by Elsa Kurt
Georgie’s voice shook at the end of this emphatic statement, and Charles knew the time for arguing had ended. He rose from his chair with painstaking care—sat too long again—and crossed the sunroom to where his wife stood, facing the window again and hugging her arms. He rested his large, still strong hands on her shoulders and kissed the crown of her head.
Gently, he asked, “How about I make us some tea, hmm?”
Georgie leaned back against her husband, reached up and patted his hand, and nodded. Before he could cross the room, the front doorbell rang. Charles looked at Georgie inquiringly, but she shrugged and said over the dogs’ excited barks, “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”
Charles rubbed his hands together and waggled his eyebrows. “No, but if we’re lucky, it’s the Girl Scouts with some cookies.”
“Oh, Lord. Just what we need. I’ll get the door. You get the tea.”
Charles went to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil then into the pantry for tea. A moment later, he headed back down the hall.
“I forgot to ask you what kind of tea you—oh.” Charles stopped in his tracks and blinked at the visitor. “Hello, Feather Anne. Would you care to join us for tea?”
He glanced at Georgie, who was too busy watching the girl roll around on the floor with the dogs. “Hey, Mr. B. I’m—eww, don’t lick me in my mouth, Rufus—I’m fine. Unless you got any ice cream?”
Charles deadpanned, “Does Andre Rieu play the violin?”
“Huh?” said Feather Anne from the floor blankly.
“Never mind. Fudge swirl or mint chocolate chip?”
“Can I have both?”
Charles and Feather Anne looked to Georgie for the answer. She faltered then asked, “Certainly, dear, but…have you had dinner yet?”
“Dinner? I haven’t even had lunch yet. Unless you count a bag of Doritos.”
“Well, then, let us fix you up a nice meal, and then you may have ice cream after that,” said Georgie as authoritatively as she dared with the flighty, feisty girl.
“Sure. Cool. Thanks, Mrs. B. Can I give Rufus and Mabel a treat? I know where they are.”
Feather Anne hopped up deftly and strode past Charles to the kitchen. In a moment, the rustle of a box being opened and the frantic skittering of two small dogs prancing excitedly on tile could be heard. Charles looked at Georgie, and Georgie shrugged helplessly back at him. Her hopeful, needy expression begged his tolerance, and for her, he acquiesced.
It had been weeks since the child had come by to visit them, but like each time before, it was just as much a random, unexpected whirlwind of chaos that left Georgie all asunder and Charles in need of a nap. Just before leaving, Feather Anne dropped a bit of surprising information.
“Mae’s new boyfriend seems all right,” she said with forced nonchalance.
Charles and Georgie looked at each other then at the girl. Georgie asked, “New…boyfriend?”
“Yeah, you know. The old guy staying at her place. William.”
“Oh.” Charles chuckled. “No, dear, he’s just renting a room there while he writes his book.”
“Uh huh. Sure he is,” she replied knowingly.
Too knowingly for a nine year old, thought Georgie. She ignored it, though, and asked instead, “Now, what makes you say that, dear?”
“Oh, puh-lease. I seen the way they look at each other. Haven’t you? And they’re, like, all touchy-touchy when they walk by.”
Of course, they had. Everyone in town had seen it too. Including that poor, lovesick Bruce Grady. But Mae Huxley had always kept to herself and rarely invited conversation about her personal life. It wasn’t that she was unfriendly—heaven’s no—she was just private was all. Georgie and Gloria van Bergen had speculated together that it was an “only child syndrome” thing. Or maybe it was the gay father thing. Who knew, really? All that mattered was that she was a good, sweet girl, practically alone in the world.
It was precisely what drove Georgie to distraction about the whole Mae situation. How could Mae not see that, with her mother coming in out of the blue—with a sibling for her, to boot—she didn’t have to be alone anymore? Of course, the woman could’ve chosen better timing than a funeral, but what could one expect from someone of ill-breeding? Oh, and now they had that William fellow to contend with.
