Return to Virgin River

by Robyn Carr

  “If God takes me home in March it’s only because he means to punish everyone I hold dear, from the folks who help run this little place to all the folks who pass through. I wasn’t done with the cleanup. That’s all I meant by that. Now, will you take one of them anxiety pills that are so popular and get some sleep? Unless you want to bitch at Andrew’s message some more, of course.”

  “I thought coming back here would help me get perspective,” she said.

  “We been in Denver, Maggie. We haven’t been back two full days. Even God needed seven to get it together. Jesus.” He ran a hand over his head and wandered back to his bedroom.

  “I’ve always had kind of high expectations of myself,” she yelled at his back.

  “No shit,” he returned.

  * * *

  Maggie woke up at first light and walked into the kitchen. There were no signs of life and Sully’s bedroom door stood open. He’d made his bed and was gone. This was typical of life here—he rarely put on a pot of coffee at the house, only in the worst of winter when venturing to the store was a useless chore. In spring, summer and fall he dressed and trudged over to the store where he’d start the big pot for Enid.

  Before she even got up the steps to the back porch, she spied Sully. He was down at Cal Jones’s campsite sitting on a small camp stool, holding a mug of coffee on his knee, petting Beau with the other hand. Cal, on the other hand, was crouched before a small grill, sitting on the heel of his boot, stirring something in a frying pan. She caught the unmistakable aroma of bacon.

  When Beau saw her he got up, started wagging his tail and ran to her as though he hadn’t seen her in weeks. “Good morning, gentlemen. Something smells good.”

  Cal cracked two eggs on top of his bacon and covered the pan. “I’d be happy to make you breakfast,” he said.

  “That’s very nice of you. I’ll get some in the store in a minute. Dad, I was hoping you’d sleep in.”

  “And here I was hoping you would,” Sully said. “I can’t stay in bed, Maggie. I get all creaky and it takes too long to work out the kinks. Besides, this is the best time of day.”

  “It is a beautiful morning,” she agreed. She wanted to discuss the coffee—just one cup, please. And activity today—nothing strenuous. Diet, they could talk about diet, and it wouldn’t include bacon... But Cal distracted her by popping open a camp stool for her to join them. “Thanks,” she said.

  She watched as Cal put two pieces of bread he’d toasted on the grill onto a plate. Then he lifted his bacon and eggs out of the pan. He sat across the grill from Sully, plate on his knees, and worked away at his breakfast.

  “That bacon smells every bit as good as I recall,” Sully said.

  “If you stay away from the wrong foods you’ll live longer,” Maggie reminded him.

  “I probably won’t. But it’ll damn sure seem longer.”

  Cal laughed.

  “What’s Cal short for?” Maggie asked.

  He swallowed and looked at her. “You’ve been googling me.”

  “I have not!” she said.

  “Is that what you were doing on the computer half the night?” Sully asked.

  She scowled at him. “I’m just curious. Calvin? Caleb?”

  “Why? Does one of those guys have a record?” Cal asked.

  “How would I know?” she returned, but she colored a little. She’d always been a terrible liar.

  He laughed at her. “I just go by Cal,” he said.

  “You won’t tell me?”

  “I think this is more fun.”

  A car pulled into the grounds followed by Frank’s beat-up red truck. “There’s Enid and Frank. I take it you started the coffee?” Maggie asked.

  “I did. And ate a bowl of that instant mush,” Sully said.

  “What’ve you got to do today, Sully?” Cal asked. “What can you use help with?”

  “Just the regular stuff. I can probably handle it with Maggie’s help. You know—shelf stocking, cleaning up, inventory. Hardly any campers yet so we’re not too far behind, but they’re coming. We have spring break coming up. I’m gonna have Tom and two of his kids to help this weekend and we’ll get that garden in. Once it’s in, I can handle it, plus the doctor said I should be back in the swing of things in a couple of weeks.”

  “No. He didn’t,” Maggie pointed out. “He said you’d probably be moving slow for six weeks and in a few months you’d be in good shape. But no lifting anything over ten pounds for at least six weeks, preferably ten.”

  “Thank God you were listening, Maggie,” he said sarcastically. “Otherwise I might’ve just killed myself planting a carrot.”

  Maggie got up, turned and started walking to the store. “I don’t appreciate the attitude,” she said.

  “I’m about ready to get out a big cigar and see how strong your heart is!”

  “Do that and you’ll see how strong my right arm is!”

