oOo
We survived lunch — well, I did — barely. I could tell Pete was figuratively gritting his teeth throughout the ordeal. Mom was strained, her chatter not coming as effortlessly as usual, as she searched for innocuous topics.
She extracted some of Pete’s history — the high school injury that negated a full-ride college football scholarship and his subsequent enlistment in the Navy; saving every spare cent so he could buy his tug, the Surely, after fifteen years of service and an honorable discharge; building his business on word of mouth and a willingness to take the unusual or particularly challenging tow jobs.
Mom was deadpan throughout, question after question, as though she was clicking through an eligibility checklist. Pete’s voice deepened with the tension, and I scooted closer to him, sliding a hand under the picnic table to rub his knee. I felt guilty that I was enjoying a few minutes of freedom from Mom’s critical spotlight while she focused on him instead.
I was about to suggest dessert as a diversion when an enormous motorcoach with California plates and towing a U-Haul trailer rumbled around the loop and stopped beyond a full hook-up site several spaces away. The driver rolled down his window, stuck his head out and started creeping in reverse. I recognized the thick glasses and pointed nose of Melvin Sharpe, the filmmaker I’d met at the fundraiser.
The RV lurched and jerked as the brake lights flashed on and off, the coach swaying from side to side under the strain of making the turn. Except he didn’t make the turn, and the U-Haul ended up with one wheel in the fire pit of the next campsite over.
Melvin and someone in the passenger seat hollered at each other, then the motorcoach leaped forward and the U-Haul bumped out of the fire pit.
“Just give me a minute,” Melvin shouted.
“You’re going to ruin it,” a female voice flung back.
I cringed. “Maybe we should have our pie inside. Backing up with such a big coach plus a trailer is hard. Having spectators is worse.” I stacked our plates and stood.
A door on the far side of the coach slammed, and a pair of feet in red stilettos appeared in the gap between the bottom of the coach and the ground. “You can’t do anything right,” the passenger yelled.
And this coming from a woman who thought spiked high heels were appropriate for camping? Straight from Hollywood, that pair. With my nerves and patience already stretched taut, the woman who belonged to those shoes — and that screechy voice — was about to push me over the edge.
“À la mode?” I asked with forced cheerfulness and sped for the steps up to my fifth-wheel.
Typically, my fellow campers are practical and friendly, the kind of people you have instant rapport with. But not always. I wondered how long making a documentary would take and if I’d have to listen to my new neighbors bickering every evening until then.
Pete, carrying the lasagna pan and chuckling, climbed the steps behind me. Mom followed, looking over her shoulder as the coach slammed into reverse for another attempt.
I scooped ice cream over peach pie slices, and we huddled around the dining table. RVs aren’t particularly well insulated, so we could still hear yelling, but at least I couldn’t pick out the insulting words anymore. Mom kept peeking out the window, as though fascinated by this inappropriate social behavior.
“His name’s Melvin Sharpe. He was at the fundraiser Friday night. He’s doing a documentary on locavore culture, and apparently he, or his writers, think Platts Landing is a forward-thinking community in that regard.” I snickered. “The truth is, we just eat what there is. We’re certainly not snobbish about food. Everyone figures that if you grow it, you’d better not waste it.”
“This—” Pete gestured with his fork at the pie and spoke around a mouthful, “—is great.”
I grinned. “Windfalls.” The campground is nestled in the remnants of old orchards — peach, pear and apricot. The fruit is free for the taking, one of the perks for residents.
We scraped our plates clean in silence, and Pete helped me wash the dishes.
Mom stayed seated, gazing out the window and toying with her coffee mug until she finally said, “They’re parked now and seem to be setting up. Should we go say hello?”
Pete raised his brows at me and shrugged.
I nodded in response to his unasked question. Mom feels most comfortable in the middle of a big group. This lazy Sunday afternoon was probably driving her crazy. “Sure.”