As this all swirled and rioted in Georgie’s head, her husband observed her. He could read those thoughts as if they scrolled across a banner above her head. Fifty-plus years of marriage will do that to a couple. Or at least, it should. Meanwhile, little Feather Anne was still ruminating aloud the likelihood of Mae and “the old guy” being a couple. Or as the child put it, “hooking up.” Whatever on earth that was supposed to mean, he didn’t want to know.
“Well, anyhow,” Feather Anne was saying to the distracted septuagenarians, “I gotta roll. I’m gonna hit the library next. I have a library card now, you know,” she added, puffing up her flat chest and practically beaming with pride that appeared defiant. As if she dared them to say she was lying.
“Oh, Feather Anne dear, that’s wonderful,” exclaimed Georgie, clapping her hands together. “Would you like me to recommend some appropriate books to you?”
“Nah. William already hooked me up with some, so I’m cool.”
Georgie, unable to hide her surprise, stammered, “Wi-William helped you? Is that so?” Then she looked to Charles with her pale eyebrows raised high into her forehead.
“Well, that was mighty nice of him,” he said encouragingly. Judging by the scowl his wife turned on him, this was not the response she’d anticipated.
“Aw, don’t make that face, Mrs. B. He’s not a creeper or nothing. I asked him, if you wanna know.”
“Well, he is a writer,” Georgie conceded. “Did you run into him by accident or—”
Feather Anne looked down at her dingy black, battered, untied Keds and mumbled something.
“What’s that you said, dear?” Charles and Georgie leaned in.
“I thought maybe if he liked me, then maybe—you know—maybe Mae might too.” Georgie made a soft “oh” sound and reached out to pat Feather Anne’s head, but the child ducked away quickly, shrugging and raising the barrier of her I-don’t-care attitude. “It’s cool. Whatever, right? See ya. Oh, an’ thanks for the grub.”
She was off and running halfway down the street before they could get their own farewells out. They watched her—her long, skinny legs pumping, her wild raven hair flying like a banner in the wind—with Charles’s hand on Georgie’s arm, Georgie’s hand pressed to her cheek until she was out of sight. Then they went to the kitchen with Rufus and Mabel in tow to make the tea and drank in silence.
Chapter 15
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
Ricky Baker parked in St. Paul’s empty lot and stared across the street from behind the wheel of his ’67 Camaro—or as Brianna called it, his mid-life crisis-in-training mobile. She also called his ’75 Nova a shitmobile and his ’79 Ford pick-up the big blue bastard. He didn’t mind it when she got on him about his car collection, though. Or anything else she rode him about, either. If anyone knew how Brianna grew up, well, they’d understand her better. Not that he’d ever tell anyone her business. That’d be the one time her bite would be worse than her bark.
Ricky learned real early on that Bri wouldn’t let anything tarnish the Boudreau name any more than Gordon and Martha would, and he either had to accept it or move on. As Deacon of the First Baptist Church, town choir leader, and Board of Education member, Gordon Boudreau and his demure, diminutive wife Martha were considered pillars of the community. Scandal was not an option, Brianna told him in no uncertain terms. Gotta “keep up appearances” and all that shit. By then, he was already so ass over elbows in love with her, he’d have done anything she wanted. Still would too. The only thing he refused her—ever—was going to the Boudreau house. If he did, he’d probably kill Gordon Boudreau with his bare hands.
On that day, though, Gordon Boudreau was far from
his mind. Ricky Baker had other business to attend. Like paying Miles Hannaford a visit. Ricky considered himself a perceptive—intuitive, even—kind of guy. So when Bri agreed to let him list their house instead of her cousin Janelle—who only lived a town over—he just knew the sleazy asshole was up to something. The way that guy looked at and talked to women…it made him crazy. But Brianna wanted Hannaford to handle everything, so that was that.
Ricky looked at his watch. It was after ten a.m. and Hannaford’s little foreign car still wasn’t in its parking space. The only car parked there was a midnight blue BMW with a vanity plate that read BRBI*GRL. He’d stared at it for twenty minutes before he said—out loud—“Oh, Barbie Girl. I get it.”
He yawned and stretched as best he could and looked up and down the street, doing a double take, then squinting at the figure coming out of Triple J Travel. At first, he thought it was that annoying jackass, Jack Jacobson, then realized it was Elise’s husband, Ethan. Jacobson followed him out the door. It was only interesting because Triple J was usually closed on Mondays.
