Fire and Rain

by Diane Chamberlain

  Chris turned the page of the album, and the setting of the photographs switched from San Diego to Mexico City, where the second wedding, an intimate affair in a small chapel, had been held for the benefit of Carmen’s elderly parents. Her parents, who had worked all their lives as migrant farmers, had sent Carmen north of the border when she was five years old to give her a better chance for a decent education. That she had received, but her excellent performance was rarely rewarded by her aunt and uncle, who had tried to groom her to be a good wife and mother and little more.

  It had been a long time since he’d looked at those pictures. Carmen was so beautiful, so happy. She was twenty-seven and he was twenty-eight. They had met while she was working for News Nine, covering a baseball scandal in which he, thankfully, had no involvement. They began dating and made an attractive, high-visibility couple, both of them having solid reputations in San Diego and rising rapidly to the top of their respective careers. There was a good deal of speculation as to whether or not Chris Garrett would be able to settle down. He was known for a wild streak that seemed incompatible with marriage, but he surprised everyone, including himself, at his ability to give up the other women and the excessive drinking and the escapades. Only Carmen had believed him capable of being a good husband, and in her he discovered the joy of having a real friend. Before that, his friendships had been limited to those men with whom he played ball. Friendships which were intense and engrossing and playful, but in the final analysis, superficial. These days, though, he didn’t have even that. He’d lost his teammates the same time he’d lost his wife. Despite the few friends he’d made at the high school where he taught, it had been a very lonely five years.

  Trying to shake off the melancholy that had suddenly settled over him, Chris turned another page in the album. And there was Sugarbush. He and Carmen had bought Sugarbush shortly after they were married, then had set about remodeling the beautiful old adobe for their home. It wasn’t long afterward that Carmen was given her own show, San Diego Sunrise, a half hour every morning during which she’d interview politicians, movie stars, whomever she chose. Her guests were always apprehensive, never knowing how kind Carmen Perez was feeling that day. She bent the rules of journalistic etiquette, but the staff of News Nine gave her free reign despite any fear they might have had of legal reprisal. Her ratings were simply too good. Carmen wasn’t yet thirty and had everything she’d wanted. Everything except a child.

  Chris opened the second album. These pictures were far more familiar to him. He looked at them often. The first was a shot of the scoreboard taken during the Padres-Pirates game, the announcement reading, “It’s a Boy!!! Dustin Garrett, 6 pounds, 3 ounces!! Congratulations Chris and Carmen!!” Then followed a series of pictures of Dustin in the hospital, snuggling cheek to cheek with a radiant Carmen, his already thick, dark hair so much like hers. Chris remembered sleeping poorly after they brought Dustin home from the hospital, not so much because of Dustin’s own wakefulness, but because he couldn’t still his thoughts. He imagined teaching his son to ride a bike, coaching him in little league, all the things Augie had so enthusiastically done with him.

  Once they brought Dustin home, Chris took so many pictures of him that the camera broke. (“You wore it out, man,” said the young clerk in the camera store.) And then the setting of the pictures switched back to the hospital again. He’d had to force himself to take those pictures. Dustin looked so small and gray, a painful array of tubes and needles invading his doll-like body. They’d told him Dustin was going to die, and he’d thought these pictures would be all he would have of his son. But the little boy hadn’t died. He’d surprised his doctors. Disappointed them, too, Chris had thought at the time. In their kind hearts, they had wanted this particular child to die. He was certainly blind, they told him, definitely deaf. The brain damage was severe. Profound was the word they used. Irreversible. He could still remember Carmen’s screams when they told her.

  IN THE MORNING LIGHT, Chris was stunned by what had become of Sugarbush. Nothing short of the fires could have provided such graphic evidence of the changes wrought by the drought. He had seen his own yard and the dry chaparral of Cinnamon Canyon daily, and so he had barely noticed the slow and insidious changes there. But it had been several years since he’d gotten a good look at Sugarbush, and what he saw sent a chill through him. Every growing thing seemed to be withering, dying. Carmen’s once dazzling rose garden was nearly dead. There were only a few bushes near the middle of the garden that appeared to be hanging on, as though she had given up on it slowly, focusing her time and water on the center as the edges died away.

