by Cindy Myers
“You said ten minutes and that was twenty minutes ago.”
“Come along, Lucas.” Cassie took the boy’s arm and towed him into the auditorium.
An hour later, Cassie had the beginnings of a migraine. Doug kept messing up his lines, which he complained were too pompous even for a man like Festus Wynock. Toby kept making horrible jokes and puns that weren’t in the script at all, though he insisted they were all right because they always drew a laugh. Cassie finally threw down her script in disgust. “That’s enough for today,” she said. “Between now and Thursday’s dress rehearsal I want everyone to memorize the script. You are to deliver your lines as written.” She scowled at Toby. “If you don’t, I promise you will be sorry.”
“Ooh, I’m scared.” Toby drew back in mock terror. “Please, Cassie. Don’t take away my library card.”
The others laughed. Cassie turned away and almost collided with Bob. He put out a hand to steady her. “Don’t worry, Cass,” he said. “The play’s going to be great. And that little surprise I told you about is going to work out fine. People will be talking about this show for months.”
“No surprises, Bob.” But she couldn’t muster much heat for the warning. The play was going to be a disaster. And it was all Jake’s fault.
Back at the paper, Maggie uploaded the photos Rick had taken. Her father grinned back at her from the framed portrait in the display case, a man in his prime without a care in the world. He certainly didn’t look like someone with dark secrets.
But most people were adept at hiding the things inside of them. She’d spent years concealing her own dissatisfaction with her life from everyone around her—even from herself.
She zoomed in on the next photograph, of Lucas solemnly staring at the row of trophies. A cowlick waved from the back of his head, and the tag from his shirt stuck out. Such an odd little boy. How many children his age knew anything about the war in Vietnam?
Her stomach knotted as she thought of those other photographs of her father, of a tall, thin young man in fatigues, beard stubble darkening his face like soot, the handwritten legend My Lai.
She exited Photoshop and pulled up the Internet. A search engine request produced thousands of hits for My Lai. “U.S. soldiers murder between 347 and 504 unarmed Vietnamese citizens,” she read. She shuddered as she read further. Most of the dead had been women and children, many of them sexually abused or mutilated. Twenty-five officers and enlisted men were eventually charged in the massacre, though many other soldiers in Charlie Company were thought to have been involved. Only Lieutenant William Calley was convicted.
Charlie Company, First Battalion. Her father’s unit. He had been there, in that horror. Was that the reason he couldn’t come home, the reason he’d exiled himself to a mountaintop?
The massacre had occurred on March 16, 1968. She’d been born September 6. Jake had come home for the last time then and left soon after.
What had he thought when he looked at his newborn daughter? Had he remembered the babies killed in that little South Vietnamese village? Had he been responsible for any of those deaths?
She disconnected from the Internet and turned away, feeling sick to her stomach. Whatever had happened there in Vietnam, it had made her father unable to live in Houston, the steamy heat of the Gulf Coast reminding him too much of the jungles of South Asia. Whatever horrors he had lived through there kept him from being comfortable with those who loved him.
Had her mother known about My Lai? Had Jameso?
She stared out the window at the street in front of the newspaper office, willing a black-clad figure on a motorcycle to ride by. Dammit, where was the man? Why did men—her father, Carter, Jameso—always leave? She used to worry some flaw in herself drove them off, but now she saw it was a defect in them. They were cowards, every one of them.
Yes, cowards. What else to call a man who ran away from his responsibilities, who refused to face the consequences of his actions? Her father had hidden himself away in the mountains rather than allow himself to be vulnerable enough to face the truth and begin to heal.
Love was like that. Maybe that was why some people were so afraid of it. Love zeroed in on the hurting places and ripped them open, exposing them so they could heal. It took courage to open yourself up to that pain—strength to be honest enough to expose your flaws and past mistakes. Maybe that was why love was easier for the young. They didn’t have as many wounds to bear. They didn’t need to protect themselves as much.
She shut down her computer and collected her purse. As she left the office, Rick was coming in. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home.”
She drove the route up the mountain like a sleepwalker, negotiating the twists and turns from memory more than sight, her mind too full of everything she’d learned about her father and everything she’d realized about herself.
At the cabin she climbed to the loft and sat on the side of the bed, staring out at nothing and everything.
How much different would her life have been if her father had stayed in Houston? How would he have been different if he’d been able to talk about what had happened over there, to get the help he needed? He wouldn’t have owned a gold mine or been a Hard Rock champion, but what other trophies would he have had instead?
And Maggie wouldn’t be here now, waking up to this forever view and feeling stronger than she had in years. Was there really such a thing as fate? Did a divine Providence move people around like pieces in a cosmic chess match? She’d never believed it. She didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s pawn.
Yet she sat in her mountaintop aerie, grateful she’d found her way to this place, where she could heal and start over. Her father must have felt that way, too. Looking out at the world falling away from the top of a mountain gave a person a new perspective. Everything—even big problems—seemed smaller against that vastness. Possibilities seemed as endless as the horizon.
Her father’s ashes were out there somewhere in these mountains, scattered across the land he’d loved. “Rest in peace, Daddy,” she whispered. She stood, then wiped at the tears that brimmed in her eyes. Time to stop judging the man. He’d done the best he could. The best any of them could do.
