by Nicole Meier
It was strange to witness his Sara like this. He realized he didn’t really know her anymore, but this wasn’t necessarily the life he’d wanted for her either. Truth be told, he didn’t see much of himself in his daughter any longer.
The vibrant, inventive little creature he’d once balanced on the edge of his knee and let pretend to steer the family car had vanished. He missed that open little hand that would grip his, accompanying him places, acting as his redheaded spark of inspiration. Had his leaving changed his daughter so much? Sent her on such a different and apparently unhappy course? Where was the zest for life? He supposed it had all gone out the window long ago, when Sara had been required to take care of Joanne. God knew that nutjob of a woman—may she rest in peace—had had the keen ability to suck the life from a person. Had he done this to Sara?
TR was suddenly sad for his daughter. And he was sad for himself. In his heart, TR understood, in more ways than one, he was the parent who had let his only daughter down.
Maybe that could be fixed. He wouldn’t leave yet. He was going to stick around and try.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SARA
At five o’clock in the morning, Sara peeled herself from the couch. Both the penetrating chill of her home’s front room and the giant kink in her neck caused her to wince. Sitting upright, she blinked back a burning behind her eyelids. Everything felt heavy. It was as if she were hungover, only she hadn’t been drinking.
Spending the night on the sofa had been a bad idea.
With nothing more than a sweatshirt to cover her bare legs, falling asleep over the unyielding furniture arm hadn’t been the smartest of moves. Riding out the night alongside an agitated and infirm husband, however, hadn’t been ideal either. That’s why she’d come out there in the first place. To get away.
The flu had turned Charlie intolerable.
Somewhere around midnight she’d thrown back the covers of her bed and tromped to the front of the house in search of uninterrupted sleep. Only now, in the predawn temperatures of a home with limited heat, did she regret doing so in a thin cotton nightgown. In the dim light, she caught a glimpse of crystalline frost that had gathered in the corners of the windows. Yanking her sweatshirt over her head, Sara shivered. November was moving in.
With coffee on the brain, she moved into the kitchen and turned on the machine. Returning to the front hall, she rooted around in a deep basket for shoes. Feeling the satisfying warmth of sheepskin, she retrieved a pair of lined slippers. Hastily, she slipped them onto her bare feet. She looked around. Maybe she should make a fire. It was normally a job she left for Charlie, as positioning the logs and little bits of old newspaper was usually her husband’s area of expertise, not hers. The chill, however, was penetrating. Something about the way the home’s heating system was set up (or not set up, for that matter) always pumped small amounts of warmth through the vents of the bedrooms but left the main room of the house with only a wisp of air. It was maddening, and Charlie promised he’d get it handled. But he never did. As a result, they relied on the natural wood fireplace in the winter months.
As Sara went about shoving chunks of chopped fuel onto the grate and searching around for matches, she thought about Bo. Were there means to heat the little guesthouse that he and his mother shared? Was there even a decent kitchen in there? She realized she had no idea.
Sara struck a match and watched a single, narrow flame transform from orange to red. With a slow crackle it caught and held, eating its way through the first fragment of splintered kindling. Leaning back on her haunches, Sara extended her palms and waited for the glowing heat to reach her.
Her thoughts drifted back to Bo. Was he lying in bed at that very moment, speculating about TR? Was he wondering about her?
The coffeemaker beeped, letting her know it was ready. She sprang to her feet, her slippers making a scuffing sound as she crossed the hard floor and entered the kitchen. She checked the back slider for Acer. The dog was not waiting at his usual spot. Must be still curled up with Charlie, she thought. A bitterness rose in her throat. Shifting back to her coffee, she recalled their earlier argument.
Charlie had returned home legitimately sick, and Sara should have known better than to engage when he was so cranky. But she’d gotten snared into bickering over the matter of her father all the same.
“I just wanted to walk into my own home and have the ability to unwind. Instead I’ve got your dad loafing around in his pajamas like it’s the damn Shangri-La,” Charlie had snipped from his propped-up position on their king-size bed.
