Moondust Lake

by Davis Bunn

  And suddenly she was crying. She knew it would make her face swell up. Not just her eyes and her nose, either. Her entire face turned crimson and puffed up like a tear-streaked balloon when she wept.

  Josiah just kept rocking. He watched the street and the cars that swept past in their soft rush, and he waited while she reknit her world. “You’ve done all you can.”

  “It’s why I’m here,” she sniffed. “I pray my leaving Jack will force him to look at who he has become. And come back to us.”

  “Sometimes that’s all you have to keep you company at night. Knowing you’ve taken every possible step. Even when it’s cost you everything. Especially then.” He rocked a time, then added, “Pondering that mournful truth has often brought me as close to peace as I’ve known in quite a while.”

  She found enough comfort in the words to drift off. That was another unwanted side effect from the nighttime drugs. She was only gone the span of a few breaths, or so it seemed, but when she returned, the black man was gone. She stared at his empty rocker for a time, then softly declared, “I know what I have to do.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The time with Preston was not a session, as far as Buddy was concerned. Rather, it felt like an excavation. Buddy talked in a disjointed fashion, going no further back than the labor he and his team had put into the Lexington project. And how his father’s lack of response had launched him into one momentous change after another. Buddy described the job offers, then shifted to his mother leaving home. He described Beth’s awful apartment. He related his mother’s comments over dinner. The trip to see his ex-flame, and her answer to his question. The meandering walk down State Street, the nightclub, and the fight with Ricardo. Only in this telling, he allowed himself to dwell on what had turned him so numb. The fact that the temper he wanted to believe he didn’t possess had been there all along. Waiting for just such a moment to explode.

  Buddy could not meet Preston’s eyes. He only looked across the desk when the therapist was jotting something down on his pad. The rest of the time Buddy scattered his gaze around the room, taking in the three framed diplomas—Summa Cum Laude from Columbia, Master of Divinity from Notre Dame, Master in Clinical Psychology from Georgetown. Preston was at least two years younger than Buddy. But the man’s utter presence made his age of no importance whatsoever—that, plus the fact that Buddy needed to unload. He needed it desperately.

  By the time he approached the final issue, he was panting with the need to get it out. He dragged in a raw breath and told Preston about the nightmares. Saving the best for last.

  When he was done, Buddy was spent. No twenty-five-mile marathon had ever left him so drained.

  Preston tapped his pen on his pad, and took his time shaping the words. His tone was almost academic, as though he was dealing with a case study, instead of a man who shivered from the sweat that drenched his entire body. “On the face of things you have identified the core issue. You need to cast aside the persona your father has tried to cram you into. You recognize this. You have managed to move beyond your distress and take an honest look at yourself. You seek to discover who you are.”

  Preston swiveled his chair around and faced the side wall, as though granting Buddy the chance to study him. In profile the resemblance to Kimberly was much clearer. Preston had the same high cheekbones, the same tawny skin, the same copper tints to his dark hair. But where Kimberly was breathtakingly beautiful, Preston appeared both hyperintelligent and fragile. As though his strength of mind drained away some of the physical stamina.

  He said, “When a patient comes in with identity issues, the last thing you expect to hear is an admission. They talk about the nightmares. The poor sleep. The unsettling fear. But they don’t look directly at themselves. They can’t. If they did, they’d recognize what fills their nights with dread. And yet you have declared this very thing right at the start.”

  He swiveled back around. Set his pad on the desk blotter. Lined up his pen beside it. All very careful and precise. A general marshaling his troops. “So here’s what I’m thinking. I want to jump over all the preliminaries with you. I want to suggest that you are going to come out of this just fine. That you will take the necessary steps and come to terms with the fact that you are growing into your own man.”

  Buddy felt the steel band wrapped around his chest begin to ease. “That simple?”

  “Well, maybe the better word here is ‘direct.’ I’ll give you some exercises, and we’ll meet and discuss them. But yes. I think we should move on to the next phase.”

  “I didn’t even know there was one.”

  “In this case I think that may prove to be the most important job I perform. To help you lift your gaze.” He looked straight at Buddy for the first time. “Ready?”

  “I suppose . . .” He took a long breath. “Yes.”

  “Good. As far as the self-identity issue is concerned, I want you to take ten minutes morning and evening. Ask yourself one question. What would you like to hear other people say about you in five years’ time. They are speaking the truth. They are talking about the man they love. What are they saying?”

  Buddy found himself leaking tears. It wasn’t the challenge. He was almost eager to begin. It was what Preston had said. The man they loved. As though anyone could ever . . . “Sorry.”

  “No apologies required.” Preston was almost brisk about handing over a box of Kleenex. “Ready for round two?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Okay. Here is the core issue I wrote down while I listened to you talk about this past few days.” Preston stabbed a point on his ink-filled page. “Who is your team, Buddy? You spoke about them constantly. You feel a deep and abiding responsibility to them. They are your people. They have given you far more than the standard form of corporate allegiance, and you have responded in kind. The question I feel you need to ask yourself is, who are they? And what do you need to do for them?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Kimberly was there, waiting when Buddy emerged from her brother’s office. She calmly greeted him with the same word as her brother. “Ready?”

