The View From Here

by Cindy Myers

  The Jeep organized, she turned the key. To her relief, the engine started right up, purring smoothly. She fastened her seat belt, adjusted her mirrors, then realized she was going to have to back the unfamiliar vehicle down a considerable slope before she had room to turn around.

  Heart in her throat, she inched the Jeep back, one foot on the gas, the other on the brake, fighting images of hurtling backward down the mountain into space.

  Going forward wasn’t much better once the Jeep was turned around. On the way up here with Reggie, she’d been too focused on the scenery and the mystery of her inheritance to notice the lack of guardrails on the winding two-lane road—no guardrails and a heart-stopping drop-off a scant two feet from the driver’s side tires.

  She thought of Jameso traveling this road on a motorcycle at night. Was that as reckless as it seemed to her—or did people here measure danger on a different scale than someone who’d spent her whole life in a place as flat as a flip-flop?

  Maggie felt a long way from the humid, level world where she’d spent so much of her life; more than the ground beneath her feet was tilted here. She’d hoped coming to Eureka and seeing her father’s house would answer some of the questions she had about the man, but so far he was more mysterious than ever.

  With a shaky sigh of relief, she reached the main highway, with its broad lanes and sturdy guardrails, and was able to relax a little. She passed the Living Waters compound, a fog of steam floating above the fences like low-lying clouds.

  It was just after seven when she cruised down Eureka’s main street—too early to visit Reggie at his office or to attempt to find a map. The Lorna Doones already seemed a distant memory to her stomach, so she found a parking space near the Last Dollar Cafe and went inside.

  A sign just inside the door instructed her to seat herself, so Maggie slipped into an empty booth against the far wall. The interior of the Last Dollar felt so familiar: red linoleum floor and gold leatherette booths mixed with oak ladder-back chairs. The tabletops were white Formica sprinkled with gold stars. Framed black-and-white photographs lined the walls: miners in hard hats with picks, solemn-faced families arrayed outside hand-built cabins, and a group of women in long dresses on impossibly long wooden skis. A pair of those skis was mounted beside the photograph. Elsewhere, on the walls and ceiling and on the pillars between the booths, hung pickaxes and miners’ lanterns and hard hats and tin lunch pails. On the wall behind the cash register were six of those singing fish that had been popular gag gifts a decade before.

  Maggie took this all in and realized why the place felt so familiar: this was the kind of decor that theme restaurants in Houston were always striving to emulate. But this was no work of a Hollywood prop shop. The Last Dollar was the real deal. She could imagine customers cleaning out the basement and finding Grandpa’s old hard hat—or a singing fish someone had given them for Christmas—and donating it to the walls of the café.

  “Good morning, hon. What can I get you?”

  The woman spoke with the easy warmth of the older women of Maggie’s youth, who addressed everyone as “hon” and “dear.” But this woman was young—not yet thirty—with a thick fall of dark brown hair to the middle of her back. She wore low-slung jeans and a black T-shirt that said, WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN RARELY MAKE HISTORY. The shirt stretched over her not inconsiderable breasts, and she wore multiple rings in each ear and another in her nose.

  “I don’t have a menu.” Maggie looked around the table, wondering if she’d missed seeing one amidst the clutter of condiment jars against the wall.

  “Oh, we don’t have menus.” The waitress pointed to a chalkboard near the pass-through to the kitchen.

  Maggie read through the list of omelets and pancakes and muffins, her stomach growling. “What do you recommend?” she asked.

  The waitress studied her, her look far more intense than Maggie had expected for such a simple question. “How about two eggs, over easy, with wheat toast, some of our homemade elk sausage, and grits. Unless you prefer hash browns.”

  “No, grits are fine.” Her mouth was already watering at the prospect.

  The waitress smiled. “I’m Danielle, by the way,” she said.

  “Maggie.” She’d never felt compelled to introduce herself to a waitress before, but this didn’t feel like an impersonal encounter.

  “Welcome to Eureka, Maggie. I’ll bring you some coffee right away.”

