The Winner's Game (4 page)

W
OULD YOU LIKE
to go upstairs too, to settle in?” I ask Bev as Cade bounds up the stairs.

“Heavens no. We've got some catching up to do first.”

I motion to Ann and Bree. “Girls, why don't you take Aunt Bev in the other room. I'll fix up something to drink. Are you thirsty, Bev?”

“Yes, but no ice. I can't seem to keep warm these days. Here it's already June, and I'm still wearing a sweater.”

On my way into the kitchen, a framed picture on the hutch catches my attention. Though I see that frame every day, it's been a while since I've really paid it much attention. The picture itself is a handmade postcard, a snapshot of a man and a woman holding hands in front of the Eiffel Tower. It has been sitting on the hutch collecting dust for years. I hold it up, smiling, remembering the day the postcard arrived in the mail.

Those were better times…

For fun, I pull off the frame's velvet backing to expose the other side of the card, which is addressed to me. The French postmark is dated more than nineteen years ago, right before I married Dell. Though I have the words committed to memory, I take a moment to reread the beautifully penned text.

“I didn't know that was a postcard.”

The comment catches me by such surprise that I drop the frame on the carpet. Thankfully, it doesn't break. “Cade? What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I just saw you there and…you looked kind of sad.”

“I was just thinking of old times.”

“Sad times?”

“No, just…times.” Actually, what I was really thinking about when he snuck up on me was not so much the past but the challenges of the present, along with a future that feels acutely uncertain. The future Grandma Grace predicted feels nothing like the way things have played out.

I could cry just thinking about it.

“Can I see it?” he asks, pointing to the postcard. I hand it to him and he immediately flips it over to examine the front. “That's Grandma Grace, right? And Great-grandpa?”

“That's right.”

“She looks so young.” He flips it over once more and reads the message. When he's done, he hands it back. “That's pretty neat.”

“Yeah, it was ‘neat,'” I say, amused by his use of that phrase, which was my grandfather's go-to description for everything. How was vacation, Grandpa? Oh, pretty neat. What did you think of the movie? The neatest movie I've seen all year. How are the kids doing? Oh, you know…they're neat kids. Doing all right, I'd say.

“You're smiling. What's so funny?”

“Nothing. Did I ever tell you that that postcard somehow got waylaid in the mail?”

He shakes his head. “You didn't even tell me it was a postcard.”

“Right. Well, it did, which meant Grandma and Grandpa beat it home from France. I guess it must've gone on the slow boat. It was perfect timing, though—it arrived right on my wedding day. The mailman delivered it as we were heading out the door to the church, and it was the best wedding present I got.” I pause, remembering that day—the excitement and wonder of opening a new chapter in my life, the thrill of stepping into uncharted territory with my best friend, the fear of the unknown. “I was nervous. Every bride is, I think. But that little note from Grandma was just what I needed to calm me down.” I pause again, taking the postcard back and glancing once more at the picture of the Eiffel Tower. “We didn't have much of a honeymoon, but I made your dad promise me we'd go to Paris for our twentieth anniversary, just like Grandma and Grandpa suggested.” I can feel my nostalgic smile waning.

“That's this year, isn't it?”

I nod. “December thirteenth.”

“So? You still going?”

How do I respond to that?
For starters, I exhale very slowly while contemplating the complexity of…everything. The harsh reality is that the twenty-year celebration I once dreamed of is very unlikely. Not only would Ann's health issues need to be considered, but there is also the matter of money. A trip like that would cost thousands of dollars, and as far behind as we are on medical bills, there is just no way. Worse, though, even if there weren't the other obstacles, with the way we've been fighting I have to wonder if my marriage will even make it the six remaining months until December. “We'll see,” I say before putting the postcard back in the frame and returning it to the hutch.

When Cade and I join everyone in the living room, the discussion with Aunt Bev is chugging right along; I am genuinely impressed that a woman of her age—eighty-one years young—is intellectually nimble enough to keep even Ann and Bree on their toes.

There is an empty space on the love seat next to Dell. I set the pitcher of lemonade on the coffee table and take a seat on the floor.

“So let me get this straight,” says Ann. “Out of the blue, the guy sitting next to you just reached over and took your cookie?”

