Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel

by Canterbary, Kate

  "You could set him straight, Harniczek." The sheriff had the balls to give me one of those I believe in you nods reserved for the soccer coaches of small children. "He's pissing in a cup weekly, so we'll know if he's drinking. I'm sure you'd also notice any variations in your stock. If it turns out this situation is too complex for him, we'll find something else. But I've given this a lot of thought and I think it could work. You run a tight ship and you don't let anything slip through the cracks. You won't let him fuck up or fall off the deep end. You could give him the reset he needs."

  "If I agree to this, will you stop waltzing in here and taking up my time during the busiest parts of the day?"

  "I'll do my best." He shrugged. "Would it help if I brought some homemade muffins or brownies? I'm sure Annette would be happy to make something special for you."

  I cocked my head to the side. "Could you fucking not?"

  "What? Her muffins are amazing."

  "I'm not discussing her muffins with you."

  "All right." He held up his hands, let them fall. "No muffins."

  "This better not blow up on me, Lau. My hands are full right now and I don't have time to big brother all over a recovering twentysomething. Like I said, I'm no social worker. If this starts going south, I'm expecting you to relocate this kid to your couch if need be."

  "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he replied.

  "That's not an agreement, Lau."

  He chuckled, but I wasn't sharing his amusement. "I can't guarantee my couch, but I can promise I'll step in if there's an issue."

  "I suppose that's all I can ask," I said with a sigh.

  The sheriff pushed to his feet. "Thanks for the talk. I'll follow up when I have more information from Nathan's probation officer. I'm on a tight schedule today, so I have to cut this short. I'm taking Annette and Brooke down to Portland for the weekend."

  Despite knowing better, I asked, "What's the occasion?"

  A wide grin split his face. "Didn't you know? It's Brooke's birthday today. The girls will be celebrating with spas and shopping and more club hopping than I'd prefer."

  That information landed in my gut like a harsh blow. "Best of luck to you," I managed. "You'll have your hands full with those two."

  "I will," he agreed, laughing. "But they'll sleep the whole drive back home on Sunday. It will be my only moment of peace all weekend." He moved toward the door, held up his hand in a crisp wave. "Thank you for taking the time to talk."

  "Next time you need to sort out some community problems, could you do it around three or four in the afternoon? I'd appreciate it."

  "I'll work on that as well." Lau pulled the door open. "Have a good weekend, Harniczek."

  The door whispered shut, but I didn't return to the bar. I needed some time to think about Brooke-Ashley Markham and all the ways in which she'd ruined my life. On her birthday.

  Chapter Eight

  Brooke

  Coverage Ratio: a formula used to express the adequacy of earnings-based cash flow relative to meeting debt obligations.

  Annette: Well?

  Brooke: Well what?

  Annette: It's been more than a few hours without an update from you. That’s uncommon.

  Brooke: …and?

  Annette: And I require an update!

  Brooke: Since I'm responding to you now, it's clear I'm still alive.

  Annette: Oh my god, you're a pain in the ass sometimes.

  Brooke: Sometimes feels like an underestimation.

  Annette: Did. You. Have. The. Sex.

  Brooke: Yeah.

  Annette: That's it? Just "yeah"?

  Brooke: I'm not sure what you're looking for, my love. I didn't keep the condom or snatch some of his pubes for the scrapbook.

  Annette: You found someone at the Galley?

  Brooke: Oh yeah.

  Annette: I told you!

  Brooke: You have no idea how right you were about the Galley…

  Annette: I notice you're not thanking me for that advice.

  Brooke: I'll pick up the tab the next time we go out for lunch. That's your thanks.

  Annette: You always pick up the tab. You slapped me the last time I tried to grab the check. If you recall, I had a welt on my arm all afternoon because you make more money than everyone in this entire town combined.

  Brooke: Yeah, sorry again about that. I'd hoped Jackson would slam me up against his patrol car while cuffing me.

