“Wait. No.” At the commotion, several of the waitresses from the Sunshine Room tiptoed into the lobby, as did a twentyish kid on the kitchen staff. Flashing her most confident smile, Linnie told them, “There’s nothing going on—just people checking in. Back to work, everyone.”
The employees returned to their duties.
She pushed her brother toward the wall, whispering, “You aren’t staying here. Your boxing match the other day on the front lawn? Jada had to concoct a story about you and Philip being on the outs since high school.”
“How odd.” Her brother toyed with the silk cravat at his throat. “What was the story?”
What does it matter? “Something about vying for the same cheerleader, and Philip’s still upset.”
“An old canard. Besides, he was a freshman during my senior year. Unlikely we’d compete for the same woman. Couldn’t Jada come up with something more creative?”
“Forget the story! Freddie, my employees aren’t aware I’d like to run you out of town. They don’t need to see the boss arguing with her long-lost brother. Bad for morale.”
Glee danced in Freddie’s eyes. “The staff assumes we get along?”
“Why wouldn’t they? You took off, and the rest of us went on with our lives. Lots of people lost their jobs thanks to you. The ones who didn’t just want to earn a paycheck. They couldn’t care less about you.”
“The prodigal son, lost to the sands of time. I’m not sure how to feel about this. I’d looked forward to burnishing my foul reputation.”
A predictable response from a megalomaniac. “Don’t confuse the staff’s disinterest with the reception you’ll receive from people who knew you well. If the Sirens find out you’re in town? They’ll string you up by the short hairs. I’ll watch.”
“As if I’m afraid of a bunch of middle-aged women.” He stepped around her. “Now, go away. I’d like to retire to my room.”
“You’re not staying here!”
Smirking, he patted her cheek. “Why don’t you run along, find a cupcake to soothe your nerves? Sugar is your drug of choice.”
She dug around for a rejoinder. As she did, the girl with orange hair flipped the bird. Then the girl marched up the stairwell.
A popping started in Linnie’s ears.
Bad timing for a brain aneurism.
Curbing her fury, she rounded on Freddie. “You’re not creating party central here. Get out. Now.”
“Calm down. I don’t care to see a member of my own race getting above herself.”
The quote was familiar. “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” she guessed. “I’d put out the welcome mat if you were Sidney Poitier. You aren’t. Go back to California where you belong.”
“Why, Sugarpop, you’re becoming unhinged.” Devilry lit in his eyes. “Does this mean you haven’t missed me?”
Climbing out of the car, Daniel took stock of the street. Small homes, average neighborhood. Laughter peppered the air, a gift from kids out on summer break. By the house on the corner, two boys in shorts took aim at a third with a blast of water from a gardening hose. The third kid sprinted left. The arcing stream of water tossed diamonds through the sunlight. Safe from the line of fire, the kid twirled with the abandon of unencumbered youth.
Beside the Reeds’ front steps, scarlet geraniums beckoned. They bobbed vibrant heads from a flowerbox the size of a postage stamp.
Daniel prided himself on punctuality, but he was late. Two days of discussions at the Devlin Institute had worn his nerves thin. He’d met with billing supervisors and the surgeon tasked with performing Bryce Reed’s upcoming cornea transplant. He’d quizzed enough accounting personnel to make their names a collective blur. There was still no exact dollar amount for the tests, surgery, and subsequent care Bryce required.
Best guess, Freddie was looking to write a check well past six figures.
“Mr. Kettering? I’m Janis, Bryce’s mother.”
A bashful wave, and the woman trotted down the steps. Petite, plump, in a lavender sweater and a billowy skirt. She appeared delighted by his arrival.
Daniel took her offered hand, shook gently. “Mr. Wayfair isn’t joining us. He sends his regrets. He hopes to meet you and Mr. Reed soon.”
A polite fabrication. They’d driven to Cleveland in Daniel’s car. Then Freddie ditched him at the Devlin Institute. At the last minute, he changed his mind about going on to Medina to meet the Reeds. It was a safe bet he’d flown back to Sweet Lake.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was looking forward to meeting him. Gale was too, but he was called into work. Second shift at the factory over on Millridge.” Janis led the way into a house thickly scented with sugar. Catching Daniel’s frown, she explained, “The start of canning season. I’ve been putting up jellies.”
