The Turning Season (22 page)

“Rifle,” she says. “Never had the patience for a bow. It's been years, though.”

“This will be my last hunt,” Joe says.

Aurelia nods. “Yeah. Meeting shape-shifters is what turned me off of it, too.”

She heads out the door toward the stairs, and Joe watches her with a hopeful expression. “Maybe she'll keep Bonnie from killing me,” he says.

“She's the only one who could.”

Joe remains behind in the kitchen while I join the others in Alonzo's room. Bonnie's perched on the edge of his mattress, one palm pressed against his cheek, her eyes unwavering as she watches his face. Aurelia's standing at the foot of the bed, her hands in her back pockets, her expression soft as she gazes at the two of them. It's impossible to ever guess what Aurelia's thinking, but I make a stab at it.
These are two of the people I love most in the world. It will not be because of my negligence that either one of them ever comes to harm.

Bonnie turns her head when I step into the darkened room. “How long will he sleep?”

“At least a couple hours. Longer if I give him another shot.”

“Can you bring a chair or a cot in here so I can sleep in his room?”

“No,” I say firmly. “He's not in mortal danger. I'll make up a room for you down the hall and you can get up as often as you like to check on him. But I think he'd rather sleep by himself.”

“He would,” Aurelia agrees. “Don't smother him.”

Bonnie's lips tighten, but she gives a sharp nod. I'm glad Aurelia said it; I don't think Bonnie would have heeded anyone else.

“Are you staying, too?” I ask Aurelia.

She shakes her head. “I don't want to smother him, either. I think one of us hanging over his bed will be plenty.”

Since I'm pretty sure they came in the same car, I'm instantly thinking about logistics. I say, “I can bring them to Quinville tomorrow or the day after, unless you want to come back for them.”

She turns to give me a wicked smile. I think her red hair throws a rosy light on her face, because I can see her expression perfectly. “No, I'll leave the car for Bonnie. I'm going to ride back to town with Joe.”

*   *   *

A
lonzo and Bonnie stay with me through Monday afternoon. Alonzo is, as you might imagine, the perfect patient. He never complains about pain. He accepts every treatment in stoic silence. He refrains from thrashing in the bed, mussing up the sheets; naturally he doesn't vomit on the bedspread, or anywhere else. He even manages to avoid coming down with an infection, though that might be my drugs, not his willpower.

Bonnie, of course, cannot contain herself enough to sit quietly at his bedside for all the hours of the day, though surely that is what she envisioned herself doing. Instead, she checks on him a couple of times an hour, feeds him, helps him to the bathroom, and even reads to him for an hour at night. But mostly she strides around the property, fixing things. The loose towel rack in the guest bathroom. The burned-out bulb in the living room chandelier. The rickety kitchen chair. All repaired or replaced.

Then she cleans out my pantry, throwing out expired spices and organizing cans alphabetically. She cooks massive meals from the ingredients I have on hand, and freezes most of them in single-serving containers. She scrubs every room in my house. She changes the furnace filters. She dusts the miniblinds. The whole place is filled with the inviting scents of fresh bread and pine-scented cleaners.

“Can I hire you?” I ask. “You could be the live-in caretaker. I'd give you one of the trailers.”

She barely smiles. “
You
could have the trailer. Aurelia and I would take the house.”

“Deal.”

Joe calls multiple times a day to check on Alonzo's progress. He still hasn't told me what he and Aurelia talked about on the drive back to Quinville. When I asked Aurelia, she just laughed like a cartoon villain. I figure I'll never know.

“What can I do to make it up to Alonzo?” Joe asks me Sunday night. “Buy him a video game? An iTunes card? A car?”

“A video game, maybe. But I don't know that you have to buy him anything. He knows you didn't do it on purpose.”

“I still feel horrible.”

“I think even Bonnie is starting to forgive you,” I say. “Everything will be all right.”

“It doesn't feel like I've suffered enough for it to be all right.”

“There are always plenty of other chances to suffer,” I tell him. “Don't be sad when one of those opportunities passes you by.”

Monday afternoon he sounds unexpectedly cheerful. “Hey, does Alonzo know how to ride a bike?”

I happen to know that he does, because I happened to be there when he learned. Celeste brought him out to my place about two months after he came into our lives, back when he didn't speak and wouldn't meet your eyes and always appeared to be waiting for the next blow to land. She'd bought him a shiny red ten-speed and spent a solid week teaching him how to ride it. He didn't seem to have the requisite sense of balance at first, and I wondered if he'd gotten one too many concussions or maybe he'd suffered inner ear damage after a particularly savage beating. But then one day all the components just clicked for him—weight distribution, muscle coordination, and forward momentum—and he went racing down the road. When he came back, pedaling as furiously as his legs would take him, his face wore the closest thing to a smile any of us had seen so far.

“He does,” I say to Joe. “Why?”

