by Cindy Myers
Jameso smiled. “Coffee would be good.”
She escaped to the kitchen side of the room, determined to pull herself together. A single electric bulb lit the small space. She found the coffeepot, an old-style percolator, and lit a burner on the gas stove with a lighter she found hanging on a nail by the sink. The coffee was in a canister in the freezer. Soon the comforting aroma of brewing French roast filled the air.
In the refrigerator she found a loaf of bread, mustard, and a package of deli ham. Bless Reggie’s wife.
“The house will be warmer soon.”
Jameso spoke from behind her. She turned and found him filling the space between the love seat and table. He no longer looked menacing, but still, he made her nervous. She took two mugs from hooks under the cabinet and set them on the counter. “Do you want a ham sandwich?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’ve already eaten. But you go ahead.” He moved past her to open a cabinet. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Houston.”
He reached into the cabinet and took out a tall bottle. He smiled at the label, then unscrewed the cap and poured a generous slug into one of the mugs. “Irish whiskey,” he said. “Do you want some?”
She nodded. “All right.”
Jameso poured the whiskey and left the bottle on the counter, then turned to contemplate the expanse of starlit sky in the picture window. “I was in Houston a few years ago,” he said. “A lot different from this.”
“Yes.” Houston was another world compared with this mountaintop.
“You plan to stay here?” he asked. “Or are you just checking the place out to sell?”
“I’m not sure.” She didn’t have much to go back to in Houston; then again, she didn’t feel like she really belonged here.
“You should give it a try. Murph must have thought you’d like it, since he left you the place.”
“Or maybe the place is mine now because it’s customary to leave your belongings to your only relative.”
“Murph never did anything because it was customary.” He switched off the flame beneath the coffeepot and filled their cups. It felt odd to be in a home that was supposedly hers, yet this stranger was so much more at ease here than she felt she ever would be.
He moved into the living room. She took her sandwich and followed, sitting on one end of the love seat, knees together, plate on her lap, while he sprawled beside her, long legs stretched in front of him. “What were you looking at out there, before I startled you?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You were poking at something with a stick. What was it?”
He made a face. “I was just looking at a pile of scat, trying to figure out whether it was fresh or not.”
“Scat?”
He laughed. “A pile of animal feces. Shit. Bighorn sheep shit, to be exact. I wanted to know if the animal that left it had been around recently.”
“Are you some kind of tracker? Hunter?”
“No, I just live in the mountains, and I’m interested in everything else that lives up here.”
“What do you do?”
“Whatever I can.” He shrugged. “In the summer, I drive tourists around on all the Jeep trails. In the winter, I give ski lessons to other tourists over at Telluride. Sometimes I tend bar down in town.”
“At the Dirty Sally.” She remembered the saloon.
“That’s right. It’s named after a mine.”
“Speaking of mines, what do you know about the French Mistress?”
“You mean this place?”
“Is there more than one?”
He shrugged. “I really don’t know anything about it.”
“It was a gold mine, right? Was there any gold in it? Reggie said there were rumors. . . .”
“There were rumors, all right. I think Murph made up half of them himself, to keep people guessing.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He didn’t like people knowing his business. That included me.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “I don’t know about the gold. Murph had money from somewhere.” He gestured toward the picture window in front of them. “It may not look like much to you, but it cost a lot to fix up this place. Whether he paid for it with gold or some other way, I don’t know. He was good at keeping secrets.”
“What kind of secrets?”
“You, for one.” He stood. “I’d better go.”
She didn’t want him to leave. In the dark, she was so much more aware of her loneliness.
Unlike Reggie, Jameso didn’t seem too concerned about leaving her alone in the remote cabin. He was probably used to rugged mountain women who looked after themselves. Maggie had always thought of herself as independent; she always held a job and had her own money, her own friends. But here, in this alien landscape, she felt weak, unsteady on her feet.
Or maybe that was just the shot of whiskey in the coffee. “I’ll be fine,” she said, though she hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud.
Jameso gave her a curious look. “Why wouldn’t you be?” He headed toward the door. “I’ll stop by again sometime, see if you need anything,” he said.
“Thanks.” She stood in the doorway, one hand clutching at the rings on the chain beneath her shirt. She watched him climb onto the motorcycle and roar off into the night, the taillight a single red ember disappearing down the mountain.
“I’ll be all right,” she said again as she closed the door and turned back to the fire. But just all right wasn’t going to be enough. She wanted to be happy again, to remember what that contentment felt like. She contemplated the star-spangled view and felt a swell of something inside her; it was not yet strong enough to be called hope. She’d label it possibility.
Lucille smoothed the plaid quilt over the twin bed and frowned. Was the plaid appropriate for a thirteen-year-old boy? Would he rather have rocket ships or baseballs or something else entirely? Should she have waited for him to get here and let him pick out the furnishings for his room?
She sat on the end of the bed and looked at the mismatched dresser and chair, and the student desk shoved under the eaves. Everything was gleaned from the antique/junk shop she owned. The things were donations or items she’d picked up at auctions or even out of alleys on trash day. She wouldn’t bother telling Olivia that, or Lucas. If the boy took after his mother at all, he was sure to be embarrassed by his grandmother, as Olivia had always been embarrassed by her mother.
