“Yeah, but some of it is dangerous junk,” Quentin pointed out. “There might be asbestos in there.” He knew that wasn’t true, but the kid didn’t. “Bad stuff for your lungs.” He could tell by the boy’s eyes the teen was thinking about hightailing it out of there. “It’s okay. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Really? What do you care? What’s it to you if I choke on the stuff?”
“It’s my trash. I wouldn’t want you to sue me or anything.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like that would ever happen.”
“You never know,” Quentin returned mildly, and went on, “Shouldn’t you be in school about now?”
“Sheesh. It’s Saturday. Can’t a guy go for a walk without getting hassled about school?”
“Sure. It’s a pretty spot for a morning walk.” Quentin rocked back on his heels and decided the kid looked like he could use a meal. He motioned him up the steps. “Have you eaten breakfast yet? Why don’t you come on up? You drink coffee?”
The teenager hesitated but reluctantly started up the steps. “Nah, no coffee. You actually drink that bitter crap? Yuck. How does anybody drink that nasty-tasting stuff?”
“I take exception to that statement. Coffee just happens to be the best wake-up juice. Ever.”
Once the kid got closer, Quentin got a better look at the youngster. The kid had chestnut-colored hair and sky-blue eyes. He caught the boy eyeing the food but doing his best to play it cool and noncommittal. “Help yourself.”
“I could eat, I guess.”
Quentin handed off one of his peanut butter sandwiches. “I make a mean PB&J. The trick is to use strawberry jam instead of grape and spread it on nice and thick, the thicker the better.”
“Cool. You’re eating peanut butter and jelly for breakfast? I don’t know anybody who does that.”
“Bad habit. But when you think about it, it’s the perfect blend of three of the five major food groups. You get protein from the peanut butter, fruit from the jam, and whole grain from the wheat bread. Who could ask for more than that? Better than eggs if you ask me.”
The boy scrunched up his face. “I don’t like eggs either.”
“See? What sane person does?” Quentin watched him ravenously devour the food in three bites. He stuck out his hand. “Quentin Blackwood.”
The kid held out a grubby hand in return. “Beckham Dowling.”
“Nice to meet you, Beckham. You might want to scrub those hands down before your next meal.”
The boy cocked an eyebrow and took a step back. “You some kind of clean freak?”
Quentin’s lips curved up. “You could say that. I’m pretty sure I have some milk to wash that down with, lots better for a growing kid like you than coffee, I’m sure.”
“I’m no kid. I’m almost fourteen.”
Quentin continued to grin, studying the boy’s brown hair that was a little too greasy, indicating he hadn’t bothered to wash it in several days. When clean, that mop of thick brown would no doubt become shades lighter in color. The kid’s demeanor went with his wary eyes—alert and ever watchful.
“No question you’re getting on up there in years. But at fourteen you still have probably four good years left to grow. You should make those years count by drinking more milk. Vitamin D is good for strong bones.” Quentin could tell Beckham was relishing the idea of growing taller than his slight five-six frame.
“Really? You think I might reach six feet one day?”
“Definitely. You’re almost up to my shoulders now. I’ll be right back with that milk. Take a seat on one of my comfy antique crates. And I’ll bring back the hand sanitizer while I’m at it.”
Once inside, Quentin wished he’d bought healthier food. His pantry consisted of your basic offerings—Cheerios, Life cereal, potato chips—and not much else. Maybe he should consider picking up a piece of fruit now and then. He poured a generous glass of milk into one of his oversized mugs. But when he turned around from the refrigerator, he saw Beckham standing at the doorway peering in, gaping.
“You got nothing in here,” Beckham noted. “You got a big hole in the wall, too. I thought our place was bare but you got nothing ’cept a table and a big-ass appliance. You don’t even have a stove.”
“Not yet. But I’m working on getting the essentials, slowly deciding what fits and what doesn’t. Tucker Ferguson had to special order my stove. It should be here by the end of the week. Let me see those hands.”
