For Alan Bonner, Sundays were always a little depressing, because he knew the weekend was almost at an end. Work, he’d decided, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Not that he had much of a choice. His mom was big on him making his own way in the world or however she phrased it, and that was kind of a bummer. It would have been nice had she hired him as the manager at the plant, where he’d be able to sit in an air-conditioned office issuing orders and overseeing things as opposed to delivering snacks to convenience stores. But what could he do? Mom was the boss, and she was saving that position for his sister, Emily. Unlike him, Emily had actually graduated from college.
It wasn’t all bad, though. He had his own place, courtesy of Mom, and the utilities were paid by the orchard, which meant any money he earned was pretty much his own. Even better, he could come and go as he pleased, a definite step up compared to the years he’d lived in the house. And besides, working for Mom, even in an air-conditioned office, wouldn’t have been easy. First, if he worked for her, they’d be around each other all the time, which neither of them would have enjoyed. Taken together with the fact that Mom was kind of a stickler for paperwork—never one of his strengths—he knew things were better the way they were. For the most part, he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, with evenings and weekends entirely his own.
Friday night had been especially fun, because the Tidewater wasn’t nearly as crowded as usual. Not after Abee showed up, anyway. People couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He’d stayed at the bar, though, and for a while, it was downright… pleasant. He could talk to Candy and she actually seemed interested in what he was saying. Of course, she was flirty with all the guys, but he’d kind of gotten the sense that she liked him. He’d been hoping for more of the same on Saturday, but the place had been a zoo. The bar was packed three deep and every table was filled. He could barely hear himself think, much less talk to Candy.
But every time he’d called out an order, she’d smiled at him over the other guys’ heads, and that gave him hope for tonight. Sunday nights were never crowded, and he’d been working up the courage all morning to ask her out. He wasn’t sure she’d say yes, but what did he have to lose? It wasn’t like she was married, right?
Three hours to the west, Frank stood on the putting green at the thirteenth hole, drinking his beer as Roger lined up for a putt. Roger had been playing well, much better than Frank. Today, Frank couldn’t hit a shot to save his life. His drives were slicing, his chips were falling short, and he didn’t even want to think about his putting.
He tried to remind himself that he wasn’t out here to worry about his score. It was a chance to escape the office and spend time with his best friend; it was a chance to get some fresh air and relax. Unfortunately, the reminders weren’t working. Everyone knew that the true joy of golf lay in hitting that wonderful shot, that long arcing drive straight down the fairway, or the chip that ended up two feet from the hole. So far, he hadn’t hit a single shot that was worth remembering, and on the eighth hole he’d five-putted. Five! He might as well have been trying to putt the ball through the windmill and into the clown’s mouth at the local putt-putt place, considering how well he’d been playing today. Even the fact that Amanda was coming home couldn’t lighten his mood. The way things were going, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to watch the game afterward. It wasn’t like he was going to enjoy it.
He took another pull from the beer can, finishing it, thinking it was a good thing he’d packed the cooler. It was going to be a long day.
Jared loved the fact that his mom was out of town, since he could stay out as late as he wanted. The whole curfew thing was ridiculous. He was in college and people in college didn’t have curfews, but apparently no one had ever informed his mom about that. When she got back from Oriental, he’d have to get her to see the light.
Not that it had been a factor this weekend. When his dad fell asleep, he was dead to the world, meaning that Jared was free to come in as late as he wanted. Friday night he’d been out until two, and last night he hadn’t come in until after three. His dad had been none the wiser. Or maybe he was, but Jared had no way of knowing. By the time he’d gotten up this morning, his dad was already at the golf course with his friend Roger.
The late nights had taken their toll, though. After foraging in the fridge for something to eat, he figured he’d lie down in his room and take a nap. Sometimes there was nothing better than crashing in the middle of the afternoon. His little sister was off at camp, Lynn was up at Lake Norman, and both his parents were gone. In other words, it was quiet in the house, or at least as quiet as it ever was around here during the summer.