Chapter 23
A man from Lake City won the Hard Rock competition, a hulking twenty-something who flexed his muscles for Maggie’s camera, then filled his trophy with beer and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking from it.
Maggie went to the street dance, intending only to photograph it and go home, but Bob grabbed her hand and tugged her into the crowd. “A young woman like you shouldn’t work so much,” he said. “Life’s hard enough as it is. You’ve got to dance whenever you get the chance.” Then he led her in an energetic polka that left them both too winded to speak.
“You . . . all right?” she asked, when the song had ended and they stood puffing on the sidelines. The old man was red-faced and wheezing alarmingly.
He nodded. “Fit . . . as a . . . fiddle.” He wiped his forehead with a red bandana. “Can’t keel over now. Got the play tomorrow. Cassie’d never let me rest in peace if I died before I’d said all my lines.”
“Is Cassie here?” Maggie searched the faces lining the dance floor for the little librarian.
“Her people never held with dancing. At least not public dances like this, where everyone mingled together. The Wynock’s always held themselves above all that. The most damning thing they could say about something was to call it common. They were always after Cassie to not be common.”
“If they thought they were too good to associate with everyone else, who were Cassie’s friends when she was growing up?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, she had friends. Her parents didn’t always approve, but she was a typical teenager and didn’t care. She dated a real nice boy in high school, I recall. Son of the family who owned a plumbing business. But that ended when he went off to college. Cassie’s mother was ill by then, and Cassie stayed to take care of her.”
&n
bsp; “How sad.” Maggie pictured a younger Cassie, caught between her parents’ aristocratic fantasy and the rest of life in a small mountain town.
“Yeah, she had it pretty rough. But then, so have a lot of folks.” Bob stuffed the bandana back in his pocket. “Blaming everything that happened in the past for how you are now only gets you so far. When it comes down to it, some people are mean just ’cause they want to be.”
“Then what’s your excuse, Bob?” Lucille slipped between Maggie and the old man. She handed Maggie a plastic cup of yellow liquid. “Lemonade,” she said. “Though if you want something stronger, Rick has a flask he’s passing around.”
“I think I’ll find Rick,” Bob said. “Ladies.” He nodded good-bye and pushed his way through the crowd.
“Bob’s an enthusiastic dancer, even if he isn’t a very good one,” Lucille said. “I thought I’d come save your toes before he suggested another round.”
“Thanks.” Maggie curled her toes in her shoes. Bob had only tromped on them once, but that was enough.
“I haven’t seen Jameso,” Lucille said.
“Who said anything about Jameso?” Maggie felt her face flame.
“I thought that’s who you were looking for.”
She hadn’t realized it, but she had been scanning the crowd, searching for that familiar black-bearded face. She sighed. “I’m furious he left without bothering to say good-bye.”
“Maybe an emergency came up,” Lucille said.
“Or maybe he was just being a bastard.”
“Grandma, can I have money to buy a hot dog?” Lucas poked his head up between the women like a mountain pika emerging from the rocks.
Lucille smoothed the cowlick at the back of his head, though it refused to lie flat. “I thought your mother gave you money for dinner.”
“She forgot. I was looking for her, but I saw you first. Hello, Maggie.”
“Hello, Lucas. I think I saw your mother dancing with a tall blond man.”
He frowned. “She’s dancing with a lot of men. That’s why I thought it would be easier to get the money from grandma.”
Lucille opened her shoulder bag and took out her wallet. “How much do you need?”
“Ten ought to be enough. I might need two hot dogs. And something to drink.”
While Lucille fished out the money, he turned to Maggie. “What was the name of your mine again?”
“The French Mistress.” It still seemed odd to say she owned a mine, even an empty one.
“Did they mine things besides gold there?” he asked.
“What kind of things?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Some places around here got silver, and even uranium.”
The idea of radioactive material steps from her back door was unsettling. “I hope there’s no uranium, or anything else dangerous.”
“It’s not that dangerous, trapped in the rock,” he said. “You have to refine it before you can use it to make fuel or bombs or anything.”
“Maggie isn’t interested in bombs or nuclear power,” Lucille said. She handed the boy two fives. “Meet me in front of the store at ten,” she said.
“He seems to be a very intelligent boy,” Maggie said when the women were alone again.
“Too smart for me or his mother,” Lucille said. “I worry about him.”
“Has Olivia said anything more about leaving town?” The lines between Lucille’s eyes deepened. “No, and I haven’t asked her. Speaking of which . . . I sold a bunch of your Steuben this morning.”
“You did? To whom?” Dread washed over her. What if Carter had returned to town and bought the glass for Francine. . . .
“A collector from Scottsdale in town for Hard Rock Days. He saw the glass in the window of the store and ended up buying most of it. Stop by the store Monday and I’ll write you a check.”
“That’s great.” Maggie felt a little weak at the knees. “Thanks.”
“It ought to be enough to rent a really nice place for the winter,” Lucille said. “I can put you in touch with a friend who’s a realtor.”
