by Dana Mentink
“Okay, doggie. Time for you to go outside.” Sweetness showed no sign of cooperating, so she took hold of his collar. As she tugged, he became a rubbery, immovable mass, legs sliding across the slippery floor. “Come on, Sweetness.” She pulled with enough conviction that the dog finally acquiesced, lumbering to his feet. Excellent. Standing behind him now, she shoved his canine rump toward the narrow door. “Almost there,” she grunted.
Until Sweetness made a right turn and dove under the bed.
On her knees, Stephanie swiped a hand across her forehead. “This dog has no manners,” she hollered down to Rhett.
“Do you want me to come up and get him?”
Stephanie wanted nothing but to sink into that thin mattress and fall into a dreamless sleep.
“No, I guess he’s okay as long as he stays under the bed. But what if he throws up again?”
“He already hacked up the paper plate when I took him for a walk. He’s probably good for a few hours. See you in the morning.” She heard his steps moving from the stairs toward the door. Then they stopped. “Stephanie?”
“Yes?”
A pause. Then, “Never mind.” The door banged and he strode away, his footsteps loud in the still night. Crawling back to bed, she thought there had never been such a comfortable mattress, in spite of the slight dip in the middle and the curling around the edges. Her weary body melted into the musty old thing.
Only a scant twelve hours prior she’d been dressed to impress, ready to greet Agnes Wharton, to clinch the deal and hurtle back to New York before the dust settled. Now here she was, wearing a borrowed T-shirt, lying on an ancient mattress, and escorting an unruly dog back to his owner with a man she hardly knew. Should she be excited or terrified? Grateful or disgruntled?
Grateful, she decided. Her belly was full, and she was safe, at least for the moment. It was not exactly laughing and rejoicing, but surely that would come when she reached Eagle Cliff. For tonight, she’d settle for safe and fed.
She jerked as she felt hot breath against her face and a tongue swabbing her cheek. “Ewwww. Sweetness, you get back under that bed. This is purely a business relationship.”
Sweetness rested his head next to hers for a moment, as if to be sure she meant what she said. He backed up and she let out a sigh. There was no way she wanted close bodily contact with this strange animal who peed on everything in sight and ate paper plates. She rolled onto her side, putting her back to him, and inhaled the musty smell of the old trailer.
Now something hard and metallic poked the back of her shoulder. She whirled around, sitting up so quickly it made her dizzy. Sweetness shook his head in excitement, the spatula clenched between his teeth.
“How did you get hold of that?” She reached for it, but he pulled out of range.
“I’m not going to chase you for that spatula. If you want it, go ahead and have it.”
She’d have to add it to the itemized list of expenses to be repaid. Once again, she settled onto the mattress, and Sweetness crept back under the bed with his prize.
Six
“Have you seen the spatula?”
Rhett was poking through a drawer when Stephanie and Sweetness arrived in the kitchen the next morning. She looked rested, clean, and determined. She still wore the black T-shirt he’d loaned her over her flour-smudged slacks. Too severe a color for her, he thought. Her hair gleamed like satin.
“Um, I think I’m going to have to buy you a new one. Sweetness has tucked it under the bed.” She waved a paper towel, dotted with ink scrawls. “Don’t worry. I itemized it on the list.”
“You have a paper towel list?”
“I couldn’t find anything else to write on, and besides, I once outlined an awesome business plan on a French fry bag.”
“A business plan for what?”
She shrugged. “A bookstore.”
“You want to open one up?”
“I did, a long time ago.” She fluttered the paper towel. “Oh, I have to add a bag of flour to the list. I forgot about that.” She pulled a pen from behind her ear and scrawled it down, avoiding the hole where her ballpoint had poked through.
“Never mind the spatula. I think there’s a restaurant in Big Thumb. We can grab some breakfast.”
“To go.”
He nodded. “Sure. Ready?”
“Yes.”
They drove to Big Thumb with Sweetness sitting between them. As many times as the dog tried to creep onto her lap, she fended him off with a well-placed elbow. Rhett slowed along the main drag.
