Riverstorm

by Tess Thompson

  He returned after a few minutes. “You want to take a swim? Should I open wine?”

  “That sounds great. I brought my suit. I’ll go change.”

  “Powder room to your left.” He grabbed her by the hand as she turned to go. “Kiss me first?”

  She should resist, make him work for it, but the thought of his sexy mouth against hers obscured all reason.

  He kissed her gently and wrapped an arm around her waist. Warm and moist, the kiss ended sooner than she liked. “I’ll pop down to the cellar and grab some wine. “White or red?”

  “White.”

  “Great. Won’t take a minute. I’ll show you the wine cellar some other time.”

  “Mandy didn’t take your wine?”

  He grimaced. “No, wine and art were off limits.”

  She kicked off her sandals before padding across the hard wood floor to the powder room. Donning a bikini and a light cover-up, she wasted no time getting back to Grant. He was opening wine at the island in his kitchen. He hadn’t heard her approach, giving her an opportunity to watch him from the doorway. An iron rod chandelier cast a silky glow. His dark hair glistened. The muscles of his arms and chest filled out his t-shirt. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, and that was damn sexy. So sexy. God help me; I’m in trouble. He can wreck you again. In a second. Don’t fall.

  He must have sensed her presence because he glanced over at her as he pulled the cork from the bottle. “Hey gorgeous.”

  She rolled her eyes and flushed with warmth. I can’t help but fall in love with him all over again.

  They went outside with their drinks. Two chaise lounge chairs were set near the pool. “Is this all right for you?” asked Grant, indicating the chaise.

  She nodded and settled into the soft cushions, stretching her legs length-wise on the chaise. The late afternoon sun kissed her skin. “Are you all right?”

  Grant sat on the other chaise, crossing one leg over the other and turned his head to look at her. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. It’s not like he was in my life.”

  “He didn’t deserve to have you in his life.”

  “He left the house to the girls. Not that I need or want it—I would’ve given my share to them anyway, but it’s one final rejection. One final fuck you.”

  “It hurts.”

  He turned on his side, looking at her. “It does.”

  “It turns out we’ll be in Oregon at the same time.” She told him of their plans to visit cousin Lola and stay at the lodge.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go. Not after last night.”

  “Me too. You could come over for a few days after the funeral.” She studied the contents of her glass. “It’s only a couple of hours away.”

  “Maybe I will.” He reached over and placed his hand on her thigh. “If you really want me to.”

  “Well, you’re the one with the plan to win me back. It might be prudent.”

  He laughed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m coming for you, Lizzie.’ His expression sobered as he looked into her eyes. “I’m going to get you back, and this time I’m not letting you go.”

  She scooted to the far edge of the chaise and patted the cushion. “Come over here.”

  He joined her and pulled her into his arms.

  She rested her cheek on his chest and fiddled with the draw string on his shorts. “I thought we’d be an old married couple by now. I thought we’d have a couple of babies. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to work full-time back then. I thought we’d have a house, and I’d drive carpool.”

  “Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

  “I wanted to have a family and grow old by your side. My parents dripped with ambition. It was exhausting. Work first. Family always came second. I wanted the opposite.”

  Grant ran his fingers through her hair. “Every time I see you in action at the courthouse, or when we worked together on the Murphy case, I think—when did she get so determined to win? I was always the driven one, the one with something to prove.”

  “That’s true. At first, I was trying to please my parents. I thought if I got a law degree it would take the pressure off my sister. But after you and I broke up, I found that working hard helped me forget.”

  “I figured you’d meet someone, Lizzie. Someone so much better than me.”

  “No one is better than you.”

  He held her tighter. “I used to dread the day I’d get the news you were engaged or married. I knew it would be the second worst day of my life.”

  “What was the first?”

  “The day I lost you.”

  “I’m not lost anymore,” she said.

