Today I need to know what’s behind it.
Dropping the curtain, I squirm into sweats and my favorite navy-blue Juilliard School T-shirt. I dig around in my suitcase for my sweater. Half a dozen sheets covered with my neatly penciled music compositions spill from the top pocket. I bunch them together and stash them carefully in the dresser’s bottom drawer. Then I find the cable-knit pullover I was looking for and tug it over my head.
In the living room, the baby grand piano shines in the morning light. I swear it takes up a third of the space, and I feel guilty every time I see it. Especially against the backdrop of Dad-land—a rugged, comfortable, sports-viewing lounge in leather and dark wood with conveniently placed tables. One whole wall consists of a hunting lodge-style stone fireplace. Another holds a poster-sized photo of horses galloping across Grandpa’s Montana ranch, which looks amazing framed against the room’s amber paint.
I pad across the wood floor and rag carpet. When Dad had the contractor renovate two years ago, I begged him not to get the piano. He’s not a music kind of guy. The only sound system he owns is the one that came with his car, and it’s always tuned to the news.
I’ve got my violin, I said.
I want you to feel welcome, Peanut.
I do, I said, and gave him an awkward hug.
Good.
I go and lift the fallboard. My fingers test out the first bars of my work in progress. It’s different from my usual work. I’m not sure if I like the sound. It’s spacious and moody, almost ominous. In my mind’s eye, I see Deep Cove beneath a sky of rolling thunderheads. People peer through their windows, wondering what’s to come. To compose is to build a story. To reveal it, layer by layer. I reach my stuck point and pause. I can’t find my way through. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid that I won’t like how the song ends.
A dawning realization that the piano is in perfect tune sends my fingers running up and down in a grand finale. I glance at the front door, and a smile spreads across my face. That’s so completely Dad to get someone in to tune it.
Standing, I close the fallboard and hurry outside.
The sun warms my shoulders through my clothes, but cold seeps up from the ground.
Dad turns, a smile lighting his face.
In that instant, my decision to ask about his animosity toward Hunter and the Phoenix Research Lab leaves me. I don’t want to stir him up. I don’t want to spoil our time.
I push away the unsatisfying memory of last night. So I was rude. It happens. So he was curious about me—he probably thought I was someone else. I’ve never gotten so worked up over a guy, and I don’t plan to keep doing it. That’s for someone like Ella, who revels in her obsessions.
“I waited till nine,” Dad shouts, nodding at his chain saw. “Wanted to let you sleep in.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to,” I call back.
Sammy gallops through the downed foliage with his ears flapping, sniffing at all the destruction. It’s like he’s making note of the changes. Shingles have been flung far beyond the yard. They’re scattered all the way to Dad’s feed store’s parking lot in the distance. The store’s rectangular sign, Thorne Country Supply, Wholesale Feed and Seed, hangs at a dangerous angle.
The strange feeling that someone’s staring at me makes me spin toward the abandoned field across the road. A faint breeze tugs at the tall grasses and gnarled fruit trees. My eyes comb the swaying weeds and then squint at the knobby branches. One moves and I catch my breath, then laugh when a bird flies into the air.
Of course no one’s watching. Why would they be?
Still, I can’t shake the prickling sensation. I’m about to go investigate when Sammy darts over and checks in with me, pushing his wet nose against my elbow.
“Hey, you.” I scratch his favorite spot under his chin.
“I think it’s time for some coffee,” Dad says. “What do you say?”
“Sure, but can I carry some of that firewood to the barn first?”
“Now, that wouldn’t be much of a welcome home.”
“I don’t mind.”
He cracks a smile at me. “No. But I do.”
“What time do you have to open the store?”
“In a few minutes, but Thomas Creedy’s coming in. I’ll head over later.”
Just then, a beat-up Buick pulls into the store’s deserted lot. Mr. Creedy climbs out, looking more spindly than ever. He must be at least a hundred years old. He waves a thin arm at us. His hands look giant compared with his bony limbs.