  How had she tolerated it, watching the one thing she still treasured, the one thing in which she could still take pride, fade away? “Gardening’s excellent therapy for her,” one of the shrinks had told him. “Gives her a chance to nurture something.”

  He walked over to the cottage Mia was renting and knocked on the door. She opened it and gasped her surprise at seeing him there. She was barefoot, wearing blue shorts and a baggy white T-shirt.

  “Morning, Mia,” he said, and with a gesture toward his cottage, added, “I’m going to be staying out here while my house is being rebuilt.” He was certain she knew that he and Carmen had once been married. What she would make of him living in an outbuilding on Carmen’s property, he had no idea.

  He peered past her into the living room. The walls were bare, and he could see no furniture whatsoever from where he stood. But there was sheet plastic on the floor.

  “Wasn’t the cottage furnished when you moved in?” he asked.

  She glanced behind her to see what he was seeing. “Oh, yes. I moved most of the furniture into the dining room so I could have a big space to work in.”

  “Work?”

  “Clay,” she said, shrugging, as though he should have known. “It gets messy.”

  He was curious, but he had too much to do today to question her further. Obviously there was more to Mia than he had thought.

  “I’m going to be in late today,” he said. “I have to buy some clothes and a few other things. Then I have a meeting with the guy who stopped by yesterday.”

  Mia colored, and he knew he had mentioned Jeff only to see the reaction in her face.

  “At the office?” she asked.

  He smiled. “No, at a restaurant. Would you rather I invited him back to the office?”

  She jutted her chin at him indignantly. “You’re misinterpreting my interest,” she said. “He has extraordinary bone structure in his face.”

  “Right, Mia,” he said with a wink, then turned to step off her porch. “I’ll probably be in around two or so.”

  4

  “IT’S LIKE THIS,” JEFF CABRIO said, drawing invisible lines with the tip of his finger on the red Formica tabletop. “If you put the trans-hydrator here”—he lifted the salt shaker and set it on the edge of the table—”the rain will fall within these boundaries.” He moved his empty glass and the pepper shaker to form a triangle. “That’s on a small scale. For all of Valle Rosa, of course, we’d need something much grander. First thing we’d have to do is figure out how much land we want to cover.”

  Chris was leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest as he watched Jeff explain his rainmaking technology to Rick Smythe, whose green eyes were wide, incredulous. Chris wasn’t quite sure about Rick. He was twenty-seven, nearly a decade younger than Jeff, but he looked closer to twenty. His hair was sun-bleached and long enough to cover the back of his shirt collar. He’d eaten an avocado and alfalfa sprout sandwich for lunch, while Chris and Jeff dined on the catfish that had earned this restaurant—one of three in Valle Rosa—a little fame over the years.

  Rick told them he’d surfed before going into work that morning, that it was a necessary prerequisite to the start of his day. He had the look of a college kid who spent his afternoons on the beach and his evenings partying. There was a density about him, a doltishness that worried Chris. He’d been told, though, t
hat Rick was brighter than he seemed and the best engineer in Valle Rosa’s ineffectual water conservation program. But perhaps that wasn’t saying much.

  Nevertheless, in the last hour Chris had watched the younger engineer’s amused skepticism turn to intrigue as he slipped under Jeff Cabrio’s spell. Chris himself had tried to resist it today, tried to keep his thinking clear, but in the small window of time between placing their order and receiving their food, Jeff had cured Rick’s hiccups by guiding him through an intricate set of finger exercises, had helped their gangly young waitress pick up pieces of broken glass with a slice of bread, and had the other diners in the cramped restaurant generally staring at him with open curiosity. Chris had simply given in. Given up. Let him help you, he thought to himself. What can it hurt?

  Rick lifted his third glass of orange juice to his lips while studying the triangle Jeff had formed on the table. “How exact can you be with the rainfall?” he asked.

