by Ruthie Knox
She waved one manicured hand as if her day wasn’t worth the bother of talking about. “Fine. I was over at the Parish House this morning getting ready for tomorrow’s lunch.”
His mother had converted to Catholicism when she married Dad. Overnight, Jannah Haddad became Janet Clark. The shift had scandalized her mother and various Lebanese great-aunts, but Catholicism suited her. She appreciated its emphasis on rules, tangible steps to be taken to endear herself to God. Any faith that rewarded showing up for mass with military precision was, in his mother’s book, a faith worthy of her effort.
“Your father’s gone into town to buy heaven knows what at the hardware store. Washers or something. Carriage bolts? I don’t know, I was only half-listening. You look good today. Very sharp.”
“Thanks,” he said, repressing a smile. His mom was a harsh judge of appearance. If she liked the shirt, the shirt was fine. “So do you.”
She’d been the receptionist in the college admissions office for a couple of decades before taking early retirement to care for his father, and she still cultivated the cool, reserved look she’d always had behind her desk—salt-and-pepper hair cut in a sleek bob, lipstick regardless of the occasion. It was 85 degrees with 90 percent humidity, and his mother was sitting in her own kitchen wearing a pink silk blouse and pearls.
He thought of Ellen in her purple T-shirt and smiled. Unlikely she owned pearls. Though maybe she had a whole closet full of lawyer outfits somewhere. He wouldn’t mind seeing Ellen in a suit if he got to take it off her.
“Katie said you had some work for me.” He settled down at the table with his plate of steaming manicotti. When he tried a bite from the edge, it burned the roof of his mouth.
“No, not really. I was going to call Kevin to come by. There’s some painting, and I know how you hate to paint. Plus, one of the units needs new vinyl laid in the bathroom. You don’t really do vinyl, do you?”
“I like painting, Mom. I’ve told you that. And I’ve probably laid half the bathroom floors in these units.”
“Well, that’s not true,” she said, and the fencing match began. After ten minutes, he’d managed to get her to admit he knew how to lay a vinyl floor and that he was a competent, if indifferent, painter. Five more, and he had the unit numbers that needed the work and a clear description of what had to be done.
He rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll get this stuff taken care of right away.”
“You don’t have to rush. I know you have your own business to attend to. How are things going with that Jamie Callahan?”
“Not too bad,” he said, wishing the statement more closely resembled the truth. The job would be going better if the women he was supposed to be taking care of were more compliant.
Actually, that was true of his entire life. Between his mother, Katie, Ellen, and Carly, he was a sheep dog trying to round up kangaroos.
“The reporters have claimed all the good parking spots downtown. It’s terrible.”
“Do you know anything about Richard Morrow?” Mom and her parish ladies knew everyone in Camelot. He’d been hoping she could give him some intelligence on Ellen’s ex.
“Of course I know Richard. Why, is he caught up in this?”
“He was married to Callahan’s sister. Carly’s neighbor.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve met her a few times. Pretty woman. Though I felt sorry for her, being married to him. He’s such a charming man, very bright, but he has a serious drinking problem. Everybody knows about it.”
“I heard he’s been sober a month.”
“Good for him. Though he doesn’t have much choice, does he? The college insisted he go to rehab or they’d fire him. Honestly, they should’ve fired him years ago.”
“For the drinking?”
“More for the professional misconduct.”
He must have looked confused, because she clarified, “Affairs with students. Though I shouldn’t pass that along, I’ve only heard about it through the grapevine. The alcoholism I’ve seen firsthand. The man’s been three sheets to the wind at every university function I’ve ever attended with him.”
“He cheated on her?” Caleb asked, stupefied.
“Habitually, from what I’ve heard.” His mother caught him wringing the dish cloth like it was Richard Morrow’s neck and gave him a quizzical look. “It happens, dear.”
It did, but he hadn’t guessed it had happened to Ellen. No wonder she had trust issues.
He shook his head, trying to refocus. His mother was still watching him.
“I’m going to change and get to work,” he said. “When Dad gets back, send him over to help me out, okay? It’s easier to do the floors with two people.”
That distracted her. Chattering about how lovely it would be to spend the afternoon without having to look after her husband, she sent Caleb on his way with a bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies and a pat on the arm.
The painting didn’t take long. It was quiet, and it gave him time to think about Richard. “Even if Richard stayed sober and became an exemplary father, Caleb had to hate him by default, because he’d had Ellen once, and he’d treated her like garbage. Treated her son like garbage, too, from what Caleb could tell.
And Morrow might not stay sober. Caleb had known a few guys in the service with alcohol problems, and when they dried out, they could be volatile, unpredictable. Raising their loved ones’ hopes of permanent change one day, only to screw them over and fall back into the bottle the next.
Plus, the timing was pretty convenient, wasn’t it? Morrow showing up and claiming to want to make amends just when Ellen’s life looked interesting to outside observers. His arrival outside the bookstore at the same time as Plimpton’s.
Caleb didn’t like the way Richard had looked at Ellen. He didn’t like him, and his instincts told him it went beyond jealousy. Morrow was up to something.
