by Nicole Meier
She hated that thing. She always had. For everything it represented and everything it took away. And yet the public loved it. Sara always considered it ironic how people believed the statue was a testament to TR’s connection with his daughter. It’s true, she’d posed for the piece and spent countless hours with him in the studio while he molded, shaped, and reworked the sculpture. Sara had been nothing but eager to hold steady and play her father’s all-important muse.
But in the end, it was the thing that pulled them apart. After the statue was so well received, TR was suddenly lured away to make appearances at the request of important people in the art world. He’d frequently head off on exhibit tours and then return at all hours of the night from parties and work events. He claimed he needed to be away, to network and follow the art. Tension in their house mounted on the daily, as Joanne accused TR of all sorts of infidelities, and her father slowly began to check out from their lives. The fights escalated until one day he simply went away. Sara asked her mother if TR had left word, sent her any messages. Surely her father wouldn’t forget his muse. But Joanne remained tight-lipped, giving her daughter little hope. Sara was left behind to feel like nothing but a figment of her father’s spectacular imagination.
Steeling herself against further self-pity, Sara straightened and opened the laptop once more. She’d been able to disregard discomfort brought on by the sculpture before, so she could do it again.
Hitting the “Search” button, Sara entered what she knew about TR’s coastal property. Which wasn’t much.
The truth was she hadn’t the slightest indication how her father had been living. All she knew was that he existed alone in some rambling house out on the Oregon coastline. His artwork hadn’t shown in years, so she wasn’t sure what he did out there day after day. The only shred of information TR shared was that his house was secluded from the road and it overlooked the Pacific Ocean.
Sara tried getting more out of him when he’d first arrived. She’d lobbed a few questions while changing his bandages. What about the accident? she’d asked. Didn’t he want to get to the bottom of that? But TR was guarded and turned indignant. He’d waved her off and claimed he didn’t want to talk about it.
It left her suspicious.
For example, how did the fire start? Was it a mishap or something more ominous? After scouring the local paper back at the hospital, the only thing she’d been able to uncover was a small mention in the police log reporting a fire at a private residence located above a cove. The house had been badly burned and its owner seriously injured. No probable cause identified.
TR must have been living up there like a hermit, because as she searched online now, she found the event had attracted little to no attention from anything other than local media.
Sara was dumbfounded.
What had really happened?
There was something about the way TR eluded her that made her suspect there was more to the story. She was determined to find out just what that was. But it would have to wait because, at that moment, TR ambled back into the room and announced he was out of pills.
Once more, her investigation was put on hold.
CHAPTER TEN
SARA
Sara and TR fell into a steady rhythm. The cadence of time was kept even by routine first-aid checks and the running of errands, with sleep and meals bookending it all.
Sara did her best to keep Sam occupied with the normalcy of school and planned afternoon activities. And Charlie, though he maddeningly announced he’d extended his already lengthy work shift, made an effort to call each night for video chats with Sam. Not wanting to intervene, Sara would tiptoe by, doing her best to remain unseen on the periphery. She’d wait until they were done and then say hello. She’d ask if his flights were going smoothly and make an attempt to connect, despite Charlie’s brief answers. It wasn’t easy. Despite the fact she and Charlie weren’t exactly communicating, at least Sam was getting the benefit of catching up with his father in some capacity. For that, she supposed she should be grateful.
It was how to limit her ten-year-old’s exposure to his grandfather that stumped Sara. She still felt unsure of how TR’s influence, or lack thereof, might affect Sam. The three of them were under one roof. And in the evenings, she had no choice but to cautiously let the two of them interact.
“Tell me about your day, boy,” TR would inquire around suppertime.
“It was good. You know, the usual school stuff. I’m in charge of the class turtle this week.”
“Turtle!” TR practically leaped back at the announcement.
Sam giggled, enjoying a fresh audience. “Yeah, he’s twenty-six years old and eats dandelion leaves from your hand. And he only poops like once a month.”
“You don’t say!” TR scratched his stubble, dumbfounded. “That’s just about the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard some things!”
Sam’s answers were unguarded and honest. Sara hadn’t given him reason to be leery. But he must have sensed Sara’s hesitation around her father, because he’d speak only when spoken to, not yet brave enough to start a conversation on his own accord.
Up until this point, their communication had mainly consisted of passing food items at the breakfast counter or trading remarks over the dog. TR usually went back into his room when Sara would sit down in the evenings to help Sam with his homework. Sara wasn’t sure what Sam thought of his grandfather yet. She supposed he really didn’t have much to go on.
She guessed this would eventually change.
TR, for his part, had succumbed to playing the role of a willing patient, after a few stumbling blocks. At least, as much as an egotistical old goat could without conceding his principles too much. God forbid he attempt to step out into the sunlight and stretch his legs from time to time. And the introduction of anything remotely nutritious, like a kale salad or cold-pressed juice, resulted in a fit of ridiculous proportion. Sara could forget any of that nonsense. As far as TR was concerned, she was barking up the wrong tree.