  Annette: Is it a law enforcement fetish? Is that it? Because Jackson has a handful of deputies. I'm sure we could find one to slam you up against cars, walls, couches. Refrigerators are also great options.

  Brooke: Considering I've known all those guys since they were toddlers, I'm going to pass. There's something about knowing Heath Carroll used to stuff his pockets with food from the cafeteria trash barrels that turns me off from a sexual relationship.

  Annette: That was kindergarten.

  Brooke: That's the problem with small town living.

  Annette: Okay. Back to the sex. How was it?

  Brooke: Rather good.

  Annette: Did you sign a nondisclosure agreement or something? Why can't you tell me anything?

  Brooke: I'm in a bad mood.

  Annette: You had "rather good" sex last night. You shouldn't be in a bad mood.

  Brooke: One night of good sex isn't changing my desire to burn shit down.

  Annette: Why are you in a bad mood today? What's wrong?

  Annette: This guy was decent, right?

  Brooke: He was decent. Annoyingly so.

  Annette: I can appreciate an annoyingly decent man.

  Brooke: You should know. You're living with one.

  Annette: Stop trying to change the conversation from you to me.

  Brooke: It's nothing. I'm fine. I'm looking forward to the weekend.

  Annette: You're so cute when you lie.

  Brooke: I'm not lying. I'm actually looking forward to the weekend. I can't wait to get out of here for two nights.

  Annette: Can I say happy birthday yet?

  Brooke: Can we not make this about my birthday? Can't it be a girl's weekend away—with Jackson—and not dip the whole thing in birthday sprinkles?

  Annette: Can I just send you a screenshot of the conversation we had about this last year? Because I have a ton of orders to get out the door before taking off for your birthday weekend and my argument hasn't changed.

  Brooke: That seems like a lot of work. Scrolling through a year's worth of messages.

  Annette: I am going to celebrate the fuck out of your birthday. You can't stop me, so you might as well join me.

  Brooke: Why do you do this?

  Annette: By this, I'm guessing you mean not letting you get back on your bullshit.

  Brooke: No. I mean, why do you care so much?

  Annette: Because there's nothing you can do that will ever push me away, so stop trying.

  * * *

  Same stolen robe, same wet hair, same bare feet, same ocean view. But it was a different day and I had a new set of regrets to keep me company while the autumn sun heated my skin and dried my hair. A different kind of hollowed-out loneliness to keep me company.

  It was unusually warm for late September. As the story went, I was born on a day much like this one. A bright, clear sky overflowing with sunshine while only the slightest hint of cool, crisp air lingered in the breeze. The trees were a riot of red, orange, and gold, and the barren grayness of winter seemed impossibly distant. The kind of day captured in postcards and photography books and B-roll footage.

  It was the perfect miracle of a day for a perfect miracle of a baby to be born.

  And I was perfect. Not in any of the ways that meant something, but in all the ways that'd made my parents happy. I was beautiful. My hair was platinum blonde and my eyes sapphire. My skin barely tanned, never freckled. I was tall and lean, but never so much that anyone took note of either. Add to that some high cheekbones, full lips, and luck of the draw facial symmetry and I was
one beautiful baby who grew into a beautiful child and then a beautiful young adult whose awkward phase lasted all of a week. It was the easy, shallow kind of beauty that signified nothing.

  I was a miracle too. As that story went, I was so much of a miracle, my parents named me twice. They'd known on that sunny day in September that I'd be their only child—the only one they'd carry out the hospital doors—and that was all the reason they needed to saddle me with two first names. They'd hoped their little miracle would fill all the voids they'd identified in their lives, mend their differences, and save their marriage. But babies never saved marriages. They didn't make up for falling out of love after two decades of bitterness and disappointment and they didn't fix the things that'd broken along the way.

  I wasn't the perfect miracle they'd needed, but dammit, I'd tried to be. I tried to be everything, anything. Whatever it was, I did it until I couldn't do it anymore. Until rendering my entire existence down into the glue necessary to keeping a broken family together succeeded only in burning off every last bit of my miraculous shine. But it was a challenge I'd been born to best and even now—more than sixteen years after walking away from Talbott's Cove and dysfunction and miracles that weren't—I was still trying. Still failing. And still angry as hell that I had to hold it all together for everyone else.