  “I intend to keep it that way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Grant

  HE ARRIVED IN Portland, Oregon by mid-morning. After renting a car, he set out for Legley Bay, driving through the wine country outside of McMinnville until he reached the coast, and then he headed south. It was nearing two o’clock when he exited the 101 and headed into town.

  Unlike some of the popular tourist destinations on the Oregon coast, Legley Bay did not have a stretch of beach to lure in visitors. There were few jobs or opportunities outside of growing old before your time on a fishing boat. Downtown consisted of several bars, several churches, and a grocery store. A new bakery had opened at the edge of town. Sutton’s Place. The building was painted a butter yellow with black shutters. French bistro tables were arranged outside, and hanging pots with succulent flowers in purples and pinks brightened the otherwise dingy street. He opened the window of his car as he drove by. Was that the scent of butter croissants?

  His childhood home was located on a narrow street east of downtown. Populated in the fifties and sixties, the neighborhood consisted of ramblers battered by rain, fog, and sea air into shades of gray. The neglected houses and yards looked like sunken old men who had long given up grooming and bathing. Sidewalks in need of repair, children’s mildewed toys scattered across patchy lawns, and broken-down cars on blocks were further evidence of a neighborhood in decay.

  His father’s house was built on a cramped lot. The front yard was no more than a square of dirt with blots of dead grass. There was no garage, only a skinny driveway to the left of the house. He parked behind his father’s old Ford truck. He turned off the engine, but remained in the car, gathering the energy to step into the past.

  Had it been a good idea to come? The latte he’d consumed on the drive had turned to acid in his stomach.

  After a few minutes, Grant walked around to the back of the house. Enclosed in a metal fence with a view of the alleyway and the neighbors’ yards on both sides, the backyard was unrecognizable from when he’d last seen it. Before her death, his mother had spent almost all her spare time in the yard, creating an oasis of beauty. Potted flowers had once lined the cement patio with flashes of color. A few faded pots remained, battered by the weather and abandoned like orphans on the street. Her beloved rose garden under the kitchen window had died away, leaving nothing but one lone bush, bent and broken. Flower beds adjacent to the fence were overrun with weeds.

  A stench of dog excrement almost gagged him. Had his dad gotten a dog? No, it was from the neighbor’s yard. Piles of the nasty stuff spotted their dead grass. Dad must have hated that. He hated dogs.

  He reached under the pot by the door. The house key was still there. Dad was nothing if not predictable. He stepped inside to the kitchen. The kitchen hadn’t been updated since the original owners. Orange counters, oak cabinets, and a stout refrigerator and stove in avocado green. Regardless, it was clean and tidy, and the scent of mildew was almost disguised by the astringent odor of cleaning products. His sister’s work. He opened the refrigerator. Empty. Again, Hadley’s work. She didn’t want anyone to see what he’d lived like, so she’d come in and scoured the kitchen.

  What am I doing here? He walked into the dark living room. Thick, rust-colored curtains were closed. Warm and stuffy, the room smelled of old man—a mixture of dirty hair a
nd unwashed skin. Grant opened the curtains. Light flooded the room. Everything looked shabby and worn. It was the same ugly green couch. His dad’s ancient recliner with the seat cushion and back in the formation of his father’s frame remained in its same spot. He suspected that the carpet underneath the chair would look nothing like the threadbare remnant under his feet. High school senior portraits of his sisters were displayed on the cabinet next to the television and an old set of encyclopedias. There were no photos of his mother or of him anywhere in the room. His dad’s television remote was on the coffee table. Old newspapers and magazines were stacked neatly in a basket near the chair. No beer bottles anywhere. Hadley’s work.

  Grant wandered down the hallway. The door to his old room was closed. He put his hand on the doorknob but decided against turning it. Best to face what it looked like when his sisters were there. Not that it would look remotely the same as when he’d left home. His father had immediately thrown out his stuff when Grant had moved out. No need for subtlety. You’re not welcome back.

