I walked to the middle of the triangular patch of lawn. “Okay. Stand here. By me.” He joined me, and I closed my eyes. “Close your eyes.”
“Seriously?”
“Do it.” I opened mine to make sure that he was following directions.
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes.
“Feel how warm it is here?”
“It’s a pretty hot day,” he told me, his voice edged with amusement.
“Right. Okay, here’s how it works; I’ll lead you. Don’t open your eyes.” Opening my own, I led him toward the shack. Somewhere, someone was cooking bacon, the smell of it drifting on the air. I guided him slowly, the way Jack had done with me for the first time back in sixth grade. Right at the point where the lawn met the path in front of the shack, the air temperature dropped suddenly by twenty degrees.
Adam’s eyes snapped open. “Whoa.” He looked around. “What is that?”
I’d been here dozens of times and it still rippled my arms with gooseflesh.
As quickly as we felt it, it vanished, warmth flooding the air around us.
“Weird, right?” I let go of his arm.
He rubbed it absently, turning slow circles, studying the yard. “Seriously, what was that?”
“That was Henry.”
He stopped turning, his hands finding his pockets again, his eyes finding mine. “Henry?”
“The ghost.” At Adam’s bemused expression, I hurried to explain that Henry used to work at Anne Crowley’s house as a cook and gardener and all-around handyman, and the legend was that he was desperately in love with one of the girls who lived at the house, a sixteen-year-old girl named Emeline who was a part-time dancer and a full-time employee of Anne’s. “Sick with jealousy,” I continued, “he burst in on her during one of her, er, um … sessions, and there was a chase, and then the guy she was with killed Henry. Stabbed him right here on this path.”
Adam pointed at the ground, a smile twitching his features. “This exact path?”
“Well, this spot anyway.” I shrugged. “It’s fine if you don’t believe me, but you felt him. I saw you.”
His phone buzzed. “Mik wants to know if we’re dead. Should I tell him, no — just consorting with them?”
“Next stop!” I headed toward the Range Rover. “Bye, Henry!” I called over my shoulder, and I could almost hear Adam smiling.
We stopped at three other spots before lunch. First, we drove to see Cleo Smythe, a woman who’d lived in the same house for 103 years. “Born in that house, gonna die in that house,” I told Adam. “Her words. Hi, Mrs. Smythe!” I waved at her where she sat in her squeaky porch swing, and she waved back, holding a sweating glass of iced tea.
Second, I took him to see the old jailhouse, now housing a gallery dedicated to Gold Country lore and photography. “Creepy,” Adam had said, peering at a yellowed ancient picture of the gallows, two open graves near it waiting for the hanging bodies. “People were buried where we’re standing?”
“People are probably always buried where we’re standing,” I said, nodding a hello to Bess Harding, who ran the gallery. Bess had the thin, bent shape of a lily, but she perked up when she saw Adam, even if she couldn’t seem to make eye contact with either of us.
After the jailhouse, I directed Mik out to the highway, to the turnoff that led to the rolling green fields of Little’s surrounding areas. I pointed out a few odd things along the way — rotting barns, an abandoned water tower, a rusting 1950s Ford truck embedded nose down in a field — before I had Mik pull onto an inlet of gravel along the road.
We slid out of the Range Rover, the heat coming off the dusty road hitting us. Our feet crunched over the gravel as I walked Adam toward the final stop before lunch.
“This one’s my favorite.” We stepped into a puddle of shade beneath a leafy oak. “The Fairy Tree.”
Adam stared up into its messy branches. “What is it?”
I told him how Drake and I used to come to this tree as little kids, along with thousands of other children over the years. For as long as I could remember, Mr. Costa, the old man who had owned this property, would leave little treasures in the dimpled hollows of the tree, taking anything kids left him in return. I showed him the pockets and nooks of the tree, smoothed from years of little hands.
“When he passed away last year,” I told Adam, “they found every available surface of his home covered with the treasures from dozens of years of Fairy Tree children — every surface thick with them, like snow.”