Obligingly Beckham held them out for inspection while Quentin squirted hand sanitizer into both palms and then gave the kid a paper towel to wipe off the grime. Only then did he hand off the cup of milk. “Want another sandwich?”
“What do I have to do for it?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Nothing.” Quentin got out the fixings again and went to work. “You live around here?”
“I live over on Tidewater with my grandmother.”
“Really? I was raised by my grandmother.”
“Yeah? Me too. What happened to your mom and dad?”
Quentin scrubbed a hand over his chin. Did a kid this young need to know how life could change in the blink of an eye? He decided against sugarcoating it. “My father was murdered when I was twelve, two days before Christmas.”
Beckham’s jaw dropped. “Wow. I never knew anybody else who lost their dad like I lost mine. My dad got killed in a mugging down in L.A. when I was seven. He’d gone down there looking for work. I stayed behind with Gram. Never saw him after that. And I never knew my mom. She took off when I was around two, or so they tell me, ran off with some guy in the Navy.”
It was Quentin’s turn to feel stunned. “Who would ever imagine the two of us standing here like this with that kind of thing in common? Violence is everywhere.”
“What’s the story on yours?”
Quentin shoved the plate of newly made sandwiches across to Beckham, watched as the kid dug in again. But he’d lost his appetite. “He was the town’s only doctor. Back then Tahoma had maybe eight hundred people. It was the twenty-third of December. He was sitting in his office late one night going over patient files, making notations, probably catching up with the week’s load.”
“Someone shot a doctor? Jeez.”
Quentin nodded, turned to the coffeemaker for a refill. “The cops thought someone broke in looking for drugs. But nothing had been taken, not even an aspirin. I didn’t know it then, but I might as well have lost my mother, too. After that night, she didn’t handle losing my dad very well. His death hit her hard. She went through a rough six months, went through all kinds of emotions. She’d have a good day and then three bad ones in a row. Not long after the funeral, I started noticing how much she was drinking. And then later, she started trying to numb the loss with a combo of booze and pills.”
“What happened?”
Quentin cut his eyes to the young teen, stared at him over the rim of his cup. “You can probably guess, since those two things don’t mix together well for very long. On the first anniversary of his death, I walked into her bedroom and found her lying on the floor in her own vomit, lips blue, no pulse.”
He stopped himself from relating the rest of the sickening details. “She’d used Seconal, an entire bottle of the stuff, to end it all. Four days later I was living with my grandmother, Nonnie—that’s what I still call her. Anyway, Nonnie took me in after the funeral. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without her. I guess I would’ve ended up in an orphanage. I’m not even sure the state would’ve bothered with a foster family, certainly not for a skinny Indian boy who couldn’t stop bawling his eyes out.”
“Same here. They brought my dad back here to Eternal Gardens for burial. But my gram wouldn’t even let me look into the casket, said I was too young. Gram’s done her best to take care of me ever since.” Beckham opened his mouth to go on and decided against adding more detail. After all, he didn’t know this man well enough to trust him.
Quentin noticed the hesitation and filled the gap.
“I’m sorry. Life can be real shitty sometimes.”
“Ain’t that the truth. What are you doing here in town? Why’d you move into this crappy old packing house anyway? I thought doctors made a lot of money.”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “You know what they say about assuming? Besides, sometimes you just need a change in scenery, a new start.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a new start myself. Well, thanks for the food, but I gotta go.”
“More trash cans to rummage?”
“Hey, don’t knock it. You can find a lot of good junk that can be unloaded for extra cash.”
“I’m not knocking it. Very resourceful on your part. But wouldn’t a regular job be better?”
“Who hires a fourteen-year-old?”
Quentin glanced around the bare room. “It’s like this. I start my new job in a week. I could use a little help around here before I report to work. Some days I could use another pair of hands. That is, when you have the time.”
