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“You thinking I’ll get caught?” Sully asked.
“Someone is bound to talk,” Cal said. “But I was thinking more along the lines of indigestion. You’ve been on a pretty bland diet, haven’t you? I’d work up to a hot dog if I were you. And then there’s the high sodium, fat, et cetera.”
“That mean you don’t want one?”
“Oh, I want one,” Cal said. “You should have something a little more easy on the stomach. If you ever want to have sex again in your life.”
“Hell, I gave up on that a long time ago. Don’t tell Maggie. I’d like to think of her having nightmares about it.”
When he was done with the shelf stocking and his hot dog, Cal went to the area Sully had mentioned was his garden. It was easily identifiable. It was behind the house, kind of hidden from the campgrounds. Cal wondered if that was sometimes an issue—a thriving garden being tempting to campers. Did they occasionally help themselves to the tomatoes?
It wasn’t too big, maybe sixteen by sixteen feet. He could see the rows from last year. He went to the shed that stood back from the property, tucked in the trees. There was a lot of equipment, from snowblower to plow attachment, lawn-grooming equipment, riding mower, wheelbarrow and gardening supplies.
Snowblower. He kept reminding himself to head south. Maybe southwest. It was just all that smog and sand and those hot rocks they called mountains...
He’d gone to school in Michigan, the state that invented winter. He was from everywhere, usually moderate climates, while Lynne was from New York. Westchester, to be exact.
He chose the wheelbarrow, spade, shovel and rake, and started clearing away the winter debris. He hadn’t asked what Sully meant to do with the stuff so he made two piles—one of fallen leaves that could constitute fertilizer and the other rocks, winter trash and weeds. You wouldn’t want to use weeds in mulch; that would just invite them back.
He’d been at it a couple of hours when he heard her approach. He knew she’d get around to it. He leaned on his spade and waited.
“You let my father eat a hot dog? Does that sound heart healthy to you?”
He just shook his head. “You know he’s a liar and he’s having fun with your close medical scrutiny. What do you think?”
“He got me, didn’t he?”
“He ate a sandwich—lean turkey, tomato, lettuce on wheat bread. He asked for doughy white bread and lost out to Enid, who obviously knows him better than you do. He wanted chips—he got slaw—made with vinegar, not mayo. Really, Maggie?” He laughed and shook his head.
“He’s antagonizing me, is that what you’re saying?”
“Over and over. But you can stop pressing the panic button. He’s doing great.”
“Have you seen his incision?” she asked.
“Oh, about ten times. I offered to sell tickets for him. He’s running out of people to show. But no worries. He tells me the camp is going to attract people like crazy any second now. Spring break, then weekends, then summer. I just hope he doesn’t scare the children.”
She thought about that for a moment. “It’s impolite to act like you know more about my closest relative than I do.”
“And yet, that’s usually the case. You’re too bound up by baggage, expectation and things you need for yourself. Like a father who lives much longer.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his brow. “Stop letting him bait you. He’s very conscious of the doctor’s orders. He’s taking it one step at a time.”
“Did he pay you to say this? Or are you Dr. Phil on vacation?”
Cal laughed. “You two have quite a dynamic going. You could be a married couple. Married about forty years, I’d say.”
“Remind you of your parents?” she asked, raising one brow. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“My parents are unnaturally tight,” he said. “They’re kind of amazing, I guess. Deeply supportive of each other, almost to the exclusion of everything around them and everyone else. Protective. They’re in their sixties, as in love as the day they met, and total whack jobs. But sweet. They’re very sweet.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “What makes them whack jobs?”
“Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New-age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”
“As in, the Grateful Dead?”
“Exactly. Just a little more complex.”
She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
“Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”
“Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly smart. And he regularly gets...um...messages.”
“Oh, this is fascinating,” she said. “What kind of messages?”
“Come on, nosy. How about you? Are you the oldest in the family?”