While Caleb was cleaning out the paint roller at the sink in the utility room, his dad made an appearance. Today, Derek Clark wore a green John Deere ball cap he’d probably put on for the drive to the hardware store in Mount Pleasant. He liked to express himself through his hats. This one said I’m a local.
“You get those carriage bolts you wanted?” Caleb asked.
“Huh? No. Went in for rat bait.”
“You put it on a high shelf, right?” he asked, thinking about Amber’s kids. You wouldn’t want to leave rat poison laying around where they could stumble on it.
“Sure, sure.”
The supply shed was Caleb’s next destination anyway. While they were there, he double-checked on the rat bait. You never could be too careful.
Together, he and his father lugged out the huge roll of vinyl flooring and cut a piece large enough for one of the units’ bathrooms. Then they gathered up all the supplies they’d need and let themselves into the empty apartment.
“You got the old floor out already?” Caleb asked, surprised to see the toilet sitting on cardboard in the kitchen and the unit’s bathroom barren but clean, ready for the install.
“Sure,” his father said with a frown. “I guess I did.”
This was the problem with Dad these days—he had the same tireless work ethic as ever, but his memory was riddled with holes.
Derek had brought along his beat-up portable radio, so they listened to the oldies as they put in the floor. “How’s the security work going?”
“Good.” Caleb kneeled on the subfloor, staring at a corner where the caulk around the tub had turned gray and pocked with age.
There had been a time when he’d have said more. Let his father in on his troubles. Caleb had been uncomfortable around his dad since the stroke, unsure how to deal with the situation. Katie gave him a hard time about it. He’s just Dad, she’d say, exasperated. He’s the same.
But he was different, and every reminder of it hit Caleb like a physical blow. He pitied his father, and pity didn’t sit right between them. He didn’t want to feel sorry for his dad any
more than Dad wanted to see it on his face.
So they did this. The short conversations and the companionable silence thing. They’d always worked well together. As the only son, Caleb had been raised fetching tools and accepting his father’s instructions on how to clean up graffiti and get stains out of carpet. How to keep the roof in good shape and the flower beds looking their best. Hundreds of things.
“Dropped by the office on my way back from town,” Derek said, accepting the piece of flooring Caleb passed out of the bathroom, relief cuts completed, and handing him the tub of glue and a putty knife. “Katie told me something interesting.”
“About Levi?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
They were silent for a minute while Caleb spread glue. Finally, he blurted out, “I wish she’d told me. I could’ve helped her get home to Camelot after he walked out, at least. But I wish she’d told me back when she married him.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons.”
“I could’ve helped,” he repeated.
“Everybody has to make their own mistakes.”
Caleb had certainly made his share, but he’d have preferred to keep Katie perpetually eight years old, untouched by anything hard and dangerous in life. Untouched by Levi Rider, that was for sure.
Not exactly realistic, but that was how he’d always felt about her.
“She tell you not to say anything to Mom?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Mom was going to give her seven different kinds of hell when she found out. “She seems all right, though.”
“You know Katie. Tough as nails, that girl. Takes after her mother. She’ll be fine.”
Caleb spread glue. His dad was probably right. Katie was tough. When he handed the tub back to his father and received the flooring again, Derek said, “I’d like to hang that Rider kid from the nearest yardarm.”
“Draw and quarter the little asshole,” Caleb agreed.
They began to ease the vinyl in place, lining up the factory edge with the long, uninterrupted wall so the pattern wouldn’t come out crooked.
“Make soup from his guts,” Derek said after a few beats.
“Break all his bones, one at a time.”
“Mess up that smarmy smile of his.”
“Cut off his balls and make him eat them.”
Derek laughed. “Now that’s just plain disgusting, son.”
Caleb smiled, and for a while, he forgot about the stroke and simply enjoyed his father’s company.
By the time they finished up, it was two o’clock, and he needed a shower. He stopped home, cleaned up, ditched the black shirt, and went to his office. Katie seemed disappointed that he’d taken away her comedic inspiration.
She dispatched him to pick up Nana Short from her new place and drop her by Carly’s, which he did, and then Nana asked him to drive to the Village Market for groceries. After that, it was home again for dinner with Katie, a casserole to take to Carly, and he was beginning to feel like an errand boy.
“Stay for dinner,” Nana said. She carried the casserole into the kitchen and emerged to say, “Over at the home, I never get to eat with hot young things like you.”
“Don’t call it ‘the home,’ ” Carly said from the couch. “You make it sound like we’ve stuck you in one of those nightmare nursing homes from the movies where they neglect you and you get bedsores while they steal all your money. You picked this place out, for crying out loud. It looks like freaking Palm Springs. It’s the nicest condo in the county.”
“If it’s so great, why don’t you move there?” Nana asked. “Bunch of old people sitting around playing pinochle. There’s a reason I never wanted to move to Palm Springs.”
“That bad, huh?” Caleb grabbed a seat beside Carly to eat some of the chips and sour-cream dip Nana had set out for them. He enjoyed listening to Nana and Carly spar. It was like watching Ali and Foreman fight—they were pros.