“Exactly like that,” Bev insists. “But not just a cookie. It was one of those fancy biscottis, and I was saving it 'til the in-flight movie.”

“What did you do?” asks Bree.

“Oh, for a while I just sat there, completely befuddled. Eventually, though, I got up the nerve to ask who gave him the right to steal my food. He says to me, ‘I don't know what you're talking about, lady.' Well, if that didn't frost my cookies—no pun intended. There were still crumbs in his mustache, for goodness' sake, and I saw both wrappers—his and mine—sitting right there on his tray beside the peanuts! So I waited a minute or two, then I pushed the button for the stewardess. When she got there, I asked if I could have another biscotti, because mine had turned up missing, and I also asked for a fresh tea, since mine was spilled on the gentleman beside me.” She pauses to cackle, then continues. “‘No it ain't,' the hornswoggler says to me. When he looked down at his shorts to verify, I dumped my whole cup of tea square on his lap! Poor fellow about shot through the overhead compartment. About the time his nether region stopped steaming, the stewardess returned with my tea and biscotti and informed me that I'd been upgraded to first class!” She pauses once more, then asks, “Did you know they have slippers up there for everyone? And steamed towels to freshen up? I hope I can finagle one of those seats on the return flight tomorrow.”

“You haven't changed a bit,” I tell her. “Same old Auntie Bev.”

“‘Old' being the operative word,” Bev cautions. Her edgy smile suddenly dulls to a soft grin. “I'm slowing down, Emily. Maybe not my mind, but my body. These old bones are not what they used to be.” A sad shadow creeps over her face. “My sister is worse, I'm afraid.”

The room is now very quiet. “How bad is she?”

Before Ann's sickness we used to go see Grandma Grace about every other month, and probably more than that during the summer. Lately, though, it's been tough to make time.

“She has her moments. You'll see next week. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she isn't. She's definitely getting weaker, though, which makes me glad I was able to come out when I did. We were still able to talk about old times, laugh a little. It may end up being the last time I get to do that with her. In this life anyway.”

“Well, I know she was looking forward to having you around. It's so nice you were able to come for so long.”

Bev smiles. “And now it's your turn to get a little Grace-time.” She turns to Cade and slaps his leg. “Cade, you be sure to enjoy your great-grandma this summer, while you have the chance. She's a grand old lady.”

“I will,” he promises.

Knowing Cade, he hasn't given a moment's thought to the fact that his great-grandmother is deteriorating over at the coast. Since he found out we're going there, all he talks about is how much fun it's going to be spending the whole summer playing on the beach. He's convinced that he is going to build the world's largest sand castle, and last night he drew a picture of the kite he's going to make that looks and flies just like a seagull.

“You too, girls,” Bev tells Ann and Bree before turning back to me. “I know I've just arrived, but is it too soon to talk business?”

Dell and I share a perplexed look. “What business?” asks Dell.

Bev's purse is sitting on the ground at her feet. She bends over and retrieves some papers. “I hope it won't be a burden,” she says as she rifles through them. “Actually, I know it probably will be a burden, but I hope it's the type of burden that you won't mind.” She looks up, her eyes earnest. “I'd like you to fix the place up a bit. It's long overdue for a face-lift, which it will surely need in order to sell it.”

For a moment, all is quiet. Finally I find my words. “What are you talking about? Grandma's house?”

“Yes. While you're staying there, would you mind terribly sprucing it up? I think it will sell for more if you get rid of—Well, you know how she loves that ocean theme. But it's a little outdated. More than a little. With some elbow grease and your knack for decorating I'm sure the market value will be quite handsome.” Bev winks playfully, as though she's toying with us, leading us carefully down a path. “Grace and I thought you could get more out of it if you put a little into it. But if you want to sell it as is, that's fine too, I suppose.”

Dell makes a sound like he's choking on phlegm, then asks, “What do you mean if we sell it? Why are we selling it at all?”

A gigantic smile spreads across Bev's wrinkly old face. “Because, Delly boy, you and your family are loved.” She smiles even bigger and shrugs playfully. “Grace and I discussed it, and given all of your bills and whatnot, we want you to sell that house so you can pay things off.” She reaches out and hands him the papers. “While I was there, Grace had me meet with an attorney to make some legal preparations for—Well, for when she's no longer here. I did so, and as part of that, Grace already signed the house over to you.” She pauses once more, clasping her withered hands together. “It's all paid off and everything, and yours to do with as you please.”