  He went into his parents’ bedroom instead. The same split pea soup colored blanket covered the bed. His father had always slept on the left side of the bed, his mother the right. A slight indentation of his father’s body remained. His mom’s side was flat, unoccupied for over a decade. His dad’s terry cloth bathrobe hung on the doorknob of the closet. Clothes hung off the back of a chair: faded jeans, a yellowing t-shirt, and his father’s belt. He trembled as the past invaded. Touch your ankles, bud. He was once again the scrawny kid, bare backside exposed as the belt came down. The smacking sound came first, then the stinging pain.

  In high school, he’d signed up for a weightlifting class and joined the football team. He was a natural athlete and found his place, his people, amongst the other boys. He grew taller and stronger until he was no longer physically afraid of his father’s wiry strength. When he came at him, Grant fought back with his new muscles. Bullies always back off when confronted. The beatings with the belt stopped. Until the hot poker seared his shoulder. Screw you, old man. I won’t mourn for you. No one will mourn for you.

  The day after his father charred Grant’s shoulder, he left. His best friend’s parents took him in. He lived with Bobby Shoemaker and his family for the remainder of high school. The Shoemakers had fed him, clothed him, and helped him apply to college. Bobby lived in Washington State now and taught high school math. Essie and Rick Shoemaker had retired and moved to San Diego. Every Christmas, Grant sent them a check with the proceeds of the dividends from a mutual fund he’d started for them with his first bonus check at the firm. Say the word, he wrote to them last year, and I’ll empty the fund and send you the proceeds. It had grown to over two hundred thousand dollars. But they were happy with their dividend checks for now.

  He opened a window. Fresh air brought the scent of the sea. Outside, the old, rusted wheelbarrow sat abandoned next to the former rose garden. He blinked as an image of his mother on her knees weeding came to him. Too many ghosts here. He moved away from the window. A dust bunny floated across the weathered floorboards. Noises from the kitchen meant his sisters were here. He left the ghosts and went to greet them.

  The fact that they were fully grown women always surprised him. He thought of them still small—the little girls they’d been when he’d left the house at sixteen. Hadley had been eleven and Kristen seven. It was hard to believe they were twenty-nine and twenty-three. Often, when he thought of them, it was as they looked when they were little girls.

  “Grant!” Kristen squealed and ran into his arms.

  “Hey Kris.” He held her tight before letting go to inspect her. So grownup. So beautiful. Kristen was blond with porcelain skin and round blue eyes the color of sapphires. Today she wore a pair of loose shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals. She looked more like a college co-ed than a first-grade teacher. “You look beautiful. Are you fighting them off with a stick?”

  “Only if a bunch of first-grade boys count.” Kristen smiled as she patted his upper arms. “Wow, Grant, you’re like a superhero or something.”

  “Except without any super powers.”

  Hadley hugged him next. “How was your trip?”

  “Uneventful,” he said.

  “Sorry we’re late. We were at the funeral home taking care of a few things.” Hadley was also fair-skinned but had glossy brown hair. She and Kristen shared the same blue eyes.

  Kristen hugged him again. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen you.”

  A wave of guilt washed over him. He hadn’t seen either of sisters in over a year. They’d stopped coming to visit after he’d married Mandy. I should’ve come to them. But there was work. Always another case to prepare for. “I came for you two, not for him,” said Grant. “I don’t suppose we could go to your place, Hadley?”

  “Yes, for sure. I have snacks and booze. Both of which will help us come up with a plan for the next few days. I can’t wait for you to see my place, Grant.” He’d given Hadley the money for a down payment last year, unable to believe what twenty thousand could get you in a little fishing town in Oregon compared to L.A.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Grant said. “I’ll follow you there.”

  **

  Fifteen minutes later, Grant pulled into the guest spot at Hadley’s duplex. She’d bought a newly constructed townhome a couple blocks from the ocean. No view, she’d told him when she’d asked for a loan, but she could hear the waves. The duplexes were attractive, built with traditional shingles and white trim. The landscaping was tidy and well-kept with various shrubs and strips of grass. Small porches adorned each of the units. Hadley had arranged two attractive wicker chairs and a little table on hers.