“I don’t know . . .” She wasn’t sure she was ready for a mountain winter—the cold and snow and isolation. “I haven’t decided what I want to do yet.” She could go back to Houston, to mild weather and movie theaters and Barb. She felt strong enough for that now.
“Whatever you decide, remember you’ve always got friends here.” Lucille squeezed her arm. “This little town may not have much to offer, but there’s that.”
Maggie nodded. Eureka had given her a lot of gifts beyond the friends she’d made. For the first time in her life she had real choices, and the freedom to decide for herself. Where once the prospect of relying on her own judgment had frightened her, now she found it thrilling.
The baseball game the next afternoon was postponed due to elk on the field. Maggie stood on the sidelines with the other spectators and stared at the two dozen or so shaggy beasts grazing around the pitcher’s mound or lounging in the base paths. Bulls with massive shoulders and towering spreads of antlers ambled among the brown and buff cows and long-legged calves.
“Can’t they just shoo them away?” Maggie asked.
“Do you want to tell one of those bulls shoo?” Rick asked.
She studied the gleaming tips of the antlers again. Even without those intimidating weapons, each bull stood six feet tall at the shoulders, towering over even the tallest man here. “I guess not,” she said.
“The elk are more interesting than the game anyway,” Rick said. “It’s supposed to be a replica of circa 1900s baseball between teams from the various mining camps. They played without gloves, with home-whittled hickory bats, and no protective gear. Everybody’s so afraid of getting hit they play like a bunch of fifth-grade girls.”
“I heard that!” Doug Rayburn protested. He moved over to stand beside them. “Two years ago, I broke my hand playing third base.”
“If it’s that dangerous, why don’t you make it a regular baseball game and wear gloves and helmets?” Maggie asked.
“Then it wouldn’t be authentic,” Doug said.
“And you wouldn’t have an excuse for playing so poorly,” Rick said.
“It’s just as well the elk showed up,” Doug said, turning his attention back to the grazing animals. “Jameso’s our best hitter. With him and Jake both gone, odds didn’t look good for the Tommyknockers to win this year.”
The mention of Jameso in the same breath as a dead man made Maggie’s heart stop for a minute. “Where is Jameso?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Doug said. “I figured he’d be back by now, but maybe he’s not coming back.”
The thought made Maggie feel as if she’d swallowed ice. Of course she was furious with Jameso for running out on her, but she’d never imagined she wouldn’t get the opportunity to tell him so. Would he really leave so abruptly, so she’d never see him again?
“You ready to wow the crowd as Festus Wynock tonight?” Rick asked.
“I think everyone’s going to be pleasantly surprised by this play,” Doug said. “Festus wasn’t the smartest mule in the stable, but he did a lot of good for the town.”
“According to Cassie,” Rick said.
“She might be a little biased, but she knows her history. Come to the play and you might learn a thing or two.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” Rick said. He turned to Maggie. “If you’ve gotten enough shots of the elk, let’s head over to the food booths. We’ll get some crowd shots and I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Make him pay for the buffalo burger,” Doug called. “Not the cheap-ass dollar hot dogs.”
Rick winced. “Maybe Maggie prefers hot dogs,” he said.
“Oh, a buffalo burger sounds perfect to me,” she said, grinning.
They started to make their way away from the ball diamond when Olivia stopped them. “Have you seen Lucas?” she asked.
“No,” Maggie said. “Is something wrong?”
“No, but he’
s supposed to be at the opera house in half an hour and I haven’t seen him all afternoon.”
“He’ll probably ride his bike over there,” Rick said. “I see him all over town on that thing.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “I just thought he might like a ride in the SUV so he doesn’t get all dusty and sweaty.”
“He’s playing a nineteenth-century ragamuffin,” Rick said. “The dirt and sweat will look authentic.”
Olivia nodded, distracted. “If you run into him, tell him I’m looking for him.”
“We will,” Maggie promised.
Rick watched Olivia walk away. “Best legs in town,” he said.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “If you’re interested, why don’t you ask her out?”
“Who said I was interested? Besides, she’s too young.”
Maggie hadn’t expected Rick to be so discerning. “Are you seeing someone?” she asked.
He arched his eyebrows. “Why? Are you making a play for me? I don’t date women who work for me.”
She flushed. “No, I’m not interested.”
“You don’t have to sound so disgusted. Besides, I thought you and Jameso had a thing going.”
“You thought wrong.” She took his arm. “Come on. You owe me a buffalo burger.” From now on, her policy was to take what she wanted from men, but to never assume anything.
Perched on a wobbly stool in the Opera House ticket office, Lucille had a view of the display case filled with Hard Rock trophies. Jake grinned at her from the photograph in the middle—even dead he was at the center of things. She wished he were here right now. If nothing else, he’d have kept her entertained as she sold tickets to the tourists and locals who dribbled in in twos and threes.
A late-afternoon thunderstorm had blown in, typical for August in the mountains. Every time new theatergoers arrived, they brought with them the scent of wet pines and the astringent tang of the mag chloride the county put on the dirt streets to keep the dust down. “The show starts in half an hour,” she told a trio of middle-aged women in matching sweatshirts that advertised a town in Texas. “Enjoy.”