“The only. My parents divorced when I was six. My mother lives in Golden with my stepfather. What kind of messages?”
“Well, let’s see...there have been so many. One of the most memorable was when my father believed space aliens were living among us and systematically killing us off by putting chemicals in our food. That was a very bad couple of years for meals.”
“Wow.”
“It definitely hits the wow factor. They—we—were gypsies with no Romany heritage and my parents glommed on to a lot of bizarre beliefs that came and went.”
“And this has to do with Jerry Garcia how?”
“He appealed to their freedom factor—no rules, no being bound by traditional ideas or values, crusaders of antisocial thinking, protesting the status quo. They were also very fond of Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley. My father favors dystopian literature like Brave New World. My mother, on the other hand, is a very sweet lady who adores him, agrees with everything he says, likes to paint and weave and is really a brilliant but misguided soul. She usually homeschooled us since we were wanderers.” He took a breath and dug around a little bit. “My father is undiagnosed schizophrenic. Mild. Functional. And my mother is his enabler and codependent.”
“It sounds so interesting,” she said, kind of agog. “And you’re an only child, too?”
He shook his head. “The oldest of four. Two boys, two girls.”
“Where’s the rest of the family?” she asked.
“Here and there,” he told her. “My youngest sister was on the farm with my parents last I checked. There’s a sister back East living a very conventional life with a nice, normal husband and two very proper children. My brother is in the military. Army. He’s an infantry major. That’s taken years off my mother’s life, I’m sure.”
She laughed and it was a bright, musical sound. “You are no ordinary camper! What are you doing here?”
He leaned on the spade. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking after Sully,” she said.
“Oh, but that’s not all,” he said. “Neurosurgeons don’t just take weeks off when duty calls.”
“True. Not weeks off, anyway. I was already here for a vacation. My practice in Denver shut down because two of my former partners are not only being sued but being investigated by the attorney general for fraud and malpractice. I am not being indicted. I had no knowledge of their situation. But I can’t float a practice alone.”
“And that’s not all, either.”
“My father had a heart attack,” she said indignantly.
“I know, but there’s something else. Something that made you run home, run to your father, who is a remarkable man, by the way. There’s at least one more thing...”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“That little shadow behind your eyes. Something personal hurt you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“A man,” he said. “I bet there was a man. You had a falling out or fight or something. Or he cheated. Or you did.”
“There was no cheating! We just parted company!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, grinning at her.
“That’s just plain rude, prying like that. I didn’t do that to you. I was only curious and I asked but if you’d said it was none of my business, I wouldn’t have pushed. And I wouldn’t have given you some bullshit about something behind your eyes.”
“I think I’m getting a name,” he said, rolling his eyes upward as if seeking the answer in the heavens. “Arthur? Adam? Andrew, that’s it.”
She got to her feet, a disgusted smirk marring her pretty face. “Oh, that was good, Calhoun,” she said.
“Frank told me,” he said. “You weren’t thinking of keeping a secret around here, were you?” He laughed, very amused with himself. “And it’s not Calhoun.”
She brushed off the butt of her jeans. “You’re going to pay for that. I don’t know how yet, but trust me...”
“Someone has to teach you how to have a little fun, Maggie,” he said.
“Well, it’s not going to be you, Carlisle.”
He just shook his head and laughed. Then he worked on tilling the garden plot.
To find yourself, think for yourself.
—Socrates
Chapter 4 (#ulink_109b8f42-cfa6-52ab-93f4-e958a3741fc2)
The days were getting just a little longer, a little warmer. Flowers were starting to sprout along roadsides and trails. It was turning beautiful in and around Sullivan’s Crossing. Sully wasn’t able to plant his bulbs around the house but Maggie did it for him, with his relentless supervision.
Maggie and Sully had been back for five days and she’d driven to Timberlake as many times. First for some fresh vegetables and salmon, then for seedlings for Sully’s garden along with fertilizer, then for some fish and chicken breasts. She went ahead and stocked up on frozen shrimp and ground turkey and she spent a lot of time on her laptop looking up heart-healthy meals.