  The sour irony of this challenge was that no one outside my father's house expected anything from me. Most people looked at me and expected nothing more than my face. Once they tossed in the cutesy hyphenated name and the family known for settling in provincial Maine a full century before the Mayflower departed from Plymouth, the expectations ceased to exist. I didn't need to be generous or smart or capable. Pretty and privileged were impressive enough for the world, but underneath all this blonde hair and behind these blue eyes was a mind overqualified for my appearance. I wasn't supposed to say that, but it was the straight truth.

  I wasn't the person anyone expected. I wasn't the version they wanted. More often than not, I wasn't the version I wanted either.

  I dragged a hand through my hair, pushing it over my ear as I watched the water. I did this every day. Not the wet hair, bare feet, stolen kimono, whole life navel-gazing thing, but trying to find the farthest visible point from Talbott's Cove and imagining myself there. On cloudless days like today, I could wish myself all the way to Matinicus Island. It was nothing more than a slab of rock in the middle of Penobscot Bay, but goddamn, it wasn't here.

  If I was there, I wouldn't have to be me.

  Chapter Nine

  JJ

  Absolute Return: an asset’s achieved earnings over a period of time.

  October

  The kid was pissed and I couldn't say I blamed him.

  "You want me to live in a bar? And work here too?" Nate asked the sheriff. He shifted the cardboard box he held to his hip and glanced around the tavern's empty dining room. "This was the good idea?"

  "I recognize it's unconventional," Jackson replied, holding out a listen to reason, son hand. "However, I've heard time and again you don't see alcohol as a coping mechanism and Mr. Harniczek here—"

  "Christ almighty, don't call me that."

  Under no circumstances did I want to have a conversation with Sheriff Lau before ten in the morning. Not a single one and yet here I was, shoulder to shoulder with that shined-shoes, do-good motherfucker at nine fifteen.

  I held out my hand to Nate, as he preferred to be addressed. "JJ, please."

  "All right, JJ," Nate replied with a huff. "No disrespect, man, but I don't see how this is going to work. I'm pretty sure my father carved his name into that barstool right over there. Alcohol doesn't do shit for me, but after enough time around my father, I'd start gnawing on the wood just to get high off the varnish." He angled his body to face Jackson. "I know you're sticking your neck out there and pulling favors for me, but I can't stay in this town."

  Jackson went for the listen to reason hand again. I rolled my eyes. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. You can—"

  "Yeah, I can go to Portland or Orono or Machias, or literally anywhere but this town where no one leaves, no one changes, and no one forgets a fucking thing," Nate interrupted. He dropped the box, shrugged off his backpack. He brought his fingers to his temples, rubbing as he stared at the floor. "I appreciate you trying to set this up, but it's not gonna work. I'll find somewhere else to crash."

  "Or you can decide it doesn't matter." I shoved my hands into my front pockets. "This place, these people. Your parents. You can decide whether any of it matters to you." Jackson and Nate turned toward me at the same time. "Will there be shitty moments when those things force their way into your life? Of course. My father dropped dead of a heart attack my last year of high school. If you ask anyone around here, they'll say I blew off college because of it. That wasn't the reason, but I have better things to do than chase down everyone's thoughts and waste my time trying to fix them." I bent down and picked up his box. It was much heavier than I'd expected. "Nothing good will come from running up to Orono or Macias."

  He turned away from us, exhaling heavily as he went. "And staying here is that much better?"

  Behind Nate's back, the sheriff and I exchanged glances. I shook my head, gestured to my watch. Jackson held up his palm and gave me a chastising stare. I tapped my watch again and hooked a thumb over my shoulder. He responded by shifting his gaze to Nate.

  "We can't force you to do anything," Jackson started.

  "No, you cannot," Nate added.