“I have to go to Mercer to get the replacement tire. How about I let you off in Big Thumb to get some dog paraphernalia, lunch supplies, and maybe some clothes for yourself. We’ll meet up in an hour for breakfast here at the…” He peered closer at the small stuccoed building with an old shingle roof he’d stopped in front of. “Cup of Mud. What does that mean?”
“It’s diner lingo for a cup of coffee. Don’t you ever eat in diners?”
“Haven’t for a while. So is it a plan then?”
Her cheeks flamed, and the effect made her look like a china doll his sister used to own. Finally, he realized the reason for her embarrassment and he hastily got out his wallet. “Here. Take some cash.”
“I…”
He held up his hand. “Put it on your paper towel tab.”
Cheeks still flushed, she put the cash in her trouser pocket and then rested her fingers on the door handle.
Sweetness tensed, ready to bolt out the door, but Rhett held his collar. “I’ll take him.”
She shot him a grateful look. “You won’t lose him, right?”
He made a sign. “Scouts’ honor.”
“That’s the Vulcan greeting. Both the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts use three fingers.”
“Ah.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you ever a Boy Scout?”
As if he could ever have fit into that group. “No,” he said, piqued. “Were you ever a Girl Scout?”
“Practically. I was a Manhattan Maiden for three years,” she said, with a shade of haughtiness. “It was a girl’s group essentially the same as the Girl Scouts.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed it. So you earned badges and camped and did things along those lines?”
She arched an eyebrow. “It was mostly a reading club. We read a lot about camping.”
He didn’t laugh, a testament to years of business negotiations where a nervous twitch could cost you millions. “That reminds me,” he said, tipping down the car visor. “Here.”
He noticed her swallow hard as she took the ratty book.
“From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler,” she read, lifting her eyes to his. “This was published in 1967. It’s about a girl and her brother who run away to a New York Museum.”
“I didn’t actually know that. I saw a kid at the campground reading it. I paid him ten bucks for it. He figured it was a good deal because it was the second time he’d read it.”
She did not seem to hear, staring at the black-and-white drawing on the cover. He wondered if he’d made some sort of blunder by offering a kid’s book to a literary agent or whatever she was. He wasn’t a reader himself, not by any stretch of the imagination, and if he did read something, it sure wouldn’t be a work of fiction. It was hard enough working his way through the Bible.
Were there book rules? Guidelines about what books to give what people? His sister would know. Karen always had a knack for gift giving. He still had the last gift she’d ever given him almost eight years ago—a light the size of a pack of gum that turned on when you whacked it on a hard surface. Handy, helpful—a gift that lit up the room just like Karen did. Or had.
He cleared his throat. “It was a shot in the dark. I’m sure there’s a bookstore in town where you can get something else. Maybe.” He reached for the paperback and found it was gripped tight in her fingers.
“No,” she said, tugging it away. “My brother and I loved this story. We used to pretend we w
ere running away to the museum. We’d spend hours making our fictional packing lists.” Then, more quietly, “Thank you. It was nice of you to find a book for me so quickly.”
Nice of him. I’m not nice, he wanted to tell her. He noticed she took it with her when she got out, closing the door quickly to keep Sweetness from escaping. She did not look back as she headed to town.
Sweetness flopped down on the seat in a show of discontent. Rhett felt the uneasy tension in his gut, the restless sensation that had been there since he’d decided on a new life that would reconnect him with his sister. Fear? Anticipation? What if the whole plan turned out to be a disaster? What if she’d rekindled her hatred of him?
He allowed himself to remember the love they used to share, the “us against the world” feeling.
Until Paulo. Rhett still couldn’t quite believe he had convinced himself that tearing the two apart was in Karen’s best interest. He’d stupidly thought she’d come to see that someday, but of course she hadn’t.
And then the accident. On the surface, the fall off the ladder was not his fault, but deep down he knew it was. If he hadn’t driven Paulo away, the two would have their tiny farm somewhere, and she never would have had to climb those rickety rungs by herself. Paulo had not been there to catch her. Thank you, Rhett Hastings.