“Hey there, Aeris,” he calls in his familiar, thready voice. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks,” I call back, grinning. “I’m looking forward to catching up.”
“Your dad gave me one of your concerts on CD. I play it all the time in my car.”
“Really? Wow, I’m so glad you like it.”
He shoots me a huge smile that’s all dentures and then shuffles through the shop door.
To Dad I say, “He’s awesome. But how does he manage all those heavy feed bags and hay bales? Should he really be working alone?”
“He’s pretty spry. And he worked years in the shop before I showed up and took over. Besides, I like the guy.”
That’s Dad. His loyalty is both fierce and legendary. I know, because he’s always been there for me. Even in the darkest of times. Even when we were both crushed by grief.
I was five when Mom died. Dad was fighting his own battles, yet he knew I needed a place to put my churning energy. One day he brought home a violin teacher who auditioned me for a musical “ear” and agreed to take me on. I’d never lived with Dad, and because of his work managing investment funds, we soon left her—and many teachers after her—as we moved from city to city. Changing schools made friendships difficult, but the violin has been my constant. That and my growing scraps of music compositions.
I slip my arm into his. “How about that coffee?”
Our feet crunch through the chaos. Before we head around back, I glance again at the abandoned field.
“Everything all right?” Dad asks.
“Oh yeah. It’s nothing.”
Sammy gallops ahead. We slam through the screen door and kick off our boots, tossing them under the mudroom bench.
The kitchen is big and bright. Modern fixtures and soft-yellow walls. Rugged, distressed pine cabinets and sanded wood ceiling beams give it a warm, rustic feel. Sammy’s chocolate suede dog bed fills one corner. I found some wild purple hyacinths yesterday and put them in a jug. Their heady perfume is soft as velvet.
Through the kitchen windows, the gray ocean is visible, churning below the bluff. A powerful boat I recognize as Gage’s bobs among some debris—the remains of a broken fishing vessel destroyed in the storm, perhaps? I hope no one was hurt.
Gage will be out on deck, investigating.
Last night, I caught at least three girls checking him out. He’s sweet and deserves a wonderful girl, one who really loves him.
“You kids have a good time at the Zenith Club?” Dad asks, cutting into my thoughts.
I flash to Hunter holding my shoulders, pressing my back to the table, his body warm and his expression intense. I blink and push the heady memory away.
“It was all right. How about you? How was your card game?”
“Oh, fine.” He opens the cupboard and finds the pancake mix. “The usual.”
I skirt around him to start a fresh pot of coffee brewing.
“I got it. You relax, Peanut.”
“Dad.” A grin breaks my tension. “I am relaxed. I’m just making coffee. And the pancakes.” I take the mix from him. “I’m a big girl. You don’t have to spoil me. If you do, you might never get rid of me.”
He wears a look of mock seriousness. “And that would be a bad thing?”
“Yes! I have no intention of coming between you and your card-shark buddies, and all the other stuff you’ve got going on. Seriously. You paid your dues.”
He chuckles. “A parent never finishes paying his
dues.” But there’s something wistful in his expression. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. You know that.”
“I know.” I busy myself cracking eggs into a bowl.
At noon I insist on joining Dad in the store.
“You sure you don’t need to get your hours in on the violin?”
“I’m fine. Can’t I hang out with my dad for a little bit?”
The truth is, I’m feeling oddly antsy. What I’m in the mood for is a powerful horse and a good, long ride to clear my head.
Twenty minutes later, I’m doing the next best thing. I’m polishing the consignment horse tack in the back of Dad’s store. He says customers don’t notice that sort of thing, it’s a waste of my time, if they need it, they buy it. Let him grump. It’s a pleasure turning the leather supple and making those buckles shine. There’s workmanship in these pieces, beauty and plenty of life. I would be happy smelling saddle soap all day. It brings me right back to summers at Grandpa’s ranch, spent almost entirely on horseback.