All Dell can manage to stammer is, “Oh my gosh…Are you serious?…Oh my gosh…”

I don't even try to speak. With tears streaming down my face I stand up and join Bev on the couch and just squeeze and squeeze.

Just like that, we own a beach house.

And just like that, there is the tiniest sliver of light at the end of my tunnel.

I
T'S THE FIRST FULL DAY
of summer vacation. Shouldn't I be able to sleep in?

I guess not, because the squeak of old-woman slippers coming down the stairs just woke me up.

When I open my eyes, Aunt Bev is tiptoeing across the floor in bright-green pajamas and pink leather moccasins. She freezes when she sees that I'm awake. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Fer wakin' me up? Or fer takin' me bed?”

“Oh my,” she laughs, “I didn't realize there was a pirate in the family. And a feisty one at that.” Bev wags a bony finger at me. “But I be pretty feisty too, young sir, so be ye warned.” She laughs again, then asks, “You hungry? Ah, heck, you're a growing boy. You're always hungry.”

In the kitchen she goes through the entire pantry looking for the perfect meal. After opening all the drawers and cupboards she chooses dry corn flakes drizzled with chocolate syrup.

“No milk?” I ask.
Weird.

Aunt Bev gives a disappointed look. “Is that how a pirate would ask? Surely you can do better.”

I think for a second and then snarl, “Alas, where be the milk fer yer crunchy grub?”

She claps her aged hands excitedly. “You are too cute for your own good. I bet it'll be good for my sister to have you around. She gets lonely in that facility.” Aunt Bev folds her arms and stares at me. “You'll look out for her, won't you, Cade?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, if you promise to, I'll tell you a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

“The kind any pirate like you would want to know. A
treasure
secret.”

Sneaky old woman knows just how to reel me in!
“Fine. I'll look out for Great-grandma. Now what's the secret?”

“You promise not to tell anyone I told you?”

“I promise.”

“Very well.” Aunt Bev bends down close, looking over her shoulder to make sure we're still alone. “In the attic,” she whispers, “if you're brave enough to venture up there, you'll find a metal detector—one of the very best money can buy.”

“What's it for?” I whisper back.

She looks like she wants to laugh. “Uh…to find metal.”

A metal detector sounds cool. But…“Why do I need to find metal?”

“
Treasure, Cade!
The metal detector will find buried treasure! I know you kids never knew your great-grandfather, but he believed there was treasure buried out behind the house. That's why he bought the metal detector. He'd spend hours and hours out there, combing the beach, just waiting to find riches buried beneath the sand. And according to my sister, he and she found treasure all the time.”

As she's speaking, my heart is pounding faster and faster. “You think there's still buried treasure out there?”

“Only one way to find out. But if I had to wager, I'd say your chances of finding something valuable are quite high. Quite high indeed.”

“Sweet!” I shout. “I'm gonna be rich!” I've always wanted to be rich…and now I will be!

Right then, Aunt Bev and I both hear something. A second later Bree stumbles into the kitchen. “Oh good. I thought maybe you'd already left.”

“Soon,” Aunt Bev replies. “But I need some help first.”

“With what?” I ask.

She checks her watch. “With waking your dad up. He said he'd take me to the airport in thirty minutes.”

“I'll do it,” says Bree. “I have to go back upstairs anyway. I forgot to take out my retainer.”

“I wish you the best of luck, Cap'n Cade,” Aunt Bev says once Bree is gone. “A good pirate doesn't give up until his treasure is found.”

“Arrgg,” I growl. “If there be treasure to find, I'll find it.” I pause. “Now, where's the Cap'n Crunch? I'm hungry.”

On Monday morning, I really just want to be happy about going to the beach, but my annoying sisters are making it hard. I don't know what got them started, but they're arguing over every silly little thing. Like why a certain pair of socks is found in the other's top drawer. Or whose headband is whose. And something about who looks best in boot-cut Levi's.

Pants! So stupid.