Sara rushed over to make sure their door was shut before responding. “Keep your voice down,” she’d hissed.
“Why should I? He deceived you, Sara. That’s not okay. You should be angry too. Why aren’t you?” Charlie’s voice had escalated. The color in his cheeks was inflamed, his fever likely rising right alongside his anger. Sara tried to press a cold washcloth on him, but he resisted.
“Yes, I’m still angry. And I understand, Charlie. I told you I was working on it. It’s not an ideal arrangement. I get that. But you don’t get to come and go, with hardly any notice, and then expect the entire family to drop everything and walk around on eggshells upon your return. It’s not fair.”
His face turned a light shade of crimson. His teeth gritted together, making it clear he was having a hard time swallowing past the pain in his throat. Yet he continued his tirade anyway.
“Who said anything about walking on eggshells? I don’t understand why you’re defending him. You said you were getting your father out of here, back to where he came from. That obviously didn’t happen. It was nice of you to house him for a stint, but it’s been weeks, Sara. And that was before you discovered his secret family. I mean, do you realize how masochistic this all is? Don’t you think we have enough problems of our own, without adopting your father’s?”
Sara stared at him. How had they gotten to this point?
They’d gone to bed mad as a result. Eventually, the fighting died down and the lights were switched off. Nothing had been resolved. After tossing and turning and then being subjected to Charlie’s congested snuffling, Sara committed to enduring the night elsewhere. She was too upset to fall asleep anyway. So she’d paced the living room carpet for a time before crashing on the couch. All in all, it had been a terrible night.
It was now Friday morning. The day she promised Bo she’d return. Blowing steam from her drink, Sara rested on the slate hearth and planned her day.
Sam would wake in a bit, expecting Sara to cook breakfast and drive him to school. Who knew when TR would surface? Some mornings it was before sunrise; others it was well past eleven. And Charlie would likely sleep as long as he could, considering his condition.
All she knew was that she had to get out of that house. Getting Sam sent off properly was her only concern. After that, everything and everyone else would have to fend for themselves. One of two things could happen in her absence: either TR and Charlie would stay on their separate ends of the house and not bother one another. Or the opposite would happen, resulting in a pissing match of sorts, and one party might possibly be inclined to leave. At the moment, Sara didn’t care which scenario played out. She didn’t want any part of it.
Snippets of her conversation with Charlie played on a loop in her head. Allowing herself to dwell on her husband’s lack of understanding only caused her shoulders to creep up around her ears. Tiptoeing through the house, she noted a slender patch of yellow under the crack of Sam’s door. Good. At least he was getting ready for school. After poking her head inside his room to tell him she’d left the bagels out, she sneaked back into her bedroom and ran a hot shower.
Once Sam was deposited at school, the drive to the coast was a quick one. Now that she was familiar with the curves of the road and identifiable mile markers, her time in the car sailed by. Just as she’d done before, Sara arrived and eased her car onto the gravel drive with an air of caution. Surprises weren’t expected, but nev
ertheless she wanted to be careful. Once again, the place appeared deserted.
As her fingers wrapped around the car door handle, her phone vibrated from the depths of her purse.
“Where are you?” Charlie coughed into the receiver.
Sara’s eyes darted to the dashboard clock. It read five minutes to eleven. No doubt both Charlie and TR were up by now, wandering around her small house and bumping into one another.
“I meant to tell you I’d be gone for the day.”
“Okay. Are you at the store? Because I need some more cough drops.”
She screwed up her mouth. It was by design that she hadn’t revealed her plans to Charlie. She was still angry with him. And also, she sought space to untangle her feelings regarding Bo and Marie. Charlie knew none of this. Sara planned to tell him. Just not now. Not over the phone, and not when they’d parted on uncertain terms.
“No. I’m not at the store. But I can run that errand for you on my way home.”
“So then where are you?”
She inhaled. “Sandpoint.”
“Wait, what?”
“I needed to come here and check on a few things. I still haven’t been able to reach the investigators, and I want to get a better look at the house’s condition.”
