by Sally John
He wasn’t talking about the business situation.
Lexi watched him pace the small room in quick, jerky strides. Whenever her twin was wound up like some battery-operated bouncing toy, she waited without comment until the energy drained.
He pressed his fingertips against his temples as he turned again. “Mom and Dad, the perfect couple, churchgoers, outstanding community leaders, high-society members, parents of four fairly normal adult children. Out of the blue, Mom files for divorce. Mom, the one who taught us how much God hates divorce. The one who swore if we followed God’s standards, we wouldn’t have problems.”
Lexi’s recollections differed. Their mother’s faith had not been so well-defined to her. But then Danny embraced religious things differently than Lexi did.
Danny still paced. “Mom leaves Dad and says the past thirty years have been nowhere near what they were cracked up to be. Okay, so he wasn’t around all that much. He provided for us, didn’t he? Now he throws his entire life’s work away, his passion, and says he should have listened to Mom more? And she says she should have disagreed with him more? What does this say about our childhood?”
Lexi met his glance with an uncertain shake of her head. She didn’t know what it said.
“It says it was all a crock. It says if I can’t trust my parents, who can I trust?” He blew out a breath and halted in the middle of the room, hands on his hips.
“This is why you’re tied up in knots?”
“Yeah.”
Lexi let her gaze wander back to the painting. Despite the almost eerie connection she and Danny had on every level, it surprised her whenever he grasped meaning in her work. As a child, she never colored inside the lines. Now, as an adult, she painted her originals in a similar manner. An observer would not mistake the rhino or tree or other things for anything else, but no distinct outlines formed the subjects.
She looked at her brother. “Our parents aren’t coloring inside the lines anymore.”
He scrunched his lips together.
“According to your standards, they don’t look like they’re supposed to look.”
“So my standards are wrong?”
“I don’t know. I only know that you used to have a fit when Mom put gold stars on my coloring-book pages. The ones that had crayon marks all over them. Now when you see her and Max’s messy pages, you don’t have fits. You just surf and don’t work.”
He lowered his head. “I’ve practically been living in the water.”
“How bad is the business loss?”
“I can still pay rent and buy food.” He toed the carpet for a moment and then looked up. “So, what do we do? Call in sick for the next re-wedding event?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He smiled, his first of the long evening. “But we can’t. They’re our parents. Guess I’ll just surf some more while you keep painting nature on the verge of extinction. We’ll get through it. God will get us through it.” He turned again to the painting. “It really is very good. Erik says you hold too much inside. Maybe you ought to invite him over to see this.”
“Got to catch him sober first.”
“Yeah. Okay, I’m out of here, sis.”
Within moments of his leaving, Lexi squirted a glob of paint from a tube onto a palette. She pulled out the widest of her brushes. A short time later, the rhino, the tree, the dirt, and the sky were obliterated, disintegrating in a pool of burnt umber.
Four
Rosie sat cross-legged on an ottoman directly in front of the television, elbows propped on knees, chin in hands. A waist-up shot of Channel 3 news anchor Erik Beaumont filled the screen. With an appropriately somber expression on his face, he related a story about a bank robbery.
On the other side of the living room, her dad’s recliner creaked. “He is not bad looking.”
“For a gringo.”
“Rosita, you should not use that word.”
She smiled. The gentleness of Esteban Delgado’s admonitions tickled her. “Papi.” The word for “daddy” sounded like “poppy” in English. She’d always called him that. “I’m almost thirty years old. When are you going to give up on me?”
“When you quit talking like a hard-nosed cop. I know what the streets are like. They will ruin you if we don’t keep our guard up. I will get to heaven and your madre will turn her head in disgust and say she never knew me.”
Rosie glanced at him. His facial features reflected his Aztec heritage. His accent spoke of a childhood in Mexico. His ample waist indicated that he overindulged on the yummy dishes served at the restaurant he owned. His mention of her deceased mother meant he was overtired.
“Papi, go to bed. I’ll let myself out.”
“Take this man here.” He pointedly ignored her, nodding toward the television. “Nice and clean looking. Handsome.”
Erik Beaumont was all that, dressed in a stylish black suit and royal blue tie. The contrast between his black hair and light eyes produced a startling effect. Like catching a glimpse of sunlight breaking through clouds. She was drawn to study his face. She didn’t think the eyes were blue. Greenish, maybe? He was attractive in a cookie-cutter way, nose and mouth and chin perfectly sized and shaped. She remembered handcuffing him. He was tall, over six feet, broad shouldered. Soft hands.
“You’d think,” her father continued, “that he was the heart and soul of the United States. Trustworthy. A model citizen. But no. He does not know the meaning of self-discipline. He is a drunk. A bum. Grosero. You had to arrest him.”
Rosie grimaced. The story had slipped out when she tried to explain why it was she wanted to watch the news all of a sudden. “Forget I said anything, okay? I shouldn’t have told you.”
“My lips are sealed. But your blessed madre . . .” He shook his head. “¡Dios mío! What she will say to me! I never should have allowed you to go to police school.”
“Mom would say you should pray for this guy and not worry about me. Right?”
