‘See. You can go straight down. Now it’s Eden’s turn,’ threatened Fletcher. ‘You’re small. You won’t get stuck.’
‘I won’t get stuck because I’m not going down.’ I backed away cautiously, then began to scramble, as far from Fletcher as I could get.
‘Chicken,’ he said. ‘Brk, brk, chicken.’ He reached back into his sack and brought out a rope. It was rough and thick, like a horse rope, and Fletcher’s handling of it came naturally. He made a lasso and threw it around the chimney, put his foot flat against the bricks, and pulled tight.
‘I’m going to make a ladder. So we need knots,’ he said, proceeding to tie several of them along the rope’s length, each as large as a cantaloupe. ‘These will be like steps. We can throw the rope in and basically walk down.’
I said, ‘Don’t do it, Fletcher.’
He looked at me like I was crazy, saying: ‘I’m not going to do it. Austin is.’
Austin looked shocked. He said: ‘Are you sure I’ll fit, Fletch?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Fletcher. ‘You saw that watermelon go down and it’s bigger than your whole head.’
Austin’s sneakers found the first knot easily. Before long, we could see only his hair. Then he was stuck, and crying. Then he stopped crying.
‘Austin?’ No reply. For what seemed like ages, we got no reply. Fletcher tried to pull on the rope but it didn’t move at all. He was yelling at me to help him but what could I do, at age ten or eleven or whatever I was?
‘Pull him back up!’ said Fletcher, but we couldn’t, and I bolted, with Fletcher calling: ‘Don’t be a snitch, Eden!’
‘He’s stuck! He’s stuck!’
I was breathless by the time I’d reached the pavilion. I put both hands against the bi-folds and Penelope was about to say: ‘Oh, Eden …’ Then she saw my face.
‘Austin’s down the chimney!’
My dad was the first to get there, with Tim by his side and me in the back of the pickup. They left it running and made their way across the drawbridge and up the stairs, Dad sweating and swearing. I followed a little way behind.
‘Can you hear me? Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic!’ Dad shouted.
No sound came back.
‘Tim, get the sledgehammer,’ he said, ‘Back of the truck. Back of the truck.’
It seemed to take forever, with Dad speaking in soothing tones, and Austin not replying and Fletcher pale with guilt and grief, and me fighting back tears on the ground. Finally Dad broke away the bricks of the chimney from the top down – one layer, then another, down to the roofline, where he finally saw the top of Austin’s head and grasped it. He dragged Austin out, his hands wrapped around Austin’s neck and chin and ears. Austin’s bare feet were still cupped around the third knot and soot ran all down his back.
Dad and Tim cleaned him up and settled his hair, and then came the recriminations.
‘How could you be so stupid?’
‘Do you have any idea what that would have done to your mother?’
‘I can’t believe that the three of you could be so boneheaded …’
The story spread like wildfire around the district. Kids at school asked about it. ‘Was it true your cousin went in the chimney? Is it true he nearly died? How much longer before he would have been dead?’
* * *
Earl shone his torch onto the timber doorway at the base of the turret. He pushed and it gave way, then we headed up the spiral staircase.
‘It’s so dark,’ he said. ‘Even with the torch.’
‘Sure is.’
Our hands followed the old iron rail that wrapped itself up the curved walls, until Earl reached the trapdoor and pushed. An iron ladder passed from inside to outside. Earl went first, scrambling confidently onto the flat roof. He dusted himself off, then reached back to grab my hand.
I can’t be sure but I guess it was close to 1am. The moon was high and full, casting brilliant light across the valley below.
‘Is it safe?’ I said.
‘Definitely.’
Earl kept hold of my hand as we walked across to the battlements and peered through, then sat with our backs to the bricks and our knees up under our chins, marvelling at the prettiness of the night sky. We talked about Briar Ridge, and Earl’s vineyard, and things we remembered doing as kids.
He was the first to acknowledge the emotion swelling between us.
‘This is crazy,’ he said, finally. ‘This can’t be.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Except it is, right?’
‘It definitely is.’