  “Let me call and see if Carey will speak with you.” Buddy carried his phone down the church hallway. He stood by the side window. When Carey answered, he talked to the sunlight as much as his sister. He described the meeting with the two cousins, and confessed he had mostly come in about himself. “It’s really helped me, even this first meeting. I’m certain this is important. I thought, maybe, you know . . .”

  It was a feeble-enough attempt. Buddy expected her to refuse outright. But Carey was silent a moment, then asked, “Mom told me she was coming in to speak to the lady. What’s her name?”

  “Kimberly.”

  “Did Pop show up?”

  “I didn’t ask. But I can’t imagine Pop would even consider therapy.”

  Carey was quiet a moment longer. “What’s she like?”

  Buddy started to turn around to see if she was listening, then decided it didn’t matter. “Very nice. Very professional.”

  Her voice had gone very small. “I guess . . . Okay.”

  “We’re coming now.” When he cut the connection, Buddy turned to find Kimberly at the hall’s far end, watching him. “Carey says yes.”

  “I don’t have my car. I walked here from Preston’s home. I’m staying with him for the time being.”

  “I’ll drive you over, then bring you back.”

  Those were the last words they spoke until Buddy turned into the town-house complex. He did not mind the silence. He remained severely bruised by his own session. The challenge to look forward and define a future where people described him with love swelled his throat to the point where his breathing rasped. He did not mind the silence at all.

  When he cut off the motor, Kimberly made no move to open her door. Buddy asked because he had to. “How long will you be?”

  “Initial meetings are best when they don’t hold to a rigid timeline.” Her voice carried a flat formality. “Is that
a problem?”

  “I need to make an appointment.” He swallowed against the tight, queasy sensation. “For later.”

  “I can take a taxi back.”

  “No. I’ll wait. I want . . .” Buddy shook his head. What he wanted didn’t mean a thing. “It’s no problem.”

  “Why don’t I hold us to an hour and a half max.” Kimberly remained facing forward, her hands still in her lap. “I want to say something. But you may think I am interfering. It really isn’t any of my business. So you would be perfectly in order to tell me to keep quiet.”

  Buddy felt his body harden again, preparing for her condemnation. “Say it.”

  “While you were relating the issues surrounding your sister’s current state, I was struck by two very powerful impressions. The first was, you may want to consider going on a retreat.”

  “You want . . .”

  She turned from her inspection of the harsh winter light. “This isn’t about what I want. This is about what you may need right now.”

  “No, it’s not that. I thought you were going to criticize me. For what I did last night.”

  “Professionally, I can never condone a violent response. And your explosive rage indicates underlying issues. But a man whom you distrusted physically assaulted your sister.” Her gaze still held the dark light of deep disquiet. “Your sister came here for protection. Your greatest concern has been her needs. Not your own. I have the impression this is your normal state. Caring for others first.”

  Buddy thought back to what her brother had said. His team. “I guess . . .”

  “But as I said, you have issues of your own. It’s not my place to say more, particularly as I am about to counsel your sister. Even so, I feel compelled to speak. There is a retreat center my brother and I went to after we lost his father. I had unresolved issues of loss, and Preston . . .” She waved that away. “It’s how we came to know about this region. The center is called Moondust Lake. It’s located just outside the town of Miramar Bay.”

  “I know it.”

  “Going there meant the world to us.”

  A sense of desperate longing took hold. “Can I have the address?”

  “Of course. I’ll e-mail you the details.”

  “Give them to me now.” He could almost hear the pieces fall into place. “I’ve got something I need to take care of when we’re done. Then I’m free. Well, not free, but . . .”

  She canted her head to one side. “You want to go now? Today?”

  “Absolutely.” The need was so fierce he could only call it hunger. “It will be my reward for what comes next.”

  She drew pad and pen from her purse, found the details on her phone, wrote them down, hesitated, then added something more at the bottom. Buddy only realized it was her number when he saw her blush.

  As they were walking up the front stairs, Buddy thought to ask, “What was the other thing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you had two impressions.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Her sudden blush returned. “That will need to wait.”

  “Sure. No problem.” Buddy opened the door and called for his sister. He made the introductions, then phoned his office and said he was coming in later. When he set the receiver down, he could hear Carey’s voice talking softly from the front room.

  Buddy changed and went for another run. His feet split the road with the same precision as the images that accompanied him. An inward breath, and he was surprised anew by Kimberly’s disarming gaze. He expelled the breath, and was punched all over again by the appointment to come.

  * * *

  When Buddy returned from the day’s second run, the soft murmurs continued to filter in from the front room. He spread a towel on the office floor and stretched. He then turned on his computer and drew up information on the retreat center. The more he read, the more certain he became that this was not only right, but mandatory.

