I’ve never wanted a family, being raised the way Ryker and I were. Political events. Flashing lights. Security. Campaigns … always campaigns. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to put my children through that. And I’m not so sure I wouldn’t turn into my mother, who could potentially be the Devil reborn. So, children are off the plate. And husbands? I can take them or leave them.
So, I put all of my passion into my work.
But, now, I’m stuck in Granite Harbor. I want to help my father, clear him from the worry about his family’s safety. Why am I being sent away? Well, we can’t send my mother away, the steadfast Trudy Hayes, because how would that look at community fundraisers? Events? And my brother, well, he comes around when he’s sick and tired. Other than that, we usually can’t find him.
I touch my mouse, and my screen comes alive.
I open Google Earth and type in the address, 28 Magnolia Road.
It’s a pink house. Not a bright pink but a soft pink. Pink’s not really my color, but it’s not a long-term investment either. It’s got a little porch that faces the road. Two front windows on either side of the front door. On the corner of Magnolia and Main Street.
My phone starts to vibrate across my desk.
“Shit.” I hit Talk. “Hey, Mom.”
“Would it kill you to pick up the phone once in a while?”
“Sorry. I was busy watching the Olympics.”
“What? The Olympics aren’t on.”
I know. “How’s it going?” I don’t dare say, What do you need?, or Why’d you call? because that would all lead back to three words—the devil awakens.
“Your father says you’re leaving tomorrow for that godforsaken town on the East Coast. I don’t know why you chose to go there of all places.” I feel her eye roll and her cheek shake through the phone.
Because it’s as far away as I can get from you without having to get a passport. “Because all flights were booked to Africa.”
She sighs.
I’ve never been the daughter she wanted. She doesn’t like options that aren’t hers or that don’t match her beliefs. She doesn’t like a sassy mouth or loud noises. She likes her martinis dry and at five sharp. It’s a wonder she even had children.
Ryker is the wild one. I am the mild one.
“I don’t know why you hate me so much.”
“I don’t hate you, Mom.” I roll my eyes and pick at my red polish again, which reminds me that I need to get a manicure. Which reminds me that I won’t have time before I leave. Which reminds me that I need to find a place to get them done in Granite Harbor. Do they have a salon? I can’t remember. Christ. And this takes me back to the phone conversation that I’m having that I don’t want to have with my mother right now.
She’s talking. But I don’t know what she’s rattling on about.
“And, at any rate, I don’t know why he won’t go back to Recovery Life.”
Oh, yes. Ryker. “Mom, he’s been to that rehab three times now. And you want to waste another ten grand on him? He doesn’t want to get clean.”
I’m so tired of having the same discussion with her. In the times we do talk, it’s about Ryker. Her time to vent. But I’m the dumb one for listening.
“He’s being singled out.”
“He’s being picked on.”
“He doesn’t have anywhere to go.”
“If that facility would just …”
“If his counselor knew …”
It’s never, ever Ryker’s fault.
“Bryce, your brother—” she starts.
No. Just no. “Oh, Mom. Gotta run. The delivery guy is here.”
She stalls. “But it’s six thirty at night.”
“UPS. They work crazy hours.”
This is when the conversation gets really awkward. The good-bye.
“I’ll see you, Mom.”
“You have everything packed, right?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
“Call me when you get there.”
We both know I won’t.
I start to bite my thumbnail again. “Bye, Mom.”
“Aren’t you going to say I love you?”
“I love you.”
“That’s better. I love you, too. Good-bye.” She finishes with a curt tone. It’s normal.
She always has to be the first to hang up. Like it’s some sort of control thing.
Trudy Hayes has always been of stature. Power. Raised by the real estate tycoon James Bell and her mother, my grandmother, Barbara Bell. God, doesn’t that sound like some sort of movie star name? Barb is what she asked Ryker and me to call her. It was never Grandmother, Grandma, Grams, G-ma—nothing remotely related to her age or her authenticity. It’s no wonder my mother turned out just like her. My grandfather, James Bell, worked long hours. Drank whiskey under the table but ran a tight ship. Maybe a heavy drinker, but nothing in his life indicated that he was an alcoholic. Grandfather—what he liked us to call him—had money, fast cars, a beautiful home up on the hill with a pool and view of the greater Los Angeles area. Barb swept under the rug the infidelity, the drinking.