I sat with my knees under my chin, with Tim’s big boots loose on my feet. Earl turned his face and I turned mine, and our foreheads touched. If I hadn’t known before that things were changing between us, I knew then. For certain they’d changed.
* * *
Penelope was not in the kitchen when I came out for breakfast the following morning. That seemed weird. I sat down at the bench and asked Fiona: ‘Where’s Penelope?’
‘She doesn’t always come up to the pavilion in the morning anymore. I can handle Dad’s breakfast.’
Mom said: ‘I actually asked her to go into Paso with Earl to run a few errands. Because we have the people coming to look at the estate today.’
They arrived soon after in a white BMW with leather interiors. There was the attorney, Caroline Moyes, and one of her colleagues, whose name I didn’t catch. Caroline was carrying a leather folio with a zip that went all the way round, and she was dressed as she would later be dressed for court.
Mom stepped off the deck and gave her an air kiss then introductions were made.
‘I’ve looked at a lot of potential sites for Pinkhound, and even the little bit of your estate I’ve seen on the way in tells me it could well meet our needs,’ said Caroline.
I thought about Earl’s vineyard and wondered if they’d get there, and what they’d make of it if they did.
Tim explained that Caroline’s BMW wouldn’t be suitable for going around the estate. In fact, they’d struggle to reach the hilltops and other places, even in one of the station trucks.
They took two trucks in the end, with Caroline and Mom in one, and her colleague and the McBrides, including Sol, in the other. I’d offered to stay behind, keep an eye on Pop. I watched as they lurched away, the trucks swaying and rocking as they headed off to take their measurements and photographs, then went upstairs, but Pop was asleep, upright against a vertical pillow.
They returned after an hour. Caroline climbed down from the mud-covered pickup and ventured into the pavilion, gratefully accepting iced water from the Brita.
‘This place is cute,’ she said, looking around.
‘This is the house I told you about,’ said Mom. ‘I designed it.’
‘It’s a pity – I mean, we don’t need a residential property. But this would be a cool site office for when we start work here.’
Mom looked aghast.
‘So, old Mr Alden-Stowe,’ Caroline went on, sipping her water, ‘he lives here, does he? In this house?’
‘He’s upstairs,’ said Tim. He’d taken off his dusty boots and was padding through the pavilion in socks. ‘He was born here. Actually in Alden Castle, where we were before. That was how it was done in those days.’
Caroline shuddered.
‘Do you have children?’ asked Tim.
‘Oh, no,’ she said.
‘Plenty of time, I guess.’
‘I guess,’ said Caroline, sounding doubtful. She looked up the staircase. ‘Well,’ she said, putting her glass down. ‘This has been fantastic. Jesalyn told me how wonderful your estate was, and she’s quite right. It’s a good size. The soil is perfect. I feel so lucky to have found it. I hope we can come to terms. If we were able to get a contract together by the end of the week, would that suit?’
Mom said: ‘You can do it that quickly?’
Austin said: ‘Woot, woot!’
Fiona, watching mesmerised, picked up her gold pendant from he
r neck and held it in her hand.
‘It’s happening,’ she said, as Caroline departed. ‘It’s actually happening.’
* * *
I didn’t mention the site visit to Earl. I’d promised Mom that I wouldn’t. Trying to keep a place between what Mom wanted and how I felt about him was hard. I’m not good with secrets. Not good with guilt. So when Mom told me to ask Earl to take me to the farmers’ market in Paso with another list of things she needed, I snapped at her.
‘It’s okay to have him working for us but not tell him the truth?’
Mom shrugged like I was being silly. I looked at her list:
•Bread I can ACTUALLY EAT
•VEGETABLES!!!! Anything you can find!!!!! Must be ORGANIC
•Fruit that isn’t IMPORTED
‘She’s hilarious,’ said Earl, when I showed it to him.
‘She’s just very LA. But can you take me?’