“I’m going to walk the dog,” she’d announced earlier. “Why don’t you put on that jacket hanging in your closet and come with me? It would be good for you to get your muscles moving for a bit.”
TR pulled a face. “Why would I do that? It’s raining out there.”
“Only a little drizzle; it won’t hurt you. Don’t you think you need to build back some stamina after the hospital?” She’d hoped getting him out on a walk might put them in neutral territory, where she could have a captive audience and probe more about his life. And, as an added bonus, get him back to health so he could leave.
“Maybe later,” he said, and wandered back to the security of his bedroom.
It was not lost on Sara that, for the second time in her life, she’d become the child caregiver of an adult parent (who maddeningly acted like a child)—just as in her rocky relationship with Joanne.
It was a function she’d learned growing up with an irresponsible mother. Despite her disapproval of Joanne’s wacky choices (purchasing a pair of neon thrift-store beanbags as their living room furniture) and her mother’s oftentimes lack of understanding of a situation’s gravity (the time she laughed off overfilling the bathtub until water pooled onto the floor and dripped one level below), Sara knew if she did not step in with a dose of common sense, things would inevitably turn out far worse. After Sara moved out and got an apartment of her own, Joanne would often do crazy things. She’d sign up for luxury European river cruises with money she didn’t have, only to call Sara crying and ask her to help figure out how to cancel nonrefundable tickets. Or she’d meet a man in the meat department of the grocery store and invite him over, diving headfirst into dating someone whom she knew nothing about, only to complain to Sara her new beau was married and she didn’t know how to unravel herself from the situation. These rash decision-making routines of her mother exasperated Sara. Joanne never learned; she never changed. Everything was always filled with unnecessary drama. And yet, witho
ut Sara’s help to fix her mother’s mistakes, Joanne would surely fail.
Sara didn’t have it in her to turn a blind eye and walk away. Just as when she was younger and took it upon herself to scrape together dollar bills from the bottom of her mother’s purse for groceries and make sure her depressed mother got out of the house from time to time, she assumed a similar role as an adult. It must be something in the makeup of her DNA that caused her to stick around and clean up the mess. A combination of guilt and sense of duty forced Sara to the front lines when a parent was flailing. Feelings aside, things needed to be handled.
And who else was she going to count on if not herself?
The following day Sara learned she wasn’t alone in her search.
It was coming on three o’clock, and she was just collecting her purse before heading out the door. Sam’s school would be letting out soon, and she wanted to be there when it did. Recently she’d taken to picking Sam up rather than relying on the bus. Right now, with Charlie gone so much and TR taking up her energy, it was important to spend time alone with her son. The fifteen-minute car ride allowed for a kind of welcome decompression on both their parts, before returning home and walking into whatever awkwardness TR had up his sleeve.
Her thoughts had been cluttered as she rushed along her front walkway. Overnight, the wet weather had made for a treacherous path. Carefully, she picked her way along the slickened moss that peeked through a herringbone pattern of brick pavers.
The slam of a car door averted her concentration. Sara snapped her head up. In doing so, her feet came dangerously close to slipping out from underneath her.
“Whoops!” Throwing her arms out for balance, she stuttered to a stop.
Two men dressed in formidable dark blue came her way. Sara gripped her jacket as the policemen approached in lockstep. Glancing beyond them to the street, she noticed a nondescript four-door sedan parked at the curb. She couldn’t tell where the plates were from, but her first thoughts went to Charlie. And then to Sam.
Her limbs went numb. Sara steadied herself and braced for the worst.
“Ma’am?” One of the officers produced a laminated badge in his meaty hand. Sara was too frantic to read his identification.
“What’s happened?” She searched his solemn face.
“I’m Detective Hernandez. This is my partner, Detective Muth. We’re detectives from the Sandpoint Police Department.”
“Sandpoint?” She let out a whoosh of breath. Her eyes darted to the matching emblems of their uniforms. Blue patches were sewn onto the shoulders with a seaside scene depicted on the logo.
Of course. She should have known. This was some business about TR. Why shouldn’t it be? Everything else had been lately.
But it still didn’t explain why these were men all the way out here, poking around in a Portland suburb. They were well out of their jurisdiction. In slow motion, her brain began to connect the dots.
“We’re following up on an investigation of a matter at Thomas Robert Harlow’s home. We understand he’s your—”
“Father. Yes.” Sara finished his sentence, eager for him to get to the point. “You must be here about the fire.”
Had there been a development in the case? Were they possibly there because TR was considered a suspect? It seemed absurd to consider, but what if her father had done something rash in order to gain insurance money? After all, back at the hospital he’d indicated he was out of savings. If TR wasn’t going to cooperate, maybe this detective could enlighten her.
“If he’s at home, we’d like to speak with him.” He hooked a thumb through his belt loop, a holstered gun protruding from his hip. Sara reflexively rubbed at the hairs standing on end along her skin. Was it possible TR was more dangerous than she knew?
