The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  “Bingo,” Sara said. She bit into an almond croissant with pleasure. She kicked her slipper in a circle and waited for the article to load.

  Fast-Thinking Tenant Gives Detail on Burned House

  UPDATE: Tenant comes forward, revealing details of coastal home fire.

  Firefighters sprang into action earlier this month and attacked a house fire located on the Sandpoint coast. Luckily, the owner, celebrated artist Thomas Robert Harlow, was able to evacuate despite the lack of properly installed fire alarms.

  When firefighters arrived, the fire at the Sandpiper Lane house, which started about 4:00 a.m., was still smoldering but had not yet moved below the upper level of the home.

  Sandpoint police detective John Hernandez commended Harlow, who lived there, for apparently evading the larger flames and escaping. Although the man suffered burns, he was able to make it down the hillside to safety in the cove below.

  “It was a very lucky escape [for the resident sleeping inside],” Hernandez said. “At this stage, we know the fire started on the upper level . . . we’re very thankful a tenant smelled the smoke and was quick enough to call the fire department before the house was fully engulfed.”

  The tenant declined to comment for the article.

  Sara read it twice before leaning back in her chair. Who was this tenant? TR had never mentioned living with anyone. Did he have a groundskeeper or assistant? Or maybe he was out of money and renting out a room to cover his bills. The article gave little to go on, but the discovery of it bothered her. TR was continuing to omit personal information from her about his life. Why?

  She nursed her foamy latte and stared out the window. What was so important that her father couldn’t share? Rather, wouldn’t share.

  It was about time he started talking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SARA

  “Who’s living on your property, TR?” Sara stood in the doorway of the guest room and narrowed her eyes at her father, adrenaline and too much caffeine coursing through her system.

  She’d caught him sitting on the edge of his bed, tying his shoes, when she’d burst into the room after leaving the coffee shop.

  “Tenant?” he asked. She could tell by the way he paused before speaking that he was stalling.

  “Stop playing games, TR! I’m tired of you acting as if I’m the crazy one looking for trouble where there isn’t any. I’ve read the newspaper. I know someone was living with you!” Her breath was shallow. She hadn’t realized she was panting.

  “Ah.”

  “That’s it? All you say is ‘ah’? What the hell, TR?”

  He eased from the bedspread, careful to secure his right arm against his side as he moved. Sara caught him wincing, but she didn’t care. “I deserve an answer.”

  He shook his head. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s just a maintenance man who works for me, that’s all. I didn’t realize I needed to disclose something so trivial to you. It’s nothing. Just a worker.” He lowered his eyes and began hobbling from the room. Sara had no choice but to step aside as he moved past her.

  “So why is he still there? I thought the house wasn’t livable.”

  “Guest quarters. Out back,” TR called down the hallway.

  Sara hustled to follow, her adrenaline only partially subsiding. She wondered how big these guest quarters really were and whether her father’s worker might help speed up the process of returning TR to his house. “Can this person help you repair the damage? Fix the house?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “When?”

  He turned, the color in his worn features deepening. “Let me handle it! Right now I’d like to make some breakfast, if you don’t mind. I will get around to talking to my worker later. Can’t a man start his morning with a little peace, for crying out loud?”

  “Fine.” Sara stormed out.

  Her father was done with the conversation, whether Sara liked it or not. God, he could be such a stubborn fool. Making any kind of progress with him was equivalent to rolling a large boulder up a very steep hill. Still wanting to talk with someone, she considered calling Charlie. He wasn’t due home for a couple of days. She wondered if she could wait that long. But after their fight it was probably best to wait until they were in the same room before presenting him with further problems.

  Going into her room, she sat down and dialed the one person who likely wouldn’t judge—Birdie.

  Her friend picked up after one ring. “Hey, stranger. What’s going on?”

  Instantly, the tension melted from Sara’s shoulders. “Hi, Birdie. Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been chaotic around here. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  The distant sound of a radio sang in the background. “You caught me in my car, on the way to the restaurant.”

