Moondust Lake

by Davis Bunn

  Buddy entered his father’s office and shut the door behind him. “Afternoon, Grady.”

  Three years back, Grady White had inherited his father’s law firm and now sought to fill boots twice his own size. With Grady’s father the bonhomie had been both real and very welcome. On Grady it seemed as artificial as his smile.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes! How you been keeping?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Buddy started to seat himself. But Jack Helms had assumed a position Buddy knew all too well. His back was to the room, his gaze focused on the view out the window behind his desk. Buddy remained standing in the middle of his father’s Persian carpet.

  “Take a load off, why don’t you.”

  “I’m fine here, thanks.”

  Jack Helms had a voice he employed when his intentions were to bully and battle and forge his way in hostile territory. Buddy knew it well. The man sounded like he gargled with road salt. “The man told you to sit.”

  “I heard him,” Buddy replied. “And he’s not in any position to give orders.”

  That should have been good for the explosion Buddy knew was coming. But Jack held back. Which surprised him. The man was not given to controlling his temper. Ever.

  Grady chuckled wetly, as though chewing on a good joke. “So, what’s up with you, Buddy?”

  Grady’s father had been big and robust and shrewd. Grady was small and portly and tended to waddle as he walked. His face possessed a ruddiness that Buddy suspected came from a perpetual state of high blood pressure. Grady White stayed close to Jack Helms with a lifetime’s experience at sycophancy. Buddy replied, “I’m here to tender my resignation.”

  Grady touched the knot of his tie. “We’re sorry to hear that. Aren’t we, Jack?”

  Jack Helms’s only response was to begin pacing behind his desk.

  Grady said, “But I got to warn you, old son, there’s a problem. Right, Jack?”

  The tiger kept searching for a way out of the cage. Free to roam and strike and devour.

  Grady said, “If you leave us in the lurch, we’ll be forced to sue.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Breach of contract and related executive duties.”

  Buddy laughed out loud. “That’s absurd.”

  Grady tried his best to look affronted. “That’s the law.”

  “What law?”

  “The rights of a company to expect its employees to hold to the letter of their contract—”

  “Stop right there. I don’t have a contract. I never have. Isn’t that right, Pop?”

  “Get on with it,” Jack snarled.

  There was a certain satisfaction to knowing they had come together and prepped for this moment. It was hardly enough to calm Buddy’s racing pulse. But it meant his father had either expected or feared that this might be the purpose behind Buddy asking for the appointment. What Buddy didn’t understand was what Jack Helms could hope to gain.

  Grady cleared his throat. “If you agree to stay on for another six months—”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Mr. Helms has generously agreed—”

  “I’m not staying another day. I’m gone.”

  “You will shut up and listen.”

  Buddy watched his father wheel and pace and wheel again. The pain was lacerating. “No, Pop. I won’t.”

  Jack Helms clawed the empty air between them. “Tell him.”

  Grady’s glassine hair had become slicked to his dimpled scalp. “Ninety days, then.”

  “No.”

  “We will have no choice but enter suit.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Jack Helms slammed two fists onto his desk and looked at his son for the first time. “I will crush you.”

  Buddy did not meet the gaze so much as recall all the past fears, the hurts, the slights. The hopes that gradually became reduced to just grimly making it through another day. The need to run. And run. And run. Buddy breathed around the looming ache. All the wasted days.

  “Buddy, really, there’s no need to turn this into—”

  “Stop, Grady. Just stop.”

  “But, man, you’ve really got to listen to what your father is—”

  He addressed his father directly. “You need to get your corporate act together. Devise a strategy that doesn’t include me. Take it to Lexington. Today. This afternoon. Because if you don’t, you risk losing the business. And you know what that means. Your profits for this year will be wiped out. Everything we worked so hard . . .” Buddy realized he was finished. The sentence and the thought were as done as they ever would be. It was no longer his problem. Perhaps it never should have been in the first place.

  Buddy turned away, drawn by the solitary thought that he wasn’t free, not really, and never would be until the hurt went away.

  “Come back here.”

  Buddy left the office and walked the hall, enduring the white-faced audience who gaped and searched for scorch marks as he passed. Buddy halted in front of Serena’s desk. Behind him, his team clustered. He said, “The café across the street. Bring the team. Five minutes.”

  He walked outside. Buddy had planned to go wait in the car, but he was already finding it difficult to draw breath. Sitting in the vehicle’s narrow confines would only make it worse. Buddy crossed the brown grass, away from the limp flags and his father’s window. Buddy spent a long time staring at the slip of paper he drew from his pocket. Kimberly had written a number below the name of the retreat center. Buddy took that as the only invitation this particular day might hold.

  She answered with a simple hello.

  “This is Buddy.”

  “I’m glad you called. Where are you?”

  “Outside my father’s company.”

  “How did it go?”