I told him how last summer, a local artist took all of them — each bouncy ball, drawing, action figure, rubber band, pound of loose change, hair ribbon, smooth river rock, everything — and fashioned them all into an incredible replica of this tree. “It’s in the main entrance of the County Library. Sometimes, I just go look at it, when I’m feeling sad, and I think about Mr. Costa. I almost took you to see that, but I thought maybe you’d rather just see the tree itself.”
Adam remained silent, running his fingers over the lacquered wood sign at the base of the tree:
COSTA FAIRY TREE
“THERE NEVER WAS A MERRY WORLD SINCE THE FAIRIES LEFT OFF DANCING …”
— JOHN SELDEN
He stepped back, his mouth a thin line. Across the street, a dusty sedan pulled over, idling in the hot sun. Adam didn’t turn his head, but I knew he sensed it had stopped. He tensed only a little, the way Extra Pickles would if he heard a distant door slam.
I started to ask him about it, but he pulled me in close to him. “This is a good spot.”
The sun through the leaves of the Fairy Tree covered us in dappled spots of light, and I almost laughed at how close I suddenly was to him, how abrupt he’d been. “Scene eight,” he whispered into my ear, his breath tickling me. “First public kiss.” I knew this was coming. I knew scene eight meant the first kiss. I knew it; I just hadn’t expected it right now. The press of his lips against mine caught me unprepared. His lips were warm, but because I hadn’t really had time to take a breath, they left me feeling like someone had just pushed me into a pool before I could inhale, leaving me swirling, eyes open, underwater. I was breathless for all the wrong reasons; still, there was the warmth of his mouth, that spicy smell of his.
Then he pulled back, just an inch or two, his lips hovering there, and I could tell he was watching the photographer, just on the periphery. He was waiting him out. Dazed, I waited, too, the suddenness of his kiss like a wave at the beach knocking me off balance, leaving me shivering in surprise.
The idling car sped away down the street.
As Adam took several steps back, I knew something had shifted in our day. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but somewhere between the moment that car had pulled up and the space where he kissed me, the curtain had been drawn again, the distance between us thick. He gave me an almost businesslike nod. “That was a good shot. And the Fairy Tree thing was perfect. Nice work.” Not meeting my eyes, he hopped back into the Range Rover.
I stared off down the road, at the swirling dust of the departing photographer, the simplicity of the day congealing, returning to the former, complicated space between us.
I slid into the backseat again. When I’d noticed the scene about the kiss in the script, I’d imagined something bigger, something perhaps with a sound track or at least better lighting. Not some out-of-the-blue face-smash for the quick camera click of a jerk in a Budget rental car.
I guess I needed to dial down my expectations. It might have a script, but this was no movie.
After leaving the Fairy Tree, Adam’s mouth a ghost print on me, we stood in the cool, canopied entry to Ander’s Community Gardens. “Ready for lunch?” I said flatly, motioning to the entrance.
He walked with me under the wrought-iron trellis swollen with leafy jasmine and out onto a sprawling stone courtyard. Dozens of people sat at ten or so wood picnic tables. I waved at Dad, who was handing out sandwiches and chips at a table near a fountain on the far side of the courtyard. I could see Ada
m take in the scruffy nature of most of the picnickers.
I leaned into him, whispering, “This is Sandwich Saturday. One Saturday a month, Little Eats provides lunch to the families staying at the Welcome House. I always help out.” When he continued to stare blankly, I added, “This was on your schedule today.” Maybe Parker hadn’t mentioned it to him?
“What’s the Welcome House?” His eyes took in the rows of food, the people sitting at tables.
“A shelter that caters to transitioning families.” I picked up a stray sandwich wrapper that had blown our direction, wadding it up as we walked.
“You mean homeless?” His eyes settled on a little girl in a red sundress at the nearest table.
“For now. But the Welcome House has successfully placed over two dozen families this year in affordable housing. Give up that trailer of yours and it could be one more.”
Parker suddenly materialized out of the shadow of a nearby grove of slender maples, giving Adam a little nod. Adam’s face darkened.