“I heard grumbling that the town’s getting a new doctor. So that’s you?”
“Sometimes the rumor mill gets it right. At least, that’s what they tell me.” Quentin took a second look around the loft. “And since I’m a man with no furniture, I think I’ve decided to do a little shopping this afternoon. Want to help me haul back whatever it is I pick out?”
Beckham’s eyes lit up. “Sure. How much?”
“Twenty bucks for the day. I provide lunch.”
“Who could turn down a sweet deal like that? Not me.”
Quentin held out his phone. “Maybe you should clear it with your grandmother first.”
“She won’t mind.”
“Still, I insist. Better if she knows where you are. Nonnie always wanted to know where I was at all times and that was before I knew what a cell phone looked like.”
“Okay. Okay. But we don’t have a phone.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Why would I lie about not having a phone? Kids at school give me a hard time about it all the time, even the teachers and the nurse, especially Mrs. Hargraves.”
“Okay. Then we’ll stop by your house and you can tell your grandmother then.”
“I’m telling you she won’t care if I’m out all day.”
Quentin cocked his head. “What are you trying so hard not to tell me?”
Beckham refused to say too much. Instead he kept it simple. “Gram’s under the weather is all.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“These days she coughs a lot, especially at night and then tries to catch up on her sleep during the day.”
“Has she seen Jack Prescott? What does he say?”
Beckham snorted. “Who has the money for doctors. Besides, she don’t like ’em very much, avoids going if she can. She’s taking some cough syrup though, some type of over-the-counter crap she buys at the drugstore.”
“Why don’t you let me talk to her? Maybe I can persuade her to come into the office for a checkup.”
“Yeah? Like a total stranger’s going to convince her when I can’t.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try. I’m very persuasive. Come on. Let’s go.”
Instead of walking the five blocks, Quentin opted to take the Woodie. The chief of police himself had given him permission to keep it parked at the wharf, even though overnight parking usually wasn’t allowed.
“This is a really old car,” Beckham commented. “Why does a doctor drive such a thing when you could afford a new one?”
“First, don’t make assumptions. I haven’t worked in two years. I keep this because it has sentimental value. It belonged to my dad. And it still runs better than some of the newer crap they sell.”
Beckham looked skeptical, but had to admit this wasn’t your everyday ordinary set of wheels. “You added seatbelts, kind of ruined the look if you ask me. Since this is a classic, you could drive without ’em, you know. The seatbelts aren’t mandatory if the car didn’t have them in the first place.”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “I know that. But safety is a priority. He stared at his passenger on the other side of the front seat. “Which reminds me, buckle up.”
“Why? My gram’s house is just straight down Crescent Street, not even five minutes from here.”
“I don’t care. Put your seatbelt on. It’s a safety issue.”
“What is it with you and safety—and cleanliness?” Beckham grumbled. “Must be the doctor side of you.”
Quentin was beginning to feel grateful for never having had kids. He found himself clamping onto the wheel until his knuckles were on the brink of turning white in frustration. “Roughly twenty thousand people die each year in traffic accidents because they weren’t wearing seatbelts. ‘Buckle up’ is not just a motto, it’s the law. My car, my choice, so abide by the rules.”
“Sheesh, make a big deal out of it why don’t you?” Beckham muttered as he pulled the belt around his lap and snapped the metal closed. “Happy now?”
Quentin put the car into gear and backed out of the parking space. “Not particularly, certainly not since getting in the car and spending five minutes arguing with you. Are you always this surly over nothing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Quentin turned to stare at the kid again, shook his head before steadying his eyes back to the roadway. “You don’t know what surly means? What do they teach you kids in school nowadays?”
Beckham lifted a disinterested shoulder. “I don’t like school.”
“Why am I not surprised at that declaration? In your case surly means rude.”
“Oh. Well, sorry. I just don’t see the point in getting all bent out of shape about a seatbelt.”