  He wanted to toss it off with false assurance. That he was fine. No gaping wounds. Still standing. Something from the expected lies of convenience. But the air was still clogged with menace he could not leave behind by simply turning his back on the building. “I have to meet with my team. They want to know what’s happening. I can’t lie to them. But I don’t know what to say.”

  “Buddy . . .”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. It was wrong . . .”

  “No, I’m glad you called. But I need to be very careful here. I can’t speak to you professionally. Do you understand this? I’m not your counselor.”

  “I don’t want you to be.”

  “Then tell me why you’re calling.”

  “Because . . .” He struggled over that. “I need a friend.”

  “Good, Buddy. I’m glad. I want to be your friend.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I do. Is that so hard to accept?”

  “Today? Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Well, we’re friends.”

  “Great.” He took the day’s first free breath. “Fantastic.”

  “Buddy, as a friend I urge you to be honest. Tell them what’s happened and how you feel.”

  “They need to know what’s going to happen to them next.”

  “But you don’t know that, do you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Then don’t lie, and don’t lead them on.”

  “Can I say there might be a chance for us to move together into a new job?”

  “Are you ready to commit yourself?” She gave that a moment, and when he didn’t respond, she went on. “You should only tell them what you are confident about, when you are confident.”

  “I don’t even have a passing acquaintance with the word ‘confident.’ Especially not today.”

  “Then you tell them the truth. What happened, how it went, where you are going.”

  “I’ve left my job, and what I feared would be the worst argument with my father ended up being defused by a lawyer I have never much cared for, but could hug right now.”

  “That will do just fine.”

  “Should I also mention I’m off on a retreat, because if I don’t, I might ex
plode?”

  “Are you really?”

  “What, the retreat? Tonight. I told you I was.”

  “Yes. You did.” Her voice was suddenly smaller. “Will you call me when you get back?”

  CHAPTER 17

  The night held a metallic chill as Beth climbed the stairs to her former home. She slipped her key into the lock and was relieved to see it turn. She had been afraid Jack might have already changed the locks. She stepped inside and stopped to look around. She had done her best to create the home that fit her husband’s desires. Now, seeing it through the eyes of a visitor, it all seemed so pretentious, so rigid, so carefully defined. If she were ever to return, she knew this was how she would view it. Jack’s home. The only room that was truly hers was the kitchen. It had always gratified her that the children had felt the same, even Buddy, who was the most inept cook she had ever met. Buddy could destroy oatmeal. She had worried he might starve when he left home, and she still was uncertain how he managed to survive.

  Beth followed the noise of the television into the den, the room she detested most in the house. It was all Jack. The dark leather furniture was puckered with brass tacks, and the walls were lined with hunting prints, though Jack did not hunt. He also did not drink, so the built-in liquor cabinet was crammed with trophies and plaques and photographs and awards. She was not in any of those pictures. There were also no photos of the children in this room. Beth’s fourth-anniversary present from her husband had been to sit for an oil painting, which resided above the living-room mantel. She was dressed in taffeta and pearls. Looking at the painting set her teeth on edge. The children had all sat for portraits when they were four. The oils lined the dining-room walls. Since Jack had gone through his change, the children avoided looking at their own beatific smiles.

  Beth stood in the doorway and watched the back of her husband’s head. She knew he was aware of her. But he would sit there all night, pretending to watch the business news, ignoring her, forcing her to speak first.

  Jack remained a remarkably handsome man, with craggy features and a full head of silver hair. His magnetism had dimmed somewhat, but he could still draw in the unwary. So long as they did not look too deeply into his arctic-gray eyes.

  She walked over, lifted the controls, and cut off the TV.

  “I was watching that.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You’ve said about all you need to.” When she did not move, he ordered, “Turn that back on, Beth!”

  “Jack, I’m dying.”

  She had known the instant she had awoken on the empty veranda that this needed to be done. Perhaps she had known it before, but it had taken Josiah’s softly spoken wisdom to clarify her vision. She had to do everything she possibly could, else she would not rest easy. Not that night, not for good. The old man had been wrong about one thing, though. She had no choice in the matter.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “No, Jack.”

  “Because I’ve got to tell you, it’s not the least bit funny.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  He had been practicing the words so long, he could not simply turn them off because of her news. “You waltz out of here and leave me this cockamamie note. I follow your directions to some slum, and you won’t even let me in the door. What am I supposed to say, Beth? How am I supposed to respond to such idiocy? You’re acting like you’ve gone nuts or something. Is that why you’ve gotten involved with that lady at the clinic?” He aimed his finger at her. “Because I won’t have you telling our secrets to some wet-nosed punk with an armful of degrees. Our family matters stay private.”

  She lowered herself to the stool opposite him. She didn’t feel like sitting, but she knew standing over him would only make him angry. “I have cancer. It’s spread.”

  He dropped his hand. “There’s things they can do. Chemo, surgery.”

  “It’s too late. I’m not a candidate.” She settled her hands in her lap. “You were never going to come to counseling, were you?”

  He showed genuine consternation. “What ever gave you the idea I’d agree to such a notion? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got a business to run. I don’t have time for such twaddle.”