  Sara noted a hint of disdain in her voice. “Things not going well at work?”

  Birdie exhaled. “Oh, you know. The usual. Big boss man thinks he knows what the customers want—which is a total joke considering he barely sets foot in the place for longer than five seconds anymore. He just needs to get out of the way. I’m the one on the front lines, making up the menus and talking to our regulars. Not him. Last night I had to explain why chicken marsala was tired. Go back to the 1980s, pal! My people want organic and deconstructed. Not conventional fare!”

  Sara chuckled. Whenever Birdie talked food, she got overly passionate. She could only imagine the stink Birdie had raised with her boss. “Stick to your guns, girl! You are an amazing chef, and I love everything you make. Even if he does force you to make chicken marsala, I bet your version would be mind-blowing.”

  “Thanks. But you have far too much confidence in me.”

  “Nothing you don’t deserve.”

  “What about you? What’s all the chaos you mentioned? Is it Charlie?”

  Sara sighed. “Yes and no. I mean, Charlie and I aren’t doing great. He’s overworked, and it’s taking a toll. But that’s not the only reason. My dad has been staying here. And it hasn’t been good.”

  “Your dad? I’ve only heard you talk about your mom. Didn’t you say you didn’t know your father?”

  Sara turned sheepish. “He left when I was about Sam’s age. It’s a long story. But he was recently hospitalized, and somehow I got roped into taking care of him until he gets back on his feet. Oh, Birdie, it’s been awful. I think I’ve made a big mistake.” She gulped back the salty taste at the back of her throat. Unloading her predicament to her friend felt good. She hadn’t realized how much she’d kept pent up inside.

  “Ah, kid. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Listen, I have to get into work, but I want to talk about this more. Will you be around over the weekend?”

  “Yes,” Sara stammered, worried she might cry. “I’ll be here.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll come find you soon. Hang in there, kid. You’ve got this.”

  Sara closed her eyes. “Thanks, Birds.”

  “You bet. Stay strong.”

  Birdie arrived at Sara’s house the next morning like a vision.

  After the doorbell wakened her from another fitful night’s rest, Sara emerged into the light and cracked the front door. She hiked up the waist of her baggy flannel pajama bottoms with one hand and smoothed her wrinkled top with the other. She’d recently given up caring what she wore. Maybe that was why Birdie met her with a strange expression.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Sara replied, suddenly embarrassed at her appearance. She ran a tongue along a fuzzy set of teeth and blushed. She could stand to take a long, hot shower.

  Birdie, on the other hand, stood before her as her usual upbeat, outdoorsy self in a Henley shirt, a down vest, and trademark red Converse, an impressive basket of assorted muffins cradled in her arms. The cold air had turned her cheeks rosy, and her smile was bright.

  Birdie lifted the basket. “I thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

  Sara spied large blueberries, gooey raisins, and crumbly toppings peeking out
. Her stomach growled. Wedged just next to these treats was a chilled bottle of Sara’s favorite chardonnay, tied with a yellow bow. Birdie had gotten up early to bake. Sara was most appreciative, especially knowing her friend’s grueling schedule.

  The locally owned eatery where Birdie worked was known for its organic Pacific Northwest fare with a twist of southern fusion. The most popular item on the menu was a scrummy barbeque shrimp and grits appetizer that made Sara’s mouth water at its mere mention. The restaurant usually booked reservations three weeks out and, because of this, kept its prized chef on a ridiculous schedule. Having been there forever, Birdie was admired by her Portland patrons and had done well in her career.

  She may have been five years Sara’s senior—and had webbing lines of stress to prove it—but otherwise you’d never know it. To Sara, Birdie was a well of ceaseless energy and optimism; however, Sara knew her friend was finally growing fed up with having to tirelessly chase a carrot dangled by her boss. The restaurateur promised Birdie could take over as soon as he retired from the business. But no one seemed to know exactly when this would happen.

