Читать книгу Father Formula - Muriel Jensen - Страница 12

Trevyn had the nightmare again. Something told him Farah would try to come along on the raid on the campsite despite his insistence that she shouldn’t. The feeling had swelled inside him until fear began to permeate the calm, deadly edge that was so important to his work.

He’d expected to find her at the head of the trail that led to the campsite, but she wasn’t there. He wanted to take that as a good sign, but he couldn’t. His brain and his body refused to relax.

He discovered only moments later that she’d gone ahead of them in some misguided plan to clear the way for them, and that her traitorous brother had warned the camp.

He heard the gunfire, heard her scream.

Then he heard himself scream.

There was gunfire from three directions as he ran toward her. She was dead. He knew that before he reached her. And as he knelt there, staring at her stillness, he felt that he was dead, too.

But he and Bram and Dave were pinned down by loud, continuous bursts of gunfire, and he had an overpowering need to stop it, to stop all sound so that he could think.

Dave took hold of his arm and was pulling him backward.

He resisted. He couldn’t leave Farah. Maybe he’d been wrong. He wasn’t a doctor, after all. Maybe she was still alive.

He struggled against Dave, who finally helped him lift her body onto his shoulder, then knelt with Bram to cover his escape.

Trevyn awoke in a cold sweat, panic and grief at the very edge of his consciousness, the darkness he lived with all the time threatening to suffocate him.

Then he noticed the familiar beige wallpaper with little flecks of brown in it, and the chair in the corner over which he’d thrown his shirt and jeans. No camouflage, no flack jacket. He was back in Chicago.

No, he reminded himself, spotting the photo he’d taken of a lone freighter in the middle of the vast ocean just beyond the edge of Cliffside’s property. He was in Dancer’s Beach. He was starting over. He was opening a portrait studio.

He’d thought he’d seen the end of the nightmares, the occasional confusion about the past, but apparently he had more work to do on that. That was fine. Mostly, he had it together.

Everything began to settle down inside him. Until he remembered that he was going to be a father. Then he sat up, feeling excitement and trepidation all at once. How could a man in darkness raise a baby?

He liked babies, he told himself. He’d photographed a lot of them in his time at the Tribune—in good situations and in bad—and he’d been touched every time by both their fragility and their miraculous endurance.

He prayed that Gusty had endurance. He knew so little about her, except that on the night of the costume party, she’d walked into his arms like a beautiful bundle of everything he’d needed at that moment.

He had to take care of her.

He had to be with her when their baby was born, whatever bad memories he had. They were his responsibility.

But at the rate the search for her was going, their baby would be a toddler before he saw her again. For a man accustomed to taking action, having to wait was frustrating, exasperating, and downright infuriating.

Still, those were emotions he’d grown familiar with in his journey to reclaim his life since Afghanistan. He knew that the only way to fight it was to take action in whatever avenue was open to him.

He climbed out of bed and jumped into the shower. He’d rented his studio before he’d left for Canada, but there’d been little time to work on it. It had been cleaned but needed paint, furniture, signs, and he had to move in his equipment.

He wondered idly as he dressed if he should ask Alexis if there was anything she needed. She’d insisted yesterday morning that she didn’t think she’d ever need help from him—then she’d come over, pride in hand, when she’d found herself locked out.

He let himself enjoy that memory for a moment, then grabbed his jacket and checked his watch. The boys would be waiting for the bus already. He headed out to the truck.

The issue of whether or not to approach her was settled for him when she walked right by him, Ferdie prancing excitedly on the end of a long leash.

“Good morning,” she called, her arm stretched way out, thanks to the dog’s eagerness. “We’re off for our constitutional.” Then she did an almost theatrical double take, and dragged the dog to a stop, frowning as she focused on Trevyn. “Is everything all right?”

The dream always lingered in his eyes for a while. He hated that, considered it a vulnerability, a weakness. After their mild confrontation yesterday, he was surprised by her concern, and annoyed by it.