A rustle echoed through the line. Sara envisioned her feverish husband rooting around in the medicine cabinet. “I can hear TR showering in the guest room. Why didn’t you take him with you? Isn’t the whole point to drive him home? For good?”
“I know. I had to leave him there today. It’s complicated. I—”
“Everything is complicated, Sara. We both agreed. Your dad needs to go home. Yet you keep making an excuse why that isn’t possible. And you’re leaving me in the dark.” A hacking fit followed. Charlie was clearly exerting himself.
“You need to take it easy. That cough sounds nasty.”
He cleared his throat. “I know.”
“Listen, when I get back—” The rumbling of a motor drowned out her voice. The phone tipped as she craned her neck. In her periphery, Bo came into view riding atop a hulking metallic motorcycle. Roaring past her wearing a beat-up leather jacket, he threw a quick peace sign in her direction and steered the front tire toward the back of the guesthouse.
So that’s why I never saw a car before, she thought. Bo had kept his means of transportation tucked out of sight.
“Sara?” Charlie was repeating her name over the line in exasperation.
“What? Oh, sorry. I have to go. But I’ll call you later. I promise.”
She heard him protest as she hit “End.” He would have to wait a little while longer.
Jamming her arms through the sleeves of a rain jacket, Sara sprang from the car in search of Bo. A faint smell of exhaust hung in the air. The rocky ground beneath her boots was noticeably damp. But with a clear blue sky overhead, the usual coastal rainfall had thankfully dissipated. Quickening her pace, she went in the direction of the tire marks.
“Bo?” Sara called, rounding the corner.
“Yeah. I’m back here.” His voice was slightly muffled.
Arriving around back, Sara discovered him parking the bike in an old shed. Behind him was a workbench of sorts, lined with a gleaming row of hand tools. Particles of sawdust covered the cement floor; a buzz saw lay nearby. Guessing this was where Bo worked, Sara took it all in, absorbing as much information about him as she could. She wondered what kinds of things he made back there.
Tugging a sliver helmet over his ears, Bo shook out his bushy hair. A sheen of sweat had plastered his sideburns against his temples. His boyish grin and edgy motorcycle jacket reminded Sara how young this kid actually was. Twenty-one years old, according to TR. He had his entire life before him. Sara quickly flashed back to when she was his age. What had she been doing? Figuring out her path in life, she supposed.
“Hey,” she said, meeting his eye.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Nice bike.” She knew nothing of motorcycles, but it seemed to be the cool thing to say.
The grin widened. “Thanks.”
“So, your mom still out on assignment?” Sara glanced around, her ear cocked for any other signs of life.
Bo hung the helmet on the handlebar of his bike and tapped a kickstand with his shoe. Smoothing down his matted hair, he stepped toward her. “Don’t worry; you’re safe.”
The both laughed awkwardly.
“Oh, okay. Well, I came back like I said I would.” She suddenly felt stupid, out of place.
“I see that.”
“TR doesn’t know I’m here. My husband does. That’s who I was talking to on the phone when you pulled up. He’s not very happy with me at the moment. Thinks I should have dragged my dad back here with me. We’re kind of, you know, not seeing eye-to-eye on this whole thing.” Stop rambling! Sara snapped her jaw shut. Why was she sharing all of this? He didn’t ask about her married life, but here she was anyway, vomiting out her problems not five minutes after Bo’s arrival. What must he be thinking? Sara caught his eyebrows knitting together, no doubt perplexed at her admission. She folded her arms across her chest and then let them drop again. His silent scrutiny was making her nervous.
“You seem a little on edge.”
Her arms crossed again. “I guess I am.”
He stared back at her, his brow still furrowed. “You know what you need?” Bo peered at her.
A strong drink? Things were going off the rails. The ability to relax in front of her newfound sibling was escaping her. “No. I’m not sure what I need, to be honest.”
“You need a release. Something to take your mind off your problems.”
“Um, okay?” What was he talking about?
“Come with me.” He turned and strode away.