My mother swore she’d never marry a man like her father. And she didn’t. My dad is everything that James Bell wasn’t. Kind. Loving. The glue that holds our family together. The fixer. The worker. The hugger. The nurturer. He’d do anything for my mom, us. The easygoing one.
I think Dad wonders why Ryker ended up the way he did. I think he wonders where he got the disease of addiction. He’ll never say it out loud, but I think, deep down, he wonders if it was from Grandfather. My dad’s parents were ranchers out of Paso Robles—Tim and Nina Hayes. They worked hard, of course. My dad knows the value of a dollar, but he also didn’t have a lot growing up, so he tends to indulge us. But Ryker and I spent summers with Papa and Grandma in Paso Robles. We helped on the ranch. Milked cows, fed horses, killed chickens. I enjoyed the summers with my dad’s parents. They’d have the nightly news going as Grandma prepared dinner. The scent of a sweet smoke would fill the air as Papa lit his pipe.
Looking back, these memories are the best memories.
At the end of the summer, Papa would give each of us fifty bucks for our work. Ryker would always blow through his money the second we got back to LA. I’d put mine in my underwear drawer and forget about it.
I grab my phone, stand, and pull up the email that has the flight itinerary for tomorrow.
Jeez, Lenny. I glance at the five a.m. departure time.
If I have to be up by three thirty in the morning, I’d best get my ass to bed. After all, mornings have never been my favorite. I put my gigantic suitcase by the front door, change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, put my retainer in, and slide into my Boll & Branch sheets. The one thing I’ll splurge on is expensive bedding. Among a few other things, my mother taught me that.
“Your bedding need no price tag,” she always says.
This, this, she is right about.
Scrolling through a few more emails on my phone, I see the manuscript I’ve been waiting for. I pull out my laptop from my side table, save it to my hard drive, and set the computer down on the floor next to my bed.
I turn off the light and lie here in the darkness. This is the time I allow myself to think about Ryker. Born in 1987, he’s the younger between the two of us. Being born the eldest in 1985, I guess God thought I needed the ability to be a natural-born leader; therefore, I’ve always felt I have to dictate my brother’s life.
“Go here.”
“Don’t do that.”
“You can’t eat that.”
“Brush your hair.”
“Get your homework done.”
“No MTV. It’s past five. Mom will have a cow.”
“Get in the car.”
“Get out of the car.”
“Stop drinking that.”
“Please don’t put that in your veins.”
“Please stop acting this way.”
“Please … stop using drugs.”
My brother was ju
st like my father. But, at some point, Ryker stopped caring. About himself. His family. The world around him. He started taking on the role of world’s biggest asshole. At eighteen, when he left for art college on the East Coast, freshman year, he flew home for every holiday break. Sophomore year, less frequent. Junior year, Ryker who? Senior year, Ryker left college and came back to California. Not on our dad’s dime either. The only reason I knew he’d come home was Lenny had seen him at Vons Grocery Store. Said he didn’t look good. Said he looked tired. Maybe a little confused.
At first, I gave him everything. I just wanted him to get better. He stayed with me. I fed him. Gave him money. I just wanted my little brother back. But, slowly, I began to realize that what I was doing wasn’t making him better. He asked for more money, more often, and if I didn’t give it to him, like my gut told me, then my stuff would end up missing. First, it was small things, maybe to alleviate his guilt. Earrings. Shoes. DVDs. My VCR. Seriously, who steals a VCR to support a drug habit? I don’t know; maybe they’re known as antiques on the black market now. But, when my diamond earrings went missing, the ones that Dad had given me on my eighteenth birthday, I drew the line. Told him he had to leave. He tried to convince me that it wasn’t him.