  “This is going to be one giant pain in the ass, that’s what.”

  “Sully, can’t you appreciate that I’m just being responsible? If you live right you have many good years ahead,” she said, a pleading quality to her voice.

  “Let’s try to relax, Maggie. The doctor said I’d be fine and to keep an eye on too much bruising from the blood thinner. He didn’t tell me to stay in bed until I die of boredom.” Sully stood from his camp chair to follow Maggie. “He did tell me not to have sex or take my Viagra for a while,” Sully said to Cal.

  Maggie whirled and gave him a dirty look as Cal smirked.

  “Bummer,” Sully said.

  * * *

  Cal puttered around his campsite, cleaning up and stowing things. Then he ambled over to the store to check things out before Sully got himself in any more trouble with Maggie. Sully was full of mischief and reminded Cal a lot of his grandfather. His grandfather had died at the age of seventy-five and it had seemed so premature at the time. He, like Sully, had been so physically strong, mentally sharp.

  Maggie was a very interesting character. He didn’t know all the details but he’d peg her for either a firstborn or only child. She was strong like her father, that was undeniable. Or maybe she was strong-willed like a doctor? Cal had had plenty of experience with doctors and he knew they could be arrogant, stubborn and nurse a great need to be right about everything. They were also often brilliant, compassionate, sensitive and yet not sentimental. Maggie seemed to embody those qualities.

  And she wasn’t hard to look at, either. She had good teeth, he thought, then laughed at himself. Like he was judging a horse? He was just one of those people who noticed eyes and mouths first. It was somehow natural to him and also something he consciously thought about—you can tell a lot about a person from their mouth and eyes.

  Maggie’s eyes were brown like his but darker. Chocolate. She had thick lashes, fine, thin, arching brows and a sparkle in her eyes. They reflected humor, anger, curiosity and embarrassment. He’d caught her; it was written all over her face—she’d been trying to research him. Probably because he was hanging around the campground so long, even during inclement weather. And not just hanging around the grounds but also the store—she was naturally protective of her father and his property.

  He said good morning to Frank, who sat by Sully near the stove. Sully had another cup of coffee and Cal guessed he must have gotten rid of Maggie somehow to score another cup. Who knew how many he’d had before walking with his steaming mug over to Cal’s campsite? Cal wasn’t sure whether Sully was hard to manage or he just enjoyed watching Maggie’s attempts. He was extremely curious about their family history. Where was Maggie’s mother?

  “What would you like me to get out of that storeroom for you, Sully?”

  “Aw, I don’t want to work you, Cal...”

  “I don’t feel put-upon at all. I don’t have anything on the calendar. Another week and your campgr
ound will get busy, the weather will get warmer and I’m going to take you up on your offer to park and see what these trails have to offer. So—want to tell me?”

  “I’ll go with you and show you,” Sully said.

  “As long as you don’t get in trouble with the warden.”

  Cal went about the business of bringing out boxes of supplies and restocking the shelves. He rotated the goods so the newest went in the back and the oldest would sell first. He checked the dates on the food products if necessary and he used a dampened rag to wipe the shelving clean.

  It brought back memories of his student days. Stocking supermarket shelves didn’t pay particularly well but it was something he could do at night. He went to classes and study groups during the day and early evening, worked at night. And sleep? When he could. He learned to work quickly, study every second he could spare, power nap, eat on the run. He recorded facts, stats, case studies and lectures into his pocket recorder, listened and repeated as he showered, drove, shelved. The days were long, the nights short, the labor intense.

  Yet it was a happy time. He was achieving all his goals, was deeply bonded with his friends and fellow students, his life felt challenging but very stable. And he met Lynne.

  Lynne Aimee Baxter was the smartest, kindest, strongest, funniest person he’d ever known. They weren’t headed in the same direction, not really. They both wanted to work in the legal system. He wanted to make a good living, put down roots, build a house that could hold him till he died and with space to accommodate a growing family. Lynne wanted to help people. He might end up in criminal law...maybe tax law...same thing, they would joke. She might end up a public defender or, better still, a storefront operation for the underprivileged in need of legal counsel. What was so comical—he came from nothing while she was a trust-fund baby.

  Maybe that explained it. He longed for security; she wanted to shed the excesses of her life.

  “You’re better at this than I am,” Sully said behind him.

  He turned around with a grin. “I’ve done this before.”