Paulo and the fall, both situations he could not undo.
But he could mitigate, and maybe in time that would be enough.
Lord God, don’t let me fail her.
Not again.
Stephanie employed her savviest shopping moves and purchased most of the supplies for Sweetness from the sale items at the Pet Emporium. Leash, bag of kibble with a picture of a happy dog on the front—low-fat, because Sweetness’s bulging stomach seemed to indicate he could stand to lose a few pounds—brush, water bowl, food bowl, and she was done.
With her purchases bundled under one arm, she stopped next at the tiny grocery store and did her best not to overbuy, delighted when she found they had an “essentials” aisle with everything from shampoo and conditioner to plain white underwear and neon-colored socks.
At the corner thrift shop she bought some jeans, T-shirts, sneakers that were only slightly too big, and a sun hat, along with a cheap notebook. A soft, fleecy jacket caught her eye, a garment that would never do for New York, but seemed to holler for chilly nights on the coast of California. Only ten dollars, but she didn’t want to spend more of Rhett’s money. The fleecy jacket would have to stay in the shop.
With receipts neatly packed in her pocket, her Mixed-Up Files book under her arm, and her hands filled with several bags, she emerged into the sunlit street at nearly nine thirty. Rhett had not returned, so she lugged her purchases to a stone bench near the fateful place where she had been within inches of Agnes Wharton’s manuscript. Her stomach squeezed with what could have either been hunger or her building sense of urgency to get moving.
Where was Rhett? The longer the delay, the more time for Agnes to off-load her manuscript to another agent or even pitch the thing out the window, considering how high-strung the lady was.
Lured by a shady patch of green, Stephanie left her bags on the bench and strolled away from the sidewalk, surprised to find herself entering the cool grounds of a cemetery. Was this where Agnes had been visiting, just before Sweetness had taken off in pursuit of the villainous squirrel?
Stephanie didn’t mind cemeteries. As a young girl she’d been superstitious, fed by classmates’ stories of the mysterious and macabre. And then Ian had died, and her life had stumbled offtrack, like a thoroughbred horse snapping a leg midrace. The reality, the finality, was too much. She spent every spare moment by his grave, talking, crying, exhorting, and reading snippets of whatever paperback she happened to have her hands on, until her parents banned her from returning to the place.
It was not unhealthy, she tried to explain. She knew Ian was in heaven, and there would be no ghostly graveside communication, but in the Pink house, silent and tomblike, she could not say the things she desperately needed to unburden, to spill the grief and anger that would only drive her parents deeper into their state of trauma. In the cemetery, she had permission to be whatever she needed to be and to speak to Ian—not for his sake, but for hers.
As she walked along the patchy grass, soaking in the cool shade and the scent of eucalyptus, she perused the gravestones one by one. When she got to the impressive granite slab at the end of the row, she read the neatly inscribed stone: Jay Peter Simmons, beloved son of M. and B. Simmons. Gone too soon. Indeed he had been. The marker indicated he’d died at the tender age of eighteen. She started to pass by when she saw the flowers, now slipped to the side of the stone, wilted and browned. White roses.
In Agnes’s car when she’d peeked in, there had been white rose petals lying on the car mat.
“She came here to put flowers on Jay Peter Simmons’s grave?” Stephanie murmured. Who was Jay Peter Simmons to Agnes Wharton? she wondered. She jotted his name down in her notebook. The great memoir of Alice Wharton’s life, memorialized in Sea Comes Knocking, had been about her consuming love for Jedd Pimm, twin souls who had carved out an impossible marriage together against all odds. Stephanie had read it cover to cover more than a dozen times, and she’d never caught the name Jay Simmons. Intriguing.
Stomach growling, she returned to the bench, gathered up her bags, and headed for the Cup of Mud. A menu was tacked to the wall outside. The special of the day was Bert’s Bargain: a stack of waffles, scrambled eggs, and bacon for $3.25. Her mouth watered. “Bert, you’re speaking my language.” Then again, the item below was equally as enticing: Bert’s Banana Pancakes with a side of hash browns.