“I think I may have found him a job. If he wants it.”

“Riding a bike?”

“You know the little pharmacy on the corner of Baker and Horseshoe? Q-Ville Drugs and Gifts?”

“Yeah. The owners have a couple of collies and an ancient Siamese cat.”

I can hear his grin. “Well, I didn't know
that
, but they're looking for a part-time person who can deliver orders around town.”

“Huh. That sounds like something Alonzo could do. Except—well—he can't always be sure he's going to be available. You know.”

“Right. And Rich said—Rich Hogarth, he's one of the owners—”

“Right. I know them,” I say patiently.

“Rich said they didn't need someone every day, anyway. He said maybe Alonzo could call every Monday, or whatever, and talk about the days he'd like to work that week. I don't know if he can tell how far in advance he's going to change, but maybe they could work something out.”

“Maybe. I'll talk to Bonnie about it. And Alonzo, of course. He'll be pleased you thought of him.”

He blows his breath out in a way that's half laugh, half sigh. “Still trying to make it up to him. So I think about him a
lot
.”

“They're planning to go home tonight. So maybe you could swing by sometime this week and apologize in person.”

“Do you think Bonnie would let me in the front door?”

“Maybe. Maybe she'd make you wait on the porch and just let Alonzo peer out through the screen.”

But Bonnie, when I talk to her a few minutes later, merely nods. “I think it would be good for him to come by and express his remorse to Alonzo directly,” she says. “A man should own up to his misdeeds, and it will be good for Alonzo to have that role model.”

She's intrigued by the notion of the part-time job with Q-Ville Drugs, but, of course, she sees all the obstacles as plainly as I do. “We would have to let the Hogarths know that he is sometimes—and quite suddenly—unavailable,” she says. “Perhaps we could come up with an arrangement, however. On the days Alonzo is scheduled to work—but can't—I could complete the deliveries for him. That shouldn't happen more than once or twice a month, if we pay attention to when his next cycle is about to start.”

I agree. “There seems to be no reason not to
try
it,” I say. “And if it doesn't work out—well, he's no worse off than before. I suppose the Hogarths are inconvenienced if they have to look for another delivery boy, but—”

“But we can't worry about their problems as well as our own,” Bonnie concludes. “So let's give it a try.”

I've prepared quite the cornucopia of drugs for Bonnie to take back with her and administer as needed, but Alonzo is doing remarkably well by Monday evening. He even sits at the dinner table and eats with us, though he's quieter than usual and doesn't have a huge appetite. He lets me hug him, though, before he gets in the car.

“You call me the minute the pain gets worse, or the wound looks funny, or you spike a fever, or
anything
,” I tell him, sticking my head through the passenger-side window to give my final instructions. “Don't try to tough it out. I am
here
for you.”

That elicits a faint smile. “I know. Thanks.”

I pat his cheek, then step back. “You are absolutely and completely welcome.”

They drive off into the gathering dark and I head slowly back to the house. Scottie follows me as I move from room to room, straightening up and locking up and generally making sure everything is in order. But despite his faithful presence, despite the fact that I am so relieved at Alonzo's quick recovery, despite the fact that I am glad to have my house back to myself, I realize that I'm feeling at loose ends. A little lonely. Depressed, even.

I recognize the emotion, of course. It's loss. Bonnie and Aurelia and Alonzo are the closest thing I have to family these days, and despite the terrors of the situation, it was rather lovely to have them around for the extended weekend. I've become something of a hermit since Janet and Cooper died, and I was never the kind of person who liked big crowds and noisy gatherings. But I don't think my natural personality is a solitary one. Under other circumstances, I believe, I would be the kind of woman who hosted Saturday dinners for all the cousins or plotted the annual family reunion. I might have had only a few close relationships, but I would have treasured every connection; I would have poured my heart into each one.

Well. Fewer relationships now, but still that willing heart. I collect a beer from the fridge, pick up the cell phone from the kitchen counter, and go settle on the couch to call Joe.

C
eleste wants to meet Joe.

“You've met him,” I tell her, as I've told her before. It's Monday, more than a week after Alonzo's accident, and she's disgruntled that I haven't had time for her in all these days. So she's driven out to my property to demand lunch and conversation.

“For five seconds! When we were walking in the door at Arabesque! That doesn't count.”

“I'm not ready for you to meet him.”

“Why? You think I'll tell him things about you?”

I wave my hands. “Because you're so—you're such a force of nature. People find you overwhelming.”

“People find me charming.”

“You're deluded.”

She grins. “If you won't introduce me, I'll just find a way to meet him on my own. He coaches Alonzo at the Y, right? I'll go hang out with Bonnie some night so I can introduce myself.”

“Why would you bother?” I demand. “I never force myself on anyone
you're
dating.”