  “With the right equipment, very,” Jeff said. “If I do it at all, I’ll do it with precision.”

  Rick seemed unable to shift his gaze from Jeff’s, and Chris knew how he felt. Jeff had a way of holding you to him with his eyes, of not letting you go until he was ready.

  Rick finally broke the stare, letting out his breath in a laugh. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I feel like we’re having a conversation about Santa Claus, you know? Like, what he eats for dinner, how he works out his delivery schedule, how we could build chimneys to make it easier on the old dude.” He looked at Chris with a plea in his eyes. Save me, he said. Tell me this is all a joke before I make a fool out of myself believing this guy.

  Chris leaned forward. “So, tell me, Rick. With your background and your training, does what he’s saying make sense?”

  Rick’s tan took on a grayish hue. “Don’t base your decision on me, man,” he said, a shiver in his voice. “I mean, yes, in theory it makes sense, at least the way he’s explaining it. But in practice? Why wouldn’t anyone have thought of it before?” He looked back at Jeff, who shrugged, not stating the obvious: Because no one is as smart as I am.

  “It just sounds too damn simple,” Rick said.

  Jeff offered his shadowy half-smile. “I could make it sound more complicated if you like.”

  Chris knew there were questions he should ask, but he no longer cared about the answers. Six more houses had burned last night, a two-year-old child was missing, and across from him sat a stranger who promised relief. Still, he didn’t want Rick to think he was a complete fool. He’d already told him that Jeff could offer nothing in the way of references.

  He pressed his hands flat on the table top and looked at Jeff. “If I could speak to your previous employers, what would they tell me?” he asked.

  Jeff stared at him for a few painfully long seconds and Chris felt his face go hot.

  “Give me two months,” he said finally. “If I don’t produce rain by then, I’ll leave. And I’ll find some way to pay you back for the equipment and whatever else you’ve shelled out for my expenses.”

  Chris lowered his hands to his thighs. His palms were damp. “We don’t have the money for this. Rainmaking isn’t in the budget. I’ll have to shift things around.” This would be tough; there was little slack in the city coffers. “I’d like to have Rick work with you, all right?”

  Rick froze, his juice glass halfway to his lips as he waited out Jeff Cabrio’s verdict.

  “Fine,” Jeff said.

  “Is that all right with you, Rick? I’ll arrange to move you over.”

  “Great.” Rick grinned. “There’s not much to do at the reservoir these days except panic.”

  The young, dark-haired waitress cleared their plates away, her eyes on Jeff the whole time. He had won her over when he’d helped her clean up the glass she’d dropped and when he’d shot a curdling look at the older waitress who chastised her for her clumsiness. But he paid no attention to her now, and as she walked away from the table, he leaned toward Rick and Chris. “There’s something I have to get straight with both of you, or the deal’s off.”

  He was speaking very quietly. Chris had to pull his chair closer to the table to hear him.

  “I don’t want to be asked questions about myself,” Jeff said. “My private business will remain my private business.”

  Chris felt Rick’s eyes on him. “All right,” he said.

  “All right,” Rick echoed.

  “I have no intention of socializing or of being part of the community or of making friends. I’d rather not talk to anyone except the two of you. I’ll give you one hundred percent of my waking hours. The sooner I’m done, the sooner I can leave.”

  An ultimatum. Jeff Cabrio was going to call the shots, that was clear.

  “Agreed,” Chris said. He turned to Rick.

  “Hey,” Rick said, grinning again, “whatever. I’ll be happy just to—”

  A shriek from the kitchen interrupted him. Their waitress backed out of the open kitchen door, crashing into their table, knocking over the one empty chair.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” She glanced down at them, then back to the kitchen. Every eye in the restaurant was on her, and she hugged her large round tray to her chest like a shield. She pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s a mouse in there.”

  The burly older waitress appeared at the door, hands on her hips, scowling. “Why don’t you announce it to the entire county?” she asked. “Get back in here. You’ve got a job to do.”

