Home Before Dark (2 page)

The road surface changed to a jolting bed of caliche and crushed rock. Jessie clutched the steering wheel hard and concentrated. She had talked the Alamo guy into renting her the Ford Fiesta based on an International Driver's License. She'd convinced herself that, once she cleared the bustle and sprawl of Austin's tangled highways and headed out on the open country roads, she was a danger only to herself and the occasional hapless armadillo. A reckless impulse had compelled her to make this trip, and driving a car was one of many independent options she was about to give up. But not yet. Besides, she was almost there. A flurry of nerves stirred in her gut. She had come to fill a need as deep as Eagle Lake, yet she was terrified of reopening wounds she had inflicted long ago.

She counted the hills to the old place on the lake: one, two and three gentle rises on a slow-motion roller coaster. At the turnoff, she flexed her hands on the steering wheel, drew a nervous breath redolent of hill country dust and slowly moved forward, entering the property through the gate beside a huge, cloven monolith of sandstone. Affixed to it was an
old wrought-iron sign: Broken Rock. As the story went, her grandad had built the place before there was a road leading to it, and he always told folks to turn at the broken rock. The name stuck and was now used to designate the old place on the lake.

The property had been handed down to Jessie's father, a remote and polite gentleman who had signed it over to her mother in the divorce settlement nearly three decades earlier. Glenny Ryder had kept only a few things from that first marriage. Her name—it was already engraved on a number of golf trophies—the lake property and her two daughters.

Jessie's childhood was like a colorful dream, filled with glaring sunlight, emerald fairways and long swift trips on the open highway, the world speeding by through the distorted rectangle of a car window. The soundtrack of that childhood consisted of the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Cat Stevens and James Taylor, crooning from the car radio between ads for Noxema and charcoal-filter Tarrytons.

After their daddy left, Jessie got the back seat of the 1964 Rambler all to herself, so she couldn't say she was all that sorry to see him go. Luz had cried and cried, but Jessie didn't remember crying. She just remembered the endless road.

Their lives were defined by their mother's tour schedule. When they stayed in a motel, there was always a king and a cot. Glenny took the cot and put Luz and Jessie in the bed. To this day, sleeping with Luz, knowing she was there in the bed next to her, was one of Jessie's most vivid memories.

After the divorce, Glenny had treated the lake house and outbuildings like a way station while she chased prizes that never lasted or brought her what she sought. Too many years and three husbands later, she had won only a handful of major titles. But she always did just well enough to stay on the tour, just well enough to pay her expenses, just well enough to keep her gone.

From a distance, the property appeared to be as Jessie remembered it. With a lurch of bittersweet emotion, she recognized the boxy, two-storey main house, the garage and boathouse, the dirt path winding through the woods to the three guest cabins they used to rent out to tourists. When they were girls, Luz and Jessie earned pocket money by changing beds and towels for the fishermen who came for the weekend.

Yet as she drew closer, she noticed differences. Unfamiliar vehicles—a dusty minivan and a Honda Civic parked under the car port. Gumball-colored toys littered the front path. She spotted a doghouse with the unlikely name Beaver painted over the opening. A flat of purple asters lay unplanted in the yard; a half-caned chair stood on the porch. Someone's partially eaten apple lay on the ground, swarming with fire ants. The place had an air of things left undone; Luz's family had dropped everything as though something had interrupted them.

They were about to be interrupted again. Jessie hadn't dared to call first. She'd been too afraid that she'd talk herself out of coming. Or worse, that she'd promise to visit and then chicken out at the last moment, disappearing as she had before, and disappointing everyone—again. The heartbreak that had sent her running long ago had never healed.

When she got out of the car and slammed the door, a throaty baying erupted. A gangly bluetick hound galloped across the yard, bristling neck hairs contradicted by the friendly swaying of a long tail. Jessie didn't know much about dogs. Because of the way she'd grown up, she'd never owned one. Their gypsylike existence in the back of their mother's pink Rambler had left room only for the occasional carnival goldfish in a clear plastic bag. One year a white mouse had lived for an entire summer in a Buster Brown shoebox before going AWOL at a motel in Pinehurst, North Carolina.

“You hush,” yelled a voice from inside the house.