Stretching out on his bed, he debated whether to turn off his cell phone. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be disturbed, but on the other hand, Melody might call. They’d gone out on Friday night, then gone to a party together last night, and though they hadn’t been dating long, he liked her. Actually, he liked her a lot.
He left the phone on and crawled into bed. Within minutes, Jared was asleep.
As soon as Ted woke, he felt a flash of pain in his head, and though the images were fragmented they slowly began to come together. Dawson, his broken nose, the hospital. His arm in a cast. Last night, waiting out in the rain while Dawson had kept his distance, playing him…
Dawson. Playing. Him.
He sat up gingerly, his head pounding as his stomach did a flip-flop. He winced, but even that hurt, and when he touched his face the pain was excruciating. His nose was the size of a potato, and nausea washed over him in waves. He wondered if he could make it to the bathroom to take a leak.
Ted thought again about the tire iron smashing into his face, he thought again about the miserable night he’d spent in the rain, and he felt his anger begin to rise. From the kitchen, he heard the baby wail, the high-pitched whine rising above the blare of the television. He squinted, trying and failing to block out the sounds, then finally staggered from the bed.
His vision went black at the corners; he reached toward the wall to keep from falling over. He drew a deep breath, gritting his teeth as the baby continued to cry, wondering why the hell Ella didn’t shut the damn kid up. And why the TV was so damn loud.
He stumbled on the way to the bathroom, but when he raised the cast too quickly to catch himself on the way out, it felt like his arm had been attached to an electric wire. At his scream, the bedroom door burst open behind him. The baby’s cries were like a knife blade between his ears, and when he turned, he saw two Ellas and two babies.
“Do something about the kid, or I will,” he snarled. “And shut off the damn TV!”
Ella backed out of the room. Turning around, Ted closed one eye, trying to find his Glock. His double vision slowly subsided, and he spotted the gun on the bed stand, next to his truck keys. It took two attempts to grab it. Dawson had gotten the better of him all weekend, but it was time for it to end.
Ella was staring at him as he stepped out of the bedroom, her eyes as big as saucers. She’d gotten the baby to stop crying but had forgotten about the TV. The sound pounded into his skull. Lurching into the small living room, he kicked the TV over, sending it crashing to the floor. The three-year-old began to scream and Ella and the baby started wailing. By the time he stepped outside, his stomach had begun to roil and nausea came in waves.
He bent over and vomited off the edge of the porch. He wiped his mouth before shoving his gun in his pocket. Gripping the railing, he carefully descended the steps. The truck was blurry now, but he made his way toward its outline.
Dawson wasn’t going to get away. Not this time.
Abee was standing at the window of his house while Ted staggered toward the truck. He knew exactly where Ted was going, even if he was taking the long way to reach the truck. Veering left and right, Ted seemed unable to walk a straight line.
As miserable as he’d felt last night, Abee had woken up feeling better than he had in days. The veterinary drugs must have worked, because his fever was gone, and though the gash in his gut was still tender to the touch, it wasn’t quite as red as it had been yesterday.
Not that he was feeling a hundred percent. Far from it. But he was doing a whole lot better than Ted, that’s for sure, and the last thing he wanted was for the rest of the family to see the shape Ted was in. He’d already heard some talk around the property about how Dawson had gotten the better of Ted again, and that wasn’t good. Because it might mean they were wondering whether they could get the better of him, too, and that was the last thing he needed right now.
Someone needed to nip that problem in the bud. Opening the door, Abee started toward his brother.
17
After rinsing the rain-washed grime from the Stingray, Dawson set down the hose and walked to the creek behind Tuck’s house. The afternoon had grown warm, too warm for the mullets to jump, and the creek had taken on the lifeless quality of glass. There was no movement at all, and Dawson found himself remembering those final moments with Amanda.
As she’d pulled away, it had been all he could do not to chase after her and try one more time to convince her to change her mind. He wanted to tell her again how much he loved her. Instead, he’d watched her go, knowing in his heart that this was the last time he’d see her, and wondering how on earth he’d let her slip away again.