We took Queenie with us, driving with windows down and cool air rushing and the radio playing. The parking lot closest to the market was already full. Earl found a space in an underground car park closer to town and we walked back to the market, with Queenie in my arms, her nose in the air. The aromas were barbecue ribs and jacket potatoes and fresh-brewed coffee.
We stopped at the first stall we saw. They had vine-ripened tomatoes. Earl hoisted a box of them straight onto his shoulder, saying: ‘Your mom will really go for these. Let me run them back to the truck.’
I paid. Earl went jogging back in his worn boots. We met up again, strolling down the packed-earth aisles. The stall-holders – farmers, most of them – had put out samples of peaches and blood oranges on toothpicks. We tried some things and bought apricots, peaches, carrots, onions, broccoli, squash and yellow bell peppers, and a fresh loaf of oven-baked sunflower-and-flaxseed bread.
‘She’s got to be happy with this haul,’ said Earl, shifting a second box onto his shoulder.
We wandered further, into the curio aisles, browsing happily amongst the old gas-station signs and woollen dreamcatchers. We watched a girl get a henna tattoo painted on her foot, and a man in a leather hat offered to engrave our names on a single grain of rice. We stopped so Earl could buy a jacket potato. He put Mom’s produce on the ground and filled the split in the spud with sour cream, grated cheese, baked beans and salsa. We found a spot where he could sit and eat it, while Queenie ran a bit on her lead.
Out of the blue, a woman came bustling over. ‘Your mother is behind this,’ she said angrily.
I put my hand up to shield my eyes so I could properly see who was addressing me and realised I had no idea. The woman was dressed in silky basketball shorts down to her knees, a grey hooded sweater, with thick hiking socks and boots. Her hair was wild and grey. I never found out her name but she said: ‘Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your mother is planning to sell your estate to a company with a shameful history of exploiting the natural resources of this great state for profit, leaving nothing but degradation.’
I was taken aback.
‘Excuse me?’ I replied, as Queenie started to yap.
‘Your mother,’ the woman said. ‘I used to see you both around town when you lived up there. You look just like her! Your mother is money-hungry.’
‘Okay. I think we should get out of here,’ said Earl, sticking his plastic fork upright in the potato, and throwing the whole lot in a nearby bin.
‘And you,’ said the woman, turning her attention to him. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘No one’s side,’ he said.
‘No one’s side, but you’re sitting here with an enemy of the environment?! An enemy of our old oak trees!’
We got out of there as quickly as we could, heading back to the truck, with me nervously stroking Queenie’s soft ears.
‘Who was that?’ I said.
‘No idea. But my guess is she’s a local environmentalist.’
‘She seems to know all about our plans. Exactly what Mom didn’t want. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Not your Mom? I won’t be angry! Just tell me because my mom is going to be furious.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ said Earl. ‘Look, Paso’s changed. There are a lot of new people. They worry about climate change. They worry about the oak trees. I told you they came out in force against the people who built Seascape.’
‘Okay, but Mom’s about as green as they come,’ I said. ‘At least with her food. And she sends me to Briar Ridge! How are we the enemy?’
‘I guess they’re having a go at anyone who might be selling to developers,’ said Earl. ‘And Pinkhound … people have done their homework on them, I guess.’
‘But how do they know it is Pinkhound? And how do you know what they’ve got planned?’
Earl shrugged a shoulder in his white T-shirt, and said: ‘Paso might have changed but it’s still a small town. People talk. Word gets out. Maybe Pinkhound have been asking to look at local by-laws, or checking whether there’s protection on the old castle or whatever.’
The exchange unnerved me. I tossed up whether to tell Mom when we got home, and decided I should.
* * *
‘So it’s out already.’ She sighed. ‘Okay, well, let’s hope that goes nowhere.’
Later that day, the family gathered by the pool for cocktails. Sol set tea lights floating over the water and Fletcher sat down on the edge, soaking his hairy feet. Speaking quietly, because Penelope was buzzing around inside, he said: ‘It’s so typical of California. Everyone wants to stick their noses in what you’re doing.’