I’m standing there reminiscing when the shop door jangles. I glance over the heads of milling customers and freeze. There he is. Taller than the rest by half a foot. Hunter.
My pulse quickens, firing at my throat, in my fingertips, everywhere as he steps inside. He’s only partially visible past the rack of seed packets. He seems larger than life, out of place, starkly handsome in his worn leather jacket and wind-tousled hair.
What is he doing in Dad’s shop?
Last night I would have thought this the perfect opportunity to set things straight. Apparently, however, that’s not going to work. Because I’ve been struck by an all-consuming nervousness that’s locked my legs in place and is making my tongue stick in my mouth.
Get a grip!
Fortunately, he’s too preoccupied to notice me.
To my shock, he heads straight for Dad with urgency clear in his booted footsteps. I bend forward, riveted at this surprising turn of events, and try to catch their low interchange. It’s clipped and terse. For all of Dad’s harsh words about Hunter, they certainly seem to know each other pretty well.
I begin to realize I’m not the only one watching. The store regulars are fixated on Hunter. Their stares hold suspicion, mistrust, although he doesn’t seem to notice.
The only customer who appears uninterested is a burly man browsing the horse tack. His back is turned to the shop and he’s studying the buckles intently. He’s wearing brand-new buckskin gloves and his forest-green flannel shirt is too crisp, making him look like a tourist trying to play local. It’s clear he’s unfamiliar with the equipment.
“Can I help you?” I force myself to ask in a quiet voice.
His baseball cap is pulled low. He’s older than I first thought. Crow’s-feet. Hair turning steely at the temples. Strange eyes like a pair of gray marbles jammed into narrow sockets. About as much warmth as an android’s.
“Possibly,” he replies, matching my low tone.
At that moment, I hear Dad say, “I told you, it’s not time. Not yet.”
I can’t help it. I turn to see Hunter standing there, one big hand kneading the back of his neck. He blows out a sigh, turns, and makes for the exit.
I duck my head.
The door opens and closes. And then he’s gone. It’s as though a dizzy whir of energy was vibrating all around and has suddenly been switched off. Like we’re all floundering in his wake. I release the reins I’d been clutching and realize my fingers have gone almost numb.
I’d forgotten about the customer and see him moving away.
“Sir,” I say, finding my voice. “I’m sorry, what can I do for you?”
He pauses. “I think I’ll leave it for now.”
“Did you have a question about the equipment?”
“My Nessa’s always wanted a horse.” His pupils are cool, hawk-like. “Unfortunately, it’s not practical.”
“Horses are a big responsibility,” I agree.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you two could go out for some lessons,” I suggest. “There’s a place not far that offers them. I’m sure she’d love it.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Next time you’re in town, then,” I say, making to leave.
“No. She’s dying.”
“I’m … so sorry.”
“Yes, well. It’s not condolences I’m after.” He runs his callused fingers along one shelf as if testing for dust and then nods at me. “Good day.”
I watch him leave, baffled. Grief has its own agenda. Still, his coldness is somehow chilling. I suspect there’s a sea of roiling emotion beneath that impassive mask. I rub my arms as he looms briefly in the open door, his shadow slanting across the room. Then he’s gone.
Four
When I’m able to pull Dad aside, I say, “Why was Dr. Cayman here?”
He doesn’t reply. I’m surprised to see him wearing that old stony look of his. The one I used to see regularly before he left the investment firm and moved out here to “slow down.”
“What did he want?” I ask.
“It’s not important.”
“It seemed important. Is everything all right?”
His gaze drills into me. Quietly, he says, “Promise me something, Aeris. Don’t take an interest in Cayman. People like him are what’s wrong with the world.”
The bustle of the store drones in my ears. “I’m not. But if you really feel that way—I mean, he’s a customer, right?”
“Now and then, yes.”
“So—”
“So nothing.”
“Are you sure everything is—”
“Yes. I am.”
It’s clear the conversation is over.
If before I was curious, now I’m downright interested.
