not your friend. Phin is your friend. Riva Alexander is your friend. She asked you to be on the decorating committee, didn’t she?”
“Riva is … decent, I guess. But she’s not my friend. She only put me on the committee because she saw how teachers kept asking me to rearrange the desks in their classrooms to where they made the most sense,” Bay said. “You know what some kids call me? Feng Shui Bay. Riva put me on the committee. She didn’t ask me.”
“Because you’re so good at that kind of thing. Interior design is in your future. I’m sure of it. That’s what you should study when you go to college,” Sydney said encouragingly, letting her know that this misery didn’t last forever.
Bay shrugged as she picked up her backpack from where it was sitting on the large beige couch facing the fireplace. When Sydney had married Henry, putting down roots here in a way she’d never imagined when she’d left town at eighteen, the farmhouse had been decorated in Early Man. Henry and his late grandfather had lived here alone for years and had never minded the dark walls and the rugs with worn paths in them: front door to living room; living room to bedroom; bedroom to bathroom; bathroom to kitchen, kitchen to back door. Henry had followed his grandfather every day of his life. When Bay and Sydney had moved in, they had infused the place with light-colored furniture and curtains, new rugs and yellow paint that sparkled in the sunlight. A few years ago, they’d even renovated the kitchen with glass-front cabinets and an apron sink and golden floorboards. The decor might have changed, but Henry’s route never did. He still made the same trail through the house every day. But, unlike his grandfather, he didn’t have a son or grandson to follow him.
That made Sydney put her hand to her stomach.
Bay walked to the front door. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mom. I’m doing my best. I really am. No matter how hard you try, you can’t make it easier for me. I know you want to. But you can’t. I love you.”
That was where she was wrong. Bay was drowning. She just didn’t know it yet. And Sydney’s job was to keep her head above water.
Sydney followed her to the front door and watched Bay walk down the front steps. The sun was beginning to rise. “I love you, too, baby girl,” she said.
* * *
Bay walked down the long driveway from the farmhouse, passing cold, wet fields. It was getting lighter now, and ghostly mist floated over the ground, not quite touching. She could hear the cows in the distance as they were being herded to the milking parlor in the barn. It was a slow, steady job. It was like a dance, every morning. Her father Henry dancing with his cows.
When she reached the road, Phineus Young was already there. He was tall and reedy, with white-blond hair and light green eyes. His rough-around-the-edges family lived across the road, on property strewn with old cars and tractor tires used as flower planters. The Youngs were known for their strength. They were the town’s manual laborers and strong backs. Many had worked at the dairy over the years.
Legend had it that, once in every generation, a Young child would be born with even more strength than the average Young, and that child would always be named Phineus. He would be the strongest man in town, the one everyone would call for the truly hard work—lifting old well caps by himself, moving large rocks out of tight spaces, or chopping down looming trees when babies were sleeping and a noisy chain saw couldn’t be used.
But Phin was not what you would call a tower of strength. Despite his name and everyone’s expectations, he wasn’t the strongest man in town. No one asked him to move anything. He was, in his own words, a dud. They’d been meeting here at the bus stop every morning since first grade. Bay’
s mother had stood with them for years, worrying about them alone on the road. Phin’s parents were never worried. No one would ever mess with a Young, especially one named Phineus. Sometime around sixth grade, Bay finally convinced her mother that she and Phin were fine.
“Hi, Phin,” Bay said, coming to a stop beside him. Her breath made a visible cloud in front of her. She tucked her chin into her hoodie. They never talked in school, only here. They had a bus stop understanding.
“Hey, Bay.”
He knew about the letter she’d given Josh. Everyone in school knew. But he was kind enough never to mention it. They stood in cold, comfortable silence. There was very little traffic at this time of morning.
“So, are there going to be good decorations for the Halloween dance tomorrow?” Phin suddenly asked.
“Yes.” Bay looked at him curiously. “Are you going?”
He made a snorting sound and scrubbed the gravel shoulder of the road with the toe of his old military boots, ones that had belonged to his dad, who had died in Afghanistan. “Me? No way.” He paused, then said, “Riva Alexander is on the decorating committee, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I heard her talking about the food she was going to bring. It sounded nice,” Phin said wistfully. “She’s nice.”
“Riva? Seriously?” She shook her head as if disappointed in him. “Phin.”
“Oh, come on. You can pine away for Josh Matteson, but I can’t like Riva?” He saw the look on Bay’s face and said, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” When you take your heart out of your chest and hold it out for all to see, it’s not like you can expect everyone not to notice.
First Frost Page 3
