by Nicole Meier
Taking two cautious steps forward, she approached the front of the house. Nothing had changed since her previous visit. The front walkway was still bordered by wilted flowers and broken shrubbery, no doubt trampled by firefighters. The windows appeared vacant. Charred wood and heaps of ash encased the second story. It was all untouched. From what Sara could tell, the main house had not been disturbed since the fire.
Turning on her heel, she opted for the outer buildings instead. As she made her way across the driveway, her boots beat down the rocky gravel surface. The wind picked up once more, producing a faint whistle. The tail of her cotton scarf whipped violently in front of her face, momentarily obscuring her view. The cold temperature was biting, and her nose began to drip. With an impatient hand, she snatched her scarf and secured it back into place. Moving faster, she closed in on the first of two miniature houses.
Rounding the corner, she was surprised how the otherwise rough and unkempt front landscape had now transformed rather nicely into a manicured garden of sorts. Piles of gravel now gave way to a carefully raked path, bordered by shrubs of green and purple that Sara recognized as sea lavender. In the center of all this sat a square, smoothly poured concrete slab. Balancing on top was a quaint wrought-iron patio table nestled with two matching chairs. If she didn’t know better, Sara would have imagined it the scene of a charming little tea party.
Certainly TR hadn’t been responsible for this sweet little vignette. Marie hadn’t necessarily struck her as the tea party type either. But what did Sara know?
The path veered off into two directions. To the right was the building from which Marie had barged out. Sara peered at the small, paned window on the side of the structure. A gauzy window curtain was parted, but from what Sara could tell, no one was home.
The second building, to Sara’s left, was a bit different. Rather than having the aesthetic of a guesthouse, it seemed more utilitarian. No delicate curtains hung in the window of this one. And instead of a trimming of lavender, its front entrance was lined by practical stone pavers. Sara went closer. A coiled-up hose accompanied a pile of wash buckets and a large, freestanding metal sink. They sat on the lip of two crude concrete steps. A plastic Tupperware containing used paintbrushes was tucked between the buckets. Everything was coated in a faint shade of powder gray.
Ah. Sara felt a warm shock of recognition. Of course. The studio.
Instinctively, she made for the door. Placing her hand on the rusty knob, she glanced over her shoulder. Other than the wind, she was alone. She hesitated. Perhaps she should begin at the guesthouse—she’d come here to find out more about Marie and Bo. But as she hovered on that top step of the additional building, every fiber of her being was being drawn inside.
It took some jimmying to get the door open, its splintering frame weathered and swollen. With a forceful shove, Sara was at once standing inside.
The first thing she noticed was the cold. It seemed to travel up from the stony concrete floor and into the center of her bones. The room’s interior, no larger than her living room, had a cavelike quality. Hard, unforgiving surfaces and dank, dark temperatures blanketed everything. A slight hint of mildew wafted from something piled in the corner.
But another, stronger, and much more pleasing scent reached her nose next. The familiar smell of clay—so earthy, rich, and full.
Her fingertips grazed along the rough stucco wall until she located a light switch. When she flicked it upward, a fixture in the ceiling buzzed and came to life. Sara blinked. She took shallow breaths and allowed her sight to adapt.
The interior was a familiar shade of powder gray, muted and fine, and encasing everything. Reaching out, she ran a hand over a nearby surface, which produced a cakelike dust on the pads of her fingers. Curiosity pulled her farther inside. Her eyes, now fully adjusted, skipped around the room. A wooden stool. A tin of delicate carving tools. Giant gray slabs stacked along the walls. A pine table. The wrinkled canvas apron hanging from a single hook. Each object represented a carefully thought-out workspace.
And while this was the first time Sara was seeing these elements, one thing was for sure: she loved each of them instantly.
As she came into contact with the objects, the hairs on her arms stood on end. The room may have been cold, but her belly was warm. An inexplicable joy broke free and swam up from somewhere deeply rooted inside of her. Sara’s eyes grew moist as a hundred happy childhood memories flashed before her.
She knew this place. And it felt like home.
Sara hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this scene, an artist’s sculpting studio chock-full of items from her past. But encountering it all now, she felt a familiar comfort come rushing back. It was like the reassuring hand of an old friend, coming to rest on her shoulder.
Just as she was about to peruse a rack of half-finished sculptures, a noise sounded behind her. She wheeled around just in time to catch Bo come thumping through the door. Sara froze.
Bo loitered at the threshold and seemed to be deciding what to do next. After a second, his features relaxed and he closed the door.
“It’s you again.”
Sara straightened. She would not run a second time. “Yes. It’s me.” She clapped her palms together, sending a cloud of chalky dust into the air.
Bo exhaled, the fabric of his nubby wool sweater deflating. A calloused hand combed through his light hair. “I saw your car out there. But still I wasn’t totally sure what I was going to find in here.” He gestured. “I saw the light was on.”
Sara hunched. Suddenly sheepish about intruding, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “Yeah, I searched but couldn’t find anyone. So I thought I’d give myself the tour. You know, to check out my dad’s stuff.” She wondered if she should have said “our dad” instead. TR wasn’t just hers anymore. The realization jolted her, but not in an unpleasant way.