No Rhett in sight. Where was the man? She decided to go ahead and get a table. At the very least, she could score a cup of coffee while she waited. She pushed at the door, but it didn’t budge. The second time, she gave it a shoulder. No progress.
Locked? At ten o’clock? Was this some weird Big Thumb thing? In New York City ten a.m. was practically midafternoon.
Fueled by hunger, she applied even more muscle.
“It’s closed up today,” came a voice behind her. A skinny woman wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt, her red hair in a tight bun, smiled at Stephanie. She hugged herself with bony arms. A pair of glasses with red frames perched on the top of her head. “I’m Evonne. My Uncle Gene owns the place. I write for the paper, but sometimes I help out slinging hash when he gives me a jingle.”
“Stephanie Pink. I figured the owner’s name would be Bert, what with all those Bert specials.”
“Bert’s gone,” she said, with a sad shake of her head. “That’s the problem. My uncle is in mourning.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said.
“Yeah, me too. You from out of town?”
“New York. Just passing through, hoping to get some breakfast before we head north.”
“Where to?”
“Eagle Cliff, Washington.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You aren’t the only one.”
Evonne laughed. “Well, let me ask Uncle Gene if I can cook up something for you.” She disappeared through a side door. Stephanie heard a crash from inside, as if someone had upended a trash can. There was an anguished male voice and the crack of a kitchen utensil slamming onto a countertop. Uncle Gene was not in the mood to provide a meal to strangers, it seemed.
Rhett pulled up in the truck, stopping in a red zone. “Breakfast time?” he called, Sweetness peering out of the half open window. “Knock it off, dog, you’re slobbering up the glass.” He pulled Sweetness back down on the seat.
“The place is closed,” Stephanie called back. “The owner has suffered a loss.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
Stephanie cocked her head at him. “You’re supposed to say you’re sorry about the owner’s situation.”
Rhett seemed to jerk a little. “Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry.”
She considered all the people who had said
just the right thing after Ian’s death. None of it had helped in the slightest except for one old lady who must have been an aunt.
You won’t get over it. You’ll just find a way to live around it.
Stephanie shrugged. “You’re not great at the warm and fuzzy stuff, are you?”
He shifted. “Not really. Ready to go?”
Stephanie started to answer when Evonne reappeared. “Sorry, but…” She pushed the door open further to look at Rhett.
“You’re parked in a red zone,” she said, pointing to the curb.
“Is that a big offense in this town?”
“The sheriff lives for slapping on red zone tickets. I write the police blotter for the paper and I know of what I speak. I also did a stint as a meter maid a while back.” She quirked an eyebrow. “You look familiar.”
“I’ve got that kind of face.”
Stephanie wondered why he looked uneasy.
Sweetness barked and shoved his head out the window, but Rhett pulled him back again. “I’ll just get moving along out of this red zone,” Rhett said.
Evonne pulled her glasses on. “Wait a minute.”
“Stephanie, are you ready to go?” Rhett said.
“Sure. Thanks for checking with your uncle.” Stephanie put the bags in the back and climbed in, shoving Sweetness over.
“Stay right there,” Evonne said, ducking back inside.
Rhett didn’t wait for Stephanie to put her seat belt on. He gunned the engine and took off.
“She asked us to wait,” Stephanie said.
“You’re the one on a strict timetable.” He drove away fast.
“Your people skills need work,” she told him, looking back.
Evonne stood on the sidewalk, her hands on her hips, staring at them.
Seven
Rhett didn’t slow until they turned into the campground again. A reporter. Naturally. He was a magnet for reporters, especially now.
Stephanie kept sneaking looks at him. He parked and headed off with the tire while she volunteered to make them a late breakfast or an early lunch or whatever a person was supposed to eat at 10:57 in the morning. He wrestled with the wheel, the muscle action helping him think. He’d have to tell Stephanie eventually, and it would without doubt change her perception of him. He realized he was enjoying being plain camper Rhett Hastings, helping out a dog and a lady in need. She’d even thought he was nice—that is, until he’d been unsympathetic about Bert from the diner.
