Larkspur Cove

by Lisa Wingate

  “Pppfff!” The clerk rolled her eyes, bracing her hands on the counter and leaning forward. “Come on, unless it affects the homeowners with money or the tourists at the state park, they don’t care.”

  “I’m going with you,” I said again.

  Mart drummed his fingertips against his belt and squinted speculatively toward the opposite shore, as if he were trying to imagine what he would find.“Suit yourself,” he answered finally, then started toward the back door. Holding it open, he waved toward the fly-infested porch. “Reverend Hay, you coming along on this tour, too?”

  The pastor nodded, topping off his Icee. “Suppose I ought to.” He started across the room, and I followed.

  “You need any more help, Mart?” one of the coffee-drinking customers asked, grinning at the game warden. “Want me to call SWAT?”

  Mart slid his sunglasses into place, then grabbed the brim of his hat and pulled it low over his eyes. “Yeah, we might need it.”

  Before following him down the hill, I texted Dustin, letting him know I would be a while. According to his reply, he was outside working on the list of chores I’d given him that morning – his consequence for the Scissortail incident – and Megan had shown up with the twins for a swim. I was comforted by the fact that he wasn’t home alone this evening.

  It wasn’t until I was bouncing across the lake in the game warden’s boat that it occurred to me to tell Dustin we had lunchmeat, hot dogs, and a roasted chicken in the refrigerator, if Meg and the kids wanted something to eat. Pulling out my cell phone, I checked to see if I could get a signal. There was none, of course. Just before I folded the phone, we hit a wake, the boat jumped, I bounced out of my seat, and spray doused my phone. I caught the dashboard to keep from landing in Mart’s lap. My feet slid in opposite directions, and I plopped back in my seat with an unceremonious “Oof!”

  “Better hang on,” Mart yelled, giving me an annoyingly snarky look as I was furiously drying my cell phone on my shirt.

  In the back, the good reverend turned his attention our way. “Choppy water today. More storms coming.”

  “Looks like it,” I called over the noise.

  The darkening sky reflected off Mart’s sunglasses as he checked the clouds and shook his head, as if he were in control of the weather, too. He pointed a finger at a passing watercraft, telling the driver to slow down, I guessed.

  Reverend Hay tipped his head back to study the patch of blue overhead. The wind caught his fisherman’s hat and sent it spiraling into the air. It spun and fluttered behind the boat momentarily, then landed in the foam of our wake and floated there, while the pastor looked longingly over his shoulder.

  Mart glanced in the rearview, then cast an exasperated frown over his shoulder. “Hang on,” he yelled, and the boat whipped around so suddenly that my pumps slid across the floor like ice skates. The world was one giant, spinning blur, centrifugal force pulling me out of my seat as I clutched the seat back, my body swinging like a pendulum. Beside me, Mart stood up, leaned over the low side rail, and in one casual movement, dipped an arm toward the water and scooped up the hat.

  Shaking drops off the rescued topper, Mart righted the boat, and I landed firmly back in my seat just in time to catch another spray of water – in the face this time. I tasted fish and algae, and saw something sliding across the floor. My cell phone. Ducking under the dashboard, I tried to grab it as the boat bounced along. When I sat up again, my head was whirling and rocking, and my stomach rose to meet it. Slapping a hand over my middle, I clenched my jaw and swallowed hard, rubbing my stomach as our ride finally slowed to a gentle wobble and the engine hushed to a dull hum.

  “Tell me you’re not about to get sick in my boat.” Mart eyed me while tossing the hat back to Reverend Hay.

  “I’m not getting sick in your boat,” I bit out. I will not get sick in the boat. I will not get sick in the boat. I will not …

  The next thing I knew, I was gagging over the side rail. Fortunately, it was just a case of the dry heaves. I slid back into my seat with the good reverend making his way up front to check on me, saying, “Put your head between your knees. You’re white as a sheet.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Putting my head between my knees was what had gotten me in trouble in the first place. I waved him off, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. “I just haven’t been out on the water in a long time. Lost my sea legs, I guess.” Even though the boat had slowed, the waves continued rocking underneath, sloshing my stomach side to side.