  “Oh, Birdie!” Sara extended her arms as they hugged. “I seriously love you more than anyone I know right now.”

  Birdie chuckled, kicking off her damp sneakers just inside the entryway. Sara peered outside and noticed the sky was cloaked in a pale gray. It had started to drizzle. Having to continually leave one’s wet shoes at the door was a small price to pay for living in the Pacific Northwest. The rain was what kept everything so intoxicatingly green.

  Birdie tilted her head. “I’m glad to see you’re in fairly good spirits, considering.”

  “You mean, considering I’ve become a bed-and-breakfast owner to a very needy guest?” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Eileen said she saw a couple of cops here talking to you on the front walk. Then she said you peeled out of here in a hurry,” Birdie said.

  “Oh yeah. That’s true.”

  “I would have called, but I didn’t hear about it until late last night, after my shift. Are you okay?” Birdie combed back a swoop of long bangs on her otherwise short hair. Her blue eyes held a piercing gaze as she waited for an answer.

  Birdie was a no-bullshit kind of gal. Sara knew she couldn’t sidestep this one.

  She shrugged. “Yes. I’m fine, I guess. It’s just my dad. I told you he was staying here. But I didn’t tell you it was because his house burned down.”

  “What?” Her eyebrows shot into her hairline.

  “Oh, Birdie. It’s such a long story. We might need to wait until I uncork this wine before I’m ready to share it.”

  Birdie placed a steady hand on Sara’s arm. “I’m here, anytime. Seriously. I may work a lot, but you know you can call me.”

  Sara bit her lip and nodded. It was all she could do to keep the tears at bay. She’d grown explicably emotional lately. The simplest of gestures were enough to make her weepy.

  “Thank you. Can you hang out for a bit?”

  “You got coffee?”

  “Naturally.”

  Birdie stepped into the open living room, her colorful dog-printed socks adding a little spark of levity.

  Sara grinned. This was what she admired most about Birdie. She was comfortable in her own skin. She always wore whatever she wanted and didn’t give a damn about fashion trends. It suited her.

  “Seriously, Birdie—these muffins smell amazing.” The sweet aroma of brown sugar and cinnamon tickled her nose. Placing a palm underneath the basket, Sara realized the baked goods were still warm. “Did you just make all of this from scratch? On your day off?”

  Birdie brought a hand over her heart and bowed. “Guilty as charged, ma’am.” She drew out her mostly hidden southern drawl.

  Sara marveled at her friend’s generosity.

  “You’re a saint. Like Mother Theresa or something.” Sara meant it. Birdie had some kind of an extra empathy microchip placed inside of her that most people didn’t have. She worried she’d been a poor friend in return. When was the last time she invited her neighbors to dinner? Or brought them a gift?

  Before she could recall, the sound of water running followed by several seconds of a hacking cough reverberated through the walls.

  Sara tensed. For the briefest of moments, she’d forgotten all about TR.

  Birdie threw her a look. “I take it that’s not Sam?”

  “I’m going to warn you right now,” Sara grumbled, holding up a palm, “you’re welcome to stay, but do so at your own risk. The old man is in rare form. There’s no telling what you’re about to encounter.” She squeezed her eyes and tried to shoo the image of his open robe from her brain.

  “Your dad? Really?” Birdie sounded amused.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Well, now that you put it that way, I’m kind of excited.”

  “Don’t be. He’s a loose cannon. Anything can happen. He’s lived alone for too long and now doesn’t seem to know how to act appropriately in the civilized world.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Birdie mused. “But what does it mean? Has he been living out in the woods with a pack of wolves or something?”

  Sara groaned. “Yeah, you’ve got the ‘or something’ part right.”

  Right on cue, her father emerged, cagey-eyed and rumpled, from the back bedroom. His mouth stretched into a gaping yawn as he dragged a sun-spotted hand along his jawline and raked over his day-old stubble. His eyes blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the light.

