by Cindy Myers
“All right.” He took another step toward her. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head, then nodded. “I saw your mother’s car was gone and thought you’d left,” she said.
“Mom went out.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Probably a bar. She likes to be with other people—other adults.”
Lucille’s heart pinched at the words. How often had Olivia left the boy alone like this, sending the clear message that she preferred the company of strangers to his? “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Will you sit a while and talk to me before it’s time for bed?”
“Okay.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table.
Lucille sat across from him. “I was at a memorial service for a friend of mine,” she said.
“I remember. You said at dinner that you were going.”
So she had. “There were a lot of people there,” she said. “Including the man’s grown daughter. She hadn’t seen him since she was a baby. None of us even knew she existed until a few weeks ago.” She supposed Reggie had known, but as Murphy’s lawyer he’d had a duty to keep the information secret.
“I haven’t seen my father since I was two,” Lucas said. “That’s what Mom tells me. I don’t remember.”
“Does that make you sad?” Lucille asked.
“Not really. Mom says it’s for the best.” He sounded sincere, but his expression was so inscrutable, Lucille couldn’t tell what he was really feeling. She had a vague memory of his father—Byron, she recalled his name now—as a big, brutish man who had once blackened Olivia’s eye in a fight in which she’d stabbed him in the ribs with a steak knife. Olivia had had the sense to pack up and move back to her father’s house the next day, and had started divorce proceedings that afternoon. Lucille had to hand it to the girl, she knew how to stand up for herself. “Tell me about D. J.,” she said. “How long did you and your mom live with him?”
Lucas shifted in the chair. “About a year? He and Mom met at a bar where he worked as a bouncer.”
“And you liked him?”
“Yeah, I did. He brought me books and stuff, and he’d talk to me about history and engineering and stuff I liked. He didn’t treat me like a weird kid. He said I was smart and interesting.”
Lucille didn’t miss the note of longing in his voice. She remembered her own first impressions of him as awkward and unattractive and yes, strange. The men Olivia usually dated—the motorcycle riders and race car drivers, oilfield roughnecks and construction workers—would have had little time for a boy who favored books over baseball. “And D. J. is in Iraq now?” she asked.
“He’s an engineer, building roads and bridges and stuff. It’s what he did before he got laid off. That’s why he was working as a bouncer, because he couldn’t get a job in his field. He said the job in Iraq was a great opportunity, but Mom was mad at him for leaving.”
That sounded like Olivia. She had always thought the world should revolve around her. She wasn’t the nurturing type. No wonder Lucas was so independent; his mother hadn’t given him much of a choice.
“I’m sorry D. J. went away,” Lucille said. “But I’m very glad you and your mom came to live here. I hope you’re going to like it. What did you do this afternoon?”
“I read some of the books we got at the library.”
At lunch, he’d insisted she return with him to the library so he could get a card from “that witchy woman behind the counter”—a characterization Lucille had found apt, though she hadn’t admitted as much to him.
“I tried to get on your computer, but I didn’t know the password,” he added.
She almost laughed out loud at this frank confession. “I’ll give you the password, but if I find out you’ve been in any of my personal files or have been visiting Web sites you shouldn’t be on, I’ll take away the privilege,” she said.
“I’m not interested in porn, if that’s what you mean. I wanted to find out more about Eureka.”
“I’ll show you the password tomorrow.” And she’d figure out how to establish some parental controls. Lucas might not be into porn at the moment, but she wasn’t taking chances. “I suppose you’ll need a computer for school,” she added.
“I guess. I don’t know what the schools are like here.”
“Smaller than the one you went to in Connecticut, I’m sure. But that can be a good thing. It will make it easier for you to get to know everyone.”
“I doubt I’ll have anything in common with them.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose again. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I like doing things by myself.”
The words were spoken in a defiant tone, his chin jutted out, eyes hooded. Lucille had a sharp, painful memory of Olivia with the same expression. She’d been about the same age Lucas was now. Her glasses were square and black, not round and wire-rimmed, and her hair had been long and pushed back on her head with a plastic headband. But she’d had that same guarded yet fierce look in her eyes; the same I-don’t-give-a-damn tone in her voice. She and Lucille had been sitting at a different kitchen table in the crappy apartment they’d moved to after the divorce. Lucille had been congratulating herself for finding ten minutes of “quality time” to spend with her kid after her shift as a cocktail waitress at a bar near the airport. She couldn’t even remember what they’d talked about, some problem at school, she suspected. Olivia was always having problems at school. What came back to her now was her own feeling of relief that Olivia was doing such a good job of handling things on her own; that Lucille, already stretched to the end of her rope with two jobs and dealing with the emotional aftermath of her divorce, wouldn’t have to wade in and try to fix things for her awkward daughter.
Now, twenty years later, she saw with startling clarity how utterly wrong she’d been. Behind Lucas’s bravado—the same bravado she’d felt grateful for in his mother—she heard the hurt and fear. Yes, he was putting on a front of being brave and independent, but somewhere deep inside he was wanting help and maybe didn’t know how to ask for it.