Parker was with a woman who screamed journalist with her notebook and crisp white sundress and sandals. The cameraman tailing her like a puppy also gave her away.
Adam tensed beside me, whispering, “That’s Robin Hamilton from Watch! magazine. She’s doing a story on me while I’m here. She seems sweet, but don’t get sucked in — she’s ruthless. Don’t say too much to her.”
“Okay.”
As people started noticing Adam, the energy shifted. A woman in a Giants T-shirt grinned up at me from where she sat at a nearby picnic table. “Whoa, you’re here with Adam Jakes? That’s wild.”
“It is wild,” I agreed as Parker sauntered up, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his expensive linen pants.
He nodded at the group in front of us as if he were surveying a set. “We should get some lovely shots here.”
A woman in a blue flowered dress joined us, nervously fiddling with the fabric of her skirt. I nodded to her. “Adam, this is Julie Meyers,” I told him. “She’s the director of the Welcome House.”
Adam flashed his smile. “Hi, Julie.” Julie turned pink and managed a breathy hello. “This is really great work,” he told her.
She thanked him, glancing at me. I smiled encouragingly, knowing how tongue-tied people got in front of Adam. “What can we do to help?”
“Good idea,” Adam said, moving toward the table where Dad passed out sandwiches. “Can I help you with that?” He signed an autograph for a woman and her tween daughter, who stared up at Adam with a stunned sort of grin.
“I never turn down help.” Dad motioned toward an ice-filled cooler. “Each person gets a sandwich, some chips, a cookie, and one of those sodas.”
I joined them at the table, handing a sandwich to a man I’d seen last week. “How’d your job interview go, Bob?”
He smiled, accepting the sandwich and choosing a pack of Cheetos. “They’re going to let me know by next week.”
I patted his arm. “Fingers crossed.”
Robin Hamilton sidled up to the table. “I didn’t know that homelessness was one of your causes, Adam.” Her voice dripped with a sugary sort of falseness, a candy corn voice.
Adam gave her his floodlit smile, the kind I’d noticed he could conjure up on cue. “I’m here with Carter and her family to support the work they do with Julie at the Welcome House.” He held up his hands. “Just a pair of extra hands today.”
Parker jumped in. “But Adam has a fabulous announcement. He’s going to donate ten thousand dollars to the Welcome House fund so that Julie and the Moons have the money they need to keep Sandwich Saturdays going well past our departure from Little.” He whipped out one of those dorky checks, the oversized ones that people held up at ribbon cuttings and lottery announcements. He’d clearly had it stashed and ready for this moment.
Adam did a good job hiding what was obviously news to him. “Right. These families all need our support.” He posed as the cameraman grabbed a shot of him with the giant check.
Not as skilled at hiding sudden news, Dad cleared his throat, stunned. “Oh, Adam — that’s, well, that’s terrific. I know the Welcome House thanks you, too.” Julie nodded enthusiastically, her face going pink again. “Thank you,” Dad repeated. “It’s too much.”
“Nonsense!” Parker leaned in as the cameraman also shot a picture of him with Adam and the giant check. “It’s the least we can do for such a great cause.”
Robin pinched her lips together. “Did you know about this before today, Mr. Moon? Ms. Meyers?”
They both shook their heads. Dad said, “We didn’t. But we’re very grateful.” Dad’s discomfort rolled from him, shimmery sheets of unease. Julie stood by silently, gaping at the check.
More pictures. Adam with Julie, Dad and the check, Adam with the check and several families, including the starry-eyed tween who’d already gotten his autograph, Adam with Parker, Julie and the check. The check got its own mini–photo shoot by the spread of food. Parker wandered over to me as Adam signed autographs for a family with two small boys and nudged me, his face smug. “Well, they’ve just had the best day of their lives.”
I tried to keep a smile fixed to my face. “I’m sure they had a good time.” What I wanted to mention, but didn’t, was that the best day of their lives happened two days ago, when they’d been green-lighted for community-supported housing.
I set about helping Dad and Julie clean up the garden.