  Thirty seconds later, Maggie sipped coffee from a squat blue mug that looked handmade, and watched Danielle circulate among the other patrons. She seemed to know at least half by name, and treated everyone to warm smiles and a motherly concern.

  After a few minutes, she was joined by a second waitress, a slender blonde with rosy cheeks and ice blue eyes. She wore a pink paisley bandana over her short hair, and a red apron over jeans and a T-shirt. She was even younger than Danielle, maybe early twenties, and when she refilled Maggie’s coffee she spoke with a slight accent that hinted at Germany or maybe a Scandinavian country. “I am Janelle,” she said. “You’re Murphy’s daughter, right?”

  “Right.” Maggie didn’t even bother asking how she knew. Apparently she resembled her sire, Reggie liked to talk, and if that wasn’t enough, she was driving her father’s Jeep.

  “Dani and I were hoping you’d stop by,” Janelle said. “If there’s anything at all you need, you let us know.”

  Danielle arrived with Maggie’s breakfast: two picture-perfect eggs arranged beside a neat stack of toast points, two fat sausage patties, and a pool of creamy grits dressed with butter and flecked with black pepper. She set the plate in front of Maggie and beamed. “One of our chickens, Arabella, laid those eggs,” she said. “I’ve been saving them for someone special.”

  “You know which chicken laid which eggs?” Maggie tried to determine if they were putting her on.

  “Arabella is an Araucana chicken,” Janelle said. “She lays blue eggs, so we always know hers. Usually we keep them for ourselves, but sometimes we share them with special people.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.”

  “Murphy built our chicken house,” Danielle said. “We always gave him Arabella’s eggs. He said they were the best.”

  They left together, and Maggie stared at the unlikely connection to her father on her plate. But hunger won out over the bizarre nature of the honor of being presented with prized blue eggs by strangers, and she picked up her fork and dug in.

  Arabella definitely laid wonderful eggs—or maybe it was only that Maggie had never had eggs so fresh before. The toast was made from homemade bread, the sausage better than any she’d ever had, and the grits smooth and buttery. She wiped up the last of the egg with the last of the toast and decided if she had no other reason to stay in Eureka, she would linger to enjoy more breakfasts like this.

  She looked around to tell Danielle or Janelle so and spotted them by the register, their arms around each other as they chatted with a patron.

  Maggie thought of a fairy tale she’d loved as a child, about Snow White and Rose Red—in this story of a Snow White without dwarves, she’d been blond and ethereal, counterpart to the dark-haired Earth Mother Rose. Janelle looked down at her companion, such obvious affection in her eyes that Maggie felt a sharp stab of envy. Would a woman know how to love her better than the man she’d mistakenly given her heart to? Too bad her inclinations didn’t run in that direction.

  She was about to signal for her check when a bent, grizzled man slid into the booth opposite her. He wore a green plaid flannel shirt and bright red suspenders, with wisps of white hair combed across a perfectly round head. “Bob Prescott,” he said, offering a knotted hand. “Your old man came close to killing me one day, then two weeks later he saved my life.”

  Maggie sagged back in the booth. “He did what?”

  Bob grinned, revealing teeth too white and perfect to be real. “Thought that might get your attention.”

  Danielle arrived to take away Maggie’s plate and refill their cups. “I
’ll tell Arabella you liked the eggs,” she said, eyeing the polished plate.

  “Them girls believe in talking to animals and all that nonsense,” Bob said. “But they’re the best cooks in three counties, so I don’t care if they ride broomsticks in their spare time or sit around chanting mantras or whatever it’s called.” He sipped his coffee, eyeing Maggie over the rim of the cup. She waited for the inevitable comparison to her father.

  “You don’t look much like him, and you can be thankful for that,” Bob said. “He was an ugly son of a bitch, with a temper to match.”

  “Yet he saved your life?”

  “After trying to kill me first.”