Rather than listen to their complaining, I sneak off to a friend's house to shoot hoops for a couple of hours. By the time I come home, Mom has already done my packing for me. “Your suitcase is on your bed,” she says. “Bring it upstairs so you're all ready when your father gets home. Oh, and bring Ann's upstairs while you're at it. She shouldn't be lifting heavy things like that.”

Ann overhears the comment too. “I'm not an invalid,” she replies. “I can get my own suitcase.”

“No,” Mom tells her, “you can't. Cade, do as you're told, and bring Ann's luggage upstairs.”

While rolling her eyes, Ann mumbles, “So lame.”

“It's for your own good. Just until you get your new heart. Then everything will be better. I'll let you lift all the suitcases you want.”

When I inspect the suitcase that my mom packed for me, it takes me maybe a second to see that she missed all the important stuff I'll need for a summer at the beach. Sure, there are plenty of shirts, socks, and underwear. But what about my slingshot for warding off sharks, or my binoculars to keep an eye out for killer whales? And what respectable pirate would go on a summer trip without a BB gun, buck knife, lighter fluid, and fishing pole? By the time my dad gets home from work, I have all that packed and more.

“Let's go!” I hear him shout as soon as he comes in the door. “I want to beat the traffic!”

Bree is brushing her hair in the entryway mirror when I drag my suitcase up the stairs. When she sees all the extra goodies tied to the outside of my bag, she says, “You know this is not a hunting expedition, right?”

“Mind yer own business, lass.”

She gives me a nasty look, then yells over her shoulder, “Mom! Cade's still talking like a pirate!”

“Mom! Bree be a yellow-livered landlubber, and she can't tell me how to talk!”

“Just leave him alone, Bree. It'll wear off. And Cade, don't call your sister names.”

I give her my best wicked smile and whisper, “If ye hates me talking like a pirate, I won't ever stop.” Then I load my booty in the car.

On the ride to Cannon Beach, Dad makes me and Bree sit together in the very back of the minivan so Ann can sprawl out on the middle bench. I am sure it's going to be miserable sitting next to my sister for so long, but it ends up being pretty…um…interesting.

There's a lot of things I don't like about Bree, but one thing I can't
not
like is how good she is at art. She's the only person I know who can draw or paint anything. So I'm not at all surprised that she brought a large pad of paper and markers to help pass the time. But after not too long, she leans over and whispers, “Hey, I have an idea.” After eleven years as her younger brother, I know what “I have an idea” means. It means she has a plan to do something that we probably shouldn't. In this case, it means she has an idea to do something with her supplies other than doodling sketches. “Check it out,” she says.

I watch as Bree takes a wide blue marker and writes a message for the cars behind us to read.

“Honk…if…,” she says, whispering the words to herself as she spells them out, “you…love…ice…cream!” When she's done writing, she holds it flat against the rear window. Ten seconds later the truck behind us gives two loud beeps. Knowing that our dad will be looking, Bree quickly drops the paper as soon as she hears the horn.

“Why is that jerk honking at us?” he asks almost instantly. “I'm going five miles over the speed limit.”

“Because he likes ice cream,” replies Bree matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Seriously?”

“Aye, aye, cap'n,” I shout.

That seems to pacify him.

After Dad changes lanes, Bree hands me a pen and paper and I write my first message:
Wave if you are nice!
OK, it isn't exactly brilliant, but it does earn a gesture from a large woman in the cab of a semitruck.

“She waved!” I whisper excitedly.

Bree tries to swallow a laugh. “That's not a wave, Dimwit. Unless she only has one finger on that hand.”

My sister's next message says,
I like your car! Flash lights if U want 2 trade
. The Mercedes driving behind us quickly speeds past without flashing any lights.

Since Bree has already come up with two good messages, I have to step it up. It takes a few minutes to think of one, but eventually I write,
Sister is 17. Never been kissed. Honk if that is sad!
Within a minute, my message earns five loud beeps from a bunch of teenage boys driving by in a rusty Volkswagen Bug.

“What's the problem now?” asks Dad, thinking he is getting honked at again. “Why are people so rude?”

“It's just some teenage boys being dumb,” Bree assures him. “Don't worry, Dad, it's not you.”

“What are you guys up to back there?” asks Mom.

“We're just being nice to the other cars. It's fine.”

