A Stillness of Chimes (20 page)

She frowned, trying to remember what she’d said.
“Stop by when you have time. There’s something I want to give you.”
“What do you mean?”

“After the way you kicked me out yesterday—”

“I didn’t kick you out.”

“No? ‘Get lost, Halloran’ didn’t sound like an invitation to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Sean. You just make me so mad sometimes.”

“It’s mutual, sometimes.” He smiled.

She smiled too, and the tension dissolved. About
that
, anyway.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Come on in before Mikey runs out.”

He stepped inside, still smiling. Crowding her a little. His flirtatious
pursuit bore no resemblance to Dale’s rough violation of her personal space, but it was unsettling in its own way.

She led Sean to the kitchen table where she’d dumped the tote bag before she collapsed on the couch in tears. “These are for you.” She put the bag in his hands.

He looked into it and shook his head. “You can’t give me these. They’re heirlooms.”

“You know I can’t carry a tune. What would I do with a bunch of old songbooks and sheet music? Don’t worry. I kept a couple to remind me of Daddy.”

“Thank you,” Sean said softly. “I’ll take good care of them.”

“Don’t be afraid to use them, okay? Enjoy them. Wear them out.”

He nodded, returning the bag to the table, and then he closed the distance between them and hugged her. Blindsided, she could only hug him back. Carefully.

She would not cry. The Advil would kick in soon, and her shoulder would stop hurting, and she would not cry.

Sean had experienced far worse hurts. Remembering that, she let her hands absorb his warmth through his shirt. She wanted to make up for the brutality he’d endured as a boy. She wanted him to feel healed. Restored. Loved.

Enough of that. If she stayed in his arms any longer, he’d try to take it from hugging to kissing, and she’d be tempted to cooperate.

She pulled away and worked up a smile. “I stopped by your house with the songbooks, but you weren’t home. And Dale was there so I didn’t hang around.”

Worry filled his eyes. “Did you talk to him?”

“Briefly. Now, can you humor me about something, please?”

“That all depends.”

“It’s a small request, Sean. Just let me show you what’s in the closet in my mom’s room.”

He balked, eyebrows lowered.

She tugged his arm. He didn’t budge, so she took off without him.

Waiting for him to catch up, she surveyed the bedroom. When it came time to deal with the toiletries that crowded the top of the bureau, she’d probably throw everything out. The Jean Naté, though … her mom had worn that scent almost every day of her life. She’d said she started wearing it as a teenager and never grew tired of it.

Laura picked up the tiny bottle and unscrewed the cap. The light, lemony scent engulfed her, not with specific memories, but with the very air of her mother’s presence. The fragrance was like the ghost of a ghost.

Hearing Sean’s slow, reluctant footsteps approaching, Laura capped the bottle, took firm control of her emotions, and turned around. He stood just outside the room, regarding her with the stubborn expression she knew so well.

“I’ve found some pretty obvious clues,” she said.

“About your dad, you mean? If he left any clues, the sheriff and his cohorts should have found them years ago.”

“They weren’t looking for clues. They never dreamed it was anything but an accidental drowning. Sean, look.”

Laura opened the door to the small, deep closet and pulled the string dangling from a single bare bulb. She’d almost emptied her mother’s side of the closet, but the rod and shelves on the right still sagged with the weight of her father’s clothes. Years of dust covered the shoulders and collars of his shirts.

Sean propped himself up in the bedroom doorway, his expression skeptical. “Clothes in a closet. Some clue.”

“Which shoes did my dad always wear when he went fishing?”

“His deck shoes.”

Laura pointed at the neat but dusty lineup of men’s shoes under the hanging clothes. “They’re gone.”

“Of course they’re gone,” Sean said softly. “They’re at the bottom of Hamlin Lake.”

The pity in his eyes made her want to scream. “But his hunting boots are gone too. When did he ever wear heavy hunting boots for a day of fishing?”

“Your mom might have given them away.”

“She might have, and she might have given away his best hunting and camo gear. The things a man would need for a long camp out. They’re gone.”

“How do you know?”

“I know where he always kept everything.” She made her way to the rear of the closet. “Come on, Sean, get in here.”

He followed her in, grumbling, but he didn’t take advantage of the tight quarters. Vaguely disappointed, then cross with herself for wanting him closer, she focused on the real issues.

Small puffs of dust rose from her father’s hanging clothes when she ran a hand across them. For twelve years, she’d never given a thought to his comfort and safety. She’d assumed he had gone on to his eternal rest. Now, though, she worried that he didn’t even have a roof over his head. One warm shirt or jacket might make a world of difference on a cold night.

She glanced back at Sean. “His church clothes are still here, and some of his work clothes. But his camo gear is gone.”

Sean eyed the old wooden shelf above the closet rod. It held only neat piles of folded shirts and jeans. “This house has more than one closet. And bureaus. Have you checked them all?”

“Yes. Let me show you what’s in his drawers.”

Sean stepped aside, letting her exit the closet before him. As she passed him, the faint scent of sawdust reminded her of her dad’s workshop. Of him and Sean bending over a project together, working together like father and son.

Steeling herself against grief for Sean’s losses as well as her own, she crossed the room and opened the top drawer of her dad’s bureau. He’d built it himself. The drawers glided as smooth as silk, as strong as the oak tree they’d come from.

“Socks,” she said. “Underwear.”

“What’s so significant about socks and skivvies?”

“Think about what’s missing. His wool socks. The ones he liked for hunting trips.” She shut the top drawer and opened the second one. “This is where he kept his long johns. I know because I always helped Mom put the laundry away.”

