Blue Moon Bay (19 page)

Another possibility entered my logic stream, and the data byte was disturbing in a new way. How could she not know, if she and Clay were spending this much time together? What if it was
okay
with her? Surely, whatever he was into, they weren't into together. She didn't seem the type. She had a job, a decent car. For a girl barely out of high school, she seemed fairly stable, living somewhere in that hinterland between childhood and adulthood, still in her parents' house, doing what people from Gnadenfeld did if they weren't headed to college—working for Proxica, where there was decent pay and health insurance. How did Amy's parents feel about her staying out all night with a guy who was eight or nine years older and worldly, in comparison to her?

Theories buzzed in my head, landing just long enough for me to swish them away and dismiss them. It couldn't be true—but there was only one way to know for sure. Clay, and probably my mother, held the answers to these questions, and I needed those answers. I had to know what I was dealing with. If Clay did have a substance-related problem—it was hard to even think those words in conjunction with my brother—I couldn't leave him with my mother. Her friends smoked weed in the name of inspiration, and she seemed to have no problem with that. There were good treatment facilities around Seattle. I could take Clay home with me and work with him to find the right kind of program. If he did need help, Moses Lake, a teenage girlfriend, and my mother weren't the solution.

The issues tumbled in my mind as I showered, dressed in jeans and one of my new Moses Lake sweatshirts, and mentally prepared for a trip up the hill and a conversation about Clay's issues. Roger was scratching and whining in the entryway, ready to be let out as I took one last look at the towel with the vials wrapped inside, then grabbed my coat, tucked Clay's cell phone and wallet into a pocket, and proceeded to the front door.

My wristwatch caught a thread on the coat, hemming me in momentarily as I attempted to knee Roger out of the way and work my arm loose at the same time. “Roger, quit.” For whatever reason, he was determined to dig his way out rather than moving, and finally the sacrifice of a few threads or the wristwatch seemed worth it in order to grab the collar and manhandle the dog. “Move out of the . . . Come . . . on . . .”

The moment the gap was wide enough, Roger lurched forward, taking the collar and my fingers with him. We staggered out the door in a tangle, each growling for different reasons, and the door slammed shut behind us. Canine momentum carried us halfway down the porch before I found my feet and brought the situation under control. Roger, intent on something near the corner of the cottage, continued straining as I leaned over, catching a glimpse of the dull, wintery shadow of a crape myrtle tree shifting and the branches snapping against the house, as if someone had just brushed by. Fine hairs rose on my skin, and I felt a prickle that had nothing to do with the cold. Just like last night, I had the feeling that someone was nearby.

“Clay?” I whispered. Maybe he'd seen me in the window and realized I'd noticed him coming home in the early morning hours.

No answer. Roger sniffed the air, his throat rumbling.

“Is someone there?” Pulling Roger along, I crept across the porch and down the steps. I couldn't see anyone in the yard, along the shore, or near the barn. Nothing out there but the quiet morning shadows and the waters of Moses Lake, blue-gray in this light, lapping at a ribbon of ice along the shore. A flock of mallards circled, honking and chattering, in search of a landing place.

Roger stopped growling and turned his attention to the birds, yapping and wagging his tail. The minute I let go of his collar, he was gone, and I wrapped my coat closed, hustling up the hill, my breath coming in quick, smoky bursts. The lights were on in the kitchen, and the scent of coffee bid a cheery hello, dispelling the sense of uneasiness that had come over me at the cottage.

Mom was on the sun porch, wrapped in a quilt, watching the lake and sipping her morning coffee while reading a copy of Charlotte Brontë's
Villette
.

“Oh, you're up,” she observed, like she wasn't entirely thrilled about it. “There's coffee in the pot.”