  Reverend Hay chuckled indulgently. “Kind of strange to live on a lake and not go out on the water.”

  “We’ve been busy unpacking.” Grabbing the hem of my new silk shirt as we idled quietly between an island and the Big Boulders, I dabbed the water from my face. If the cleaners could salvage this outfit, it would be a miracle. Right now, I would have gladly traded it for hiking boots and combat gear.

  “Here,” Mart said, and something landed in my lap. A towel. “Sorry about the splash.” He didn’t look sorry. He looked like he was laughing on the inside – enjoying the chance to prove that his big, bad game warden boat was no place for sissies.

  “My fault, really,” Reverend Hay interjected, wringing out his fishing hat. “You’d think I’d know to hang on to my hat when Mart’s driving.”

  Mart’s lips spread into a grin beneath the brim of his straw cowboy hat. For a minute, I caught myself just … watching him smile. He had a really nice smile, actually – like something from a cologne ad, but a little impish, too. The expression seemed kind of mischievous, as if he and the reverend had a private joke between them, and Mart was enjoying it. I never would have imagined that side to Mart McClendon. He wasn’t all law and order, after all… .

  “You’re new to the area, then?” the pastor observed. “You and your husband?” Perhaps he was looking at the ring on my left hand. It wasn’t my wedding band, but an antique anniversary ring passed down to me by my grandmother. It could have been a wedding band, though, which was why I was wearing it. The first time a seemingly friendly stranger in the grocery line had asked me if I was single, I’d been completely flustered. After that, I’d dug out my grandmother’s anniversary ring, so that question wouldn’t come up again.

  Single didn’t seem like the right word for where I was right now. I wasn’t sure that word would ever fit. I’d seen friends go through the process of a divorce and handle it smoothly, but even after a year, I couldn’t help feeling that sooner or later I’d wake up in my old shoes – be the comfortably married mom again. I’d volunteer at school, work one day a week at the food pantry, head up the church prayer group, do some volunteer counseling at the church and crisis center downtown, so that someday when my mommy years were over, I could move smoothly into a career and fulfill the dream of doing the kinds of things Aunt Lucy did. Someday wasn’t supposed to have arrived yet.

  Reverend Hay looked as if he sensed that he’d hit on a touchy subject. He had the perceptive gaze of a man who’d seen it all before.

  “Just my son and me,” I said, leaning over the backrest in an effort to shut Mart out of the conversation. Even with the boat running at low speed, though, there was enough engine hum to prevent any quiet conversation.“We moved to the house in Larkspur after I took the new job. Our office is in Cleburne.”

  He raised a brow. “You’ve got a pretty decent commute, then. How old is your boy?”

  Despite the fact that Mart was there, I found myself being drawn in. Reverend Hay was charismatic, in a gentle, unassuming sort of way. “Fourteen,” I answered.

  “Ohhh, a teenager.” His sympathy was obvious. In the past, I would have quickly remarked that teenagerhood had been a breeze. Dustin was naturally upbeat and agreeable. He enjoyed being a people-pleaser. I could hardly say those things with Mart nearby. He’d never met the real Dustin.

  I nodded, staring across the lake toward Larkspur Cove. I could make out the Scissortail, but nothing beyond.

  After we passed the
Big Boulders and coasted under Eagle Eye Bridge into the river channel, I lost sight of home altogether. The water stilled and the boat quieted even more, the motor almost soundless now. Looking back at the bridge, I thought about my dream – the little dark-haired girl balancing on the railing. Was the dream a warning? A sign?

  “Guess your son must get bored, being out here at the lake by himself,” Reverend Hay observed. “Not much to do but watch the birds go by.”

  I couldn’t help flicking a glance at Mart. Clearly, word of Dustin’s status as a delinquent hadn’t spread to the local pastor yet. Mart’s smile faded into a sardonic smirk, and the protective, motherly part of me wanted to throw something at him. The anchor, maybe.

  “Dustin is busy with chores today,” I bit out. “I left him with a list.”

  Reverend Hay, completely unaware that there was an undercurrent inside the boat, not just beneath it, laughed cheerfully. “Oh, the dreaded chore list. He must be a good kid, if you can leave him home alone with one of those.”