“Sure,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you look a little…” She paused, apparently searching for the right word. There couldn’t be one, as far as he was concerned.

She must have read that in his eyes. She shook her head as the dog tugged on her, extending her arm as though she were on the rack. “My mistake,” she said, giving him the feeling she knew she was letting him get away with something.

That annoyed him further.

“Need anything from town?” he shouted as she picked up speed in the wake of the dog. He did it to prove to himself that she might annoy him but she couldn’t upset him.

“No, thanks!” she replied over her shoulder as Ferdie kept going. They raced toward the tree-lined driveway.

Trevyn opened the four-car garage. David’s spot was empty, but Bram’s Jeep was in place, looking none the worse for the fact that Athena had dumped it on its side on her way to town when she’d first arrived in Dancer’s Beach.

David had had it towed and repaired.

Trevyn climbed into his battered red truck. He should get something else someday, he thought. A neat van or SUV onto which he could fasten magnetic signs with the name of his studio. Once he decided on a name.

Hot Shots? Picture Perfect? Or the more formal McGinty Photos, or Trevyn McGinty Photography?

Nothing struck a chord.

He drove off toward town, honking at Alexis and Ferdie at the bottom of the driveway, offering a brief wave.

She waved back, smiling.

That was how he remembered Gusty looking the last time he saw her.

ALEXIS AND FERDIE RAN through the park in downtown Dancer’s Beach. After the dog had worked off steam—though how he could still have any after the mile and a half walk to town was beyond her—they walked up and down the main street and several side streets. She took photographs of scenes she might paint—children on swings in the park, three older men on a bench under a streetlight, kibitzing as the world went by, two little old ladies looking in the window of a flower shop, the old hotel.

The Buckley Arms was a turn-of-the-century gray-and-white building, five stories high, with an old-fashioned awning to shelter those waiting for cabs in the rain. She smiled, wondering how often people who rode cabs visited Dancer’s Beach.

She took several shots, then noticed that the coffee bar on the bottom floor of the hotel was still there. She tied Ferdie to a newspaper stand in the front, then went inside to order a hazelnut latte.

She was considering a hazelnut biscotti to go with it when a voice called from behind her, “Athena!”

Alexis had been accustomed to being mistaken for one or the other of her sisters when they were children, but they’d been apart so much as adults that it hadn’t happened in years.

She turned around in surprise, to find an older couple at a round table, half-finished cups of coffee and the newspaper between them.

The woman clearly waited for recognition. “Peg McKeon?” She smiled expectantly, putting a hand on the man’s arm. “Charlie? We were in the antique shop when you were looking for an egg whip for your sister.”

Alexis went to their table, smiling apologetically. “I’m Alexis,” she explained. “We’re identical.”

Peg continued to smile. “So, you’re the one she was shopping for!”

Alexis shook her head. “That’s Augusta. We’re triplets.”

Peg put a hand to her lips in amazement. “My goodness! I’d have sworn…!”

The man stood and pulled a third chair back. “I’ve always thought there should be a system for making copies of pretty girls. If you’re not meeting someone, would you like to join us?”

The name McKeon was ringing a bell in Alexis’s memory. “Well, sure, if I’m not imposing.”

“Of course not. I’ll get your drink.”

Before Alexis could tell him she hadn’t paid for it yet, he had and was delivering it, along with the cookie. “I saw you eyeing the biscotti,” he said as he put it down in front of her. “Impulses should always be indulged. Where’s Athena these days?”

“Thank you, Charlie. She’s in New York.” She broke her cookie in half and dunked the end in the latte. “Her new husband is meeting with an agent about a book deal, and then she’s closing up her law office in D.C. to move here.”

Peg nodded knowingly. “So, she did find love.”

When Alexis looked surprised that her sister would have spoken to strangers on such a subject, Peg added, “I’d been telling her that our sons have all found wonderful wives, but we were worried about our daughter, who doesn’t seem to be able to hold a relationship together. Athena told me not to worry, that Dori would find love. That everybody did. When I asked her if she had, she said, ‘Everybody but me.’” Peg looked pleased. “I’m so glad that’s changed.”