Bo nodded, the explanation seeming to be enough.
A thought occurred to Sara. “This stuff is his, right? I mean it’s not yours or your mother’s?”
“Nah. I don’t work out here. This is all TR. Although I did build him that wheel table.” His thumb jerked in the direction of a rather modern-looking pottery wheel. Surrounding it was a tray and a smooth-yet-unfinished wood platform. It had been sanded down and notched out to form a wide horseshoe, allowing for the wheel to fit snugly up against it. Sara noticed how clean and new this particular piece of equipment looked. She wondered if it had even been used.
“You a woodworker?”
Bo shrugged, kicking at something on the ground with the toe of his boot. “Nah, I wouldn’t say that exactly. I dabble. Sometimes TR asks me to build him things. So I do.”
Sara could tell he was being modest. The craftsmanship of the table was pretty good. But as far back as she could recall, her father had been insistent on molding his art with his bare hands, kneading and manipulating his clay until it matched the vision in his head. And he certainly didn’t construct vessels with the use of a potter’s wheel. That just wasn’t TR’s style.
She looked around the room. There were few signs of anything other than sculpting. It was strange to think of TR attempting something new.
“I didn’t know my dad threw pottery. He’s always been a hand-build kind of guy. I noticed he’s still sculpting.” She indicated toward the metal rack of art.
“He doesn’t throw, really. But one day he got a bug up his ass, saying his sculpting was crap, and ordered this thing from a catalog.” His toe kicked toward the wheel. “Says he wants to try something different. But as you can see, his new purchase hasn’t been touched.”
“Huh.”
Bo shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. It appeared neither knew how to keep the conversation going.
Sara looked beyond him, through the foggy window. “And your mother? Is she around too?”
Bo shook his head. “She took off. On a freelance job for some environmental magazine.”
“Ah.”
“You’re scared of her, aren’t you?”
Sara’s brow arched. “Wouldn’t you be? I mean, no offense or anything, but she seems kind of . . .”
“Crazy?”
“You said it, not me.”
Bo chuckled. “Yeah, my mom can be a bit of a handful. But she’s harmless. Really. All bark and no bite.”
“If you say so.” Sara was unconvinced. It was a considerable relief, however, to know the hostile woman who came at her once before wouldn’t be charging out from her hiding place today. It gave Sara a moment to breathe. Spending time talking to Bo held a surprising ease. He clearly seemed more welcoming than his mother.
“So,” she began cautiously. “My dad tells me you guys met when you were seventeen?” And that you’re my brother even though I’d never heard of you.
“Yep.” A veil of something mildly defensive drew across his face.
“And you’ve been living here ever since? For about four years?” She wanted to make sure TR had told her the truth.
“Yeah. I mean my mom and I travel some. We don’t always stay here. But lately we have. I do some work in town. You know, some handyman stuff. Woodworking, as you put it.” His fingers made quick air quotes and dove back into his pockets.
“That’s cool,” Sara said. She was desperately trying to act casual, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep the onslaught of questions at bay. “So you live out in that guesthouse?”
The second building was no more than a few steps away, and Sara wondered if he’d been inside, watching her when she first arrived.
“Yep. That’s where I sleep. Now my mom sleeps in there too. It’s tight, but I guess it works. Because, you know, the fire sort of wrecked most of the big house.”
“Can I go into the big house? Or is it not safe to walk around in there yet?” Her request came out in a rapid tumble. She was all too eager to see more of her father’s world, and it showed. Her hands squeezed together as she waited for Bo to answer.
He studied her, his features softening. Maybe he felt sorry for her. Maybe he knew what it felt like to try to piece together clues about a father who hadn’t always been around. For whatever reason, Bo agreed.
“Sure. You can look around. I’ll come with you, because navigating all the damage can be tricky. But you can check out anything you want to.”
“Thanks.” Sara smiled.
“No problem.” He smiled back as they trailed out the door together and along the path to the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SARA
The first thing Sara noticed was the stench of smoke. Its cloying potency, seeping from every fiber of the house, stung her eyes and nostrils. She coughed as she entered, detecting something electrical to the odor. And while the lower level seemed to have escaped the flames, the smoke had contaminated everything, from the paint on the walls to the heavy window curtains.
“Holy cow!” she exclaimed, tugging her scarf up over her mouth and nose.
Bo wound his way through a cluster of living room furniture, casting debris aside as he went. The chestnut floors were coated in ash, smaller chairs had been overturned, and a litter of loose papers was strewn about. Sara guessed the firefighters had dashed through this portion of the house in order to reach the upper level. They likely had to drag all kinds of equipment through the front door in time to spare the rest of the structure from the flames. She doubted keeping TR’s things untouched had been a priority when doing so. The place looked as if it had been ransacked.
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Bo said. He bent and plucked a couple of dusty books off the ground before depositing them onto a round coffee table. “There’s no way someone could live here like it is now.”
“Is there any insurance? Somebody to come out here and assess the damage?” Sara’s voice was muffled behind the fabric of her shirt.