Sara glanced down at the gun once more and smiled uneasily. Stop freaking out. It was silly to be nervous, but she couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Yes, he’s home. But I have to be somewhere. Could you come back? That way I can—”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The taller of the detectives shook his head. Sara noticed his hair was cropped too closely, revealing the imperfections of his scalp. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. “We need to get back to Sandpoint as soon as we’re done. You go on ahead. If Mr. Harlow is inside, we’ll take it from here.”
Sara hesitated. How was she supposed to get to the bottom of this mystery if she was cut from the picture? Checking her watch, she realized she hadn’t any choice. The school bell had already rung.
“Okay, I guess,” she stammered. She had no choice but to step aside.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“TR’s inside. Just knock loudly. He’s a heavy sleeper.” And he doesn’t like to be disturbed unnecessarily, she wanted to add, but thought better of it.
Jogging to her car, the investigators and their questions hovering at her door, she secretly prayed the men wouldn’t be able to rouse TR and would be forced to come back.
It might be her only hope of finding out the truth.
It had killed her to drive away without knowing anything. When she returned later with Sam, TR had been no help.
“What did the police want?” She’d cornered him in the living room with her hands on her hips.
“Oh, nothing, really. Just a routine follow-up to let me know they’re ruling it some kind of accident and that the place is still unlivable.”
“Really? What else did they say?” This was the first she’d heard that the investigation over the cause had wrapped up.
“That was it.”
“They came all that way only to say that? Wouldn’t a simple phone call suffice?” She had a hard time believing their conversation had been so brief. Surely there’d been more to it. The drive from Sandpoint was almost two hours.
“Why is that so hard to believe?” TR’s anger level was rising.
“I don’t know. It just is. Maybe by dinnertime you’ll remember more of what they said.” It was a gesture, a way for him to recover his bad memory, or false story, or whatever it was he was attempting to hide behind.
“Yeah, sure.”
Instead, he hid out most of the evening. Sara assumed he must have taken a decent dose of medication, because when she stuck her head into his room, he claimed he couldn’t come out for dinner. She wound up leaving a tray of food at his bedside while he grumbled about requiring more sleep. It was exasperating, really, how good he was at withholding information.
She stood in front of the coffeemaker the next morning and rubbed at the spots of pain reverberating behind her eyelids. She’d been up half the night.
Sam shuffled in, dressed for school. Sara gave his T-shirt and thin soccer shorts the once-over and sent him back to his room.
“But, Mommm!” he groused. “I won’t be cold!”
She was too tired to have this argument today. “No way, Sam. It’s October. My phone says it’s forty degrees outside and the forecast calls for rain. I don’t care if all of your friends choose to freeze to death at recess. My son is not going to be one of them. Put on some jeans, and for the love of God, find a sweatshirt. We leave in ten minutes.”
“In that?” he asked, aiming thorny sarcasm in her direction.
Sara looked down. A stretched-out nightshirt hung around her bare thighs. She yanked it down and grunted. “No, Mr. Smartmouth. Not in this. I’ll be ready when you are.”
She dashed down the hallway in search of yoga pants suitable for a quick car ride. Her dresser drawers were a mess. She’d done everyone else’s laundry except for hers. All that was available was a too-tight pair of jeans with a button missing and an oversize pilled knit pullover. Fantastic.
This whole new driving-to-and-from-school thing was proving to be a failure. The point was to spend quality time with Sam. But as she snatched a pair of fuzzy slippers in lieu of socks, Sara realized her plan had officially imploded on her. This so-called quality time in the car had really just turned into a time for mother-son arguments.
“I’m ready,” he grumbled.
Sara glanced in a mirror and hastily dragged an index finger along smudges of mascara. It would have to do.
“Great, so am I.”
She followed him out to the car, the tiny crack in her heart widening.
Was this where they were headed? Sam would be a tween soon, with rising hormones and opinions opposite of her own. Was that day arriving sooner than she thought? Or was her newly compiled stress permeating those around her? Inserting the key into the ignition, Sara silently promised to do better. Her relationship with Sam was too important.
After swinging through the elementary school drop-off and doing her best to pin Sam down for a hug, Sara drove off. She had every intention of returning home to check on TR and perhaps lure him from hibernation. But as the car eased down the next block, another thought occurred to her.
Passing a row of shops, a yellow-and-white-striped awning caught her eye. Her hands jerked at the last minute to make a hairpin turn. Angling the wheel, she parked in the last available spot.
The open door of a bakery beckoned her inside. Shiny windows revealing rows of flaky pastries practically sang her name.
It was a sign. She needed the morning off.
Once inside, a bell tinkled overhead. The intoxicating mix of rich coffee grounds and sticky baked breads swirled through the air. Sara’s mouth salivated. A little hum played off her lips, and she nearly skipped to the counter.
After ordering a midmorning snack and scouting out a table in the corner, Sara settled in. Glancing around, she thankfully recognized no one. She wasn’t exactly pulled together, but whatever. The early-morning-breakfast crowd had evidently filtered out. The place was now practically empty. She wouldn’t be bothered.
After a minute, she flipped on her phone. Perhaps this opportunity could be used to do some more digging on TR. As soon as she entered the words Sandpoint news in the search prompt, a newly published headline popped up.