“My mother used to can in the summer. Smells delicious.”
The comment sent her hands into the air. “Where are my manners? Would you like something to eat? A slice of pie?”
“A glass of water would be great.” Since the night with Linnie, his appetite was on sabbatical. At Devlin in Cleveland, on the drive to Medina—he’d nearly called her a dozen times. To say what, he wasn’t sure.
“One glass of water coming right up.”
She left him in a living room not much larger than the flowerbed out front. The faded plaid couch gave the impression of a garage sale find. The flat-screen TV wasn’t large, but appeared new. Daniel stepped past a recliner that was faded like the couch. The wall behind was naked, with the exception of a family photo in an oak frame.
Janis and Gale Reed, surrounded by four boys with cookie-cutter snub noses and pointed jaws. The family stared directly at the camera with pride and a hint of mischief. Only the oldest boy, his eyes large and filled with stardust, hung his attention on something out of view.
Bryce Reed.
Returning with a tall glass, Janis peered toward the narrow hallway. “Bryce, get on out here. Mr. Wayfair’s lawyer is waiting to meet you.” Handing the water over, she ushered Daniel into the recliner. When he’d seated himself, she added, “The trio is up at the community pool. Eli next door took ’em. Eli works third shift at the factory. Said he didn’t mind getting them out of my hair.”
“The trio?”
“My three younger boys. Bryce is the oldest by five years. That’s him, in the photograph there. Every family gets one dreamer, right?”
“Probably,” Daniel agreed. Philip, in his family. Freddie in the Wayfairs’. Privately he ticked off something else he had in common with Linnie. They were both more responsible than the other sibling. He wondered if they’d find more happiness if they understood the knack of living impulsively.
Her skirt billowing, Janis sat on the couch. Head cocked, she squinted at the hallway. “Bryce, c’mon!” She lowered her voice. “A twenty-one-year-old does not want Mama’s help. Took a week or so before he memorized the house. Lots of cussing while he did—my husband would’ve grounded him for a month, hearing those words. We agreed our boy had been punished enough.”
She dug around for another smile, but her mouth twitched. Moved by her effort to ward off despair, Daniel said, “I can’t imagine what this has been like for you and your husband.”
A terrible gratitude nested in her eyes. “Yes . . . just awful. Bryce running off to California, scaring us half to death. Then the call about the accident.”
“Mr. Wayfair called?”
“No, no—some nice woman at the hospital in San Fernando. I don’t think Mr. Wayfair heard about the accident until Bryce didn’t show up at the studio. Those men who set off the fireworks are in jail now.”
“They pleaded down to six months.” Freddie had given him the basics. After a pause, he asked, “Did you fly out to get your son?”
“Mr. Wayfair took care of everything. What a kind man. One of his assistants flew back with Bryce. All of the stuff in Bryce’s apartment? Mr. Wayfair packed everything up personally. Sent all those boxes first class with the sweetest note.”<
br />
A bizarre revelation. Freddie, a kind man? That he’d written a sympathetic note after packing an injured boy’s apartment was even more difficult to grasp.
Processing the information would have to wait. The light tapping of a cane announced Bryce’s arrival.
Although Daniel didn’t have children of his own, the sight stirred every fatherly instinct he possessed. Thick gauze hid the boy’s damaged eyes. He was taller than expected, with wide shoulders not yet muscled like a man’s. The loose jeans draping his lanky frame probably had fit before chance and tragedy stripped him of his sight.
“I’ve got a seat waiting for you,” his mother prodded, sparing his pride. Following her voice, Bryce shuffled to the couch. Steering him down, she added, “Now, don’t be disappointed. Mr. Wayfair isn’t here. Over in your daddy’s chair is Mr. Kettering. He’s the lawyer helping us get you into the Devlin Institute.”
Bryce propped the cane against his thigh. “I’m glad Mr. Wayfair didn’t come. He’s done enough.”
“He’s happy to help,” Daniel offered. It felt awkward, engaging the boy as he attempted to locate their guest by sound alone. “How are you doing? Ready for the surgery?”