Sara remained in place. “Where are you going?”
Bo called over his shoulder. “To the studio. Come on. Don’t worry so much.”
Easy for you to say. Trotting to catch up, Sara met him at the base of the concrete steps. She watched Bo shove the swollen door. It opened, and his head disappeared briefly as he reached inside and flicked on the lights. With a grand gesture, he stepped aside and swept his arm, bowing. “After you.”
Puzzled, Sara paused. “What are we doing?”
“I’m not doing anything. You, on the other hand, are pretty keyed up. In my professional opinion, you’re in need of some creative therapy.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve seen that same troubled look on TR’s mug that you’re wearing right now. Many times, actually. Whenever the old man is in a mood, he comes out here and gets his hands dirty. He calls it his creative therapy.”
Sara reared back. “Who said I needed therapy?”
Bo held his hands out, feigning innocence. “No judgment here. All I see is a lady who has a lot on her mind. And sometimes the best way to sort things out is to put your hands to work.”
“Is that what you do? With your woodworking? Clear your head?”
The corners of his mouth curled up. “Sure. If that’s what you want to call it. I like to use my hands. I find it grounds me. Living in TR’s wacky world, it keeps me sane.”
She chewed her lower lip and considered this. “I’m not just some ‘lady,’ you know. I’m your sister.”
“Right.” His smile remained.
“What makes you think you know me so well?”
“Because I know TR. And from what I’ve seen so far, you’re a lot like him. You’ve both got that stubborn attitude, and you like to push people to get what you want.”
“Ha!” She scoffed. What did he know? TR was one of a kind, a wild card. Sara was nothing like him. She shook her head. “I’m not like him. Besides, what makes you think he’d be okay with me touching his things? Last time I checked, TR’s studio was his castle. One usually has to be invited inside.”
“I’m inviting you inside. Go on in. Grab a hunk of clay and just see what happens. Hang out and enjoy yourself. I’ve got some things to take care of. Co
me find me when you’re done.” With that, he tromped away, disappearing behind the guesthouse.
A twinge of envy vibrated through her. Bo may have been much younger, but he held a self-confidence Sara didn’t quite possess. He didn’t seek permission; he just did as he pleased. It must’ve be nice to walk through life that way, so certain of things.
At the moment, Sara was anything but certain.
Fidgeting, she hovered in the doorway. The logical thing to do would be to gently shut the door and take some final notes and leave. But she was TR’s daughter, after all. And logic had a different idea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SARA
The first thing Sara did was climb onto the high, circular stool. The rigidity of its surface soothed her. She let her fingers slip down and curve around the edges of the seat and held them there with a sense of expectation. Hello again came the whisper in her head. She knew this stool. It had been her seat before. In all the years, her father had apparently kept a few things from the old days. A sort of eerie familiarity passed through her as she sat there, remembering. It was like visiting ghosts of studios past. But she was very much in the present.
Standing before her was a rectangular wooden table. She knew what this was. The wedging table. Closing her eyes, Sara recalled her father, wooden mallet tucked into his belt loop, skillfully cutting and throwing down dense segments of clay. He’d then rock his hands into the earthy material, kneading it like a giant ball of sticky dough. TR would lose himself in the process. And Sara would get lost right along with him.
Reflexively, she reached out and trailed her index finger along the grain of the table’s dusty surface. The smoothness pleased her.
Drawing her hands back into her lap, she surveyed the rest of the space. Old paint cans and tin cups were lined up on the workbench like little soldiers, containing various-size carving instruments. These were the same aluminum-handled shapers, needles, and carving knives that had dazzled her younger self. Each one with a power to impose change on whatever it came into contact with. Their pointy spearheads and angled shapers were still just as mesmerizing. For a flash, Sara felt that same little tickle she’d felt as a child, eager to snatch one up and press it into something malleable. Sara noted TR had collected an endless supply of tools over the years, but only a handful appeared well used. She smiled. It was so like him to just stick to a few favorites. Her father was never much one for change when it came to his work.