Jessie's palms were drenched in sweat. She wanted—needed—to pray but only the most childish of thoughts streamed out. Please God, get me through this.

The screen door of the porch opened with a creak and shut with a snap. Her sister Luz froze like a pillar of salt at the porch rail. Even in denim cutoffs and a bleach-faded pink T-shirt, Luz appeared formidable, in command.

“Jess…” Her whisper lingered over the sibilant sound, then she jumped down the stairs and raced across the yard. “Oh, my God, Jess.”

They ran toward each other, arms reaching across time and distance and terrible words until the two sisters clashed in a tangle of limbs. As they embraced, a flood of emotion stole Jessie's breath. She batted back tears as she stepped away, shaken and battered and overwhelmed by bittersweet joy. Luz. Her sister Luz. The years had caused her beauty to soften like an oft-washed quilt. Her face bore the subtle lines of wear and tear. Her vivid red hair was paler in tone now, not so intense. She had borne three children, and it showed; she was rounder than the much younger picture of Luz that Jessie had carried in her mind.

“Surprise,” she said with forced lightheartedness, then caught a flicker of concern in her sister's eyes. “I should have called first.”

“Are you kidding? I don't mind,” Luz said. “It's fabulous. And it's so
you.
”

Is it? Jessie wondered. Do we even know each other anymore? They'd kept in touch by phone and e-mail, but the sporadic contact was no substitute for being a part of each other's lives. She studied her sister's face, seeing an oddly distorted reflection of herself. Jessie and Luz had the same color hair, a faint saddle of freckles over their noses and eyes, their mother used to say, the color of a Scottish putting green.

A movement caught her eye as someone else came onto the
porch—a tall, slender girl in shorts and a black tank top, with flame-red hair and eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Dropping her hands from her sister, Jessie gaped. Could this be her daughter, her tiny baby, this tentative young woman who matched her height exactly?

She cast a glance at Luz, whose smile was strained at the edges even as she gave Jessie a gentle shove forward. “Surprise,” she whispered, echoing Jessie's lighthearted tone.

“Look at you,” Jessie said to the girl. Then, with an irony only she understood, she added, “I swear, you're so beautiful, my eyes ache.” She opened her arms wide.

For a moment, the girl stared. Frozen with fear, Jessie stared back, then slowly lowered her arms. She sensed but didn't see Luz make a signal to Lila, perhaps in some secret language of semaphores between mothers and daughters.

“Uh, hi,” Lila said, her voice familiar and cherished from occasional overseas phone calls. She offered a tentative smile with all the wariness of a jogger confronting a large, unfamiliar dog.

You made this moment happen, Jessie told herself as the hurt settled in. This is your doing. She held herself still, her posture open. Nanoseconds before the awkwardness turned unbearable, Lila left the porch and walked toward Jessie. She hugged her uneasily, but Jessie couldn't stand it anymore and caught the girl in her arms.

“Oh, yeah, hug me, Lila,” Jessie said through tears she didn't dare show. “Hug me hard.”

The strong, slender arms tightened, and Jessie's heart soared. She was overcome by the lemony smell of Lila's hair, the youthful freshness of her skin, the warmth of her breathing. Holding her daughter for the first time was a huge moment in Jessie's life, and she wondered if her awe and enchantment showed. She realized her eyes were shut tight. Funny, that. When you held someone this close, you really couldn't see them, but all the other senses were filled to brimming.

She opened her eyes and saw Luz watching them. A cherry-red blush shadowed Lila's sweetly freckled cheeks. Jessie was drenched in wonder. It was like looking into a mirror, a particularly wonderful mirror that erased all the hard living and sleepless nights, all the mistakes and missteps of the past.

“Who is that lady, Mama?” A blunt, childish question broke the spell.

“Moi?”
With her best Miss Piggy imitation, Jessie turned to face the little tousle-headed sprite. Though reluctant to relinquish Lila, she didn't want to make a scene here and now. “Who is that lady?” Grabbing the little boy under the arms, she swooped him up. “I'm your long-lost auntie, that's who.” She swung him around until he squealed with joy. “I know who you are,” she said. “You're Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You're Scottie and you're four and you have a dog named Beaver.”