“Yes, believe it or not, the old man actually had homeowner’s insurance. I don’t know how good it is or anything, but an insurance adjuster came out a couple of weeks ago. He wore a paper mask and jotted down a bunch of notes on his clipboard. I don’t know what happens next. Maybe the guy will call TR?”
“On what phone?” Sara almost laughed at the thought of TR being reachable to the modern world. As far as she knew, only a handful of people were privy to his whereabouts.
“Right.” Bo pushed hair from his forehead. “He doesn’t exactly carry a cell phone.”
“I think he’d rather die.”
“Well, the insurance guy mentioned something about a restoration company. You know, a service that comes out with fans and cleaners and possibly rebuilds part of the house?”
“Does TR’s plan cover any of that?”
“Dunno.”
Sara eyed the mess and nodded. “That would be good if it did. But how long would something like that even take, I wonder?” There was so much work to be done. At the rate events had been going, TR could be holed up in her guest room for another six months. She figured he must not have been getting along with Marie and Bo enough to take up residence in the small guesthouse. And how bad had things gotten to make TR seek her out?
A thought hit her. “Seems to me it might be helpful for some of this stuff”—she gestured at the furnishings—“to be dragged out of here and aired out in the yard. Either that or haul it to the town dump. What do you think?”
Bo’s jaw opened and shut. No response.
“What is it?” Sara sensed he was hesitant to trust her.
“Well, that’s really nice of you to think of ways to fix things. Especially since TR’s not even here to do that himself. But . . . well . . . don’t you think him not being here is a sign?”
Worry pulsed through her. “What kind of sign?”
“That he maybe isn’t planning on moving back here.”
“He’s not?” Her scarf slipped from her grasp.
No way. TR could not take up residence in her guest room forever. Charlie had already indicated he wasn’t thrilled about how long the situation had gone on. That would be the last straw in her marriage for sure.
“Do you really think that?” Sara searched Bo’s face.
“I don’t know, but he’s sure making an effort to stay away. Remember that until I met you we didn’t even know where he was staying. My mom sent ridiculously expensive flowers to the hospital; after she finally cooled off, she began to worry and tried to reach out. But the stubborn old codger wouldn’t accept her calls or her visits. He’s prideful to a fault . . .” Bo trailed off.
Sara startled. This was all news to her. Marie sent flowers? If this was true, it meant TR lied—no big shocker there—about his so-called manager sending that giant bouquet and balloons, inquiring after his best client. And while her father’s evasiveness wasn’t really a surprise, it was peculiar that he’d covered up Marie’s efforts. The strangely nice efforts from what Sara considered a rather unkind woman. Clearly, TR hadn’t wanted Sara to know any of this at the time. He’d wanted her to believe there was no one else.
“Bo,” she said in a measured tone, careful not to press him too far. “Could you maybe tell me what exactly happened here on the night of the fire?”
It was very slight, but Sara noticed something pass behind his eyes.
“Didn’t TR tell you?”
“No. Not in so many words.”
“Maybe you should ask him first. He was the one inside.”
The fact that Bo didn’t come out with a straight answer was bothersome. Bo clearly was TR’s son, because they both evaded pointed questions in the same agitating manner. Sara couldn’t figure out what these men were hiding.
She’d expected to spend more time inside, to wander around and investigate, but her eyes were beginning to water from the sting of the toxic air.
“Can we go out back?” Sara pointed toward the ocean view.
Bo was already in motion, apparently glad for the diversion in their awkward conversation. “Sure. Let’s go out the
front door and walk around the side. It’s easier to get to the backyard that way.”
Sara followed him, casting a final glance. She wanted to carry home a mental inventory of the inside. Just in case she didn’t return.
Reaching the strip of grass and overgrown bushes that bordered the back of the house just steps from the rocky cliffs, Sara shaded her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. Just as she’d done before, she located the trodden-down trail that led to the private cove. She tried to imagine TR’s harrowing escape.
“Have you ever gone down there?” She cocked her chin toward the patch of sand below.
“To the beach?” he asked. “Yeah, a handful of times. I don’t do it very often, only because it takes effort to hike back up here again. It’s a workout for sure.”
Sara moved closer to the cliff’s edge, her shoes maneuvering around overgrown, craggy juniper branches. She tried to envision how her father, injured from the fire and likely jolted from the dead of sleep, had managed such a feat. “Good thing TR made it to safety down there. To the water, I mean.”
“Yeah. He can be resourceful when needed. It’s a matter of sheer will, I guess. And will is something he’s got in spades.”
The wind carried her laughter across the yard. “You can say that again. God, he really is stubborn, isn’t he?”
Bo chuckled in agreement.
Sara backed away from the edge and came to stand next to Bo. Together, they gazed out over the current of dark blue waters. A bit of tension loosened. It was strangely serene being there with him. She was standing beside another person who actually knew what it felt like to be TR’s child. They stood that way for a long time, contemplating.
Bo finally broke the peaceful silence. “Does TR know you’re here? Talking to me?”
Sara shook her head. “No, he thinks I’m running errands. Right about now he’s probably on my couch and—”