“She married David Hartford,” Alexis said. “He owns Cliffside.”

Charlie nodded. “Dori went to a costume party there. She said it’s quite a place.”

“It’s beautiful. Our aunt used to own it and my sisters and I spent a lot of time there as children. Were you shopping for antiques again this morning?” Alexis asked.

Peg made a face. “We wanted to get the kids something for the house that they could all enjoy. It’s been three years since they’ve shared the beach house. We thought we’d leave something special for when we all come back at Thanksgiving.”

Something caught Alexis’s attention through the coffee bar window and she looked out just in time to see Ferdie leap up, forepaws on Trevyn’s chest as the man spoke to him and ruffled his ears.

“Now, there’s someone you should meet,” Alexis said, waving at him through the window and beckoning him inside. “He’s opening a portrait studio in Dancer’s Beach. I think a portrait of the two of you for the house would be the perfect thing for your children and their families. Or maybe one of all of you together.”

She wasn’t deliberately setting out to help him, she told herself by way of excusing her behavior. She just recognized and related to that lost look he’d worn when he’d walked out of the house this morning—as though he recognized his surroundings but didn’t feel at home in them. She’d felt that way often enough herself.

He walked into the coffee bar looking fresh and handsome, whatever had been bothering him earlier somehow resolved, at least for now. He brought the perfumed coastal air in with him and Alexis got a whiff of pine, salt and a trace of apples.

Alexis made introductions and related the conversation they’d just shared.

“I told them about you,” she said, pushing him into the fourth chair. “But I don’t remember all your credentials. Tell them about yourself and I’ll get your coffee and refills for the rest of us.”

He was clearly startled by her helpfulness and looked just a little off-balance for a moment.

She went to the counter with a smile, delighted to be able to give him a dose of his own medicine.

“I think a portrait of all of us is a great idea,” Charlie said as Peg nodded her agreement. “One of our daughters-in-law is a photographer, but she always ends up taking pictures at our get-togethers. It’d be nice if she could be in one without having to set a timer and run back to her spot. What do you think, Peg? Why don’t we invite these kids to dinner and talk about it?”

Peg nodded eagerly. “That would be fun.”

“We’d like that,” Trevyn said, “but there are actually four of us. Her sister is married to my friend and we’re watching his two young brothers while they’re in the East.”

“That’s no problem,” Peg assured him. “Our family is big on boys so we’re used to having them around. I’ll fix something they’ll like. Was your other sister happy with the egg whip?” Peg wanted to know when Alexis reappeared with a cappuccino for him and the coffeepot to refill Peg’s and Charlie’s simple cups of coffee.

He remembered that she hadn’t asked him what he’d wanted to drink. He must still look as though he needed a double shot of caffeine.

She explained about the accident in the Columbia River and Gusty’s subsequent disappearance.

“How awful,” Peg sympathized. “I can’t imagine anything worse than not knowing what happened to someone in your family. That would make me crazy. We spend most of our time keeping tabs on our children and grandchildren.”

“The police are working on it.” Alexis swirled the contents of her glass, then downed the last mouthful. “She was spotted at an airport baggage carousel with a man, and it’s taken the police weeks to go through passenger manifests and check out everyone.”

Peg patted her hand. “That must be so worrisome for you.”

“You have to have faith that it’ll come out alright,” Charlie advised. “Peg gets her nose and her hands into everything, but I mostly just stand back and try to believe the situation into coming out for the best.”

Peg took offense. “You’re suggesting that I meddle?”

Charlie looked surprised. “Are you denying it?”

She thought that over a moment, then smiled from Alexis to Trevyn. “No, I guess not. But there’s meddling, and there’s creative interference. There’s a bit of an art to what I do.”

Charlie grinned at their companions. “That’s how she excuses being tricky.”