He nodded vigorously. Jessie set him down to address the other two boys watching avidly from the porch. “Your brother Wyatt is eleven and Owen is eight and he puts ketchup on everything he eats.” Wyatt elbowed Owen, who gazed at her in amazement, clearly unaware of the telltale red-orange smear across his Animorphs T-shirt.

“What does Lila eat?” Scottie demanded, wanting more magic.

Jessie beamed at her. “Any damned thing she wants.”

The boys' eyes widened, and they snickered.

“Mama!” Scottie spoke up first. “She said—”

“I said let's go inside before I die of thirst,” Jessie interrupted.

The four children trooped into the house. Luz lingered to hug her one more time. Laughing, moist-eyed, she said, “I can't believe you're here. I can't believe I'm seeing you
again.” She paused to study Jessie from head to toe, taking in the swirling magenta skirt and marigold silk camisole from Bombay. “The kids already think you're Mary Poppins,” she added. “Come on in. I'll see if I can't find my recipe for fatted calf.”

Jessie felt the subtle sting of the barb. “I'm a vegetarian.”

“And you weren't detained as a deviant at the Texas border?”

Jessie tripped on the bottom step and clutched at her sister for support. “Sorry,” she said, laughing it off. “I think the jet lag is finally gaining on me.”

She stepped into the unfamiliar chaos of a busy family. A TV, radio and stereo were all playing in various parts of the house. Kid clutter—lacrosse net, Rollerblades, schoolbooks and incomprehensible pocket-sized plastic toys—littered the main room. The smell of simmering spaghetti sauce spiced the air.

“We took a wall out and turned this whole space into a great room,” Luz said, handing her a big tumbler of iced tea. “I can't believe you're here, Jess.”

“Right in the middle of suppertime.”

“I was putting the pasta on. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I'll get busy, then, and you can keep me company.” Luz led her to a stool by the kitchen island and offered her a seat. With negligent efficiency, she donned an apron, like a cowboy strapping on a gun belt. Jesus, an apron, thought Jessie. Her sister wore an apron.

As usual, Luz didn't mince words. “So what about Simon?”

Jessie hesitated. What
about
Simon? She'd known him for sixteen years, but had he ever really been a part of her life? He'd been teacher, mentor, lover, yet they had both cultivated the ability to set each other aside when something else came
along. Even so, over the years their paths had kept crossing. They fell in and out of their relationship like time-share vacationers spending points. Then, in the past year, when the reality of her condition came crashing down, she'd dared to test the depths of their commitment. They'd both failed the test.

But it was all too complicated to explain, so she said, “Simon dumped me.”

“Who's Simon?” Lila asked.

“Some pr—” Noting her sister's stiff posture, she said, “I mean, some jerk. He and I worked together, and he was my lov—boyfriend up until I— Until about a week ago.” She suppressed a sigh of frustration. The thing about not being married is that you can't get divorced. So they didn't really know how to break up. Simon had bumbled around, muttering about a big new project in the Himalayas and how she shouldn't do anything hasty until she'd finally said, “Oh, come on, Simon, just be the prick you know you can be.”

“Aw, Jessie.” Luz patted her shoulder. “I'm sorry. What an idiot. What was he thinking?”

“He knew exactly what he was doing.” Actually it hadn't broken Jessie's heart to leave him. She was good at leaving, and she'd left without regrets, simply bolted for refuge where she could hole up and heal. But it didn't feel like a refuge here, and she knew she would never heal.

“Lila, would you mind setting the table.” Luz didn't ask it as a question. “You'll need to bring a folding chair from the deck.”

Heartstruck, Jessie watched the girl respond to Luz's request with a belligerence she didn't bother to veil. Slamming open the sliding door to the deck, she brought in a chair and set it at the long table stretched to its limit by three leaves.

Lila. Jessie had sung the name to herself innumerable nights
as she lay awake, thinking, wondering, wishing…Lila. A pair of liquid sighs, a sound as pretty as a spring breeze. Weeks after Jessie had walked out of the hospital, never to return, Luz had sent a picture of a tiny red-faced newborn that could have been any baby. On the back of the photo, Luz had written, “We named her Lila Jane in honor of the two NICU nurses who helped us so much.”