Book of Days

by James Rubart

  "I can't say I blame him for that."

  "Unforgiveness is like taking a daily poison tablet, expecting it to hurt the other person."

  "Jessie used to say something like that." Cameron thought of Ann. Hadn't he just talked to her about forgiveness? "You're saying he needs to forgive him."

  "He must. He has to."

  "Do you think Jason can ever forgive Taylor?"

  Tricia looked up at Cameron with storm clouds in her eyes. "I'm not talking about Jason. I'm talking about Taylor."

  Cameron bent down and pulled up a few strands of grass. "Tell me about Taylor's wife, Annie. Who was she? How did she die?"

  "I should let Taylor tell you that part of the story." Tricia stood and brushed the dirt off her knees. "Not that he'll tell the tale easily."

  "Did her death have anything to do with—?"

  "Don't you think we've talked enough for one day? I do."

  No, he didn't. He wouldn't feel that way till he stood in front of the Book of Days reading its pages. But he followed her lead, thanked her for the time, and walked to his car.

  Onions, Cameron thought as he drove toward Arnold Peasley's house. Ogres might be like onions, but people were too—always another layer underneath the last one.

  Taylor was turning out to have more layers than most.

  He had to find a way to peel back every one of them.

  CHAPTER 29

  He listened to a late-night talk show—almost too soft to hear—as he clipped his nails close and stared at them. No. Not close enough. He always liked to see a little blood when he finished. Not a lot, just a thin red line outlining each nail.

  He clipped another nail and watched the blood seep from his pinky finger.

  Perfect.

  Nine to go.

  If only it were that simple to find the book. How many more days did he have to wait? Nine? Eight? Twenty? He couldn't control the answer and it frustrated him.

  Why was Cameron rock climbing and talking to Stone's wife? Why was he helping Ann Banister find her history? All of that was time wasted. And there was no time to waste.

  Cameron could dig where he couldn't so he could be patient. He'd waited years; he could wait a few more days, or even weeks, for Cameron to lead him to the book. But not months.

  He flicked off the television and the lights, sat in the dark, and breathed in the warm summer air.

  As soon as he stood in front of the book, he would kill Cameron, kill Taylor, and there would be a worthy guardian of the Book of Days once more.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tricia glanced at the clock on the dining room wall wondering how much longer should she wait before upsetting Taylor? It was 5:50. She would wait a few more minutes before telling him who was about to show up for dinner.

  She set down a crystal vase full of scarlet gilia from her yard, then adjusted a cluster of five lilac-scented candles in the middle of the table. That one needed to go just a pinch farther to the left. Ah yes. Perfect.

  She scuttled back into the kitchen and checked the oven and the stove top. Everything looked right.

  "Dinner for three? And in the dining room?" Taylor stood leaning against the doorjamb leading into the kitchen and raised his eyebrows.

  "Yes."

  "Would you care to elaborate?"

  "We'll be having chicken dijon, asparagus, and Asiago cheese bread, but we'll start with a salad and—"

  "Hah."

  She picked the stem stumps from the flowers off the kitchen counter, tossed them into the trash, and rinsed off her hands in the sink, her back to Taylor. "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?" She sidled up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed.

  "Who is coming to dinner, my dear?"

  "Ann Banister." She looked up and smiled.

  "The TV woman? What for?" Taylor's mouth sagged, his eyebrows furrowed. "Are you kidding? I don't want her here."

  "So it wasn't just stomach cramps that made you react to her like she'd snapped your favorite fishing pole in two."

  Taylor jammed his hands into his 501s, wagged his head, and started to say something three times before giving up.

  "She admires you. Your column might not have ever hit national syndication, but she tells me she used to read it—"

  "—in The Oregonian."

  Tricia nodded.

  "And she's coming to dinner." Taylor paced. "I need a drink."

  "You don't drink."

  "I could start." Taylor held his breath. "She can't come here."

