Crescendo h-2

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” my mom murmured, passing the bread. “I can’t say enough how delighted we are to have you back in Coldwater.”

  Mrs. Parnell nodded vigorously. “We’re just glad to be back, and all in one piece.”

  I’d paused eating, dividing glances between Scott and Mrs. Parnell, trying to figure out what was going on. Boys will be boys, that much I could buy. What I wasn’t buying was Mrs. Parnell’s anxious insistence that her son’s trouble fell into the category of typical. And Scott’s close supervision of every word that fell from her mouth wasn’t helping to change my mind.

  Thinking there was more to the story than they were saying, I pressed a hand to my heart and said, “Why, Scott, you didn’t go around at night stealing road signs to hang in your bedroom, did you?”

  Mrs. Parnell erupted into genuine, almost relieved, laughter. Bingo. Whatever trouble Scott had wormed his way into, it wasn’t something as harmless as stealing road signs. I didn’t have fifty dollars, but if I did, I would have bet it all on the hunch that Scott’s trouble was anything but the usual stuff.

  “Well,” my mom said, her smile pinched at the corners, “I’m sure whatever happened is in the past. Coldwater is a great place for a fresh start. Have you registered for classes yet, Scott? Some of them fill up quickly, especially the advanced placement classes.”

  “Advanced placement,” Scott repeated with an amused snort. “As in AP? No offense, but I’m not aiming that high. As my mom”— he reached sideways and shook her shoulder in a way that was just a little too rough to be friendly— “so kindly pointed out, if I go to college, it won’t be for grades.”

  Not wanting to give anyone at the table a chance to pull us further away from the topic of Scott’s former troubles, I said, “Oh, come on, Scott. You’re killing me. What’s so bad about your past? It can’t be so horrible that you’re not willing to tell old friends.”

  “Nora—,” my mom started.

  “Get a few DUIs? Steal a car? Joyride?”

  Under the table, I felt my mom’s foot come to rest on top of mine. She directed a sharp look at me that said, What’s gotten into you?

  Scott’s chair scraped back against the floor, and he got to his feet. “Bathroom?” he asked my mom. He stretched his collar. “Indigestion.”

  “At the top of the stairs.” Her voice was apologetic. She was actually apologizing for my behavior, when she was the one who’d set the whole ridiculous evening up. Anyone with a shred of perceptiveness could see that the point of this dinner wasn’t to share a meal with old family friends. Vee was right—this was a meet cute. Well, I had news for my mom. Scott and me? Not happening.

  After Scott excused himself, Mrs. Parnell smiled wide, as if to erase the past five minutes and start fresh. “So tell me,” she said a little too brightly, “does Nora have a boyfriend?”

  “No,” I said at the same time Mom said, “Sort of.”

  “That’s confusing,” Mrs. Parnell said, chewing a forkful of lasagna and looking between Mom and me.

  “His name is Patch,” Mom said.

  “Odd name,” mused Mrs. Parnell. “What were his parents thinking?”

  “It’s a nickname,” Mom explained. “Patch gets in a lot of fights. He’s always needing to be patched up.”

  Suddenly I regretted ever explaining to her that Patch was his nickname.

  Mrs. Parnell shook her head. “I think it’s a gang name. All the gangs use nicknames. Slasher, Slayer, Maimer, Mauler, Reaper. Patch.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Patch is not in a gang.”

  “That’s what you think,” Mrs. Parnell said. “Gangs are for inner-city criminals, right? They’re roaches that only come out at night.” She grew silent, and I thought I saw her eyes flick to Scott’s empty chair. “Times are changing. A couple weeks ago I watched a Law & Order about a new breed of wealthy suburban gangs. They called them secret societies, or blood societies, or some such nonsense, but it all boils down to the same thing. I thought it was your typical sensationalized Hollywood garbage, but Scott’s dad said he’s seeing more of this stuff all the time. He would know—him being a cop and all.”

  “Your husband is a cop?” I asked.

  “Ex-husband, rot his soul.”