“I guess so. Dad thinks I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
Janis opened her mouth to refute the claim. No words came.
Rescuing her, Daniel said, “Nothing wrong with optimism. I spoke with your surgeon personally. You’ll meet him yourself in a couple days. He’s confident you’ll regain sight to your right eye.”
The boy rubbed his knuckles with a careless thumb. “Not my left?” Tiny pearls of blood surfaced on the damaged skin.
The sight jolted Daniel with a memory of Linnie when she’d been little older than Bryce. “The surgeon will try to save the sight in both eyes,” he murmured, recalling the week after she’d fired half of the staff. She’d rubbed her knuckles raw. He’d purchased a jar of petroleum jelly, warning it wouldn’t look good if she bled in front of guests.
Brushing away the painful memory, he added, “When your parents take you up to the institute, ask all the questions you’d like. Your primary doctor has already sent your medical records. The more you know going in, the less frightening you’ll find the entire process.”
Bryce took this in with troubled calm. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Beneath clumps of shaggy hair, red welts framed his cheekbones. Was he drunk on the night of the accident? Too far under the influence to step away from the sizzling danger of the bottle rockets?
Suddenly he said, “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Kettering?”
“Anything.”
“Is Mr. Wayfair mad?”
The question floated, unbound. Janis smoothed an imagined crease from her skirt. Caught off guard, Daniel puzzled over the boy’s meaning.
Filling the void he’d created, Bryce stammered, “At me, I mean. For making him spend a bunch of money. He doesn’t have to. I didn’t ask for his help.”
“He knows you wouldn’t have asked, son.”
The compassion seeping into his voice was a blunder. Beneath the gauze, the boy’s features grew taut, his mouth drawing into a rigid line. Not a boy, Daniel reminded himself. Bryce Reed was an adult. Daniel pitied him for all he might lose.
Sullenly, Bryce said, “He doesn’t owe me anything. What I did was stupid. He shouldn’t pay for my mistakes.”
His mother gripped his knee. “Mr. Wayfair wants to help!”
She landed her attention on Daniel, the desperation she telegraphed bounding past her son’s pride. The chance for her son to regain his eyesight. A winning lottery ticket in the form of a generous filmmaker. The permanent blindness awaiting Bryce if his pride trumped common sense.
Coming to her aid, Daniel repeated his client’s desire to spare no expense. He spent long minutes detailing the groundbreaking techniques pioneered at Devlin. Wrapping up, he promised to answer any questions that might arise, day or night. To both mother and son, he handed a business card.
On the highway, the sun painted the horizon crimson. Loosening his tie, Daniel allowed his mind to drift. Meeting Bryce was more disturbing than anticipated. The techniques pioneered at Devlin were superior. Still, there was no guarantee they’d work in this instance. Despite Freddie’s largess, Bryce might spend a lifetime in darkness. It was a cruel punishment for one foolish mistake.
Daniel’s cell phone buzzed.
Philip wasted no time laying on the recriminations. “What the hell, bro?” he snapped. “I was getting ready to send out an APB.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Where are you?”
He squinted at the exit sign streaming past. “North of Columbus. Heading back now.”
“You’re hours away.”
The statement carried worry, putting him on alert. “Does it matter?”
“Why do you think I left so many messages?” Philip paused for emphasis. “Here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know. Your new client owns half of Linnie’s inn.”
The announcement sent the car skidding. Daniel righted the wheel before he crashed into a Ford pickup.
“Bro, you hear me?”
“I heard you. You’re sure about this?”
An unnecessary question. Thumbing through his phone, he found Linnie’s number.
Disgust carried Frances into the kitchen.
At the stove, the Sirens’ frenzied co-leader stirred three large, bubbling pots with abandon. Across her shoulders, Silvia’s thick black hair frizzed in clumps. Tendrils of steam spiraled around her face, beading perspiration on every inch of available skin.
Which was a lot of skin. Given the kitchen’s sauna-like temps, she’d dressed for warfare planning in shorts and a halter top.
Frances hung her purse on a hook by the door, far from the craft items scattered on the counters. More items were heaped before the women seated around the kitchen table.