“I'll grab some in a minute.” Leaning against the doorway, I glanced over my shoulder, making sure no one was sharing space with us. This was probably as good a time as any to feel Mother out about Clay and drugs. I had to be subtle. If I just bluntly asked, she'd jump to his defense and if she did know what was going on with him, she'd feel like she was doing him a service by hiding it from me. Clay had been gone on the earthquake relief mission for weeks before she'd even admitted to me that he'd left, and that was only because I'd gotten an email newsletter, soliciting donations. The notice had Clay's email address on it, and he was pictured with the crew, helping to convert shipping containers into emergency housing. Mom hadn't told me, because she knew that I'd complain about his taking another detour from law school and hocking the last car she bought him.

“Where is everyone this morning?” That seemed like a suitably innocuous opening line.

She shifted the half-moon-shaped reading glasses lower on her nose, so as to get a better look at me. “Haven't seen the uncs, but you know they usually get up and head straight to the Waterbird to drink coffee and do political commentary with the docksiders. They could be gone already. I'm not sure where Clay is—still in bed, I suppose. Guess he and Amy made a late night of it.”

So late that he just got home
, I thought, but I didn't say it. One issue at a time. “Amy seems sweet.”

“Yes, very.” Mom took another sip of coffee, eyeing me with obvious reserve. She was wondering where this conversation was headed.

“Is it serious—this thing between Clay and Amy?”

Mom's head tipped to one side. “A little, I think. Why?”

I shrugged and reached across the doorframe to brush a smudge of dirt, but it didn't come off. “I don't know. I just wondered how Clay could be so close to someone in Moses Lake. I mean, he just got back from South America a couple of months ago.”

“They knew each other back when Clay was in school here. Her brother was in Clay's class. Clay remembers going over to their house a few times.” She acted as if that explained everything. Of course Clay and Amy could be dating seriously—they were playmates when Clay was in elementary school and Amy was barely out of diapers.

I found myself searching for the path from dating Amy to,
So . . . does my little brother have a drug problem?
Unfortunately, my mother was an astute woman. She understood language. She'd spent a lifetime dissecting it, manipulating it, analyzing the fine points of character motivation. I reminded myself to watch my body language, so as not to tip her off. Thank goodness for those Dale Carnegie classes. “You don't think it seems a little odd . . .?”
That they're out all night, and he's ditching Roger for her?

She shrugged. “I think it's fine. Your father and I met one month and ran away to get married the next. It wasn't anywhere in my plans or his. It just happened.”

And look how that turned out.
I drew back at the thought, and she must have seen it, because she stiffened, her lips pursing. She pulled her glasses off and set them in her lap. “People fall in love, Heather. Sometimes at first sight, even.”

I blinked hard. I couldn't help it. Now, on top of encouraging Clay to give up law school for frying catfish, Mom was in favor of my little brother falling into a relationship with a girl he barely knew? “So you think it's, like, love at first sight?”

Mom licked her lips, and I could feel a debate coming on. Her eyes brightened and sharpened, like a cat's when it spots a tempting movement in the grass and it's contemplating a little sport. “Don't you believe in love at first sight, Heather?” My mother had the most annoying habit of answering a question with a larger question—broadening a simple, concrete discussion into the sort of nebulous, intellectual debate she and her crowd lived for. This topic was obtuse, even for her.

“What does it matter what I believe? We were talking about Clay.”

Mom watched me with a closed-lipped smile that conveyed anything but pleasure. “There's someone for everyone, right? Maybe she's his someone. Isn't that the way it is with you and Richard?”

My stomach dropped through my shoes. I swallowed hard, an uncomfortable, tingly feeling in the back of my nose. Did she know about Richard and me? Had she said that just to land a blow, to shut me up?

“Is Clay all right?” I blurted out.

Mom jerked back, her chin tucking in. For just a flicker of an instant, I saw a crack in the calm façade, a hint that there was more going on here. My mind once again spun the scenario in which Clay, under pressure in college and impulsive by nature, had experimented with drugs, then perhaps broadened a habit in some third-world country where the hard stuff was easy to get. Was that really it? Was she convinced that she could fix the situation by moving to Moses Lake, by letting him take over the restaurant and the canoe and cabin business?