  That’s enough. Scott’s voice drifted out of the shadowy hall, and I jumped. I was on the verge of wondering if he’d gone to the bathroom at all, or if he’d stood just outside the dining room, eavesdropping, when it dawned on me that I didn’t think he’d spoken out loud. In fact—

  I was pretty sure he’d spoken to my … thoughts. No. Not my thoughts. His mother’s. And somehow I’d overheard.

  Mrs. Parnell flipped her palms up. “All I said was rot his soul— I’m not taking that back, it’s exactly how I feel.”

  “I said stop talking.” Scott’s voice was quiet, eerie.

  My mom spun around, as if just now noticing that Scott had entered the room. I blinked in dazed disbelief. I couldn’t really have overheard him speaking to his mom’s thoughts. I mean, Scott was human … wasn’t he?

  “Is that how you talk to your own mother?” Mrs. Parnell said, shaking her finger at him. But I could tell it was more for our benefit than for any purpose of putting Scott in his place.

  His cold stare stayed fixed on her a moment longer, then he retreated to the front door and yanked it shut at his back.

  Mrs. Parnell wiped her mouth, pink lipstick staining her napkin. “The nasty side of divorce.” She let go of a long, troubled sigh. “Scott never used to have a temper. Of course, it could be that he’s growing up to be his father’s son. Well. It’s an unpleasant topic and not appropriate for dinner. Does Patch wrestle, Nora? I bet Scott could teach him a few things.”

  “He plays pool,” I said, my voice uninspired; I had no desire to talk about Patch. Not here, not now. Not when the subject of his name had caused a rock to swell in my throat. More than ever, I wished I’d brought my cell phone to the table. I wasn’t feeling half so angry, which meant Patch had probably cooled off too. Had he forgiven me enough to send a text or call? Everything was a tangled mess, but there had to be a way around it. This wasn’t as bad as it seemed. We’d find a way to work it out.

  Mrs. Parnell nodded. “Polo. Now there’s a true Maine sport.”

  “Pool as in pool halls,” Mom corrected, sounding a little pale.

  Mrs. Parnell cocked her head like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Hotbeds of gang activity,” she finally said. “The Law & Order I saw? Wealthy, upper-class young men were running their neighborhood pool halls like Las Vegas casinos. Best keep a close eye on that Patch of yours, Nora. Could have a side to him he’s keeping from you. A side he’s keeping in the dark.”

  “He’s not in a gang,” I repeated for what felt like the millionth time, straining to hang on to a courteous tone.

  But as soon as I said it, I realized I had no way of knowing for certain that Patch had never been in a gang. Did a group of fallen angels count as a gang? I didn’t know much about his past, particularly before he met me …

  “We’ll see,” Mrs. Parnell said, doubtful. “We’ll see.”

  An hour later, the food was gone, the dishes were washed, Mrs. Parnell had finally left to hunt down Scott, and I retreated to my room. My cell was faceup on the floor, showing that I had no new texts, no new messages, and no missed calls.

  My lip quivered, and I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes to stop the tears beginning to blur my vision. To keep from dwelling on all the awful things I’d said to Patch, I tried to work out in my mind a way to repair everything. The archangels couldn’t forbid us from talking or seeing each other—not when Patch was my guardian angel. He had to stay in my life. We’d keep doing what we’d always done. In a couple of days, after we’d shaken off our first real fight, things would go back to normal. And who cared about my future? I could work everything out later. It wasn’t like I had to have my whole life planned right this moment.

  But there was
one thing that just wasn’t adding up. Patch and I had spent the past two months displaying our affection openly, with no reservations whatsoever. So why was he just now showing concern over the archangels?

  My mom poked her head inside my room. “I’m going to pick up a few toiletries for my trip tomorrow. I should be back soon. Need anything while I’m out?”

  I noticed she didn’t bring up Scott as potential boyfriend material. Apparently his uncertain past had withered her matchmaking urges. “I’m good, but thanks anyway.”

  She started to pull the door shut, then stopped. “We sort of have a problem. I let it slip to Lynn that you don’t have a car. She volunteered Scott to drive you to summer school. I told her that really wouldn’t be necessary, but I think she thought I was only saying no because I was worried we’d be putting Scott out. She said you could pay him back for his time by giving him a tour of Coldwater tomorrow.”