“I suppose your mother minds her own business?” Peg asked Trevyn.

“Pretty much,” he agreed with a rueful smile. “She passed away when I was in high school. My father retired a year ago, and he’s been touring the country on a Harley ever since. I get postcards from everywhere, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Charlie sighed over his coffee. “I’ve always wanted a Harley.”

Peg backhanded him in the arm. “Please. Can you imagine how your arthritis would react to being out in the weather as you travel?”

He gave her a frown. “You don’t do it in your Skivvies, you know. You wear leather to protect you and keep you warm.”

“Charlie.” Peg held her arms out, as though to display her ample form in its navy-blue sweats. “How would this body look on the back of your Harley? Think about it.”

Charlie leaned toward her, laughter in his eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t bring you, Peggy, my love. I’d find myself a group of road outlaws, then cozy up to some shapely biker babe in leather shorts who can rumble as well as the guys.”

Peg stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then burst into laughter. He joined her and they locked fingers on the table as they enjoyed his outrageous scenario.

Alexis turned to Trevyn, who was also laughing. His glance at her invited her to share the moment and she couldn’t resist.

The McKeons finally left the coffee bar, setting a date for dinner on Sunday evening.

Charlie gave his wife a gentle shove through the door, then waved at Alexis and Trevyn. “See you Sunday.”

Alexis watched them greedily, chin on her hand. “Aren’t they every kid’s dream of the perfect parents? I mean, I wouldn’t want the type that stays thin and looks like an ad for a retirement village, or something. I love that they look so real and comfortable. Like you could take them any problem and even if they couldn’t solve it for you, they’d listen and commiserate and hug you until you felt better.”

Trevyn pushed away from the table. “Yeah. They’re great. I hope their kids appreciate them.” He pointed through the window to Ferdie, who now sat at attention, somehow sensing he would soon be freed from his newspaper-stand shackle. “He looks like he could use a cookie.”

Athena held up the second half of her biscotti. “Saved this for him.” She stood to leave, forgetting the small disposable camera on the table.

Trevyn snatched it up and handed it to her. “Yours?”

“Oh, thanks. Yes. I’ve been taking photos to paint from. I suppose these are offensive to a professional photographer.”

He pushed in his chair. “Not at all. They do a good job for what they are. If you don’t want to make adjustments to light or shutter speed or anything, they’re good enough. Where are you off to now?”

Alexis felt a hopeful little stir inside her. The time spent with the McKeons had been warm and cozy, and her enjoyment of them with Trevyn made her feel less alone. He might be part of her family soon. She had to learn to get along with him.

“Nowhere in particular,” she replied casually. “I’ve just been taking pictures.”

“My studio’s in an interesting old building.” He pushed the door open for her. “Want to see it? I rented it before I left for Canada, but now I have to decide how to make it appealing to customers. I’ve got to be open in a couple of weeks if I’m going to get any of the Christmas trade. Thank you for dropping the McKeons in my lap, by the way.”

“Sure.” She stepped outside into the cool, overcast day. “You know, Gusty’s the one who should see your studio,” she said. “She has a gift for decorating. Her home and her classroom are always very inviting.”

He gave her a thin smile as she unfastened the dog, who snatched the bite of cookie out of her hand while she worked. “Decorating’s not one of your strengths?”

She shook her head as they started down the street, the dog taking the point, tail wagging happily. “I live in a small apartment with a gorgeous view, but spend most of my time at a studio that I share with several other artists. Consequently, except for the occasional milk bottle of fresh flowers, I don’t do too much to decorate.”

“Isn’t it hard to be that far from home? Or is it home now?”

“I’m comfortable there,” she replied, “and feel as though I belong, but home will always be where my sisters are. I get most lonely when I catch cold or get the flu. It makes me revert to childish whining and carrying on. Our mother was never much of a nurse, but Aunt Sadie was.”

“I remember getting some tropical bug on a CIA job in Malaysia. I was sure I was going to die, though all the natives assured me it was nothing. I’ve never missed home as much as I did then.”