She crossed her arms, the copy of
Villette
sliding off her knee and landing soundlessly in the chair. “I've never seen your brother more centered. It's
you
I worry about, really. You seem so uptight, Heather. So . . . unhappy.”

Maybe that's because everything is upside down and backward and nothing makes sense, and no one will tell me the truth.
“Does Clay have a drug problem?”

I'd done it. I'd gone too far, spilled the beans.

Her reaction was exactly what I expected. She blinked at me like I was the crazy one, then gave a sardonic little laugh. “Really, Heather. That's going too far. Why would you even say that?”

I bit my tongue, knowing better than to tip my hand again. I'd revealed too much, but something in her reaction told me I'd struck a nerve, scratched close to whatever they were keeping hidden.

She masked any initial shock with a sympathetic, slightly sad look. “I know you have some rivalry issues toward your brother, but honestly, why not just be happy for him? Not everything in life is a competition, Heather. Not everything is a race. There's something to be said for learning to just . . . be.”

I swallowed hard, pinched my lips between my teeth, felt my eyes bulging with the pressure of the things I was biting back.
Me? Competitive toward Clay? Puh-lease! In what way, and for what reason?
“I'm worried about him—that's all.”

A hand swat dismissed the notion. “Don't be. Your brother is fine. Everything's fine. Just because things aren't happening according to your plan does not mean anything's wrong. Perhaps the rest of us are entitled to want something completely different. Perhaps, Heather, you should leave the ruling of the universe to bigger hands than your own.”

I didn't bother to delve into the meaning of that sentence. There was no point. My mother was just spinning words that were, like much of her poetry, intended for shock value. My only choice was to retreat, sufficiently burned, and leave her to Brontë.

Passing through the family rooms, I found my brother sacked out on an antique brocade parlor settee, his head and shoulders askew against a pile of needlepoint pillows Aunt Esther had probably purchased at various church bazaars. A trail of drying mud-and-grass footprints led across the room from the cellar door. The path ended at Clay's feet, which were hanging off the sofa, as if he'd sat down to take off his shoes and simply crashed. I stood over him, watching him breathe. His nose and cheeks were still red from the cold. A piece of a dead oak leaf had tangled near his ear, its brown color slightly darker than the sandy strands around it. His hands were dirty, grime pressed under the fingernails, and the cuffs of his pants hung wet and sloppy over his shoes.

I tried to imagine where he'd been. Maybe he and Amy went parking in the woods? Back in high school, that was what local kids did. They knew all the out-of-the-way spots at the Ice Hole, Seven Springs, and Blue Moon Bay, where they could hang out and party without getting nabbed by the sheriff's department, rangers from the state park, or the local game wardens. Wasn't Clay a little old for that? Then again, he was dating a girl who was not far out of high school.

“Oh, Clay.” I sighed, trying to see through him, to understand what was going on. Finally, I leaned over and shook his shoulder, attempted to rouse him, but I knew it was probably an exercise in futility. Once Clay fell asleep, a freight train could speed through the room, and he wouldn't notice. He only moaned and pulled away, his head falling off the pillows. Finally, it seemed hopeless to do anything more than cover him with a lap quilt and move on. Uncle Charley passed through the room just as I was about to walk away.

“Looks like he didn't make it to the bed last night.” Uncle Charley jingled a set of keys in his hand.

“Guess not.” I didn't have the heart to point out that Clay had come in only a short time ago. Apparently, Uncle Charley hadn't noticed the damp shoes or the tracks on the floor.

“I'm headed down to the Waterbird.” He thumbed over his shoulder in the general direction of the driveway. “You could come along and class up the joint.”

I was tempted for a minute. Morning banter with the docksiders and a funny story or two seemed like just what I needed. Maybe I'd run into Blaine there. . . .

The thought was appealing in some way I was afraid to analyze, especially first thing in the morning, not yet into an initial cup of coffee. “I'd better not.” In terms of what I needed to take care of in Moses Lake, I would accomplish nothing by hanging out at the Waterbird. “I'm supposed to go see Ruth for lunch. By the way, can I borrow one of the cars this afternoon?”