“Everyone is so wrinkly. It’s disgusting. But on the plus side, I’m getting laid left and right.”
Caleb choked on his chip, which made Nana laugh.
“Don’t encourage her,” Carly said. “Honestly, Nana, nobody wants to hear about your sex life.”
“Tough. It’s my duty as a feminist to talk about it. The media perpetuates terrible stereotypes about mature women’s sexuality, like it’s a crime to want to get some if you don’t have perky boobs anymore.”
“Forget I said anything,” Carly muttered.
But Nana was on a roll. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m neutered.” She wagged a finger at Carly. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to put on one of those ugly red hats and go on cruises with a bunch of biddies.”
“No?” Caleb asked, having recovered enough to reach for another chip. “I could see you having a good time on a cruise. You know they have open bars, right?”
“Oh, yeah?” Nana’s eyes softened as she forgot about the lecture and started imagining herself on a cruise. “You think I could find myself a boy toy on one of those ships? A rich one who’ll spring me from the home?”
“I think if you find a boy toy, he’s going to be after your money. If you want a rich one, you’ll have to settle for wrinkles.”
Nana sighed. “Story of my life. I can have hot or rich, but not both.”
Caleb winked at her. She walked up behind the couch and squeezed his biceps experimentally. “I think I’ll go with hot. You free, sweet cheeks?”
“Oh my God, shut up, both of you,” Carly said, flopping back onto a pillow.
Caleb laughed, and his phone chirped to tell him he had a text.
It was from Ellen. Done working soon. You like Bogart?
Another one came in immediately after the first. Come over. Bring chocolate sauce.
“Sorry, Nana. I have other plans for the night.”
Nana read over his shoulder and whistled. “I should say so. Is that from Ellen next door? Sweet, quiet, legs-up-to-here Ellen?”
“A gentleman never tells,” Caleb said, tucking his phone away and wishing he’d been discreet enough not to look at it within twenty feet of Nana.
“What’d she say?” Carly asked, sitting up straight again.
Nana ignored her. “You’re a lovely boy, Caleb, but you’re no gentleman.”
“No? I thought I had the whole officer-and-a-gentleman thing going.”
“C’mon, what’d she say?” Carly begged.
“Nah, you have the battle-scarred-soldier thing going. Don’t worry, though. It’s better.”
Caleb smiled. “Thanks. I think.”
“One of you has to tell me,” Carly said.
“Good night, ladies.” Caleb was already heading for the door.
He had to make another run to the grocery store, but this time, he didn’t mind.
Chapter Seventeen
Jamie would never have guessed it could be so hard to get on a plane.
He resettled his shoulders against the leather seat and looked out the window. Nothing but sun-baked tarmac and flat, parched fields beyond. Dullsville, USA.
Technically, he was sitting somewhere outside Houston. He’d had no idea what city he was in when he listened to the message from Ellen. Hadn’t even known he was in Texas. He lost track, got used to going where he was taken and not worrying too much about where he was until it was time to say, Hello, Cleveland! to the crowd.
Somewhere out there, somebody was fueling up the jet, performing whatever checks had to be performed to get him off the ground. He didn’t really know how it worked. Just lately, he’d been noticing he didn’t know how much of anything worked.
All he knew was he needed to get to Camelot. Ellen’s message saying Carly and the baby were in trouble had hit him like a mallet to the skull. He’d been an idiot to leave Carly and an even bigger idiot to think he could stay away from her.
It made him frenzied—knowing she might need him while he was so many states away, messing with trying to locate his bag, pack up his stu
ff, duck security, and get out of the hotel. He’d rushed through the anonymous hallways to the elevator, across the lobby, ignoring the guests elbowing each other and staring, the whispers. Is that Jamie Callahan? Out the main entrance, where he’d hoped to find his driver waiting but hadn’t.
Where did Ryan go when he wasn’t supposed to be driving Jamie somewhere? It had never occurred to him to ask. Further evidence that he was a selfish asshole.
The evidence had been piling up since he met Carly.
A clean getaway would have been ideal, but security was only a few steps behind him, accompanied by Christina, his manager. “What’s up, Jamie?” she asked as he peered around the side of the building. “Who was on the phone? Where are you going?”
He started walking across the vast parking lot, wanting simply to escape her, to escape this anonymous five-star hotel in—Dallas? Raleigh? It was fucking hot, wherever it was.
In the end, he’d had to ask Christina how to call Ryan, which should have been no big deal. He asked her to do things for him all day long. But this time, he’d been embarrassed, because what he’d really been asking was How do I go somewhere without your permission?
“Can you close the door?” he asked the flight attendant.
“Of course.”
The temperature climbed inside the plane, so high that sweat began to bead at his temples, but he felt better once he was sealed inside his expensive tin box. Once he knew nobody could stop him from doing what he should have done days ago.
“I’m going to Camelot,” he’d told Christina.
“You can’t do that. You have a show tonight.”
The words had grated on his last nerve. How many times had he heard that in his life, You have a show? First from his mother, who’d trotted it out whenever she didn’t want him to do something any normal kid would have been allowed to do.
No, you can’t go to Roger’s birthday party, you have a show on Sunday.