“Does Dancer’s Beach feel like home now?” she asked.

“I love the place. But I can’t live on Dave’s property forever, especially now that he’s married. I’ve spotted this house in the cove, a sort of bungalow-style with lots of angles and windows. It’s on a little knoll surrounded by trees. If it ever comes up for sale, it’s mine. Then this will really be home.”

“Any siblings?”

“Just me.” He stopped in front of an Italianate building on the corner fronted by a series of arches. Within each arch was a storefront. The second one was Trevyn’s.

He pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and reached an arm in to flip on the lights. Then he stepped back to let her in first.

TREVYN LIKED THE SMELL of the place, clean but old, disinfectant mingled with the musty smell of the building that had been here at the turn of the century. A theater in the middle was flanked by three shops on each side.

It was a large, open space with plank-wide strips of fir making up the wooden floors. The white walls had grown dingy, but two ornate light fixtures, each with half a dozen crenellated tulip shades, hung from the ceiling, obviously left over from the building’s earlier employment.

Alexis seemed to like it. She walked into the middle of the room, looked up at the chandeliers and smiled, doing a tight turn under one of them as though imagining herself in a performance.

“The chandeliers lend a lot of charm,” she said, then glanced at him with a smile before going to the wall that connected the shop to the next one. “And people who are charmed undoubtedly show it in their faces when they pose.”

Now that was an angle that hadn’t occurred to him.

She rubbed her fingertips gently over the wall.

“It’s ten feet high and thirty feet long. It’s going to be a decorating problem, I know. I guess my only recourse will be to hang portraits all over it.”

She considered that, then turned and wandered along the other two walls. The front had a large display window, but the other had light switches, a fuse box, a wall telephone and built-in shelves. “Wouldn’t they be better in the window? And your counter will have to go here where the phone is. You still have quite a bit of wall space to display portraits and customers can admire your work while they’re asking for information.”

She looked avid, he thought. As though she were really interested in what he planned to do. But her eyes kept going back to the long blank wall.

“You told me you weren’t much of a decorator,” he teased, “yet you’re thinking like one.”

She put the flat of her hand to the wall as though feeling for something. “No, I’m not,” she said, giving him a glance over her shoulder. “I’m thinking like a muralist.”

A mural. Another angle he hadn’t considered.

He went to where she stood and tried to imagine the wall painted with…what?

“You mean like one of those trompe l’oeil things you see in Architectural Digest?”

“No.” She took a step back and ran her eyes the length of the wall. He guessed she was seeing images. “I’m not sure. Something appropriate to a photo studio. Maybe old scenes of Dancer’s Beach. Certainly someone must have some. Or a sort of montage of portraits interspersed with landmarks. Or maybe just the stretch of beach.” She took a few steps along the wall and stopped. “The dancers just walking on the beach in white lace and parasols.” She smiled, apparently warming to her own idea. “You know, to represent a time when they knew they were safe, maybe already falling in love.”

He couldn’t quite picture it, but he liked the idea. “And you can do this?” he asked.

She came out of the trance the wall had inspired suddenly and looked at him in surprise. “Me?”

He shifted his weight and folded his arms. “I don’t imagine there are too many muralists in Dancer’s Beach.”

“But we’d be confined in the same space,” she argued, “and you hate me.” Then she frowned as though she hadn’t intended to say that aloud.

He laughed softly. “Not all the time,” he said, knowing an outright denial would not have rung true. They’d had some fairly combative moments since their unfortunate meeting in the dark kitchen. “Or are you afraid you can’t coexist with me long enough to get it done?”

“I am,” she admitted candidly. “Half the time I want to kill you, and the other half…”

She stopped, apparently thinking better of whatever she’d been about to say. For an instant, he wanted to know what that was more than he wanted anything.

“And the other half?” he asked.

She met his gaze and held it. She made no sound, but he swore he could almost hear the words forming in her mind.