This was not how Maggie envisioned her escape from reality. She’d been hoping to relax and empty her brain of all those disappointments and worries. But this? She was working her tail off. She was not used to cooking, for one thing. When she was working she typically ate hospital food which, paradoxically, was not the healthiest. It was so starchy, cafeteria quality. It wasn’t the food they served patients, either. If not eating at the hospital, she’d grab something on the way home, something light—there was a conveniently located grocer and deli that sold prepared meals for one. And then there were the times she went out with friends or some of the staff for a meal and they were partial to either sushi or Italian.
But now she was working hard at feeding Sully delicious things to at least intrigue him rather than bore him to death. Before, when Maggie was at the campground, they’d decide what they were having for dinner and meet at about seven, throw a steak, burgers or maybe some chicken breasts on the grill. And they’d eat their meat with fries or potato chips.
She was already tired of this new routine.
She also watched while Cal got the garden ready. This was not his first garden. He created neat, straight rows of slightly raised dirt, ready for planting.
There were two fishermen in the campground and one older couple in an RV. The couple was interested in getting pictures of the wildflowers that were springing up all over, some even popping through the snow at the higher elevations. Because there was still so little traffic there was a sign on the front door of the store—Winter Hours, 8-5.
After dinner one evening, she walked over to the store to pilfer a beer and she saw there was a campfire on the beach, one lone man enjoying the mild evening. She grabbed two beers and walked down to the lake. He was sitting on top of a picnic table, feet on the bench, his elbows on his knees. His short brown hair was wet, as was the collar of his sweatshirt. He’d had a shower and shave.
“Evening, Caldwell,” she said.
He turned toward her in surprise and she handed him a beer. “Caldwell?” he asked. “You’re getting desperate.”
“That’s true, but not about your name. I’m getting a little restless.”
“Maybe it’s time to go back to work,” he said. He toasted her, clinking the neck of her beer with his.
“I do a lot of chores around this place. Sully has always been a tough taskmaster. I’ve always had to haul stock, sweep, clean, chop wood, dig out trenches, clean gutters, clean that damn bathroom and shower, work in the store, but never what I’ve been doing this time—cleaning house, cooking dinner. I’m already bored with my little housewifely duties and I’m getting cabin fever. I’m sick of heart-healthy food. If I see one more hunk of fish I’m going to gag. Sully said he’s growing fins.”
Cal laughed.
“You think it’s funny? I can smell your bacon before I smell coffee in the morning. I sneaked over to Timberlake for a hamburger today and Sully claimed he could smell it on my breath.”
He leaned closer to her, sniffing. “Yep.”
“I asked him if he had any ideas for dinner and he said he’d like a New York strip, smothered in onions on a hoagie bun.” She took a pull on her beer. “God, that sounds good.”
“I knew it,” he said. “You’re a carnivore.”
“You’re kind of interesting, Caliber. You shower and shave while you’re camping.”
“I wash my clothes and change the lining in the sleeping bag, too. I’m a very clean fellow. Are you ever going to go back to work and leave Sully alone?”
“Gimme a break, I haven’t relaxed a day yet,” she said. “Are you?”
“Sure. I just left a job about six weeks ago. I work. I’m just not working now, except for you.”
“Well, not me, exactly,” she said. “You work for Sully. Have I said how much we appreciate all the free labor? It’s very nice of you to pitch in.”
“I have time on my hands,” he said.
“What was your last job?”
“I was an assistant to an assistant in human resources in a theme park. It basically meant driving a golf cart around, checking on people, helping them fill out forms or taking complaints. Or, sometimes it meant catching them screwing around on the job and reporting them to my supervisor. As little of that as possible.”
“Really? A theme park?” she said, fascinated again. “Which one?”
“The big one.”
“Really? Was it fun?”