  Thankfully, he’d learned his lesson and was now fully clothed. He wore an undershirt and gray sweatpants, which had been secured with a visible knot. And his mop of white-blond hair had been plastered down with a spritz of water.

  Sara relaxed. Not too terrible for someone who spent the majority of his time loafing in bed.

  Birdie cleared her throat.

  “Hey, there, TR.” Sara’s voice cracked.

  TR’s head swiveled. A set of glassy eyes landed on the women, and then a flicker of something crossed his face.

  Sara recognized that look. The old TR charm. A vine of dread began to creep along her skin.

  He just can’t resist.

  For as long as she’d known her father, it was always the same. His default mode was flirting. Even when she was a small child, she’d come to recognize his change in attitude around women. It started with a look he reserved specifically for members of the opposite sex. He’d move in to press the flesh of their palm, lean in a little too close, and crack some kind of off-color joke. It didn’t matter if the women he encountered were interested in reciprocating his amorous advances or not. As a child, she was confused but mostly annoyed. She liked it better when it was just them, one on one.

  He didn’t seem to care. TR was shameless.

  Case in point, here he was, a washed-up old man sporting discolored Ace bandages down one side and a borrowed T-shirt that hugged too tightly around the middle. Up close, he smelled like the inside of a medicine cabinet. And his hair hadn’t been trimmed in months. But none of this was going to stop TR’s game. The swagger was still there.

  After all, he was Thomas Robert Harlow. And in most circles that used to mean something.

  Sara swallowed back a bitter mix of pity and disdain. Couldn’t he cut the bravado and act his age? At least while he was in her house?

  She shifted and tried to gauge Birdie’s reaction. So far, her friend appeared entertained by the whole thing.

  If only she knew, Sara thought.

  “I thought I heard voices,” TR announced, turning toward them.

  Sara could tell by the added strut in his step that he’d miraculously bounced back. The evening before she couldn’t even coax him from his room.

  She snorted. How many pain pills had he taken?

  TR crossed the room and reached for Birdie’s hand. Birdie remained speechless—a rare sight.

  As TR took over the room and began making boisterous introductions, Sam wandered in, bleary with slee
p. It was unlike her son to rise so late, but perhaps all the recent activity had thrown him off his schedule. Mercifully, it was a bye week for soccer, so he was at liberty to be lazy.

  Sara rushed over with a hug, simultaneously steering Sam back toward the kitchen. She was still intent on creating an invisible boundary between him and TR. Especially right now—instinct told her that her father was about to be inappropriate.

  Setting a muffin and a glass of orange juice before him, she patted down Sam’s sleep-induced cowlick and wished him a good morning. He smiled drowsily to the adults in the room, waved at Birdie, and zoomed in on his breakfast treat.

  Once he was settled, Sara hurried to set down the rest of the goodie basket. Pivoting on her heel, she hustled back to join the twosome in the living room.

  “Lesbian, huh?” TR’s gruff voice thundered.

  Sara cringed.

  “You don’t say!” It came out more like a declaration than a question.

  “That’s right, Mr. Harlow.” Birdie’s tone, bless her heart, remained cautiously polite, but she’d puffed out her chest ever so slightly.

  So much for polite formalities.

  “I knew a couple of lesbians once! Crazy broads!” He was still bellowing. “Where do you live?”

  “My partner, Eileen, and I live next door.”

  “Sara!” TR roared, even though there wasn’t any need. She was already propelling herself between them.

  “What?” Sara’s shoulders crept up around her ears. She was afraid of what was coming next.

  “Get over here!” TR barked. He gripped her elbow and pulled her close. “I just learned your boring little neighborhood isn’t so boring after all!”

  That’s when Sara realized her father was going to ruin not only her marriage but also the friendship that meant so much to her, all within the span of a single week.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TR

  TR didn’t know what the big deal was. He was merely making conversation with the neighbor gal. But the way his daughter was flapping about, blowing steam from her ears like an engine, you’d think he’d committed a crime against humanity or something.