Mik pulled the Range Rover in front of my house. My hand paused on the door handle. “I hope you liked your tour — I had a few more things planned, but … well, you said you had to get back to work since we spent the afternoon at Sandwich Saturday.”
Adam leaned toward me a bit and said quietly, “I’ll tell you what … it beat those Hollywood tours by a mile.” His eyes, dark and drawn, drifted over my shoulder. “We’ll finish it, I promise. Can I keep this?” He held up the map.
“Of course.” I hesitated. “About the check … that was really generous of you.”
“I wish Parker hadn’t sprung that on you guys.” He watched the same kids who’d been clutching Super Soakers that morning as they squealed through a spinning sprinkler, their faces pink with too much sun. Turning back to me, he said, “I feel bad that it turned into a circus back there.”
“It was fine.” My voice betrayed my discomfort.
There was his hand again, just above my knee. “I could tell it bothered you.”
I tried not to think about how all the energy in the world seemed concentrated in that warm space between his hand and my thigh. “We really appreciate your contribution, seriously. I hope I didn’t seem ungrateful. I’ve just gotten to know these families, and I’m not too comfortable with them being, well —”
“Used?” He gave me a sad sort of smile, his hand slipping to the leather seat. “Look, Parker means well, he does. I’m sure he thought it was a win-win for everyone, you know?”
“I know.” I fiddled with the door handle. “It’s just hard for them, and I hate seeing it used as a publicity stunt. At their expense.”
He gave me the sort of melty eyes I’d seen in some of his movies. “I’m sorry. He could have handled that better. I’ll talk to him.”
I shook my head. “No, don’t.”
“At least it’s a publicity stunt that helps out at the end of the day, right?”
I opened the door slightly. “True. That money’s going to help so much. We’re really grateful.”
His eyes softened. “You mentioned that.” His phone buzzed. Frowning, he ignored it and sighed. “Look, next time we’ll just hang out. Not as a job, but just as, you know, friends.”
“Right, friends.”
His phone buzzed again. Rolling his eyes, he snatched at it. “I’d better take this before Parker has an aneurysm.” He clicked it on. “Hold on a minute,” he said into it sharply. To me, his voice softer, he said, “I have to shoot tonight and tomorrow until, like, four but maybe we can hang out tomorrow afternoon? Maybe have a c
offee or something?”
“I’d like that.” And, as I said it, I realized it was true.
I slipped out of the car, giving him a little wave before closing the door. In seconds, the car disappeared down the street.
Across from me on the opposite sidewalk, a man in baggy jeans and a black Metallica shirt stood taking pictures of us.
I turned and fled into the house.
the next afternoon, Adam decided to wait in the kitchen until I was done with my shift. The café was crowded, and I could tell he didn’t want to be mobbed. He was having the opposite problem in the kitchen. When I left him, he’d been trying to convince Jones he was at least worthy of a glance in his general direction, saying something like, “So, you’ve got some interesting tattoos.” Poor Adam. I didn’t tell him Jones was a lost cause. It took him six months to acknowledge Chloe when she started working here. And she made him cookies.
Out front, I retied my apron and started to clear some dishes when the entrance jingled. It was a bit after the rush, so we didn’t have a line. A woman closed the door behind her. Tall and slim, she wore an expensive plum-and-black yoga ensemble and had wound her thick blond hair into a severe knot at her neck. Sunglasses the size of coasters perched on her head, and she let her violet eyes graze our café, barely hiding her disgust.
Arching a blond eyebrow, she surveyed our chalkboard menu hanging on the wall behind me with a look that suggested we had dead bodies on display. “An iced tea. Herbal if you have it. And” — her eyes strayed over the pastries on the counter, the quiche and salads in the cold case — “ugh, that’s it.”
“For here?”
“I think not.” She checked her phone and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a quick flick. If I were that lock of hair, I wouldn’t try that move again.
“We have passion fruit or lemon tea.”
“Lemon.”
“Small or large?” My hands hovered over the stacks of cups.
Catch a Falling Star Page 11