  "Why, because she reminds you of someone?"

  Taylor stopped pacing and stared at Tricia.

  "Tell me who." She returned the glare.

  Five books on the fireplace mantel leaning to the left suddenly grabbed Taylor's attention, and he strode over and straightened them up.

  "You might as well get it over with. I already know who anyway. As if I couldn't figure it out with my own eyes."

  "Fine! She reminds me of Annie, okay? She looks enough like her to be Annie's twin. I'm sure you noticed. Do you feel better now that you dragged it out of me?" His back was to Tricia.

  "Yes, I do."

  Turning toward her, he puffed out a disgusted breath and shook his head. "I really don't need her here, reminding me of Annie with that little hair flipping thing she does, talking like Annie, looking like Annie. We'll end up talking about Annie with this Banister woman—"

  "What's wrong with talking about Annie?"

  Taylor flopped down in his leather recliner. "I'm tired of talking about Annie. It seems like the only thing we talk about these days."

  Tricia swiveled to face Taylor, hands on hips and—she hoped—lightning coming out of her eyes. "Knock it off. Annie's name has come up once, maybe twice in the past three weeks. Before that, never. Not since it happened."

  Taylor folded his arms, snorted, and stared at the beige carpet. "Her dying was the most painful experience of my life. I would think you could—"

  "She brightened a lot of people's lives in this town, not just yours. Why can't you share memories of this person with her friends who are still alive?"

  The question hung in the room like a spotlight. She folded her arms and waited. Taylor blew out a long breath and locked eyes with her but said nothing. Finally he grabbed the remote and flicked on the television.

  She'd never pressed him. Annie was the love of his life, and her death was tragic, but it was thirty-three years ago. After they'd first married, Tricia had tried to talk about Annie, but he always shut her down immediately. Once he'd hinted at why he wouldn't talk about it, something about "the power and horror of choice," but he'd refused to say more than that ever since.

  When Taylor and she had started dating five years ago, Tricia only saw the charismatic charmer she'd known since they were children. The darker side didn't emerge till they'd been married half a year. Dark? No, that was the wrong word. Better described as a shadow that often hung over him; a cloud that appeared without warning, then left again just as suddenly. A gray streaked fog that had appeared with surprising frequency ever since Cameron showed up.

  And had turned into a storm cloud when Ann Banister arrived in town.

  Ann stepped onto the porch of the Stone's home at six o'clock sharp and rang the bell. The scent of roses from a bush on either side of the door filled the air. Next to that was a hand-painted sign—from the artists-under-seven set by the look of it—which said Welcome to My Grampa and Gramma's House.

  "Good to see you, Ann." Tricia welcomed Ann and motioned her inside with swift hand gestures.

  After Tricia took her coat and they had a bit of prerequisite small talk, Tricia called out for Taylor to join them. "Our guest is here, the rest of your article for Fish Fly can wait."

  "In a minute," came a muffled reply somewhere toward the back of the house.

  "He still writes?"

  "Not much for publication. Just for a few fly-fishing magazines, a couple of Web sites, and a couple of blogs."
>
  Taylor stepped into the living room and held out his hand. "It's a pleasure, Ms. Banister."

  "No, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Stone." Ann glanced around the room. "You have a lovely home."

  Taylor gave a razor-thin smile. "I see you have your manners. I can certainly appreciate it, even if the house isn't that impressive. I'm sure it's nowhere close to a big-shot TV host's home."

  "I never say anything unless I mean it." Ann's eyes locked on to Taylor's.

  His face stayed sullen, but his eyes twinkled for a moment as he moved his head a millimeter to the side.

  Tricia cleared her throat. "If you'd like to take a seat, dinner is ready."

  Ann settled into her chair, but Taylor stood and watched Tricia waltz into the kitchen. He glanced at her and his face reddened. Embarrassment? That didn't make sense. Fear? No, it looked closer to shame. Before Ann could decide, he excused himself, walked out of the room, and didn't come back till after Tricia returned with a plate piled with chicken dijon.