  "And if you want to leave town, I'll do what I can to help you on your way." The sheriff tipped his head to the side as if he was about to impart some fatherly wisdom. I rolled my eyes at him. Again. "This place might not feel like home right now, but it's worth giving it a chance."

  I stepped in front of Nate and clapped my hands together. "All right, kid, here's what's up. I have to run to a meeting on the other side of town. If you think the Cove never changes, you should come along and listen. After that, I'm gonna grab some lunch and run invoices for the month. Are you any good with envelopes?"

  "Envelopes?" he repeated.

  "Yeah, you know, folding a bill, putting it in an envelope, sealing it," I replied, miming the process. "Stamps, addresses, the whole thing. Can you manage that?"

  He swung a gaze between me and Jackson. "Yeah, I can manage that."

  "That's all I needed to know," I replied. "Let's put your things down and we'll head out." I shook the cardboard box as I stepped away from the dining room. "What do you have in here anyway? Bricks?"

  "Books," he answered, trailing several paces behind me. "And I didn't agree to stay."

  "All I want to do is put this box down and we can't leave it in the middle of my tavern where someone could trip over it. The last thing I need is a lawsuit." I elbowed the back room door open, motioned for Nate to join me. Jackson followed him, not that he was invited. "Where you rest your head tonight is your business, kid. Stay, go, transform into a seagull for all I care."

  I led them past the microdistillery that'd served me well when I bottled a dozen or so batches of gin each week but now fit like a school uniform in May. We passed the lineup of empty kegs I couldn't look at without thinking about Brooke and the wicked things she'd said and the way her brow had crinkled when she wasn't getting exactly what she wanted. As I had for the past month, I kept going. Moved past it. Ignored the shit out of everything to put one foot in front of the other, through the ever-present reminders and up the steep staircase.

  The apartment was freshly cleaned, but that didn't make up for the fact it was an attic with a bathroom. I went to set the box down on the round kitchen table the sheriff had lugged over from his girlfriend's old apartment, but Nate snatched the box from my hands.

  "I've got it," he murmured, dropping the box beside the bed.

  From the looks of the pastel rainbow blanket and small pillows with flamingos painted on them, those pieces were also courtesy of Annette's former residence. "Now that's handled, we have t
o hit the road." I glanced at the sheriff. "You good, man?" When he didn't immediately respond, I continued, "Okay, great. We'll see you around."

  I'd almost reached the base of the staircase when I heard another set of footsteps behind me. I didn't have to glance back to know they belonged to Nate. "Where are we going?" he called.

  I walked through the back room, the kegs on one side and the bottling setup on the other. I knew how to ignore a certain portion of this room, but I also enjoyed pressing that bruise. Not that one night with Brooke left me wounded, though her fingerprints were a mark I couldn't wash from my skin. Just as I savored the ache that came with remembering her touch, it also served as a reminder to stay far away from that woman.

  Cutting through the alleyway exit, I pointed at my car and called, "It's not far, but we're heading out to Beddington to pick up some honey when we're finished."

  "All the way to Beddington for honey?" Nate asked as he pulled the car door closed. "Do they have better bees up there?"

  "Would you believe me if I told you they do?" We shared a glance as I paused before backing out of the alley. When he didn't say anything, I continued. "Do you know the old cider house?"

  "Know it? I used to meet one of my dealers there. It's a great spot for that kind of action. Completely hidden from the street by the tree line."

  "Good thing the sheriff nabbed him a couple of months ago."

  Nate stared out the window. "Thorough, that sheriff."

  I snickered. "Like you wouldn't believe." I turned down the potholed road leading to the cider house. "We're meeting a general contractor. He's going to show us all the construction issues that will require more time and money. Then, we're going to meet a plumber with his own list of issues."

  Nate scanned the area around the cider house. The overgrown vegetation that'd once consumed the grounds was gone. Stakes with fluorescent tags outlined the planned walkways, patios, and gardens. Spray-painted arrows and dashes marked the underground locations of water, gas, and electric lines.