  Was the old guy legit? Or some local crazy who got a kick out of making accusations to strangers? His somewhat beady eyes were fixed on her, the washed-out blue of age, though the light behind them wasn’t the least bit dim. He was clearly waiting for her response. “Why did my father try to kill you?” she asked.

  “I told him to his face I thought he was a lying son of a bitch.” Bob grinned. “He didn’t like that much.”

  “I don’t think anyone would like that much. What was he lying about?”

  “I’m not sure he told the truth any day since he got here,” Bob said. “He was a man with a lot of secrets. You’re proof of that.”

  “There’s a difference between secrets and lies.” Didn’t they all have things in their lives they’d prefer to keep to themselves? Maybe her father hadn’t told people about her because he was ashamed of the way he’d abandoned her and her mother.

  “Murph said there was no gold in the French Mistress,” Bob said. “I say he was lying.”

  Maggie hated the wild flutter in her chest that proved how shallow and materialistic she was. Yes, she’d come to Eureka wanting to know about her father, but a big lure had been the promise of wealth—gold. She was still trying to process that disappointment, and here was this old man teasing her with hope. “What makes you think he was lying?” she asked, trying to brace herself for the answer.

  “Murph always had plenty of cash, and he never did a lick of useful work that I could see. He spent weeks holed up there alone on that mountain, then he’d disappear altogether for a while, and when he showed up again, he’d have plenty to spend.” Bob leaned toward her, his expression feverish. “I say he was taking gold out of the mine, hauling it to Denver or Salt Lake or some other big city to sell, and putting the proceeds in the bank.” He sat back. “You do some checking and see if I ain’t right.”

  “I certainly will check on that,” she said, disappointed in spite of her determination not to be. If her father had a fortune sequestered away somewhere, Reggie would have told her. After all, the lawyer was apparently the only one who’d known about her.

  “The fact that he got so upset when I called him a liar proves I was on to something, too,” Bob continued.

  “Maybe he just didn’t like being accused that way,” she said. “You said he had a hot temper.”

  “He hit me so hard he broke my jaw.” Bob rubbed the side of his face, as if he still felt the blow. “I fought back, but Murph was bigger and younger. If some others hadn’t pulled us apart, he would have killed me for sure.”

  “Where did this fight take place?” Maggie asked, trying to picture it.

  “The Dirty Sally.” Bob grinned, an unexpected response considering the grave nature of his charges. “We’d both had a few at the time, but I stand by what I said then—Murph lied about the gold.”

  Right. And the moon was made of green cheese and her ex-husband would spend the rest of his life regretting leaving her. Nice fantasies all, but without a snowball’s chance in hell of being true.

  “What about him saving your life?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear the story, but sure Bob wouldn’t leave until he’d told it.

  “That was me being stupid,” Bob said. “I wasn’t paying attention to the weather and got caught out in a blizzard. I was already half froze to death when Murph found me and hauled me in. I reckon there were other men who would have left me there to die, considering the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” He wanted her to ask, though she figured he’d tell her anyway.

  “He found me at the mouth of the French Mistress mine. I’d snuck up there to do a little prospecting of my own.”

  Maggie blinked. “You were going to steal from him?”

  Bob shrugged. “I figured he owed me for breaking my jaw.”

  “So after he saved your life, you two became best friends,” Maggie said. She could practically hear violins playing.

  “Hell, no. He threatened to whoop my ass if he ever caught me on his property again.” Bob shook his head. “Then he put a big iron gate over the mine entrance so nobody else could get in.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Bob chuckled. “I had to check, don’t you know.”

  She’d have to find that entrance and have a look for herself, Maggie decided. Though what would she be looking for, exactly? She remembered the rocks she’d found in the Jeep and reached for her purse. “I have something I’d like you to take a look at.” She pulled out the rock and pushed it across the table.

  Bob picked up the misshapen yellowish lump, then pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and examined it closer. “Nice ammonite,” he said, and handed it back to her.

  “What’s an ammonite?”

  “Fossil.” His gnarled finger traced a faint outline in the stone—an oblong creature that looked like a cross between a giant pill bug and a centipede.