‘That is not going to happen,’ said Mom. She was striding around the pool deck in her wedge heels, transparent kaftan flying. ‘Caroline told me they deal with this kind of thing all the time. They can deal with whatever complaints – water, the oaks – people might have. They’re good corporate citizens. And anyway, the contract is pretty much done. With luck, we’ll have it signed before the troublemakers can get their act together.’
Then a telephone in the pavilion rang.
We all stopped and listened.
Penelope picked up.
It was Harry Prior from the Paso Monitor, calling the house and asking to speak to a Mr Owen Alden-Stowe III.
Penelope came out and told us.
Mom stopped striding and looked over at her, saying: ‘That’s ridiculous. Who in this town doesn’t know that Owen doesn’t talk on the phone?’
‘That’s what I told him,’ said Penelope. ‘I said: “Mr Alden-Stowe isn’t able to come to the telephone.” And then I said to him: “May I ask what it’s regarding?”’
‘Well, come on,’ said Mom. She was standing with her hands on her hips, impatient. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said it was about the sale of the estate,’ said Penelope, like that was the most unlikely thing she’d ever heard. ‘He said he’s doing a story for the Monitor’s website and he wanted a comment.’
‘Did he, now?’
‘That’s what he said,’ Penelope confirmed, folding a dish towel once, then twice, then three times around her hand.
‘Well then, I guess the cat is out of the bag.’
‘What?’ said Penelope. We all turned to look at her, now standing with hands on hips. ‘You mean it’s true?’
* * *
We prepared our own dinner that night. We had no choice. Penelope, furious at how the news had been dumped on her, had asked to go back to her cottage. Fiona had tried to placate her, saying: ‘We were going to tell you, Pen. I was waiting for the right moment.’
Penelope had looked like she wanted to say something then stopped.
Fiona continued: ‘And another reason we didn’t was because we haven’t signed anything. We haven’t actually agreed to anything. It’s all still just an idea.’
Then Penelope said: ‘If it’s all right with all of you, I think I’ll head back to the cottage. I’m not feeling well,’ and everyone rushed to agree it was
a good idea.
After she left, Mom said: ‘God, why didn’t we never get WiFi up here? Eden, can you get the Monitor up on your phone?’
‘No.’
‘We should call the reporter back and ask what he wanted,’ said Tim. But nobody wanted to do that, with Tim saying: ‘I remember Nell’s old saying: “Hatches, matches and dispatches”. As in, you should have your name in the newspaper only three times in your life: when you’re born, when you marry and when you die.’
‘That’s right. We don’t have to call him,’ said Fletcher. ‘He’s a reporter. It’s none of his business.’
Austin agreed, saying: ‘It will just add fuel to the fire.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Mom. ‘The last thing we want is for the press to be involved.’
Tim took over the barbecue, turning tuna steaks and salted aubergine.
‘We’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Fiona. ‘Maybe we should call the reporter and explain.’
Mom turned to look at her. ‘It’s nobody’s business but ours,’ she said, pointedly. ‘It is our family’s business. And it’s none of our business what happens here once we leave. It’s for Pinkhound to apply for permits and to abide by whatever rules the county has in place. And more to the point, we’re not even thinking of doing anything while Owen is still alive.’
‘Well, we’re too late if we don’t want it to be in the paper.’
We turned to see Austin coming onto the pool deck, carrying his iPad.
‘Do you have service?’ said Sol, excited.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Not all the time. But if I stand on top of the glass staircase with my arm aimed at the skylight, I can get a bar or two.’
‘Show me,’ said Jesalyn. She took the iPad from him, and widened the image with her fingers. The front page of the Paso Monitor website featured a picture of Alden Castle, as seen from the Chimney Rock Road. The story below was by Harry Prior.
‘He’s published it already? Who is this Harry Prior?’ asked Mom.
‘He’s one of the Prior Engagement boys,’ said Tim. ‘You know the family that makes the wine? They’ve had huge success. He’s only young – in his twenties – but he recently bought the Monitor and made himself editor-in-chief. It was closing down anyway, and his family has got more money than sense.’
The Lucky One Page 12