Ricky looked skyward a moment—seeing only his sun visor—thinking. Yep, it was Monday. Brianna did her Pilates class on Monday mornings, and she’d been gone before he came downstairs for breakfast. He had to try to remember that. Poor Mrs. Teccio—Cassidy’s sitter—got more than an eyeful of Ricky in his boxer briefs. She didn’t seem to mind, though. When he looked back, Elise’s guy was getting into his car. Ricky shrugged to himself and figured maybe the English dude was going to take Lissie on a trip or something. He still couldn’t understand what she saw in the guy. Kind of a wuss, if anyone asked him, but whatever.
At twenty after ten, Hannaford’s Mercedes pulled into the lot, next to the BMW. He climbed out slowly, strolled around to the passenger side, and opened the door. A hand reached up for Miles to take—which he did with an exaggerated show of gallantry—then a pair of very high heels and mile-long, tan legs led to a short, hot pink miniskirt. A curtain of platinum blonde hair blocked everything from the waist up. So much hair that Ricky couldn’t even see her face until she swung around. He had to give Hannaford credit, the guy always got the hottest chicks. This one was no exception, although she did look kind of young. Barely twenty-one, Ricky would bet. This pissed him off too. As a man with a daughter now, that was what he saw looking at the girl with the too-short skirt and lecherous dude—some man’s daughter.
Miles opened the car door of the BMW and handed the woman-girl in—not before sticking his tongue down her throat and cupping her ass—and sending her off with a wave and a fake smile. The moment she was out of sight, he exhaled and rolled his eyes. Ricky watched him fish for his keys in his pockets, open his trunk, grab a stack of ‘OPEN HOUSE’ signs, and unlock the door to Hannaford Realty. Ricky snickered at the slogan, just like he did every time he saw it. Then, finally, he got out of his car and made his way across the street. A horn honked, and someone called out, “Hey Rick-ayyyy,” to him as they passed, and he threw up a wave without looking to see who it was. He didn’t have time for them.
“Hannaford,” Ricky called across the office.
Hannaford jumped and whipped around. When he saw Ricky, his face went kind of scared looking then smoothed out.
“Hey, man. You startled the shit out of me, man. Thought maybe you were Jenny’s old man or something.”
“Jenny,” Ricky asked dumbly, then, “Oh, you mean the barely legal girl that just left?”
“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Hannaford put his hands up in a don’t shoot gesture, “she told me she was twenty-four, buddy. Legal, totally legal. Shit, you think she was lying?”
He looked genuinely worried, to his mild credit. Ricky shook his head. “Same old Hannaford, huh? Going after girls you should leave alone, getting yourself into trouble all cuz you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“Hey, listen. Buddy, I don’t know what—”
“Cut the bullshit, Hannaford. I’ve known you too long. I know your game, man. And I’m here to tell you,” Ricky had come up to Hannaford’s desk, leaned over it, and pointed in his face, which now had beads of sweat forming, “Stay. The fuck. Away. From Brianna. You understand me?”
“Rick, buddy. Come on, man. Whatever she’s told you—”
“What? Wait, what would there be to tell me, Hannaford? Something happen I should know about?”
If this guy laid a hand on Bri, he’d kill him. She probably tried to handle it herself, but guys like Hannaford only responded to another man telling them to back off.
“No, no, no, buddy. No way. All is good, here. I—you, you got your thing, I got my thing, we’re cool, okay?”
Ricky made a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a yeah. He assessed Hannaford a moment longer, looking for insincerity, then backed up a step. “Yeah, all right. Just making sure. Brianna’s too nice to,” Hannaford audibly scoffed then caught himself when Ricky glared at him, “to make a fuss. That’s why I gotta make sure. Anyhow, what’s going on with the house stuff? You find anything Bri likes yet?”
“Ah, well, still working on it. Not too many houses going up on the market, you know?”
“That Mexican family buying the Stillmans’ house?”