“Hey, as long as they're not fighting, I'm happy,” Dad tells her.

“I like it when there's no fighting too,” states Mom. I can't tell if she is talking about us kids or about her and Dad. From the extra look he gives her, I'd say he is wondering the same thing.

Bree doesn't come right out and say it, but her body language says she thinks my last message was way awesomer than hers. Not to be outdone by her little brother, she takes the pen and paper and starts scribbling again. When she's done, she laughs, then she shows me what she wrote. “When I hold this in the window,” she whispers, “you have to look really scared, OK?”

“Aye.”

An old couple in a motorhome pulls up behind us in the slow lane. When Bree puts the message against the glass, I do just what she told me. The couple looks really scared. They wave at us and stuff, then they take the very next exit. Once they're gone, me and Bree start laughing, then hide the papers on the floor beneath the seat.

Fifteen minutes later two police cars come screaming up behind us, both of them with their lights flashing and sirens blaring.

“Whoa!” Ann shouts, sounding startled as the sirens yank her from a nap. “What's going on?”

My heart is pounding hard against my chest, which makes me wonder what Ann's heart is doing. I shoot Bree a nervous look. She looks even more worried than me. As Dad pulls over to the side to let the cops pass, I know we're in deep doo-doo when they both follow us to the shoulder.

With cars whizzing by on his left, one officer carefully gets out of his cruiser. His gun is still holstered, but his hand is glued to it.

“Bree? Cade? Anything you'd like to tell me?” hisses Dad as the officer approaches.

“Umm…not really,” Bree says.

“Nay,” I add softly.

Dad rolls down his window and quickly pastes a smile on his face. “Good evening, officer. Is everything all right? I wasn't speeding, was I?”

The policeman scans the inside of the car from front to back, looking at every person individually, but paying particular attention to me and Bree. “Where you folks headed?”

“Cannon Beach.”

“Can I see your identification, please?”

Dad hands it to him.

“Are the children in the car yours?” the officer asks as he reviews my father's driver's license.

“Last time I checked,” says Dad with a nervous chuckle.

The officer doesn't laugh. He asks my dad to open the hatchback, then he comes around back to talk directly to me and my sister. “Do you guys know why I'm here?” he asks. His voice is as serious as Ann's pulse.

I nod yes, but Bree shakes her head, no. “Was my dad speeding again?” she asks innocently. “Mom says he has a lead foot.”

“So he's your father?”

“Last time I checked,” Bree says with a little snicker, quoting the same thing Dad had told him a minute earlier.

“Then why,” the officer continues, “did we get a frantic nine-one-one call saying some kids had been abducted?”

Bree gives him her “I don't know” look and says, “A different car, maybe?”

Despite my sister's brilliant performance, I know it is not time for games. I dig through the papers on the floor and hold up the one that reads,
Help! We've been kidnapped! Call the police!!

The officer writes our names and ages in his notepad and goes back to his car. A few minutes later he returns, having confirmed that Dell and Emily Bennett are the parents of exactly three alphabetically named children—Ann, Bree, and Cade. “Everything checks out,” he tells my dad. “Looks like you've got your hands full, Mr. Bennett.”

Dad is still glaring at us in the rearview mirror. “You have no idea. What would it take to get you to lock them up for a few months?”

Luckily, the policeman isn't in the mood to charge us with anything. Dad, however, charges us with mutiny. “Maybe Cade's the only one talking like a pirate today,” he says once we're back on the road, “but I swear, both of you are pirate children. And I don't mean that as a compliment.” He keeps his voice fairly even so as not to further upset Ann, but I can tell he is ready to blow a gasket. “
Kidnapped?
Our summer trip is less than an hour old, and you've already had me pulled over for suspected kidnapping.” He checks the rearview mirror again to make sure we are paying attention. “Guys, do you even recall why we're going to the beach?”

“Yes,” Bree says.

“Cade?”

“Aye, cap'n.”

“Good. But if you know why, then I need you to act like it's important to you. When I said we can't afford your shenanigans, this is exactly what I was talking about. This summer is about Ann, not about you two hooligans.” He stops talking for a second, but his jaw stays clenched tight. “Tell me truthfully, are you two ready and able to make this summer work, or should I turn around right now?”