  The younger waitress shook her head. “I’m terrified of mice. I know it’s ridiculous, but…”

  Jeff Cabrio stood up. He touched her shoulder. “Do you have an umbrella?” he asked.

  She looked too stunned by the question to answer him, and the older waitress snorted. “An umbrella? It hasn’t rained here in five years, mister.”

  “I think I have one in the trunk of my car,” Chris said.

  “What color is it?” Jeff asked.

  The other diners were staring at them, forkfuls of catfish hanging forgotten in the air.

  “Black,” Chris said.

  “Perfect.”

  Chris walked out to the parking lot. Out of a habit formed over the last few days, he looked in the direction of Cinnamon Canyon and saw the all-too-familiar plume of smoke against the hazy sky. It was farther east now, headed toward the homes on the eastern ridge of the canyon.

  He opened the trunk of his car and dug through baseball mitts and bats and smoke-damaged clothes until he found the old umbrella. Feeling foolish, he carried it back into the restaurant.

  Jeff took the umbrella from him and walked into the kitchen, while Chris, Rick, the two waitresses and the chef watched from the doorway, and the hushed diners held their breath.

  “It’s over there.” The young waitress pointed toward the floor near the broad refrigerator.

  A small gray mouse scurried a couple of feet along the baseboard, then stopped. Jeff took a step toward it, then slowly opened the umbrella and held it on the floor; curved edge toward the mouse. “Chase it into the umbrella, Rick,” he said.

  “What? How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Rick asked, but before he had even finished his sentence, the mouse! darted of its own accord into the umbrella, which Jeff snapped shut.

  “Done,” he said, handing the umbrella to Chris.

  Chris took the umbrella from him, dumbfounded. Some of the diners broke into applause, which he encouraged by raising the umbrella in the air like a trophy.

  Jeff, though, wasn’t smiling. “I’m getting out of here,” he said quietly. Heads turned to follow him as, with a few long strides, he walked out of the restaurant.

  Chris watched him go. Jeff was crazy to think he could keep a low profile in Valle Rosa. The town was far too small to absorb him unnoticed. The people in this restaurant would be talking about him over dinner tonight.

  He left enough money with Rick to cover their bill and then went out to the parking lot. Jeff was still there, sitting in his black Saa
b. Chris walked over and set a hand on the open window.

  “You’re on, Jeff,” he said. “But this is a very close community. I’m not sure how long you’ll be able to remain anonymous.”

  Jeff squinted in the direction of the smoke. “Have they found that kid yet?” he asked. “The one who was missing after the fire last night?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Jeff glanced down at the umbrella. Chris was leaning on it like a cane. “Mice are attracted to black,” he said.

  “What?” Chris looked down at the umbrella himself. “Oh.”

  “You can free him over there.” Jeff pointed to the chaparral at the side of the parking lot. “And then you’d better wash out the umbrella. It’ll have mouse excrement in it.”

  Chris shrugged. “It’s not worth the bother. I never use it.”

  Jeff turned the key in the ignition, then smiled up at him, a full-blown smile. “You will,” he said. “You will.”

  5

  THE SCENT OF FIRE was always in the air. Even in the little Valle Rosa market that Mia frequented after work, the acrid smell hung above the produce and nothing looked very appealing. She selected broccoli, a handful of snow peas, mushrooms and a bag of carrots, all the while hearing Dr. Bella’s words as clearly as if he stood behind her: “The best thing you can do is cut back on fat. Even so, your genes will have the final say.”

  This was a form of mental illness, she thought, a compulsion of sorts, that she could no longer shop without hearing his voice. She’d thought it would be hard to give up the burgers, ice cream, and tortilla chips, but it hadn’t been difficult at all. She had simply lost interest in food. When she’d awaken in the mornings, her hip bones formed little hills beneath the sheet. At first, she’d studied the hollows in her cheeks in the bathroom mirror with fascination, but on the one occasion when she’d closed her eyes and run her fingers over her skin, she’d jerked her hands away, horrified to realize her cheeks felt like her mother’s in that year before she’d died. The body that Glen had called an artist’s lure no longer existed.