We tromped across the intervening campsites and rounded the big coach. Melvin had his head stuck in a side compartment, and he was pounding on something.
Pete cleared his throat. “Need a hand with those jacks?”
Melvin peeked under his arm, squinting through the thick glasses. “Um yeah I guess not sure what—”
“Pete — baby!” A well-endowed, blonde bombshell appeared in the coach’s side door — she of the red stilettos. “What a surprise!” She flew down the stairs and flung her arms around Pete’s neck, smacking him with a big, juicy kiss. She sort of missed — or maybe he flinched? — and she hit the corner of his mouth, leaving a lipstick streak on his cheek.
Pete took a step back, flushing dark.
The blonde hung on him, giggling. “Oh, you cutie. I haven’t seen you in forever,” she gushed.
I did not have the decency to stop staring and close my mouth. When sense returned — just a momentary lapse — I whirled, turning my back on the scene, my breathing fast and shallow. In a fraction of a second, I’d scoped all escape routes and identified the most promising one.
Mom materialized at my side and gripped my elbow with iron fingers. “Steady,” she hissed.
“I’m leaving,” I whispered.
“No, you’re not.” Mom gritted the words out in a barely audible voice, exhibiting amazing ventriloquism skills. She steered me back around to face the awkward group.
Melvin had also risen to his full height, and he was shuffling his feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing fast.
Mom strode forward, straight up to Pete who had his hands on the blonde’s waist while she murmured into his neck. She stuck out her right hand. “Pamela Morehouse. So informative to meet you.”
The blonde had to disentangle herself from Pete in order to shake Mom’s hand. “Tiffany Reese. I love your shoes.”
I was shuffling backwards, doing my best to disappear. Where’s an invisibility cloak when you need one? I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. Maybe if I closed my eyes, what I was seeing would become a bad dream instead of reality—
I thudded into the front corner of the motorcoach and slid around the headlight and grill, smearing bug guts on my blouse in the process. I leaned there, panting. Tuppence nudged my leg and wagged hopefully.
“You’re right. The perfect time for a walk,” I muttered.
Tuppence dropped in a play bow, her behind up in the air and tail swishing from side to side.
I set out at a fast clip, Tuppence trotting at my heels. I tried to stretch my hands out of the tight fists they had clenched into. And I focused on breathing. In — out. In — out. It’s just that this had happened before — different man, same predicament. And once was more than enough for me.
I never thought Pete would — I just never imagined—
I bit my lip, fighting back tears, and veered onto the riverside path. Tuppence clambered over the boulders lining the riverbank, poking her nose into the crevasses and snorting. Every once in a while she’s rewarded with an indignant frog or worried furry creature, and that hope keeps her looking. I sniffed — life would be so much easier as a dog.
A big pile of rocks formed a short natural jetty just beyond the campground property. I climbed over them out to the tip, careless of my skirt and scraping my legs. I found a smooth spot on the promontory rock and perched on the edge, feet dangling over the water.
Normally, the river is a source of comfort for me, but I stared at the murky waves slapping the shore without seeing them. I was numb, and my brain slogged though the cam
pground scene without making sense of anything. The only thing that stood out was the deadening feeling that I appeared to be following in my mother’s footsteps — one miserable relationship after another.
I laid back. High cirrus clouds swirled — wispy feathers and fans — sifting like sand over a pale blue glass sea. Swirling, curling, dispersing.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed the heels of my palms into them. But it was no use — the memory of Pete holding the blonde was already permanently etched on my mind’s screen. Tears ran into my ears.
oOo
“Meredith! For goodness’ sake. Are you asleep?” Mom’s irritated tone sounded close, almost as if she was speaking from inside my own head.
I sat up with a gasp, then scrunched my eyes closed and opened them again — in case I’d missed something. The world was still dark, filtered in grayscale from the fading dusk in the west end of the gorge, as though I’d regained consciousness in a different dimension. But that really was my mother’s voice approaching.