He harrumphed.
Now Beaumont shared the screen with his coanchor, Felicia Matthews. Even at thirty years of age or so, they were material for high school homecoming king and queen in white-bread America. She was cover-girl pretty, blonde, obviously blue-eyed even on the old television. Through the grapevine, Rosie had heard that Beaumont and Matthews were an item offscreen.
Her father lowered the footrest, lumbered out of his chair, and stepped to her side. “You are right.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Lilly would say a prayer for him. I will tomorrow. Good night, Rosita.”
“’Night, Papi. Love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful going home.”
She smiled at his oft-used phrase. She lived in his yard. Typical old San Diego, the modest property included a small cottage tucked behind fruit trees, next to an alley.
For a few more minutes she continued to study Beaumont on the television. Her partner Bobby was right. Much as she disliked what the newsman represented with his slaphappy attitude, he had touched a spot in her heart.
It was the place where God whispered to her to pray for a complete stranger.
It was the place that convinced her she was loonier than half the weirdos she arrested.
“Whatever.” Rosie closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Okay, Lord, I’m listening. You want me to pray for this guy, right? Right.” For a long moment she sat still, waiting for words. They came. “Swamp Erik Beaumont with Your love. Swamp him until he can no longer stand under the strength of his own power.”
Five
Erik looks well.” Claire Beaumont studied her son’s image on the small television screen as he announced the late-night news. “His voice is strong.”
“Mm-hmm.” Seated beside her on the love seat, Max cracked his knuckles, yanking back one finger at a time. After all ten popped, he started the process over yet again. He’d been doing it through the entire program.
She laid a hand on his and stilled the torturous crick-crack.
H
e gave her a tight smile. “Sorry.”
“You’ve been at it for twenty minutes.” She winked at him. “Guess I hit my limit.”
The knuckle thing was a new habit. Max had picked it up soon after signing the contract that completed the sale of his business. Interesting, she thought, how a piece of paper could end the work of a lifetime and still leave one living and breathing. Or at least gasping for breath.
Beaumont Staffing, a multimillion-dollar national firm her husband had built from scratch, now belonged to someone else. For over thirty years it had consumed every hour of his day. He said it was like losing an arm. She hardly blamed him for making sure his fingers were still attached.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “Erik is not all right.”
“But . . .” She pointed to the television.
“He’s acting. They pay him to act. Offscreen he’s a mess.”
“You saw him after the DUI and said he wasn’t great, but he was okay. He was fine with me on the phone later that day. He and Felicia were going sailing with friends.”
“Later that day, long after he missed his appointment for a tux fitting due, no doubt, to a hangover.”
“Which reminds me, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m expecting too much from the kids for the wedding-blessing. Erik and Danny don’t need to wear tuxedos. Lexi is not crazy about getting a dressy black dress. She doesn’t wear dressy black dresses. If she wears a dress at all, it’s baggy and bohemian.”
“But this is all about what you want, not them. You want fancy and formal. You want a private ceremony in a church with them and my parents and a few friends. Afterwards, you want an all-out bash of a reception, to which you’ve invited half the city.”
“Only a fourth.” She smiled. “Yes, I do want that. I really do. It’s not so much because we didn’t have it the first time. Eloping wasn’t all that bad. I mean, we didn’t have a clue what we were getting into back then. Now that we’ve made it, it seems so important to celebrate our marriage, to recognize what we’ve accomplished. Or better, what God has accomplished in us.”
He nodded. “I agree. And I think the tuxes and the black dresses and the whole gang smiling would not be a problem except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Me.”
“Max!”
“If I weren’t involved, they’d rally ’round you in a heartbeat.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” He paused. “I didn’t tell you what Erik said to me at the police station.” The creases on his forehead deepened. “He said I checked out for thirty years and now I want to be his father. He can’t reconcile those two things.”
“Oh, hon.”
“He’s right. We had some good times when he was a little kid, but I’ve let him down for most of his life. I haven’t been there for him. Haven’t been there for any of them, not in the deep sense of the term. Danny tries and Jenna comes close, but none of them are exactly embracing the new dad with open arms.”
“It’ll take time.”
“This is called reaping what you’ve sown.”
Claire slid an arm across his chest and leaned against him. “Give it time, Max.”
He held her close. “I don’t know. I somehow sense that we just don’t have the time.”
Ashort while later, after the news program, Claire and Max walked outdoors through the dark cold night. She shivered and pulled a shawl more tightly around herself.
“What did you mean,” she said, “that we don’t have the time?”
“I don’t know if I have words to explain it. It’s more of a vague sense. Life feels like it’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. It’s all going to give way at any moment.”
She ignored his gloom and doom and zeroed in on feels like. Who would have thought! A few short months ago that phrase did not exist in her husband’s lexicon.
Smiling to herself, she gazed up at the sky, packed so densely with stars it looked like the Creator had spilled a giant bag of powdered sugar all over it. Thank You.
She slipped her arm through his. “Yes, I agree, life has been teetering. But here we are, starting our new life at the Hacienda Hideaway.”
“Yeah. That’s the only piece of solid ground I can find. The rest is giving way like a mudslide.”