Dad is acting beyond strange.
What is going on?
I go help a rancher who’s waiting at the register. He pays in cash, two hundred-dollar bills. I lift the cash drawer, stow them away, and spot something strange. It’s a carbon-fiber clearance key of some kind. Glancing at Dad to make sure he’s not watching, I carefully lift it out.
Etched on the card pass is the Phoenix Research Lab’s logo—a black Labrador chasing a phoenix, with the initials PRL underneath.
Dad, what are you up to? Hunter’s obviously more than a casual customer. Why else would you have a card key if you don’t go there often? And why are you being so strange about it?
Quietly, I replace the clearance pass. I’m not sure I want to know.
The nightmare comes to me, the fire, white-hot and blinding. I scream, my small legs and arms pinned to the thorny bushes, and watch the car burn. Move! I urge myself. It’s not too late; she’s in there. Move!
I lunge upright and my eyes fly open. Sunshine burns my face. It’s wet.
The sheet is soft against my skin as I wipe away the tears. I climb out of bed and dress quickly. Then I snap open the closures on my violin case. The act of tightening my bow and prepping it with rosin calms me. I pull out my favorite composition and begin to play.
The fire was a long time ago. I can’t make what happened change. I can’t make myself save her. Even if I succeed in my dream, there’s nothing I can do to bring Mom back.
I play through the morning, losing myself in the soulful sound of the strings.
It’s noon when I finally set down the instrument.
I can partially see the feed store through the window. Because it’s Sunday, the store’s closed and the lot is empty. I have a sudden urge to borrow Dad’s truck and drive past the research lab’s gates on the off chance Hunter might drive through. And then … what? Wave him down? Start asking questions? No. Stop. Just stop.
Dad’s landline rings. It’s Ella.
“Lunch,” she says, “I’m picking you up, and don’t even think about saying no.”
“But I …”
“No excuses. I’m hungover and bored, and I need company. And french fries. Besides, my dad’s headed to your place t
o drink beer and watch the game. You seriously don’t want to stick around for that, do you?”
As if on cue, I hear Dad switch on the TV.
A sports announcer blares.
Maybe if I go into town I’ll run into Hunter.
“You’re right,” I say. “Lunch sounds good.”
Why can’t I stop thinking about him? This is not like me. Our whole relationship consisted of maybe five minutes of staring across the road at each other and ten spoken words.
And yet … Hunter.
Who are you?
You’re certainly more than your powerful, handsome features. There’s an energy around you. Something primal. Yet also otherworldly.
My fingers tighten on the phone, and I stare into space, seeing his eyes across that damp night street again. They shimmered like mirrors. Or so it seemed. And when he caught me in his gaze, I could hardly move. His name, Hunter, suits him. Because in that moment, when his whole focus centered on me, I’d felt hunted.
And what’s very wrong, very upsetting, is that despite my resolve, I long to feel that way again.
“Shoot, I can’t find my keys,” Ella says, and I hear what sounds like a purse being upended. “Should I pick you up?”
“Okay, sure,” I tell her.
“There they are, got them. See you in thirty.”
The Lighthouse Café is packed with Sunday regulars.
“It’ll be at least an hour,” the girl in the blue-and-white uniform tells us.
“An hour, really?” Ella scans the packed restaurant.
“Let’s just sit outside,” I say.
“Outside?” Ella scrunches up her nose. “It’s too cold.”
It is cold. It may be June in Deep Cove, but chilly Maine air pours in from the ocean. The outdoor tables look like they’ve never been used.
“It’s not that bad.”
“All right,” Ella says with a groan.
We choose one next to the window, hunching down in our respective sweaters.
Ella fishes out her cigarettes, lights one, and takes a long drag. “So what’s all this about you never getting married?”
I’m caught off guard.
“Everyone needs someone, don’t they?”
I scrunch lower and pull my sleeves down over my fingers. “Do you remember Trey Shields? I told you about him last summer.”
The Butterfly Code Page 3