  Moondust Lake Retreat Center was founded at the western border of an estate created by a Hollywood star of the 1940s and ’50s. Buddy had seen any number of the actor’s films. What he had not known until then was that the actor had been written off as a has-been three different times. He had lost a child to influenza and had himself come close to death after a heart attack. But three times the actor had defied the pundits and rose from the ashes. He credited his renewed success as a result of having time apart, being able to view the world from the distance and clarity this haven had offered.

  Buddy booked a room, then showered and took his time dressing. His reflection grew grimmer by the minute, as though he was donning a mask as well as his severest suit. He entered the kitchen and ate a salad he didn’t want. But he needed to eat. Even when every swallow merely added to the sickish lump in his gut.

  The front room went silent, and the two women emerged together. Kimberly caught sight of him and stopped cold. Carey, however, understood immediately. “You’re going to tell Pop?”

  “It has to be done.” Buddy could scarcely recognize his own voice.

  “Can’t you wait?”

  “It would only get worse.” He realized where he had heard that tone. Only always before it had emerged from the man he was going to meet. “Besides, I owe it to my team. They need to know what’s happening.”

  His sister walked around the dining table and approached where he stood by the kitchen’s central counter. Up close he could see the streaks from recent tears. Her cheeks were still damp when she kissed him. She straightened his tie and said, “The world just doesn’t have enough knights in shining armor.”

  Her words only added to the tension and the fear. Buddy drove Kimberly back to the clinic and pulled into the lot. When he halted by the side door, she reached for the door, then looked at him and said, “You’re going to tell your father you are leaving the firm.”

  His entire upper body rocked. Back and forth. He gripped the wheel to keep himself in place. Intact. “The only job I’ve ever had. The only job I thought I’d ever . . .”

  She touched his arm, then drew back swiftly, as though repulsed by the tension that radiated from every cell of his body. “I hope it goes well for you.”

  Her concern impacted Buddy deeply. He was still searching for a response when she opened her door. He watched her rise from the car and climb the stairs and enter the offices, but she did not glance back. Then she was gone, and there was nothing for Buddy to do but move forward.

  * * *

  The Helms Group had never looked more severe. His father’s presence emanated through the bricks, filling the air with an oppressive tension. Buddy moved on leaden legs and entered through the front doors. He found it difficult to accept that it had been just a day and a half since he had walked out. He heard someone call his name, and was almost to his father’s outer office before he recognized the voice as belonging to his secretary, Serena. He did not want to turn around. He did not want to risk having his resolve shattered. But this woman could not be denied. He allowed her to catch up with him, and said, “It has to wait.”

  “It can’t.”

  “Serena, I have to—”

  “Will you just listen! I have Lexington’s CEO on the line. He says either he talks to you, or he is withdrawing his offer.”

  “Tell him I’ll call back as soon as I’m free.”

  “But—”

  “That’s how it has to be.” He left her there, gaping after him, and entered his father’s domain.

  His father’s outer office contained three desks. Two workstations held Jack Helms’s PA and a junior secretary. The third had been Buddy’s station for two grueling years. The desk remained unoccupied, a silent threat he confronted every time he entered his father’s domain. The desk waited to swallow his days and grind his dreams to dust.

  The PA had been with Jack Helms for as long as Buddy could remember. She was a severe woman, with hair clenched back so tightly her eyes rarely opened farther than slits. When Buddy entered, she spackled the area around him with a quick s
trike of her glittering black eyes. This was her common greeting. She had positively loathed sharing her office with him. She went through assistants every six months or so. Serena had been one of her castoffs, as had his team’s other two secretaries. It was Buddy’s way of ensuring loyalty.

  She used the standard greeting, which was “Mr. Helms is occupied. You’ll have to wait.”

  “Get Jack on the line. Now.”

  “Mr. Helms says you must wait . . .” Her gaze widened farther than Buddy would have thought possible. All it took was for him to stalk across the carpeted expanse and loom over her desk.

  “Tell my father that Lexington is threatening to pull the plug. I have to speak with him now. Or he has to live with the consequences.” Buddy tapped the desk with his knuckles. It was a tactic his father often used when riled. The act rattled the PA more than he would have thought possible. “One more thing. Helms is my name, too.”

  He waited until she picked up the phone, then moved to the outer doorway. He stood where his team could see him. Hoping the promise of something beyond this grim day might hold them together.

  Behind him the PA announced, “Mr. Helms will see you . . .”

  Buddy did not so much turn as cross half the room in a stride. She quickly amended, “You can go in now.”

  “Mr. Helms,” he said.

  She jerked her head in what might have been assent. “Yes.”

  Buddy took that as the admission it was. “Thank you.”

  Even before he was through the inner door, he regretted what he had done. There was little triumph in gaining the upper hand over a woman whose entire universe revolved around Jack Helms. Buddy started to apologize, when an unexpected voice boomed from the inner sanctum, “Young Helms.”