  “He is a good kid.” If Mart said a word, I was going to take him out with the nearest solid object. I really was. “The move, and it being just the two of us now, has been an adjustment for him, but he’s a good kid. His father still lives in Houston, so it’s all a little … hard for him to get used to.”

  The reverend nodded.“Well, transition is a struggle when you’re young. Isn’t that so, Mart? You moved around a lot when you were growing up, right?”

  “Hadn’t thought much about it,” Mart replied blandly, then stood behind the steering wheel and scouted the river ahead, letting us know he wasn’t interested in relating his past to Dustin’s current struggles.

  For some reason, I found myself cataloging that bit of information about him – moved frequently as a child. Maybe that was why he was so … maladjusted.

  “We have some great summer activities through the church,” Hay suggested. “It’s just a small group of kids, but we try to keep them active. I’d be happy to stop by and pick your son up anytime.”

  The invitation came loaded with an obvious scattershot of expectation. I knew the pastoral drill. As the wife of former pastor, and then a college vice-chancellor, I’d performed the drill many times on visitors to our various churches. Find out something about the person, make a connection, learn a little background, suggest ways that he or she might plug into activities. “Does he have any interest in theater?”

  “Theater?” I repeated, doing a mental rewind.

  “I have parts for teenage boys in our fall production at the Tin Building.”

  I tried to imagine what Dustin would say if I suggested it. In the past, he’d enjoyed performing in vacation Bible school skits, and he’d even taken on a few bit parts when the college theater needed a child actor. Now … ? Who could say? “I’ll talk to him about it.” Beneath the question of Dustin’s reaction, there was another concern. If we got involved in the community, everyone would eventually know our history. It was so much easier to be anonymous. “Right now he should be busy with the chore list and his summer reading for advanced English next year.” At least, I hoped he was. I cast another worried look toward our wake, where the last views of the cliffs over Eagle Eye Bridge were disappearing behind a bend in the river.

  “He is.” The answer, and the fact that it came from Mart, took me by surprise. “I passed by your place earlier. He was out there, pushing a lawnmower back and forth across that big ol’ yard.”

  A tender feeling warmed inside me, followed by a sense of relief. Dustin really had been doing what he was told. He’d given me the truth in his text message. He was right where he was supposed to be today, at home, accepting the consequences for his poor decision-making. Maybe the worst was over with him.

  On the heels of that thought came another. The sour-faced game warden took time to look in on my son.

  As we wound our way upriver, I pretended to survey the overhanging trees on the opposite shore, but really, I was watching Mart, studying him, trying to put together the pieces. There was more to Mart McClendon than what showed on the surface. He wasn’t the iceman he pretended to be… .

  Ten minutes later, when he cut the engine and steered us toward shore between two overhanging willow trees, I realized I’d been idly analyzing him, watching the way he moved, listening as he and Reverend Hay talked about the migration patterns of waterfowl along the river. As we drew near the shore, Mart cut the engine, climbed onto the front of the boat, grabbed the rope, and waded through the mud to shore. Tugging the rope, he pulled the boat forward, so that the front of it was beached in the muck. I had the sudden realization that there was no dock here, and getting out of the boat in heels was going to be … well … undignified at best.

  If Mart was concerned, it didn’t show. He tied the rope to a tree, said,“If I had my regular boat, this’d be easier. This one’s a loaner. Wait here a minute.” And then he disappeared into the underbrush.

  In the rear seat, Hay was rolling up his pant legs. Since exiting the boat with no one watching seemed preferable to exiting with an audience, I staggered to the front, searched out the most solid-looking spot, and swung my legs over the edge. I landed in the mud, heard a flatulent sound and felt something cool and slimy oozing into my pumps. A visceral shudder ran over my shoulders – pathetic for a girl whose favorite childhood place had been the lakeshore, where I could run barefoot all day, dig in the dirt, and let the wind and the water turn my hair into a giant knot, which my mother would spend hours combing out later. What had happened to that girl, anyway?