“Someone must have broken in while we were sleeping,” he said.
It wasn’t until he left that I cried.
Leaning against the doorway, he said, “Fuck you, Bryce. Can’t believe you’d turn your back on your own family.”
That was when I shut the door, slid down to the floor, and cried. That was also when I found the rubber ties underneath my couch. The ties used by drug addicts to tie off their arms when using drugs intravenously. That was just about the time I met Alex. So, I worked harder. Invested my time where it was useful.
My mom, on the other hand, wants so hard to believe my brother. A mother’s heart, I guess. She doesn’t know a mother’s love won’t save her son. She’s willing to fight for a battle she won’t win.
Three
Bryce
Granite Harbor, Maine, is small, and when the tourists pile in for the summer, the town gets even smaller. There seems to be a lull right now. One that exists between the two seasons, summer and fall, when tourists pack up their summer clothes, their big beach hats, their one hundred proof sunscreen, their money, and head back to where they came from. While the second round of tourists—the leaf peepers—pack their warmer clothes, their cameras, and their inspiration, and drive, fly, or boat in and wait for the spectacular colors to blanket the trees. Fall in Granite Harbor is more than beautiful, if there is such a word.
What I’ve learned from taking several treks back here since Alex moved here is, Saks Fifth Avenue is a location. Neiman Marcus is Ralph’s brother’s wife’s cousin. And Coach is the guy from Cheers. The people of Granite Harbor will take the shirts off their backs to help you even if you aren’t a local, but bring up the year that Pittsburgh beat New England or when the New York Yankees beat the Red Sox, well, you might as well pack your things and head west or stay in hiding until the coast is clear and time has passed.
I do appreciate the convenience of the city. The fast pace. Shit gets done in the city. Deals are being signed. Meetings with world leaders are being had. Movies are being filmed. Time moves by the second.
But, in Granite Harbor, you’re lucky to get through town on foot and not run into someone you know and get stuck talking for a good seven minutes about Brenda’s aunt’s cousin’s sister’s friend, who is named Brenda also. Time runs on the sun. Morning, day, night. It used to drive me insane—the slow pace, the everybody knows everybody—but it’s grown on me. I’ve learned to like that Ms. Ida, the retired librarian—the mother to Ruthie Murdock, mother-in-law to Milton Murdock—knows my name and that Lyn, down at Level Grounds Coffee Shop, remembers my coffee order. And that Boom, the office cat at Rick’s Pharmacy, meanders around my legs with a broken meow.
So, yeah, I guess you can say, Granite Harbor has grown on me. It doesn’t make me miss the city as much.
“Fall Carnival?” I read the sign as we drive down Main Street.
“You’ve never been to the Fall Carnival, B?” Alex almost gasps and then smiles. “Well, we’re going this year. Emily loves to watch the pie-eating contest.”
We pass Granite Harbor Cuts and More—I make a mental note to call and see if Teal has any openings—Harbor Theater, State Farm of Granite Harbor, Granite Harbor Opera House, Merryman’s Restaurant, The Angler’s Tavern, Rick’s Pharmacy, and my favorite, Lydia’s bookstore, Rain All Day Books.
We pass the lampposts decorated with fall wreathes.
“Twenty-eight Magnolia Road,” Alex says as she puts her SUV into park.
We both lean forward to peer through the front windshield, looking up at the pink house.
“It’s more pink in person than it is online,” I admit.
“Yeah”—Alex is still staring—“it’s pink all right. I heard the new owner plans to paint it.”
“Today?” I smile as I climb out of the SUV and open up the back. I grab my suitcase and meet Alex on the sidewalk in front of the pink house.
She puts her arm around me. “How long will you be here for?”
I give her the look. “Until it all blows over.”
We laugh.
“The rental agency said the key would be under the mat,” I say as we make our way to the front porch. I reach under the mat and find the key.
“Typical Granite Harbor fashion,” Alex says.
I unlock the door, but it isn’t an easy lock; it’s a stubborn lock, and it takes some jiggling before the lock comes free.