“What are you doing?” A black form wobbled on the rock next to me, and she clutched my shoulder as she eased into a tenuous sitting position. “You had me worried.”
“I guess I did fall asleep,” I mumbled. “Still catching up from no sleep the other night — when Sheriff Marge had her accident.”
“Still running,” Mom said quietly.
I knew what she meant, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss my foibles. “So are you.”
Mom sighed. “I know. You learned it from me.” She grabbed my hand, jumped to her feet and yanked me up as well. “Come on.”
I teetered on the edge of the boulder, but Mom gave me another yank, and I stumbled forward, slipping and sliding as she pulled me toward shore. It was probably good I couldn’t see where I was going, so I never knew how close I came to falling off the jetty.
My feet hit solid dirt and damp grass, then a cold nose bumped my knee.
“If it weren’t for Tuppence, I still wouldn’t know where you were,” Mom snapped. “This has gone on long enough.”
She dragged me along the paved and lighted path across the campground toward my fifth-wheel trailer, in much the same way an exasperated nanny would haul a temper-tantrum-throwing toddler out of the supermarket.
I tripped and hurried to keep up. Her pace didn’t allow for objections or complaints. In fact, I was wheezing from lack of oxygen, she walked so fast.
Under the last maple tree before my campsite, she halted, still gripping my arm. “Pete’s here, and he’s not leaving until you talk to him.”
“Oh, no.” I swung around to retreat.
“Oh, yes.” She jerked me back. Leaf shadows cast by a lamppost dappled over her face, giving her an eerily fierce look. “It’s clear the two of you are madly in love, but you’re being a ninny about it.”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Yes, you.” Mom cupped my face in her hands and leaned in. Her eyes were dark and huge in the gloom. “I saw how you looked at him at church — wide open.” She paused, and her gaze flicked away then back again, boring into me with her eyes. “Wide open. Baby, don’t let that go. For once I know what I’m talking about.” She gave me a smack on my bottom and a shove toward the campsite. “Go.”
CHAPTER 7
Pete was hunched in a lawn chair, elbows on knees, twirling the end of a stick in the dying embers of a campfire. He seemed to be concentrating, or mesmerized by the flames.
I stopped outside the campfire’s glow, trying to figure out what to say — or what not to say, what to ask and what not to ask — and rubbed the stinging spot my mother’s hand had left. Apparently I have not outgrown the application of physical discipline, at least in her mind.
Tuppence had followed me — ever-faithful, ever-present — and decided, at that moment, to shake. An ear-slapping, jowl-slinging, tag-jangling full body shake.
Pete stood quickly. “Meredith?”
My heart lurched at the worried look on his face. I knew in an instant — my mother was right.
I stepped into the light and closed the gap fast. Pete caught me and held me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I whispered into his chest.
“Babe.” His ragged breathing ruffled my hair. “You were just — gone.”
I shuddered a deep breath, and Pete shifted, bending his cheek against mine, his day’s growth of beard scratchy — and so real. I closed my eyes — I needed him real.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
Pete tipped my chin up. “This is my fault. I need to explain.” He ran his thumb along my jawline. “Will you listen?”
I nodded.
He led me over to the picnic table. I climbed up, sitting on the top with my feet on the bench, facing the river. A giant, apricot-colored moon was nearly clear of the eastern horizon, its craters like dusty bruises in the fruit’s flesh. I felt as though I had its full attention as it tipped over the highest range of hills — black bumps in the distance.
Pete scooted in snug beside me. “I’m keeping you close enough to grab in case you decide to vanish again.”
“I’m sorry.”
Pete cradled me, tipping my head against his shoulder. “I know you’ve been hurt in the past and had good reason to leave then, but this is not one of those times. You want to know about Tiffany?”
“Not really.” I sniffed. “Um, yes — okay.”
“High school. We dated off and on for a couple years. I knew it would never amount to anything, but it was fun — and she wasn’t a cheerleader. Back then, I drew the line at cheerleaders.”