  “Hang on a minute,” Mart called from somewhere in the trees. “I’ll bring over a …” The brush rustled, and I shuffle-slogged in a semicircle just in time to see Mart emerging from the brush, dragging a fairly large log. Judging from the way he was looking at my mud-covered feet, the log was intended to provide a bridge of sorts, to transport me over the mire. “Guess we don’t need this anymore.” Mart tossed the log aside.

  “I’m fine,” I said, indicating that I did this kind of thing every day.

  Behind me, Reverend Hay called out, “Bonsaiii!” then jumped off the boat and landed past the muck line. Mart started toward the trees, and I squished my way to dry land. The pastor fell into step behind me.

  “How far is it to the house?” I ventured, even though I was partially afraid of the answer. In contrast to our side of the lakeshore, the riverbanks here were wild and undeveloped, lonely and far from welcoming, framed by tall trees and thick tangles of underbrush, which, now that I looked closely, harbored copious amounts of poison ivy and probably snakes. As far as I could see in either direction, there was no sign of a house or a road, or human habitation of any kind.

  Tipping his head back, Mart studied a tree ahead. “Well, we must be in the wrong spot. These trees’ve got too much bark on the north side.”

  Three thoughts crossed my mind. You mean I climbed out of the boat and slogged through the mud for nothing? How am I going to get back into the boat? And then, a final, random thought, He can tell where we are by the bark on the trees? “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mart turned just far enough that I caught a glint in the corner of his eye, then he grinned, shook his head, and walked on.

  Behind me, Hay chuckled. “Game wardens are full of hooey. It comes with the job.”

  Ahead, Mart held aside a curtain of wild grapevines, waving a hand to usher us through. I glanced up to see if the smile was still there and caught the last bit of it fading. Somewhere under the uniform and the straight face, there was an actual personality. Go figure.

  Once we’d made it through the underbrush, Mart quickly located a road that was little more than twin ruts winding off into the forest. Whether the trail was still in use seemed debatable, but Mart nodded like he’d discovered what he was looking for. “It shouldn’t be far from here,” he said. “I figured Len was using one of these old logging trails to cart his stuff down to the water. He probably has his boat hidden in the brush near here. H
e puts it in the water right past those cedar trees.”

  A creepy feeling crawled up my spine, and goose bumps prickled my skin. All of a sudden, I felt like we were being watched.

  Perhaps coming here wasn’t a good idea.

  God gave men one mouth and two ears,

  so they can listen twice as much as they talk.

  – Anonymous

  (via Mart McClendon, state game warden)

  Chapter 10

  Mart McClendon

  On the way up the hill, I started thinking maybe it wasn’t the brightest thing, bringing along Hay and Andrea. I wasn’t really worried about Len deciding to take a shot at us – after ten years of dealing with poachers, game thieves, and gun-toting rednecks of all kinds, you get a sense about people – but between Andrea asking questions and Hay jumping out of the boat yelling Bonsai!, we’d given Len plenty of warning. Usually, if I was making an unannounced visit, I didn’t want my suspects to hear me from a mile away. That’s what makes the visit unannounced.

  I had a feeling Len could see us, but we weren’t likely to be seeing him. Folks who lived in these kinds of places had their reasons for avoiding people, but as we clattered up the ridge, I fanned a hope that having Hay and Andrea along would convince Len I wasn’t there to pin him down for having too many lines in the lake. Maybe seeing them would pique his curiosity a little bit, make him think we were there handing out free food baskets from the church or something. Folks up in these hills would put up with some interloping if there was charity involved. In general, they knew that strangers dressed too nice for the territory and church pastors tended to come bearing gifts. Game wardens came bearing citations and warnings, mostly.

  “How much farther?” Andrea asked as we topped the hill. I could see a clearing ahead and a four-wheeler trail that somebody’d been using quite a bit. With the bridge washed out on County Road 47, it was a long drive down some pretty rough back roads to get into town from here, but going upriver and across the lake, Len could make the Waterbird in twenty-five minutes or less, which was probably why he’d been showing up there quite a bit this summer with vegetables and mushrooms to sell in the parking lot. The fact that he’d changed his pattern these last couple weeks and started selling at the Crossroads again could definitely mean he was trying to keep from being seen by too many people.