We walk inside, and the house is open, which surprises me. From the outside, it looks so small, but the inside, it opens up to a living room, a kitchen, and a back bedroom. I look down at the coffee table and notice three doilies. The decor is dated for sure. A box television sits on a small table against the wall with the front door, next to the window, a sofa circa 1980, a simple dining room table with an old hutch. I can see through to the only bedroom in the back, and on the bed is a quilt, probably handcrafted, that lies flat, untouched, unruffled.
“This isn’t bad.” Alex takes a few steps into the kitchen. “I mean, green isn’t a bad color for the walls,” Alex says and then covers her mouth, as if she’s trying to convince herself that this place is perfect. “It’s a green that’s stuck somewhere between forest and mint.”
“It’s not that bad,” I agree. But that’s what I kinda like about it. It’s quirky.
Alex walks into the bathroom, just off the kitchen. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” I call from the kitchen.
“Uh, well, you definitely have a red bathroom.” Alex pokes her head out. “Maybe there was a paint sale down at Sam’s Hardware?”
I laugh and walk to the bathroom. “Oh, God.” It’s bright red. “Is the owner color blind?”
“Guess you’ll just have to shower with shades on.”
“Don’t you think the owner, or the rental company, would have gotten a second opinion on the paint choice?” I run my hand over the red.
“Obviously not.” Alex walks out of the bathroom and checks out the bedroom. “Hey, did you ever go on a fourth date with Wes?”
“No. After our third date, I saw an I Love Mom tattoo on his lower abdomen. I ran for the hills.” I follow her.
“Ew.”
“Yeah.”
Fourth date is a decision-maker. It either is or it isn’t. It’s going to work, or it’s not. And either way I see it, an I Love Mom tattoo is just plain wrong. Especially considering where it is. It isn’t on his chest; it’s in a place where most women might start to pant, asking for more. It’s next to his V.
Deal-breaker. You’ll end up dating a mama’s boy forever. He’ll ask his mom before he buys a house. Gets married. Has a child. Goes on vacation. Wipes his ass.
Definitely not my style.
That’s why, when I saw it—even though Wes was beautiful with a
washboard stomach and pectoral muscles that were harder than a hot plate—I pushed him off me and told him to leave. I wonder if it creeps out other women. I wonder if Wes thinks it’s him. Because it is. I mean, everything is fine until you see the tattoo. I wonder, when his pants come off and women see the tattoo, if they scamper away, just like I did. Change their phone number. Move. Run. Everything looks great on the outside. An attorney. Kind. Extremely handsome. My mom loved him—which should have been my first red flag.
“All right, rest up.” Alex kisses my cheek and walks to the front door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” But Alex stops at the door. Turns to me. Stares.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “I’m really glad you’re here for a while.”
I smile on the outside. Really, I am glad to be here. But, somewhere deep down, the guilt begins to push its way up through my throat. I haven’t said anything to Alex about Ethan. It’s never seemed like the right time. Not that I am trying to keep anything from her. I’m not.
“Me, too.”
Alex turns and opens the front door to the sun that’s making its descent. That’s when I notice the black sedan across the street. Alex pops down the stairs. I don’t say anything to Alex about the peculiar car, but it stands out to me.
Blue minivans.
Silver SUVs.
Red sedans.
White sedans.
Travel cars. Family cars. Tourist cars.
Black sedans? Sleek black sedans that look as though they were just pulled off a car lot?
Red flag.
I wave as I watch her climb into her SUV, the one they purchased after the girls were born.
I stare at the black sedan. The windows are too tinted to see who’s inside. Coward windows, is what I call them. Coward windows because assholes don’t want others to know what they’re up to. But I hold my ground and stand on the porch, staring at the dark window that hides whatever’s beyond the glass.
Weighing my options, I think:
1. Could be Secret Service. What in the hell would the Secret Service want with me though?
2. Could be a lost tourist. Not likely. Not in that kind of car.
Magnolia Road Page 2