She had no idea what the boy was like. The last time she’d seen him he was seven months old. The last time she’d seen him in person, she amended. Olivia sent photographs from time to time. The last was of an owlish-looking boy with pale blue eyes behind round, wire-rimmed glasses, his close-cropped blond hair almost invisible against his pink scalp.
Lucille had no idea what Olivia herself looked like these days. The young woman changed her appearance like a chameleon, blending in with whatever crowd she associated with at the time. She’d gone through a Goth phase, dying her hair ink black and wearing Kabuki white makeup. Another time, she’d bleached her hair platinum and donned pencil skirts and round-toed pumps and rolled curls à la Veronica Lake. Still later, she’d added pink streaks to the blond and taken to wearing baggy jeans and skintight baby T’s and listening to loud, angry rap music.
Maybe having a child of her own had settled her down some. Lucille hoped so, though she couldn’t call this latest move settled.
The call had come out of the blue, while Lucille was working at the store. “Hey,” Olivia said, an abrupt, sharp syllable that was more a command for attention than a greeting. “The kid and I are thinking about coming out to see you for a while.”
Lucille’s heart pounded at the words, but she told herself not to get too excited. Olivia had promised visits before and they hadn’t materialized. “You know I’d always love to see you and Lucas,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I lost my job and D. J. moved out, so I thought it
was a good time to come stay with you a while.”
Lucille took it D. J. was the latest boyfriend, though she’d never heard him mentioned before. The last she’d heard, Olivia was living with someone named Allen. Lucas’s father had disappeared from the picture so long ago, Lucille could scarcely remember his name. Bryan, maybe?
Then the news about the job sank in. Olivia had been working as a receptionist at an electronics manufacturing business for the last five years. “You were laid off?” Lucille asked.
“Fired, actually. I was sick of the place anyway. You’ve got room for us, right?”
Physically, Lucille had two empty bedrooms, if you counted the little room up under the eaves where she stored luggage and extra inventory from the store. Emotionally, she was less sure she had room for her daughter’s always disruptive presence. But she had the boy to think of. Maybe this would be a chance for her to get to know her only grandchild.
“How long do you think you’ll stay?” she asked.
“Don’t know. ’Til you and I can’t stand each other, I guess.”
Lucille winced. When Olivia had last lived in her mother’s home, she’d been a strong-willed fifteen-year-old who balked at Lucille’s curfew, requirements she do her homework before watching TV or visiting friends, and her refusal to buy Olivia cigarettes or a car. She’d run away on a bus to her father, and he and Lucille had decided their daughter would be better off staying with him.
Lucille had been secretly relieved Mitch was willing to take over the burden of dealing with the obstreperous teen, but that relief was coupled with guilt that she’d somehow failed her daughter. “All right,” she said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
They were driving in tonight, and Lucille supposed she was as ready as she’d ever be. She went to the window and stared out at the darkened street, as if that would make Olivia drive up any sooner. A single headlight appeared in the distance, approaching fast. A motorcycle with a dark figure crouched on its back. Lucille recognized Jameso Clark. Handsome, wild Jameso, the kind of man-boy she had chased after time and time again when she was a girl. Unless things had changed, Olivia would waste no time picking Jameso from the herd here in Eureka. Lucille felt no qualms about this. Jameso was a good man, if a little restless. He might be a positive influence on Olivia, and at least he would give her one more reason to stay in town.
She looked down the street again. Two houses down, every light blazed. Cassie Wynock kept her house lit up as if she were hosting a party every night, though she lived alone with two cats and enough old books and pictures to fill a museum. Lucille had been inside exactly once, when she delivered a desk Cassie had purchased from the shop. Cassie had claimed the desk had been her father’s and she didn’t know how it ended up in Lucille’s shop, but she wanted it back in its rightful place.
Lucille knew exactly how that desk had ended up in her shop. A woman who had bought it from Cassie’s father had sold it to her, but she didn’t argue with Cassie. If the woman wanted to pay double what the thing was worth to have it back, Lucille wouldn’t argue. As it was, the two of them had a hard time wedging the piece in among all the other relics stuffed into the downstairs parlor.
Lucille imagined Cassie in her crowded house, wandering through the rooms and turning on all the lights. Was the illumination so she could see all her treasures better? Or because she was afraid of the ghosts that surely lurked among all the flotsam and jetsam from the past?
Two more headlights appeared in the distance, wobbling as the driver navigated the railroad tracks at the end of the street. A dark, blocky SUV glided into view, hesitated, then slid to a stop in front of Lucille’s house.
She had no recollection of flinging open the front door and running out into the darkness. Only Olivia’s look of disdain told her how foolish she looked. “Couldn’t you wait a second for us to get out of the car before you start hovering?” she asked.
“Obviously not,” Lucille said drily, once again biting off words of reproach about the lateness of the arrival. She turned instead to the boy who had climbed out of the backseat and come around to stand beside her. Her grandson was an unimpressive specimen, peculiarly buglike with his long, bony arms and legs and oversized eyes behind the round glasses. “Hello, Lucas,” Lucille said. “How are you?”