“They’re Cuban. And it looks like they are. In fact, they’re coming in any time now to sign the contracts, so…” Miles trailed off and looked at Ricky expectantly.
Ricky looked around the office as if seeing it for the first time. He strolled over to the water cooler and poured himself a drink. Then another. Again, he was an astute guy; he knew Hannaford wanted him to leave. But you couldn’t let a guy like him call the shots. Otherwise, he’d walk all over you, try and take what’s yours. Ricky had seen him do it, both on the football field and off. After a few more minutes of rifling around—picking up brochures, setting them down in the wrong place, unrolling the town map hung on the wall and letting it snap back up—Ricky announced, “Well, guess I’d better get back to the shop. Busy day ahead.”
“Right, yeah, sure,” said Hannaford with forced cheer. “Good seeing you, man.”
“Back at ya, bro. Remember what I said now.” He pointed at Miles then waved. Ricky revved his engine a couple times more than necessary before peeling out of the lot. Ten minutes later, whistling and feeling pretty proud of himself, Ricky wheeled the cherry red Camaro into his own lot and got back down to the business of auto repair.
Chapter 16
IT IS WHAT IT IS
I hate you, Gina Byrd. Feather Anne threw another gritty white shell into the receded tide. Then another. She curled her fingers around a large, half-buried rock and yanked it out of the sand with a wet smack then hurled it as far as she could. It wasn’t very far.
The second after the angry thought screamed in her mind, she guiltily tried to take it back. If something awful happened to Gina, it’d be her fault. Mr. Andopolis, her English teacher, said that words have great power, so you’re supposed to use them carefully. She was trying, but sometimes it was really hard. Feather Anne didn’t hate her mother. Not all the time. Sometimes she felt bad for her. Other times, she felt protective of Gina. Like she was the kid and Feather Anne was the grownup. Over and under it all, she loved her mother. If she would just stop doing stupid shit all the time, they’d be okay.
“Quite an arm you’ve got there, slugger. Put your whole body into it, though. Otherwise, you’ll pull a muscle.” William Grant—standing where the access road to Chance Community Beach (Residents Only) met the beige, coarse sand—added a short, apologetic wave.
“Hey, William. You come out here a lot?” Feather Anne was surprised by how happy she was to see him. He had a nice face, one that made her think of goofy things like going fishing and flying kites. Father-daughter dances and picnics and learning about constellations and stuff.
“First time, actually.” He looked up one end of the shoreline then down the other. “Is it always this quiet? I’d have thought half the town would be here on such a beautiful summer day.”
Feathe
r Anne’s shoulders rose and fell. “Eh, wait until around ten o’clock. Then all the stroller moms will be here with their brats. Right now’s the best time. ’Specially when it’s low tide.”
“Must be nice growing up on the shore. I was raised in the city. Only saw the ocean for ten days out of the year.”
“Well, better than not seein’ it at all, right?” That was another thing she liked about him. He talked to her like she was a person and not just a kid.
“Why, Feather Anne, you are an optimist,” said William with delight. “That’s a very fine quality. I hope you never lose that.”
Another shrug from the girl, but this time a grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. She wasn’t exactly sure what an optimist was, but it sounded good. “Yeah, well. So you gonna do some writing out here?”
William looked down at the messenger bag and patted it. “Yes, indeed. Got my laptop and a chair,” he thumbed the canvas cylinder strapped across his back, “my coffee and the sunrise. Doesn’t get better than that.”
“Well, I gotta get back to Gina’s. We’re supposed to be packing up the trailer.” Feather Anne would’ve much rather have stayed there, on the beach with the nice man who made her feel all calm inside, than go back to the shitstorm that was her life, but it was time and she knew it.
“Oh,” said William, frowning. “I see. I—I’m sorry for your troubles, Feather Anne. I wish—”
“It’s cool, William. It is what it is, right?” Her tone was hard, and her gaze locked on the horizon. It’s not his problem, and she didn’t need his apologies. If her sister refused to take them in, then that was that. Her and Gina would pack up and go…somewhere. Vermont, maybe. That’s where Gina claimed she’d got a friend or two who might be willing to take them in for a while. “Well, I gotta roll. See you around maybe.”