He shouldn’t have come back home. He didn’t belong here, he’d never belonged here. There was nothing here for him, and it was time to leave. As it was, he knew he’d been pressing his luck with his cousins by staying as long as he had. Turning around, he walked along the side of the house, toward his car. He had one last stop to make in town, but after that, he’d leave Oriental behind forever.
Amanda wasn’t sure how long she stayed in the room upstairs. An hour or two, maybe more. Whenever she peered out the window, she could see her mother sitting on the porch below, a book open in her lap. Her mother had placed covers over the food to keep the flies away. Never once had her mother risen to check on Amanda since she’d gotten back home, nor had Amanda expected her to. They knew each other well enough to know that Amanda would come down when she was ready.
Frank had called earlier from the golf course. He kept the conversation short, but she could already hear the booze in his voice. Ten years had taught her to recognize the signs instantly. Although she hadn’t been inclined to talk, he hadn’t noticed. Not because he was drunk, which he obviously was, but because despite a horrible start to his game, he’d finished with four straight pars. Perhaps for the first time ever, she was actually glad he was drinking. She knew he’d be so tired by the time she got home that he’d probably fall asleep long before she went to bed. The last thing she wanted was for him to be thinking about sex. She just couldn’t handle something like that tonight.
Still, she wasn’t ready to go downstairs. Rising from the bed, she went instead to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, finding a bottle of Visine. She blinked a few drops into her red, swollen eyes, then ran a brush through her hair. It didn’t help much and she didn’t really care, and she knew Frank wouldn’t notice.
But Dawson would have noticed. And with Dawson, she would have cared how she looked.
She thought of him again, as she’d been doing since she’d returned to the house, trying to keep her emotions in check. Glancing toward the bags she’d packed earlier, she spotted the corner of an envelope sticking out from her purse. She pulled it out, catching sight of her name scrawled in Tuck’s shaky script. Taking a seat on the bed again, she broke the seal and lifted the letter out thinking, strangely, that Tuck had the answers she needed.
Dear Amanda,
By the time you read this, you’ll probably be facing some of the hardest choices of your life, and no doubt it will feel like your world is falling apart.
If you’re wondering how I know, let’s just say that I’ve come to know you pretty well over the last few years. I’ve always worried about you, Amanda. But that’s not what this letter is about. I can’t tell you what to do, and I doubt if there’s anything I can say that’ll make you feel any better. Instead, I want to tell you a story. It’s about me and Clara, and it’s one that you don’t know, because I could never find the right way to tell you. I was ashamed, and I think I was afraid that you’d stop coming back to see me, because you might think I’d been lying to you all along.
Clara wasn’t a ghost. Oh, I saw her all right, and I heard her, too. I’m not saying those things didn’t happen, because they did. Everything in the letter I wrote to you and Dawson was true. I saw her that day when I came back from the cottage, and the more I tended the flowers, the more plainly I could see her. Love can conjure up many things, but deep down, I knew that she wasn’t really there. I saw her because I wanted to, I heard her because I missed her. I guess what I’m really trying to say is that she was my creation, nothing more, even if I wanted to fool myself into thinking otherwise.
You might wonder why I’m telling you this now, so I might as well get to it. I married Clara at seventeen, and we spent forty-two years together, fusing our lives, ourselves, into what I thought was a whole that couldn’t ever be broken. When she died, the next twenty-eight years pained me so much that most folks—including me—thought I’d plumb lost my mind.
Amanda, you’re still young. You may not feel it, but to me, you’re just a child with a long life yet to come. Listen to me when I say this: I lived with the real Clara, and I lived with Clara’s ghost, and of the two, one filled me with joy while the other was only a dim reflection. If you turn away from Dawson now, you’ll live forever with the ghost of what might have been yours. I know that in this life, innocent people inevitably get hurt by the decisions we make. Call me a selfish old man, but I never wanted you to be one of them.