  "So, do you like being a celebrity?" Tricia sat and spread her napkin on her lap.

  "I am so not a celebrity." Ann laughed and as she did, Taylor blinked as if he'd been shocked.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah. Muscle spasm. Fine." Taylor patted his chest.

  Taylor sat on her right, Tricia on her left. The hidden looks Tricia kept giving Taylor weren't well concealed. She was obviously concerned about something going on in her husband's head. And it was evident the something had to do with Ann. His strange behavior was definitely an interesting little subplot to add to Cameron's quest.

  "I read your columns in The Oregonian growing up, and now you're writing for fly-fishing magazines?" Ann said. "Is fishing a hobby of yours?"

  Taylor answered by springing from his chair and trotting over to the built-in oak bookshelves next to the fireplace. He returned with a large blue photo album and flipped it open on the table next to Ann. The pages were filled with pictures of Taylor fly-fishing, captions underneath with dates scrawled in a blue pen, and the names of at least forty different rivers throughout the western part of the United States.

  As Ann flipped through the pictures, Taylor asked, "Why didn't you take the NBC job when they offered to buy out your contract? I know your show is national, but NBC had to be offering you more money than you're making now."

  Ann looked up in surprise. "Wow, you really did do some research on me."

  "I've been a newspaper man for thirty years. It's hard to get it out of the system, you know?" Taylor filled up Ann's water glass.

  "I think success should be measured in wealth of friendships, not things. And I wanted to keep my portfolio intact as much as possible."

  Tricia answered with a smile and a nod. Taylor didn't respond.

  For a few minutes the only sound was the clink of forks and knives.

  "So you're in Three Peaks to help Cameron look into the Book of God legend?" Taylor finally asked.

  "Book of Days." Ann took a bite of salad and turned to Tricia. "That is excellent. The walnuts make it, don't you think?" She turned back to Taylor. "You didn't come to Jason's reception, obviously."

  "We had to leave early," Taylor said.

  "I'm mainly here on a personal matter, and I'm giving Cameron a little bit of help when I can."

  "So do you think it exists? The book?" Tricia asked.

  "Well—"

  "Let's jump off before we go too far down this track. Talking about that book is a complete waste of conversation." Taylor folded his arms across his chest.

  "I thought you just asked what she thinks about the book—"

  "No, I asked her why she was in Three Peaks, not what—"

  "Let the girl speak." Tricia gave Taylor a light smack on his wrist.

  Ann pushed a piece of asparagus across her plate. "No, I don't think there's any chance that something like that could be real."

  "Finally. Maybe you can talk some sense into the kid."

  "I'm trying, Taylor." She smiled.

  Tricia excused herself to get dessert and Ann got up to help clear off the table. Both Taylor and Tricia protested, but Ann carried the dishes into the kitchen anyway.

  As she made her way back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, Ann considered Taylor's neonlike reactions to her. Tricia was right; Ann certainly made him feel uncomfortable, but why? She couldn't come right out and ask him, and he wasn't giving away any clues. And his odd responses to the subject of the Book of Days? As Cam suspected, Taylor was undoubtedly involved. How deep wasn't easy to guess. At least not yet.

  Dessert was chocolate torte, served along with decaf coffee and French vanilla creamer. Ann struggled to eat it slowly. It slid down her throat like edible silk. Chocolate was her bane but at the same time a tremendous motivator for rock climbing to torch the unwanted calories. As long as you lived long enough to climb again.

  After they finished, Tricia asked about Ann's personal reason for being in Three Peaks.

  "I lived in foster homes from the time I was a kid till I went off to college. My mom abandoned me when I was eleven, and I didn't want to know anything about her." Ann sipped her coffee. "And I didn't care about where I'd come from."

  "But something changed your mind?"