  “You always make everything look nice, sis,” Grant said.

  “Like a catalog,” said Kristen.

  “I got those chairs at an end of the season sale last fall.” Hadley was already opening the red front door.

  The entryway consisted of a small foyer with a coat closet. The rest of the first floor was laid out in an open concept—a compact kitchen and dining room area, and beyond a sitting room with big windows.

  Hadley looped her arm through Grant’s. “What do you think, big brother? Did I do good?”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “The cherry wood floors were worth the extra money.”

  It was late afternoon and none of them had eaten lunch, so Hadley and Kristen bustled around the kitchen to make a tray of crackers and cheese while Grant ordered a pizza. Grant opened a bottle of white wine and poured them all a glass. When they were settled in the sitting area, Hadley let out a deep sigh. “I suppose we need to dive right in about what to do about a memorial.”

  “Besides the cremation, did he leave any instructions?” Grant asked.

  Swallowing a cracker, Kristen shook head. “No. And we don’t really know if any of his friends are still around. So I say we do what he asked and call it a day.”

  “It’s sad, though. Just us.” Hadley picked up her wine glass, holding it up to the light before taking a sip.

  “Whose fault is that?” Kristen asked. “No one in this room.”

  “Before he retired, he alienated a lot of the guys he worked with. He was such a hot head,” said Hadley. Hot tempered and always spoiling for a fight, he’d had an altercation with almost every man on his crew. “After he retired, he hardly left the house.” Hadley teared up and looked away. “I tried to get by twice a week to see him, but usually it was more like once a week.”

  “You have nothing to feel guilty over,” Kristen said. “Nothing.”

  Hadley picked up a piece of cheese and put it on her plate. “He always had something to criticize me for. What I was wearing or the food I brought for him.” She set the cheese aside and tweaked at the waist of her cotton sundress. Grant knew the old man had also commented on her weight, as he always had. Chunky Hadley likes her ice cream.

  Hadley had been a chubby little girl, but she wasn’t now. The summer between eighth and ninth gr
ades, she’d suddenly sprouted, growing five inches in three months. She’d returned to school tall and slim. Boys noticed her; girls were jealous. It didn’t matter to their old man. He’d continued to scrutinize what she ate at dinner.

  “You look great,” Grant said. “I love your hair.” She’d grown it longer since he’d last seen her and it floated down her back in attractive waves.

  “Thanks. I’ve been trying to lose a few pounds. I joined a gym.” Unfortunately, she still saw herself as a chubby little girl. Thanks, old man, for that one. Because women don’t feel bad enough all on their own.

  “You look perfect to me,” said Kristen. “As always.”

  “Thanks, Kris.”

  Kristen leaned over the coffee table, and Hadley, on cue, did the same. They fist bumped and said in tandem, “Sissy power.”

  Grant smiled. How had they turned out so great?

  Kristen topped off all their wine glasses before settling into the cozy couch with her legs pulled under her. “It sounds like we should have him cremated and all get on with our lives,” Kristen said. “As sad as it sounds, the truth is, he treated most everyone in his life like crap. You get what you give.”

  “Kristen,” said Hadley. “Respect for the dead.”

  “Being dead doesn’t make him any less of an asshole,” Kristen said.

  “Did he say exactly where on the docks he wanted his ashes spread?” asked Grant.

  “I vote for O’Malley’s Pub. He spent many happy hours there when I was in high school.” Kristen smiled and raised her glass.

  Grant rose from the couch and went to the window. Hadley’s view was of the back of several beach houses. A skinny space between houses revealed the ocean, blue under the sunny sky. Legley Bay looked better in the sunshine. He turned back to look at his sisters. “Do you girls want to sell the house?”

  “I do,” Hadley said. “Unless you have any objections, Kris?”

  “Let’s burn it to the ground and collect the insurance money,” said Kristen.

  “That’s insurance fraud,” said Hadley. “And Grant’s too pretty to go to jail.”