“And cleanliness. Germs are spread by not washing your hands,” Quentin pointed out and was met by a stubborn jut of the kid’s chin. He decided to cure the leftover silence with a series of idle chatter. “Maybe we should shift the subject to something less debatable. Do you like books?”
“Not really.”
Quentin couldn’t imagine it. “What kind of kid doesn’t like to read? For me, books always had a magic about them, the ability to take me away to anywhere in the world I wanted to go, just by turning the pages. I used to spend my nights reading when I was supposed to be sleeping. I’d spend hours at the library.”
“That’s you. Besides, Pelican Pointe doesn’t have a library.”
“You’re kidding? My uncle was mayor of a town that doesn’t value books?”
“I think it closed down sometime back in the ’70s.”
“Still, to allow the library to shut down is a crime.”
“That’s harsh. But it’s one reason I don’t read much, can’t afford to buy, not even used. So I don’t bother. Only nerds read.”
Quentin found himself grinding his back teeth at that. And then it hit him. Maybe the kid had a problem reading. Before he passed judgment he’d have to look into it further.
When he made a right turn onto Tidewater Avenue, he slowed down to a crawl. “Which one is your grandmother’s place?”
Beckham pointed to an overgrown, weeded front yard. At one time the rusted metal mailbox had fallen over and someone had tried to set it upright but it still leaned at a sharp angle.
After pulling to the curb, Quentin got a better look at the house. Cute as a button, the little white bungalow had green shutters and double front French doors. With a dormer window on the roof and a little overhang that covered the porch, it had a Cape Cod feel to it. The place needed a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise looked in good shape.
Quentin cut the engine but Beckham was already jumping out the door. “You wait here. I’ll go tell her I’ve got a job for the day.”
“Wait a second. I thought we were here to talk her into going to see the doctor.”
“We should probably do that later, after she gets to know you better.”
“How’s she going to get to know me if I stay—?”
But the boy had already bolted through
one of the front doors, leaving Quentin sitting in the car, talking to himself.
“Kids,” he muttered. “Such a pain in the butt.”
Three
Sydney took advantage of her day off by hiking up a curving, twisted path to Bolero Canyon for a little fall scenery. No longer a slave to twelve-hour shifts, she’d traded those hours for a nine to five job, five days a week, that gave her weekends off. With her new lifestyle, she’d made it a point to commune with Mother Nature as often as she could.
Hayden had told her about several hiking paths where plant life was abundant, even in November. In the time she’d been here, Sydney had needled her brother-in-law to give up several other popular local spots. Turns out, she liked to explore on her own. That’s how she’d happened upon a cave north of town, a natural cavern meant for stargazing. She’d found the place on her own and couldn’t wait to go there again.
But on this day, she strode along a trailhead near the lighthouse. A brisk wind off the ocean caused a stout patch of daffodils to bend and flutter in the windswept field. Pink flowering currant blossomed alongside broadleaf coffeeberry, laden with its purple-black fruit. On other hikes, she’d already picked a bucketful of the berries and found out she liked their figgy taste and texture.
She’d read in one of Ethan’s books just how Native Americans had managed to live off what the land provided. It intrigued her enough to try her hand at recognizing local plants and discovering their varied uses for herself. Coffeeberry came from the hardy buckthorn family. Its edible seeds could be roasted. She’d used the stuff to create her own experiment making a batch of coffee with the yield. The flavor was good—a nice chocolatey mocha blend and a decent substitute if you couldn’t run into Murphy’s Market for a bag of regular beans. But she found the whole process of getting the seeds out of the berry way too time-consuming to do it every day. Plus, it didn’t offer the caffeine kick she needed to jump-start her morning. Sure, it was a nice trial run for a twenty-first century woman trying to prove she could go back in time and live off the land. But it was hardly practical. Amused at her effort, she considered that brief glimpse into the history of the area and decided it had been a learning experience for sure.
Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 9) Page 5