I pulled back and scowled at him.
Pete’s face dropped. “You weren’t a cheerleader, were you?”
I snorted in the negative. I can’t even clap on the two and four beats during a song, so twirling and flipping in synchronized rhythm was out of the question. Not that I wasn’t a teensy bit envious of the cute girls who could do all that and keep perky smiles on their faces.
Pete squeezed me. “I’m sure there are smart, classy cheerleaders somewhere, but there weren’t any in Platts Landing when I was in high school, and, anyway, all the football players wanted to date them. Guess I bucked the trends, even then.”
“Football players would have outnumbered cheerleaders, what — four, five to one?” I asked.
“Well, there was that too.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth.
“Was Tiffany the valedictorian?”
“Not hardly. President of the drama club.” Pete ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “It appears that hasn’t changed.”
The harvest moon was sliding up the side of a tree trunk, heading for the leafy canopy. A solitary cricket tuned his wings.
“So Tiffany grew up here?”
“Yep. On a farm out on Zimmer Road. I heard her folks sold the place a few years ago.”
“Did she look, um — the same — in high school?”
Pete grunted, a sort of choked chuckle. “No. It took me several minutes to recognize her. I think she’s had some, uh — surgeries. And grown a few inches maybe.”
“It’s the shoes.”
“What?”
“Never mind. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Graduation — at the reception afterward she told me she was heading to Los Angeles for a screen test. I was scheduled to enlist in the Navy a few days later, so we wished each other luck.”
“Wasn’t that hard?”
“Naw. We were interested in really different things. I got a few postcards from her, but her life seemed frenetic, disjointed. I didn’t want that.”
“Steady and sure,” I murmured.
“What?”
“Mmmm.” I smiled up at him. “I like you.”
Pete pulled me sideways onto his lap and nuzzled my neck. “Am I forgiven?”
“For what? My mother said I’m a ninny, and she’s right. I’ll try not to jump to conclusions in the future.”
“Your mother,” Pete muttered, “is something else.”
“So it’s not just my imagination?”
Pete chuckled. “But now I know where you get your spunk from.”
“What do you mean?” I straightened and stared at him. “What did she do?”
“Set Tiffany straight about appropriate methods of greeting in three seconds flat.”
I gasped. “What did she say?”
Pete opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it. He exhaled. “I’m not sure — nothing overt. But there was definitely an undercurrent. Maybe it was just her tone. Tiffany backed off immediately and treated me as though I had a communicable disease the whole time I was helping Melvin set up their coach. By the end it was like they were best friends — Tiffany was showing your mom her makeup kit for ‘on-scene touch-ups’ she called it.” Pete shook his head. “I don’t know, but it was effective. I’m grateful.”
“My mother, the fixer.” I nestled back against Pete.
How does the moon move so fast? It was brilliant now, above the thickest lateral slice of atmosphere, and casting bluish-white light over the sparkling river. Our lonely cricket continued strumming, just in case a girl out there somewhere could hear him.
“I have to leave early tomorrow,” Pete murmured.
I didn’t move, kept my ear pressed to the regular thump-thump of his heart, hoping he could dally just a bit longer.
“Will you be here when I get back?”
“Always,” I whispered.
Pete shifted me around so he could see my face. “Yeah?” His voice was hopeful.
I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him softly. “Yeah.”
After Pete left, I climbed the steps to the trailer and opened the door. My mother and Tuppence had made themselves scarce. I stuck my head inside and listened in the dark.
“Mom?” I whispered.
The couch creaked, and Mom made gakky sounds, then started snoring.
I frowned and pulled the door closed behind me. My mother might admit to breathing heavily when she has a head cold, but she never, ever snores. Besides, she couldn’t possibly have slept through Pete’s firing up the motorcycle and leaving. No matter how quiet he was trying to be, Harleys just make a whole lot of racket.
Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Page 5