  “Vee gives me a ride to school.”

  “I made that clear, but she’s not taking no for an answer. It might be better if you explain things to Scott directly. Thank him for the offer, but tell him you already have a ride.”

  Just what I wanted. More interaction with Scott.

  “I’d like you to keep riding with Vee,” she added slowly. “In fact, if Scott stops by while I’m out of town this week, maybe it’s best to keep your distance.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “We don’t know him very well,” she said carefully.

  “But Scott and I used to be best friends, remember?”

  She looked at me emphatically. “That was a long time ago. Things change.”

  My point exactly.

  “I would just like to know a bit more about Scott before you go spending too much time with him,” she continued. “When I get back, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Well, this was an unexpected turn of events. “You’re going to dig up dirt on him?”

  “Lynn and I are good friends. She’s under a lot of stress. She may need someone to confide in.” She took a step toward my dresser, pumped a dot of my hand lotion into her palm, and rubbed her hands together. “If she mentions Scott, well, I’m not going to not listen.”

  “If it helps build your case that he’s still up to no good, I thought he acted really weird at dinner.”

  “His parents are coming off a divorce,” she said in that same carefully neutral tone. “I’m sure he’s going through a lot of turmoil. It’s hard losing a parent.”

  Tell me about it.

  “The auction ends Wednesday afternoon, and I should be home by dinner. Vee’s staying over tomorrow night, right?”

  “Right,” I said, just now remembering I still needed to discuss this with Vee, but I couldn’t imagine there’d be a problem. “By the way, I’m thinking about getting a job.” Better to toss it out in the open, especially since with any luck, I hoped to have employment before she returned home.

  Mom blinked. “Where did this come from?”

  “I need a car.”

  “I thought Vee was fine with giving you rides.”

  “I feel like a parasite.” I couldn’t even run to the store for emergency tampons without calling Vee. Worse, I’d come this close to having to hitch a ride to school today with Marcie Millar. I didn’t want to make unnecessary demands on my mom, especially when money was so tight, but I didn’t want a repeat of this morning, either. I’d been longing for a car ever since my mom sold the Fiat, and seeing the Cabriolet this afternoon had pushed me to action. Paying for the car myself seemed like a good compromise.

  “You don’t think a job will interfere with school?” Mom asked, her tone telling me she wasn’t wild about the idea. Not that I’d expected her to be.

  “I’m only taking one class.”

  “Yes, but it’s chemistry.”

  “No offense, but I think I can handle two things at once.”

  At that, she sat on the edge of my bed. “Is something the matter? You’re awfully snappy tonight.”

  I took an extra second to answer, coming very close to telling the truth. “No. I’m fine.”

  “You seem stressed.”

  “Long day. Oh, and did I mention Marcie Millar is my chem partner?”

  I could tell by her expression that she knew just how deeply this cut. After all, it was my mom I’d run home to for most of the past eleven years after Marcie had had her way with me. And it was my mom who’d picked up the pieces, put me back together, and sent me back to school stronger and wiser and armed with a few tricks of my own.

  “I’m stuck with her for eight weeks.”

  “Tell you what, if you survive all eight weeks without killing her, we can talk about getting you a car.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”

  She kissed my forehead. “I’ll expect a full report on the first couple of days when I get back from my trip. No wild parties while I’m gone.”

  “I make no promises.”

  Five minutes later, my mom steered her Taurus down the driveway. I let the curtain drop back in place, curled into the sofa, and stared at my cell phone.

  But no calls came in.

  I reached for Patch’s necklace, still fastened around my neck, and squeezed it harder than I expected. I was struck by the horrible thought that it might be all I had left of him.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE DREAM CAME IN THREE COLORS: BLACK, WHITE, and a wan gray.

  It was a cold night. I stood barefoot on the dirt road, sludge and rain quickly filling the potholes pockmarking it. Rocks and skeletal weeds sprang up intermittently. Darkness consumed the countryside, except for one bright spot: A few hundred yards off the road sat a stone-and-wood tavern. Candles guttered in the windows, and I was just about to head toward the tavern for shelter when I heard the distant jangle of bells.