She makes a dismissive gesture. “None of them mattered. Joe seems to matter to you. So I need to know him. Decide if he's good enough for you.”

I point at her. “See? Right there. That's why I don't want you to meet him. If you don't like him, you'll be horrible.”

“If me being horrible to someone is enough to scare him off, then he wasn't the right guy for you to begin with.”

We're still arguing when I hear the sound of a car pulling onto the gravel. I'm not expecting any clients, so it might be an emergency—a dog that swallowed something toxic, a cat going into renal failure. Even my most devoted clients tend to take their animals to vets in town when the situation is dire enough, but maybe one of them risked the mad dash out here because he just didn't trust anyone else.

I head to the kitchen door and wait to see who steps out of the car. It's got Missouri plates, which is my first clue that this isn't one of my regular visitors. I don't recognize the driver, either, when he emerges a moment later. He's a slim, dark-haired guy of medium build and handsome features, and he doesn't have a pet with him. But he strides straight up to the porch as if he's been here before. Something about him is teasingly familiar, and nothing about him screams
danger
, so I open the door and motion him in before he's even had a chance to knock.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He glances quickly around the kitchen as if to check it against his memory, nods casually at Celeste, then addresses me. “You might not remember me, I used to know Janet Kassebaum,” he says. His voice is so attractive I think he should be a singer, or maybe a radio announcer. “My name is Brody Westerbrook.”

“Brody!” I exclaim. “Of course! I'm Karadel.”

He smiles. “I thought you must be, but you were just a skinny kid last time I saw you.”

“Come on in. You want a drink? Something to eat?”

“A soda would be great,” he answers, moving toward the table.

“That's Celeste, by the way,” I add. “A friend of mine. Shape-shifter.”

That elicits a laugh from Celeste, who has been lounging in her chair looking the visitor over with frank interest. “Well! I suppose we don't have any secrets from
Brody
,” she says.

I bring over sodas and chips and cookies for everybody, then sit down next to Celeste, so we're both facing him. “Brody used to be a TV reporter,” I tell her. “He and a cameraman filmed a shape-shifter transforming from animal to human—on live television.”

“Holy shit,” she says. “So how come we weren't all part of some media circus?”

Brody waves this off. “No one believed it. Thought it was some big hoax. But the whole experience got me curious, so I started looking for evidence that such creatures existed.” He glances around the kitchen again. “One thing led to another, and I met Janet and a few of her friends. And a few other shape-shifters.”

One of them had been a laughing blond girl whose body was deteriorating under the stress of constant transformation. Brody was dating the girl's sister and he's the one who introduced them to Janet. Janet tried to treat her, but she died when she was in her early twenties.

My age.

“So how was Africa?” I ask. “Isn't that where you went for a couple of years?”

“It was amazing. Spectacular. Eye-opening. Everywhere you'd go, there'd be these animals—cheetahs sitting on rocks, like they were just
posing
for you—”

“They probably were,” Celeste says with a laugh. “Probably half of them were shape-shifters just trying to act the way you'd expect.”

“I bet some of them were,” he agrees.

“I saw a review of your book,” I tell him, and then explain to Celeste, “He and his wife worked at a charity school in Tanzania. Brody wrote a book about what they're doing to help kids born with disabilities—the review was really positive.”

“Yeah, not quite a bestseller, but I did get some attention and we set up a fund for the school with some of my royalties. Which made me feel really good about the whole thing.”

“Wow, an author. I'm impressed,” says Celeste. She leans forward a little, fixing her dark eyes on Brody's face. I recognize this as her seductive pose; I've seen her employ it often enough on men she thinks are cute, and Brody certainly fits the description. “Are you going to write another book?”

He glances at me. “Actually, that's what I'm here to talk about. I wanted to get Karadel's opinion.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? I'm not much of a literary critic. Actually, I don't read a lot. I'd rather watch movies.”

“
I
read all the time,” Celeste says. It's true, as it happens, but she'd say it even if it wasn't. She's flirting.

“When I first met Janet, I wanted to write a book about shape-shifters,” he tells us. “Nonfiction. Describe their lives, their challenges, explore how they live among us in secret and have
always
lived among humans, even though we didn't know it.”

Now Celeste frowns and pulls back. “That's a terrible idea.”

He nods. “I finally realized that. Even if I used pseudonyms for the shape-shifters I interviewed, even if I didn't give details about where they lived, the book could have put all of them in danger. If people believed it, of course, which they probably wouldn't have.”

Celeste leans forward once more, liking him again. “So what's your new idea?”

“Write a
novel
about shape-shifters. Use what I know, but make it clear the story is fiction. My sisters tell me there's this whole paranormal craze in the market right now—my book would fit right in.”

“That's brilliant,” Celeste says.

Hard to believe, but Brody ignores her. “So what do you think?” he asks me. “Would it be okay?”