  “It’s not any such thing, as you very well know. I asked you to join me in counseling because I thought it would help you hear what I have to say. But I cannot go to my grave with these words unspoken. If I must talk with you like this, I will. And I want you to listen very carefully.”

  Beth knew her tone was unlike anything she had ever used in his presence. She held to her gentle voice, that was the bedrock of her nature. But there was a dispassionate reserve now. She heard it herself. As though speaking of her illness granted her a remote safety from anything her husband might say or do. “Jack, it’s time you came home.”

  Her words rocked him. She could see the shudder, though he did his best to repress it. “Where on earth do you think I am now?”

  “There was a time when our home was filled with love and laughter. Your love, Jack. You had your moments, and I’m not saying everything was perfect. None of us are. And I’m not asking you to become someone you’re not. But there is a darkness in you, there always has been. Since Sylvie started her rebellion—”

  “Her rampage, you mean. That girl—”

  “Stop, Jack. Just stop.” Such interruptions were usually good for an eruption, but his standard rant must have been undermined by her news. “This isn’t about Sylvie, and you know it. This is about you. Sylvie’s rebellion opened a fissure inside your soul. She was no longer the child you wanted her to be, perhaps she never was. And this revolt created a fault line inside you. It allowed the shadows you carry to creep out and take over. It’s time you conquered that part of yourself, Jack. That is my dying request. That you come back and be the man you were meant to be.”

  He found something in her gaze that left him so uncomfortable, he turned and stared at the empty television screen. His jaw muscles worked, but he did not speak.

  Beth continued, “The reason I was hoping you’d come and meet with a professional counselor is because . . . I’ve watched you turn from your family, from love, from any hint of happiness. Condemnation and judgment are not replacements for love, Jack. And I worry that you have lost your ability to even say what love is.”

  She stopped then. There was so much else she wanted to say. But something told her she needed to hold to what was most important just then. What was vital.

  Her husband muttered, “Counseling is nothing but New Age baloney.”

  “Preston is seminary trained, Jack. He told you that himself at lunch.”

  He worked on that a time, which Beth took as a very good sign. “That’s what it’ll take for you to come home?”

  “No, Jack.”

  He turned back. “But your note—”

  “I meant what I wrote. I love you, Jack. As much today as I ever have. But you need to bring this dark element of yourself back under control. And heal the rifts with our children.” She took a breath. “Promise me you will start on this, seriously start, and I will come home. But you must let our Buddy go.”

  This time his shock could not be fully hidden away. “What?”

  “Don’t fight him. It’s time for him to discover who he is. Away from you. Do this and I’ll return.”

  “You think I can be held up for ransom? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re standing on the brink of ruination! What kind of son leaves his father’s business at a time like that?”

  “He’s only doing what he should have done years ago.” She held up her hand. “Think carefully, Jack. Start turning away from your own dark side, rediscover the healing power of love, and let our son go with your blessing. Do that, and I’ll come home. And I’ll die here, as your wife. The picture you want the world to see will remain intact until the end.”

  “Did you not hear a word I just said, woman?” This time his rage was real. “You’re as bad as your boy! You’re asking me to swa
p one ransom demand for another!”

  She rose to her feet, defeated. “Good-bye, Jack.”

  “I’m not done here!”

  “I know.” She had to clench up tight against a sudden wash of pain. Or perhaps it had been there all along, she had just been too occupied to notice. “But I am.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Buddy’s meeting with his team went better than he could possibly have hoped. There was a singular satisfaction to their wanting to go wherever he chose, and even more for their willingness to wait until he could offer specifics. Their lack of explicit questions said it all. They trusted him.

  He left the café and headed home. Carey had spent years hidden in plain view. She was adept at showing the world a blank mask, and revealing only the segment of herself that the viewer might find pleasing. To discuss her inner world with a total stranger, well . . . Buddy pulled up in front of his town house filled with dread over what waited him inside his own front door.

  Instead, Carey greeted him with a smile and a wave at the phone she held. He heard her say, “That’s right. The front and back doors need new locks, and I want your man to check all the windows as well. Yes, I’ll meet him with the documents you mentioned. That’s fine. I’ll be there.” She cut the connection, walked over, kissed him on the cheek, and announced, “She’s nice.”

  “Who, Kimberly?”

  “Of course. Who else have you brought home for me to meet, other than the dark-haired vixen from down the lane? Come to think of it, they do look quite a lot alike.”

  Buddy walked into his bedroom and began shedding clothes. “Not inside where it counts most.”

  She stepped into the hallway to grant him privacy, but kept the door open so they could talk. “How did it go with Pop?”

  “About like you’d expect. He raged. I talked. He threatened. I left.”

  “I’m sorry, Buddy. You deserve better.”

  “So does my team.” He slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt, then dumped his satchel on the bed. “I’m going away. A retreat center north of here. Not long. Just for a couple of nights.”