  "Three months ago I moved from my apartment into a house. The last box I unpacked was covered with silver duct tape so old it was brittle. As I yanked open the box, I realized I hadn't seen what was inside since I was eleven. Books. All my books from childhood, full of the worlds I escaped into when I was a kid. Pippi Longstocking, Anne of Green Gables—who I've always imagined I was named after—Judy Blume's stories . . . I sat for three hours taking lap after lap around memory lane. The last book I opened—Treasure Island—was one I never read. I was a bit too young for it, I suppose. As I leafed through its pages, a picture fluttered to the hardwood floor and landed facedown.

  "The back had my mom's name written on it and the date the photo was taken. I turned it over and looked at the only picture I have of my mom from when she was a kid." Ann swallowed and stared at her plate. "It's the only shot I have of her period."

  "You decided it was time to find out where you came from."

  Ann nodded at Tricia and took another sip of coffee.

  "And that picture led you here?" Tricia said.

  "Yes, and I think this picture is worth one-hundred-thousand words. If only I could get it to talk."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think I know where the picture was taken, but I have no idea who the other kids in the photo are. I would love to find out. Because they might still be alive and they could tell me who my mom was and where she came from."

  "Did you bring it with you?"

  Ann excused herself to get the photo from her purse. This was it. Time to see if her intuition had been sending her right signals when it told her to get the photo in front of Tricia and Taylor.

  She eased back into her chair. It felt like she was stepping onto a six-inch ledge five-hundred feet above the ground.

  Ann slid the facedown picture into the center of the table and flipped it over.

  An instant later Taylor's fork slipped from his hand and clanged onto his dessert plate.

  "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Tricia." Ann stood on the porch and zipped up her Windbreaker more out of habit than need. The temperature felt like it was still in the upper sixties at least.

  "Would you like to take a little stroll together? We could take in some of the night air." Tricia leaned in like a seventh grader about to describe which boy at school she had a crush on.

  "Sure, I'd love to." Ann breathed in the pine-scented evening air and held it. Portland beat every other place on earth when the sun shone, but she was beginning to think Three Peaks was a close second.

  "I'm sorry once again for Taylor traipsing off into his writing room right in the middle of dessert. I don't know what got into him."

  "I upset him; I'm sorry."

  Tricia stifl
ed a tiny laugh. "Yes, I think you did, most of the evening." She leaned toward Ann. "I loved it."

  "Do you mind me asking, does Taylor always drop his fork when thirtysomething women show old photos from when their moms were kids?"

  Tricia shook her head and smiled. "That reaction convinced me of something I've suspected since the moment I first saw you."

  "And that is?"

  "I wonder if people get tired of me saying, 'I think Taylor better tell you more about that'?"

  "Without question."

  She laughed and Tricia joined in.

  They walked in silence, in a warm kind of comfort. Was this what it felt like to take a late evening walk with a mother who cared about you?

  "So tell me about Taylor and the Book of Days," Ann said after they'd strolled another block down the street.

  "He's always felt the same way about it as you do. That it's nothing worth spending a breath on. At least that's what he's always said."

  "What do you think?"

  "I'll tell you what I told Cameron. My husband's been acting strange ever since the two of you came into town."

  "Cameron thinks whatever the Book of Days' story is, Taylor holds the key."

  "I sure hope the two of you feel that way." Tricia's smile almost turned to laughter. "If you hadn't figured that out, I'd have worried you weren't as bright as I thought."

  CHAPTER 31

  Two Years, Six Months Earlier

  Cameron's Christmas present to Jessie that year had been a trip to Disneyland with another couple. All four had gone nonstop from the time the gates opened each morning till the fireworks of brilliant greens, blues, and reds exploded over Cinderella's castle each night. The lines were long but they worked their Fast Passes with precision, and by the end of third day, they were all wiped out but basked in the fun of being kids again.

  "Great memories," one of the men said as they strolled toward Disneyland's Main Street on their way back to the hotel.