“You’re tired, Max. Let’s just go to bed.”
“No, I want to see Mom and Dad.”
Claire didn’t argue. She wasn’t about to quash the new side of Max that emoted and actually desired to talk with his parents. Up until last fall he could hardly stand the sight of them, let alone initiate a heartfelt discussion.
They continued their stroll, following the dirt-and-gravel road down to its first bend. Over three hundred acres made up the estate—land purchased by Max’s great-grandfather after he discovered gold on it in the 1800s. The original Beaumont built the hacienda that descendents had lived in for more than a century. Max had grown up in the old house. It was Spanish-styled, U-shaped with thick adobe walls and a red-tile roof. In recent years his parents had remodeled it into a retreat center.
Claire knew from her own experience that people came because the place offered a safe harbor from the world. The natural beauty and the comfy rooms provided the ambience, but her in-laws added the essence of safety. Their faith and prayers and loving ways filled every inch with a tangible peace.
In September, not many months ago, a wildfire nearly destroyed everything. Unwilling to start all over again at their age, Ben and Indio Beaumont had planned to sell the hacienda. Max and Claire, desperate to start all over again and to make a safe harbor of their own, decided to leave behind their old life, sell their house, and reopen the Hideaway.
To date, the only completely finished room was the master bedroom suite. It was enough for them. They’d moved in and now worked most days with the construction crew—a high-priced outfit worth every penny because they renovated in record time. Ben and Indio lived in a camper down the road, on the site of their new home.
Life resounded with glorious song.
Except when Max said it teetered on the edge of a cliff.
Son, what do you mean life is teetering on the edge of a cliff?” Ben Beaumont’s thick silver eyebrows drew together in a frown.
Max did not reply. Claire noted his tranquil demeanor and marveled at the change. In days gone by, he had been highly expressive, his gestures nonstop and energetic, his words a rushing stream. Now, in life’s new season, his personality was tempered with calm moments of reflection.
Max cracked a knuckle.
Except for that.
They were seated on built-in benches around a tiny table in the RV. Ben and Indio chose to live in these cramped quarters, never complaining, grateful to be alone again and back on their beloved land after the fire. Despite delays in the completion of their new home, they exuded contentment.
Max laid his fists on the table. “Not counting Claire, everything in my life is a total unknown.” He began uncurling one finger at a time. “One, Danny hasn’t asked me a business question in weeks. Unheard of. Two, Lexi won’t make eye contact with me. Who knows what she’s hiding. Three, Erik drinks too much. Four, Jenna is falling apart. Five, Kevin is going off to war. Six, Phil made two major dumb moves with the agency.” He referred to the new owner of Beaumont Staffing. “And seven—no offense, Mom and Dad—but you’re getting feeble. As you should, since you are closing in on eighty.”
Indio bristled, shaking her head and shoulders, pursing her lips. “I do take offense, Maxwell. Feeble? A little exhausted from time to time and getting up there in years, yes. But let’s not even consider the word feeble! It makes me sound like some witless nincompoop.”
Claire couldn’t help but laugh at her mother-in-law, a short, plump woman of Native American descent who wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a long single braid. “Indio, we all know you are a far cry from witlessness or nincompoopness.”
Ben chortled. “Now that easily applies to me, but not to you, l
ove.”
Tall and broad shouldered, he still looked like a strong cowboy to Claire. She said, “Ben, you don’t fit that bill either. I bet you could rustle a herd of cattle and ride a horse from here all the way to Denver.”
He nodded. “Durn right. And eat beans out of a can heated up over an open fire and sleep under the stars.” He laughed again.
Claire noticed Max’s somber face. “Hon, what are you trying to say?”
“I just don’t know what to do with this feeling of helplessness.”
She pressed a hand against her lips and squished the grin that kept tugging. Oh, my.
“I can’t control one infernal thing!” he said.
Ben burst into laughter, a wild, bellowing noise. He slapped the table. Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.
Indio jabbed him with her elbow a few times, all the while smiling and giggling herself.
Max kneaded his forehead.
Ben cleared his throat. “Son.” He chuckled and wiped the corners of his eyes. “You just figured this out?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“Better now than never. To tell you the truth, it took me awhile too. You get used to the fact that you are not in control. It slowly dawns on you that you never were. You just thought you were.”
Indio said, “You’ll figure out that God is in control. Pretty soon you’ll realize He wants only the best for you. He’s not trying to make you miserable. That’s when the peace comes no matter what things look like.”
“I’m sure being miserable is my own fault. It’s obvious I’m reaping what I’ve been sowing. You can’t exactly go AWOL on your kids and then expect them to forgive and forget the hurt you inflicted.”
Ben and Indio’s smiles vanished. They exchanged a look.
Max shut his eyes. “Good grief.”
Ben said, “You’re a little slow on the uptake, son. I think we’ve been here before, like when you were growing up and we went AWOL on you.”
“Yeah.”
“And what did your mother and I do, Max, when we realized we’d unintentionally hurt you for years and years? Unfairly comparing you to your brother, making you think your brother walked on water?”