He gave the contents of the drawer a cursory look. “I see some long johns. What’s your point?”

“There’s nothing left but some of the everyday kind. Where are his special long johns? The expensive ones he got by mail order? He wouldn’t have worn them for a fishing trip in August.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing. Laura, please. Be sensible. Don’t live in a fantasy about having your dad back.”

“Now you sound like my mother.” She slammed the drawer shut. “It’s
not a little-girl fantasy. It’s a theory.” She pointed to the tall gun safe in the corner, topped with a stack of books. “Let’s open that thing.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll bet you don’t remember the combination.”

“Bet you’re wrong.”

Now that she’d practiced the combination a few times, she was fast. She had it open again in seconds.

She swung the heavy steel door open and stepped back. “Voila. The old BB guns and the .22s we used for target practice—remember those?—and the antique revolver he never trusted. But what about his good deer rifle? Ammo? Knives? Bows and arrows? Where’d they go?”

“Your mom must have sold them.”

“If she had, she would have given you first pick of everything. You know she would have. You were like a son to my folks.”

“Maybe she just moved them somewhere. Like the garage.”

“I checked the garage. And the attic, cobwebs and all.”

“Oh.”

“Everything that’s missing is something he would have needed in the wild. Weapons. Ammo. Basic tools. His mess kit. His flint. The best down sleeping bag. He wasn’t planning a morning at the lake.”

“You and your mom would have noticed him taking everything out of the house.”

“Not if he took a little bit at a time. At the crack of dawn, before we were up. You know that’s when he liked to set out. Remember what you told me on Sunday? A man could stash everything he’d need to survive. Clothes and food. Tools and hunting and fishing gear.”

“I was only quoting what some other people have been saying.”

“Maybe they’re saying it because it’s true.”

He looked at the nearly empty gun safe as if wishful thinking could make the missing weapons reappear. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

She moved closer, begging him with her eyes. “At least admit that he might be alive. Not that it’s certain, not that it’s even probable, but that it’s at least possible.”

Sean sank onto the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, the same tense posture she remembered from the times they’d sat with Cassie on the bench outside the principal’s office. “I don’t know, Laura.”

“What’s your problem? Why do you only want to argue with me?”

“I only want to help you face reality. If you’re not ready, I’d better head home.” He stood up and walked out.

She chased him down the hall and into the kitchen, where she passed him and planted herself in front of the door. “Tell me what’s wrong, Sean. Tell me what you’re keeping from me.”

“What makes you think I’m keeping something from you?”

“The way you’re acting.”

“Baloney.” He retreated two steps.

She followed, as close as a ballroom dancer. “Something’s going on that you don’t want me to know about. Will you at least admit that much?”

He was silent, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For admitting that something’s wrong. By not saying anything.”

“Sorry.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say about it?”

“Yep.” He grabbed the songbooks, sidestepped her, and made for the door.

She followed him onto the porch, into the cold evening air. He ran down the steps and climbed into his truck. With the door open, he looked up at her. No smile now.

“Did your folks ever own a little brown car?” he asked.

“Brown? Not that I remember. Why?”

“Just wondering. Good night.” He shut the door.

“There you go again.” She raised her voice, hoping he could hear her through the truck’s window. “Acting weird.”

The roar of the engine was his only answer. The truck jolted down the driveway and onto the road, where the taillights swerved and disappeared around the sharp curve with only a fleeting flare of the one operative brake light.

She hurried inside, bolting the door behind her, and tried to dismiss Sean’s aggravating attitude from her mind. She had more important matters to deal with. Rubbing her arms to warm up, she recalled what her dad had always said about mountain weather. Just like a woman, it was beautiful but fickle, going from cold to hot and back again.

A fifty-degree night wasn’t bad if you had a warm bed to sleep in, but a fifty-degree night without decent shelter would be miserably cold, especially for a man whose clothes must have worn thin by now.

Laura returned to the closet, hatching a plan.

Cassie had started seeing her parents with new eyes. Sure, they were middle-aged fuddy-duddies who could stand to lose a few pounds, but they were good people. They cared about other people. They’d once stuck their noses into Dale Halloran’s business for Sean’s sake, even though there might have been serious repercussions.

And if her mom showed a few signs of obsessive-compulsive behavior … so what? Cassie was starting to think it wasn’t a big deal. If a woman wanted to spend half her afternoon making a ridiculously organized grocery list, arranged aisle by aisle like a map of the store and color-coded for different kinds of coupons, that was her privilege.

Cassie propped her elbows on the granite counter and studied her mom’s neatly written menu. “Steaks? For a little boy’s birthday party?”

“Nothing’s too good for my grandson,” her dad bellowed from his home office.

“No fair,” she yelled back. “You never bought steak for my birthdays when I was little.”

“We couldn’t afford steaks back then, Cass. Did it wound your tender little psyche?”

“Yes sir, it did. You need to make it up to me. Buy me a new car or something.”

He laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Her mom looked up. Seated at the table, she was searching through a shoe box full of coupons—as if she still needed to pinch pennies. “The steaks will be for the adults,” she said. “Trevor will want a hot dog. He always does. Does Laura eat red meat? Or is she like Jess?”

Cassie sat beside her. “Except for tuna and sushi, Laura will eat just about anything. Like me.”

“You? You’ve always been a fussy eater.”

She smirked, thinking of Drew’s running joke that they should write a cookbook with a thousand and one ways to cook beans. “Not anymore.”

“I just hope she and Sean will come. He’s such a dear.”

“Ardie, sweetheart?” came a wistful voice from the office.

“Yes, Gary?”

“Will you pick up some good salsa from the deli, please?”