Sudden tears burned Lucille’s eyes, kept back only by her determination not to lose it in front of this boy, who would no doubt think his grandmother as crazy and undependable as apparently every other adult in his life so far. All these years Lucille had spent wondering why Olivia was so messed up, and for the first time she saw clearly the role she had played in her daughter’s undoing. Sure, it was a cliché of sorts for parents—mothers especially—to wallow in guilt over all the ways they’d failed their children, but Lucille really had failed Olivia. When the girl had needed her most—in a new school, coping with the loss of the life she’d known and her parents’ divorce—Lucille had been off in a world of her own hurt. And when Olivia had rebelled a few years later, Lucille had gladly abdicated responsibility to her ex-husband, a man who had already proved he wasn’t capable of anything like a permanent relationship.
Guilt choked her now and burned in her eyes. With aching clarity, she saw that Olivia was repeating a pattern she’d started, leaving Lucas to fend for himself. The boy looked okay so far on the outside, but who knew where things might lead?
She reached across the table and took Lucas’s hand in hers. He tried to pull away, but she held it fast. “Lucas, I know I’m almost a stranger to you. I haven’t been a storybook grandmother or even close. But I want you to know that I am here for you. If you need help with anything, I will do my best to give it to you.”
He looked at her as if she was indeed crazy. Who could blame the boy? She let go of his hand and sat back. “I realize you’re very mature for a boy your age,” she continued, groping for the right words. “But you’re not an adult and you shouldn’t have to be. You need people you can depend on in your life, and I want to be one of those people.”
He continued to stare at her, his expression guarded.
“I guess I can talk all I want, but the words don’t mean anything unless I prove them,”
Lucille said. “I just . . . I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove them.”
“All right,” he said. He stood, one hand gripping the back of the chair hard. “If it’s okay with you I’ll go to bed now.”
She nodded. “Good night.”
He started past her, then stopped and put a hand on her shoulder; she felt the briefest brush of his palm, like a breeze, across her shirt. “Good night, Grandma.”
Then he was gone, leaving her sitting in her chair, tears sliding quietly down her face, smiling in spite of her sadness at the lovely sound of his last words.
Chapter 9
The mines in the Eureka Mining District yielded not only gold, but silver, lead, rhodochrosite, molybdenum, turquoise, and aquamarine in varying quantities. A few especially rich lodes, such as the—and—even produced significant quantities of gemstones such as sapphire and topaz, prized for use in both jewelry and industry.
Maggie held the History of the Mining Regions of Eureka, Colorado, and the Surrounding Territory by the Reverend A. J. Kirkland to the light, hoping she could see through the heavy black marker that had crossed out the names of the mines that had produced the gemstones, but the letters were thoroughly obliterated.
There were other such redactions throughout the book, either the names of mines or directions to them blotted out. Her father’s work? Or some other book vandal?
No. If the book had come into the library in this condition, Cassie Wynock would have had the last borrower hauled to the prison in chains. Which also might explain why her father had refused to return the book. But why bother marking out the names of the mines? Was one of them the French Mistress?
Frustrated, Maggie set the book aside and went back to boxing up the paperback westerns and mysteries she knew she’d never read. Maybe she’d take them to the library and see what else she could learn about local history from Cassie.
Or she could try to find the key to the padlock on the mine entrance and explore the mine herself. But the thought of venturing into that dark cavern alone held no appeal. And she probably wouldn’t know a vein of rhodochrosite or molybdenum from lead or fool’s gold.
The library it was, then. She hauled the box of books to the car, along with the clothes and other items for Lucille.
The Eureka County Library was a neat white building with black shutters and a black iron railing along the handicap ramp leading to the double front doors. Cassie Wynock looked hopeful when she recognized Maggie. “Did you find my book?” she asked.
“I’m still looking,” Maggie lied. She held up the box in her arms. “I’m cleaning out my dad’s shelves and I found some books to donate.”
Cassie accepted the box and glanced through it, the furrow between her eyes deepening. “We can’t put the paperbacks in circulation,” she said. “They fall apart after only a few months.”
“Oh. Well, is there somewhere else I can donate them?”
Cassie dragged the box back across the counter, as if afraid Maggie might try to take them back. “We can put them in the annual book sale. I’ll write you a receipt.”
“Oh, I don’t need a receipt,” Maggie said.
“I have to give you a receipt.” She filled out a form and tore it from the pad. “Are you sure you haven’t seen my book?” she asked. “It has a brown cover. It doesn’t look like much to most people, but it’s an important part of the collection.” She hesitated, then added, “And it’s important to me, personally.”
“Oh? Why is that?” She tucked the receipt in her purse, studying the librarian as she did so. Cassie wore a pinched look around her eyes, as if in pain.
“That book was written by my great-uncle,” she said. “He was a Presbyterian minister and a noted historian of this area. He spent years compiling the information in that volume, which was hailed by reviewers as far away as Denver as the seminal work of its time.” She lifted her chin. “Your father had no right to take that heritage away from me and from the people of this county.”