She lowered her hands to her hips. “Silvia, are you completely unhinged? This is crazier than the suggestion we break into the post office to read Freddie’s letter before Linnie received it. You aren’t really going through with this, are you?”
“You know damn well I am.”
“You can’t!” This madness went against everything the Sirens believed. Searching for the means to calm her friend down, she added, “We’re meant to use our collective energies for good, never for ill. Before you take this any further, let’s at least talk. Or we can hold a meeting with the full membership and put it to a vote.”
Silvia’s wooden spoon clattered from one pot to the next. “You want a democracy? Run for office. Enough of our members agree to make the plan feasible.” She waved a hand at the women clustered around the table. “If you refuse to participate, no one cares.”
“Have you stopped to consider Linnie?”
“Have you? I’m not the one who got hands-y with her.” Silvia grabbed a dishcloth and swabbed her face. “Offering a Sirens’ primer on sex and patting her boobs—she’s not exactly happy with you.”
“Yes, and she still hasn’t forgiven us for the unfortunate night when the newlyweds found us on the beach.” Frances hadn’t forgiven herself either—stitching bathing suits out of leaves had been her idea. Desperate, she searched for more reasons to bring her friend back to her senses. “What about the guests staying at the Wayfair? If you carry out this madness, they’ll see you. You’re willing to risk harming Linnie’s business?”
“We’ll come and go before anyone notices.”
On the counter, Frances noticed a pile of dangerously sharpened sticks. “You aren’t planning to harm him, are you?” She shivered. There were many things she could stand, but the sight of blood wasn’t one of them.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. We’ll merely scare him, and good.” Silvia peered into a pot, then added another block of wax. “Go home, will you? Add a shot of whiskey to your chamomile tea and climb into bed.”
From the kitchen table, Norah Webb spoke up. “I’m with Si
lvia. Ten minutes of torment is exactly what he deserves.”
The Siren, a runway model in her youth and now in her early sixties, had buried four husbands. A terrible round of luck, but her long hair paired with the black outfits she favored led children in Sweet Lake to believe she was a witch. Ridiculously, the rumor found believers among several of the town’s women, all of whom had lobbied unsuccessfully for entry into the Sirens. Sour grapes, really—the unlucky Norah had married one man after another with an unreliable ticker.
Frances sighed. Storming the inn wouldn’t help her comrade’s already blackened reputation.
A point she made before adding, “You should all stop and think about the message you’re sending. Act like crazed warriors, and you’ll undo all our good work. This behavior is far beyond our code of conduct.”
Tilda, sorting tiny brass bells into piles, looked up nervously. “Silvia, maybe she’s right. Can’t we find a nicer way to punish him?”
“What do you suggest? A box of chocolates and a slap on the wrist? Keep your dizzy opinions to yourself.”
“I’m just saying . . .”
Silvia tossed more wax into the pots. “Show some pluck, will you? Retribution should be fast, fierce—and never nice!”
The outburst started Penelope’s lips quivering. “Hear the Siren’s call and give kindness in secret,” she murmured, slumping deep in her chair. “We’re miles from the mantra now.”
“You are,” Frances agreed, sensing a chip in the wall of rage Silvia had deftly constructed among their peers. She regarded Mr. Uchida’s older sister, now retired from the elementary school. “Think of all the good work we’ve done. Thanks to Yume’s marvelous suggestion, we’ve managed to anonymously fund summer camp for dozens of local children.” Yume smiled, and Frances added, “A kindness done in secret, and one for which I’m particularly proud.”
“Seven kids this year,” Penelope agreed.
“Yes, and what about your latest idea? It was grand.”
“You mean ‘love among the ancients’?”
“Who can deny the energy we channeled gave pitiful Ralph Euchanhofer the impetus to woo Kelly O’Neill?” Scooting their wheelchairs together whenever the Sirens visited the retirement center had surely helped, but it seemed wise to give the sensitive Penelope all the credit. “Look at them now. Eating meals together, playing checkers every night. Such bliss. Ralph’s even stopped spitting at the nurses.”
Sweet Lake (Sweet Lake #1) Page 9