  “Then it’s not gold,” she said.

  Bob laughed. “You might get a few dollars for it at a tourist shop, but people find them all the time up here. It’d make a nice paperweight.”

  “Thanks.” She dropped it into her purse and looked around, ready to make her escape.

  Janelle glided over. “Would you like some more coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. I’d better get going. I need to find a bank and a grocery store.” Was Eureka even big enough to have these things? “And is there somewhere I can buy some drapes, or the fabric to make them?”

  “The bank is at the end of this street,” Janelle said. “The grocery is on Pickax, one street over. There’s a hardware store, too. They sell curtain rods and things like that, but I don’t know where you’d find drapes or fabric.” She wrinkled her brow, then brightened. “You should try Lacy’s, next door to the grocery. There’s a little bit of everything in there.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just the check,” Maggie said.

  “It’s already been taken care of,” Janelle said.

  “Oh, I can’t let you do that,” Maggie said. The special eggs had been one thing, but the two women obviously made their living here. She didn’t feel right accepting freebies from them.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Janelle protested. “Jameso paid your check.”

  “Jameso?” Her cheeks felt hot, and she looked around trying to spot the motorcycle rider.

  “He already left,” Janelle said. “He said he owed you for scaring you last night.” Her smile was knowing. “You don’t have to be afraid of Jameso. He is like a big, friendly dog—more bark than bite.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Maggie said stiffly. She was annoyed. Now she’d have to find him and thank him for buying her breakfast. And why hadn’t he bothered to say hello when he was in the café?

  Chapter 5

  Lucille was eating breakfast at the little table in her kitchen when she heard the stairs creak. A few moments later, the door opened and Lucas entered. He wore socks but no shoes, and the same clothes he’d had on last night, the T-shirt untucked from the baggy jeans.

  “Good morning,” Lucille said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  He nodded and pulled out the chair across from her at the table. “Do you have cereal?” he asked.

  “I ha
ve Cheerios.”

  “That’d be okay.”

  She poured the cereal and milk, and set the bowl in front of him. He was probably old enough to do it himself, but he looked barely conscious still. “How long did it take you to get from Connecticut to here?” she asked as she set the bowl in front of him.

  “Three days.”

  “That’s a really fast trip.” It had taken Lucille five days from California, ten years ago.

  “Mom drove until she couldn’t see anymore, then we’d stop the car and sleep for a while.” He spoke around mouthfuls of cereal. Not a pretty sight, but Lucille wasn’t in the mood for etiquette lessons this early in the morning.

  “You stayed in a hotel,” she said.

  “No, she just pulled into a rest area or a parking lot and I’d crawl in my sleeping bag and she’d lay the seat down.”

  What had driven Olivia to travel that way? Was she too broke to afford lodging? Or was she running from something—or someone? “If the car you’re in belongs to D. J., where is hers?” she asked.

  “She sold it.” More slurping of cereal. “D. J. won’t mind if we use his car. He’s a nice guy.”

  “And he’s your mom’s boyfriend?” Olivia had never said, exactly.

  “Yeah.” Lucas looked glum. “They had a big fight before he left. She didn’t want him to go to Iraq, but he said he could make a bunch of money there. Then Mom lost her job, so that’s when she decided to come see you.”

  Any port in a storm, Lucille guessed.

  “What are you going to do this morning?” Lucas asked her.

  “I have to go to work. Is your mom going to take you to school to get enrolled?” If that was the case, maybe she’d better wake Olivia.

  “She said I can wait until Monday. I don’t see why I have to go at all. There’s only a few more days left in the school year anyway.”

  “More like two and a half weeks.” But it wouldn’t hurt for the boy to wait a couple of days. Lucille could sympathize with Olivia’s desire to rest today. “What will you do if you’re not in school?” she asked. “Do you want to come to work with me?” Prowling through the miscellaneous junk in her store might keep him occupied one day at least. “We can leave a note for your mom.” No telling when Olivia would awaken; she’d looked completely beat last night.