  “I’ll say it again—I just don’t pay you enough. Listen, Maggie’s gone over to town to pick up my seeds and starters and maybe to get away from me. Want to join me for a hot dog?”

  Cal smiled. “You eat a hot dog, you’re going to pay. That’s for sure.”

  “You thinking I’ll get caught?” Sully asked.

  “Someone is bound to talk,” Cal said. “But I was thinking more along the lines of indigestion. You’ve been on a pretty bland diet, haven’t you? I’d work up to a hot dog if I were you. And then there’s the high sodium, fat, et cetera.”

  “That mean you don’t want one?”

  “Oh, I want one,” Cal said. “You should have something a little more easy on the stomach. If you ever want to have sex again in your life.”

  “Hell, I gave up on that a long time ago. Don’t tell Maggie. I’d like to think of her having nightmares about it.”

  When he was done with the shelf stocking and his hot dog, Cal went to the area Sully had mentioned was his garden. It was easily identifiable. It was behind the house, kind of hidden from the campgrounds. Cal wondered if that was sometimes an issue—a thriving garden being tempting to campers. Did they occasionally help themselves to the tomatoes?

  It wasn’t too big, maybe sixteen by sixteen feet. He could see the rows from last year. He went to the shed that stood back from the property, tucked in the trees. There was a lot of equipment, from snowblower to plow attachment, lawn-grooming equipment, riding mower, wheelbarrow and gardening supplies.

  Snowblower. He kept reminding himself to head south. Maybe southwest. It was just all that smog and sand and those hot rocks they called mountains...

  He’d gone to school in Michigan, the state that invented winter. He was from everywhere, usually moderate climates, while Lynne was from New York. Westchester, to be exact.

  He chose the wheelbarrow, spade, shovel and rake, and started clearing away the winter debris. He hadn’t asked what Sully meant to do with the stuff so he made two piles—one of fallen leaves that could constitute fertilizer and the other rocks, winter trash and weeds. You wouldn’t want to use weeds in mulch; that would just invite them back.

  He’d been at it a couple of hours when he heard her approach. He knew she’d get around to it. He leaned on his spade and waited.

  “You let my father eat a hot dog? Does that sound heart healthy to you?”

  He just shook his head. “You know he’s a liar and he’s having fun with your close medical scrutiny. What do you think?”

  “He got me, didn’t he?”

  “He ate a sandwich—lean turkey, tomato, lettuce on wheat bread. He asked for doughy white bread and lost out to Enid, who obviously knows him better than you do. He wanted chips—he got slaw—made with vinegar, not mayo. Really, Maggie?” He laughed and shook his head.

  “He’s antagonizing me, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Over and over. But you can stop pressing the panic button. He’s doing great.”

  “Have you seen his incision?” she asked.

  “Oh, about ten times. I offered to sell tickets for him. He’s running out of people to show. But no worries. He tells me the camp is going to attract people like crazy any second now. Spring break, then weekends, then summer. I just hope he doesn’t scare the children.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “It’s impolite to act like you know more about my closest relative than I do.”

  “And yet, that’s usually the case. You’re too bound up by baggage, expectation and things you need for yourself. Like a father who lives much longer.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his brow. “Stop letting him bait you. He’s very conscious of the doctor’s orders. He’s taking it one step at a time.”

  “Did he pay you to say this? Or are you Dr. Phil on vacation?”

  Cal laughed. “You two have quite a dynamic going. You could be a married couple. Married about forty years, I’d say.”

  “Remind you of your parents?” she asked, raising one brow. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “My parents are unnaturally tight,” he said. “They’re kind of amazing, I guess. Deeply supportive of each other, almost to the exclusion of everything around them and everyone else. Protective. They’re in their sixties, as in love as the day they met, and total whack jobs. But sweet. They’re very sweet.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides. “What makes them whack jobs?”

  “Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”

  “As in, the Grateful Dead?”

  “Exactly. Just a little more complex.”

  She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.

  “Where are they now?” she asked.

  “Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”

  “Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly smart. And he regularly gets...um...messages.”

  “Oh, this is fascinating,” she said. “What kind of messages?”

  “Come on, nosy. How about you? Are you the oldest in the family?”

  “The only. My parents divorced when I was six. My mother lives in Golden with my stepfather. What kind of messages?”

  “Well, let’s see... There have been s
o many. One of the most memorable was when my father believed space aliens were living among us and systematically killing us off by putting chemicals in our food. That was a very bad couple of years for meals.”

  “Wow.”

  “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.”