“Tired and I have to pee,” the boy said, his voice a clear tenor that was neither plaintive nor strident. He was merely stating facts.
“You’d better come inside, then.” Lucille led the way into the house. She pointed out the downstairs bathroom to Lucas, then turned to her daughter. In the bright glow of the foyer light, Olivia looked older than Lucille had expected. A double furrow arced across her forehead, and twin grooves etched either side of her mouth. Her blond hair had a dry, over-processed look, and the multiple piercings in each ear looked out of place, like a Halloween costume. Then again, Lucille reminded herself, no one looked their best after a cross-country drive. “You must be exhausted,” she said.
“Yes,” Olivia said. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the SUV. “Is it okay to leave the car parked there overnight? I don’t feel like unpacking right now.”
“It should be fine,” Lucille said. Not that Eureka was immune to crime, but what thieves there were rarely ventured onto this quiet street. “If you lock it, it should be fine.”
“I’ll move it in the morning,” Olivia said. She pressed a button on the keychain, and the car chirped and blinked its lights at her. “I really don’t want it out where everyone can see it.”
Something in Olivia’s voice made Lucille wary. “Why not?” she asked.
“Don’t look so alarmed. It’s all right, really. I’m sure D. J. won’t mind that I borrowed it.”
“D. J. I thought you said D. J. was gone.”
“He is. He’s in Iraq, on some big-money contractor’s job. He asked me to look after the car while he’s gone. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“So he knows you drove it to Colorado.”
“No, but hey, when he needs it, he can come get it.” She dropped the keys back in her purse. “I’m too wiped to talk anymore. Where am I sleeping?”
Lucas emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You want me to bring in the suitcase, Mom?” he asked.
“In the morning. Lucille is going to show us to our rooms.”
Lucille winced at the sound of her name. Whatever happened to Grandma? “Lucas, you’re all the way up at the top of the house. There’s another stairway at the end of the upstairs hall that leads to your room. There’s no bathroom up there, so you’ll have to share with your mother.” As she talked, Lucille made her way up the stairs. She showed Olivia the pink and white guest bedroom and bath, and pointed out the stairs to Lucas. “Do you want me to go up with you?” she asked.
“No, I’m okay,” he said. And without another word he climbed the narrow flight of steps and disappeared.
Lucille heard the door open, then shut with a click. “He seems to be a very independent boy,” she said.
“Does he?” Olivia scraped her too-long bangs out of her eyes. “I guess that’s a good thing. I never could have stood a clingy child.” She moved into the bedroom, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Wait.” Lucille hated for the evening to end on such an abrupt note. “Do you want something to eat? Or I could make tea.”
“I’m dead. I just want to go to bed.”
She did look exhausted. Lucille wanted to fold her in her arms, to comfort Olivia as she had when she was a very little girl. But Olivia hadn’t allowed that kind of closeness in many years.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Lucille said, the verbal equivalent of the hug she wanted to give.
Olivia’s eyes met hers for the briefest instant, before flickering away again. In that moment, Lucille saw another emotion between the weariness, something almost like . . . gratitude. “I’m glad, too,” she said. “It’ll be good to stop for a while. To think.�
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Then she shut the door, leaving Lucille to stand in the hall and wonder. Olivia hadn’t said she was glad to see her mother, or glad to have another chance for the two of them to bond. But she was glad to be here, in this house, whatever her motives. It was a start.
Chapter 4
Maggie had Lorna Doones and coffee for breakfast, and found a pad of paper and made a list. She needed food besides ham and cookies. Cash, if she could get it. Did Eureka even have a bank? She should get a map of the area. Maybe Reggie could tell her where to pick one up. She’d have to ask him where the mine was. Even if it was empty, she wanted to see it.
As the list grew, she began to feel a little more confident. Making a list—having a plan—gave her the illusion of control. In the days following Carter’s announcement that he was leaving her, she’d filled notebooks with lists: things she needed to do at work, items she needed to pack, questions to ask her lawyer—and one very long list of every bad name she could think of to call Carter. She’d started with A, “addlepated asshole,” and worked her way all the way to P, “pinheaded prick,” before she’d abandoned the task.
Her new list tucked into her purse, she stepped onto the front porch. Now that the sun was up, the chill wasn’t so pronounced, though the air still held a freshness unlike anything offered by the humidity of Houston. Reggie had said the cabin was at 10,000 feet. She supposed that far above sea level it never really got warm.
She dug out the key ring Reggie had given her and locked the cabin behind her, then walked around the side of the house to the Jeep. It was an older model, with fading red paint and worn leather upholstery. The dash was littered with old gas receipts, a half pack of spearmint gum, and what might have been a speeding ticket, but the ink was so faded Maggie couldn’t read it. She shoved everything into a plastic bag she found on the floorboard and stuffed it behind the seat. She also found an oversized bath towel, a pair of rubber boots—size 11—and three yellowish rocks. Curious, she tucked one of these into her purse and left the other two on the floorboard.