“Why was my father even interested in that book?” Maggie asked. “Was he an amateur historian or something?”
Cassie sniffed. “He pretended that was his interest. He came in here, charming as could be, asking intelligent questions, flattering me with his attentions.” Two spots of red bloomed on her cheeks. “I was foolish enough to fall for his act. But it was all a ploy to get around the rules. I should have known better. Jacob Murphy was famous for making his own rules.”
“What did he do that was so wrong?” Maggie asked. “Besides not returning the book, of course.”
“He persuaded me to lend it to him in the first place—against library policy. That volume was part of our permanent reference collection, to be used inside the library only. But I thought I could trust him and let him take it home. And then he refused to give it back.” Her voice broke and she turned away.
Maggie felt queasy. She had an ugly picture in her mind of her father—what, seducing this woman? In order to rob her of a prized possession? And why? What difference did that book make to him?
“I’ll keep looking for the book,” she said. “But what if it’s damaged? Would you still want it back?”
“It could be recovered. Pages can be repaired. It belongs in our collection. It’s part of our history.”
Maggie doubted anyone could repair the damage her father’s marker had done to the book, but she’d find a way to return it to Cassie, though maybe not until right before Maggie left town. She didn’t care to hear what the librarian would have to say when she saw what Murphy had done to her great-uncle’s legacy.
“If you find the book, I want it back, whatever the condition,” Cassie said. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
“Could I use the computers to check my e-mail?” Maggie asked.
“I’ll need to see a driver’s license, and you’ll have to fill out a registration form.”
“Of course.”
After completing a form that asked for everything short of her blood type, Maggie sat down in front of a computer terminal and logged in to her e-mail. Three hundred messages greeted her, mostly spam or forwarded jokes and chain letters from well-meaning relatives and friends. She scrolled through the list, hitting Delete until she came to a familiar screen name.
FROM:TEXAS [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT:ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE
May I remind you, sweetheart, that you moved to Colorado, not the moon.You have got to get better about staying in touch with me or I will be forced to send out a search party to make sure you haven’t been eaten by bears. Or are you merely having too much fun discovering your inner mountain woman?
Maggie smiled and typed a reply:
Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been busy sorting through my dad’s things and learning how to manage in a house without central heat, electric lines, or Internet. I’m answering this from the local library.The librarian deigned to let me sign on to their computer despite the fact that my dad stole a valuable library book.Yes, he was a thief, as well as a brawler and general scofflaw. Despite all that, people in town (with the exception of the librarian) seem to mostly like him. I think I would have, too. I want to stay a little longer and find out more about him.
In the back of her mind, she wondered if this was just a way of stalling, of putting off having to get back to her real life in Houston, of starting over without Carter or a job, or any of the things she thought she’d have right now. Focusing on her father was a welcome distraction, even if it wasn’t a healthy one. For whatever reason, she felt driven to try to stitch together all the anecdotes and bits of stories to come up with some kind of whole picture of the man who had been a mystery to her her whole life.
She turned her thoughts back to the e-mail.
Could you do me a favor and send me a few things from my storage unit? My stereo and CDs, the box of books marked Favorites, my laptop, and some of my clothes.
Tell Jimmy I said hello.
/>
Lots of love,
Mags
She hit Send, then skimmed the rest of her e-mail with the detachment of a stranger. She didn’t really care anymore about discussions of local sports teams or politics. That was all part of another life that didn’t feel like hers anymore.
She left the library and drove to Lacy’s. Lucille was stringing chili pepper lights across the front of the store, perched on the top rung of a stepladder and wielding a staple gun to fasten the lights to the porch soffit.
“That doesn’t look very safe,” Maggie said, hurrying to steady the ladder as it wobbled.
“I’m counting on sheer stubbornness to keep me up here,” Lucille said. “I can’t afford health insurance, so I flat out refuse to fall.”
“Maybe it would be smarter to invest in a taller ladder,” Maggie offered.
“You’re probably right, but then again, I think it does a body good to live dangerously every once in a while.”
Maggie thought of her life in Houston, where she’d spent years playing it safe, never risking so much as an opinion if it might make anyone uncomfortable. Now she took her life in her hands every day simply driving to town, and started every morning with heart-stopping views that reminded her of how little excitement she’d known in her forty years.
“You didn’t tell me you were the mayor,” she said.
Lucille glanced down. “It’s not the easiest thing to work into casual conversation.”
“Still, I’m impressed,” Maggie said. “Running a town is a big job.”
“It can be,” Lucille said. “Though Eureka doesn’t have the problems larger cities do. Of course, we don’t have the budget either. But I won’t bore you with all that. What are you up to this morning?”
“I boxed up some of my dad’s old clothes,” Maggie said as Lucille climbed off the ladder. “I thought maybe you’d know someone who could use them.”
“The Presbyterian Church runs a food and clothing bank. They’ll make good use of them.”