  As the sound of the bells grew louder, I moved a safe distance off the road. I watched as a horse-drawn coach rattled out of the darkness and came to a halt where I’d been standing moments before. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the driver flung himself off the coach, splattering mud halfway up his boots. He tugged on the door and stepped back.

  A dark form emerged. A man. A cape hung from his shoulders, flapping open in the wind, but the hood was drawn to cover his face.

  “Wait here,” he told the driver.

  “My lord, it’s raining heavily—”

  The man in the cape gave a nod in the direction of the tavern. “I have business. I shan’t be long. Keep the horses ready.”

  The driver’s eyes shifted to the tavern. “But m’lord … it’s thieves and vagabonds that keep company there. And there’s bad air tonight. I feel it in my bones.” He rubbed his arms briskly, as if to fight off a chill. “M’lord might be better to hurry back home to the lady and little ’uns.”

  “Speak nothing of this to my wife.” The man in the cape flexed and opened his gloved hands while fixing his gaze on the tavern. “She has enough to worry about,” he murmured.

  I turned my attention to the tavern, and the ominous candlelight flickering in its small, slanted windows. The roof was crooked too, tilting slightly to the right, as if the tools used to construct it had been far from exact. Weeds choked the exterior, and every now and then a rowdy yell or the sound of shattered glass traveled out from its walls.

  The driver dragged the sleeve of his coat under his nose. “My own son died of the plague not two years past. A terrible thing, what you and the lady are sufferin’ through.”

  In the stiff silence that followed, the horses stamped impatiently, their coats steaming. Little puffs of frost rose from their nostrils. The picture was so authentic, it suddenly scared me. Never before had any of my dreams felt this real.

  The man in the cape had started across the cobblestone walkway leading to the tavern. The edges of the dream vanished behind him, and after a moment’s hesitation I started after him, afraid I’d disappear too, if I didn’t stay close. I slipped through the tavern door behind him.r />
  Halfway down the back wall was a giant oven with a brick chimney. Various wooden bowls, tin cups, and utensils flanked the walls to either side of the oven, hanging in place on large nails. Three barrels had been rolled into the corner. A mangy dog was curled up in a sleeping ball in front of them. Overturned stools and a haphazard arrangement of dirty dishes and mugs cluttered the floor, which was hardly a floor at all. It was dirt, tamped smooth and sprinkled with what looked like sawdust, and the moment I stepped on it, the mud already caked on my heels sponged up the dusty earth. I was just wishing for a hot shower, when the appearance of the ten or so customers sitting at various tables around the tavern penetrated my awareness.

  Most of the men had shoulder-length hair with odd, pointed beards. Their pants were baggy and tucked into tall boots, and their sleeves billowed. They wore broad-brimmed hats that reminded me of pilgrims.

  I was definitely dreaming of a time far back in history, and since the detail of the dream was so vivid, I should have had at least some idea of what time period I’d dreamed myself into. But I was at a loss. Most likely England, but anywhere from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. I’d gotten an A in world history this year, but period clothing hadn’t been on any of our tests. Nothing in the scene before me had.

  “I’m looking for a man,” the man in the cape said to the bartender, who was positioned behind a waist-high table that I assumed served as the bar. “I was told to meet him here tonight, but I’m afraid I don’t know his name.”

  The bartender, a short man, bald except for a few wiry hairs standing on end at the top of his head, eyed the man in the cape. “Something to drink?” he asked, spreading his lips to show jagged black stumps for teeth.

  I swallowed the nausea that rolled through my stomach at the sight of his teeth and stepped back.

  The man in the cape didn’t show my same revulsion. He merely shook his head. “I need to find this man as quickly as possible. I was told you’d be able to help.”

  The bartender’s rotted smile faded back behind his lips. “Aye, I can help you find him, m’lord. But trust an old man and have a drink or two first. Something to warm your blood on a cold night.” He pushed a small glass at the man.