I'm still a little puzzled. “Sure. I mean—I don't know why you even think you'd have to get my opinion.”

“I want to tell Janet's story.”

“Ahhhh . . .”

For a moment there's silence between us, as I contemplate Brody and he waits for my answer. Well, it's a compelling tale, that's for certain, and no one who read it would possibly believe it was true. But that doesn't mean it's safe to tell. And then there's something else to consider. As she lived her life, Janet was a very private person; she was only close to a few people, including Cooper, my father, and a couple of college friends. I don't know how she'd feel about hundreds—thousands—of people helping themselves to the details of her unconventional life. If Brody even knows those details.

“Are you sure
you
know the story?” I ask him quietly.

He nods. “She sent us her journal. Right before we left for Africa. The only thing I don't know is how it ends. If the experiment worked.”

I nod slowly. “It did.”

“How long did she have?”

“Longer than she expected. Fifteen months.”

“But she—she did die, after all?”

“About a week after Cooper. I think she could have survived longer, but she chose not to.”

Brody takes a deep breath. “Then that's the perfect ending, don't you think?”

I know Janet thought so. I truly believe that, for that last year and a half, she was as happy as she'd ever been. She was never the jump-up-and-down-with-delight kind of woman; her early life had imbued her with a wary reserve that made it hard for her to be wholeheartedly joyous. But she had been deeply content. She had been exactly where she wanted to be.

“If she sent you her journal,” I say, “I think she probably wanted you to tell her story. So I think you should go ahead and write the book.”

“Thank you.”

“
I
think you should write it, too,” Celeste says. “I make my living doing freelance editing, so I could look it over for you once you've got a rough draft done.”

For the first time since he's been here, really, Brody gives Celeste his full attention. I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner; guys are usually caught by Celeste's exotic face and soulful expression within the first thirty seconds of meeting her. But Brody was a reporter for years. My guess is that his bullshit detector is calibrated pretty high.

Now he's grinning. He holds up his left hand to show off a wedding band. “Married,” he says. “But thanks.”

Celeste's face dimples into a naughty smile. “How married?”

“
Very
married.”

“I could still help you with the editing. If you wanted.”

I give her a light punch on the arm. “Behave yourself.”

She shoves me back. “I never behave myself.”

“Which is why I think I'll ask one of my friends to be my beta reader,” Brody says. He's still grinning.

“Wise man,” I say. “But feel free to call
me
anytime you have a question. Or come visit the property if you want to get some detail right.”

“I'll do that,” he says. “I thought I might get some photographs today.”

“Sure,” I say, coming to my feet. Both of them follow suit. “But you have to promise you won't be specific enough about this place that anyone would recognize it. Or could find it.”

“Promise.” He hesitates a moment before turning to the door. “It was good to see you, Karadel. You look like you're doing well.”

“I am,” I say, smiling back. “Thanks for noticing.”

*   *   *

I
t's another three days before Celeste actually meets Joe, and it's perilously close to a disaster. Though it's not her fault. It's mine.

It's Thursday night and I've come to town because I won't have a chance to see Joe again for a couple of days. He keeps apologizing that his Fridays and Saturdays are taken up by other commitments—coaching the basketball team and working at Arabesque—but it doesn't bother me at all. Living as I do, I don't care much about weekends. I'm more focused on a different kind of calendar: my internal clock that decides when it's a good time to shift. I'm closing in on two weeks again, and I might not have much longer before the change occurs. So I want to see Joe while I still can.

We've gone back to the little pub that he has started to call “our place.” Tonight Paddy-Mac's is about half full and we get the goth waitress who seems to have no other life, since she's there every time we are. We sip our drinks until the food arrives, talking with the ease of old friends and the excitement of almost-lovers. We laugh so much the air around us seems charged with hilarity, a not quite perceptible glittery shine.

I don't know about Joe, but I haven't been paying attention to anyone else who might be in the restaurant, so I don't realize Celeste is there until she slides into the booth next to me.

“Hey,” she greets us cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey,” Joe replies, surprised but cautiously amiable.

I'm the one who's frowning. “Go away,” I tell her.

“Well, that's rude,” she says, turning toward Joe. “Don't you think so?”

“It is.”

“Seriously. Go away.”

She picks a French fry off my plate. “I just want a few minutes. Want to get to know Joe a little.” She smiles at him. She is, as she says, charming. “It
is
Joe, right?”

“Yep. You must be Celeste.”

She laughs. “Kara must have described me. What did she say?”

“That you were worse than Aurelia. I find that hard to imagine.”

She turns sideways to give me an indignant look. “I am not! No one is!”

“When you want to be, you're worse than anybody,” I inform her.

“You're also a bobcat,” he adds.

Celeste rolls her eyes at me. “Jeez, are you spilling secrets to
everybody
these days?”

“I was at the bar when it happened,” he reminds her. “I just didn't believe it then.”