“And Claire?”
“My sister and I have problems, I’ll admit it. But nothing major. We’re just too busy to get together.” When Harriet didn’t speak, Meghann rushed in to fill the silence. “Okay, she makes me crazy, the way she’s throwing her life away. She’s smart enough to do anything, but she stays tied to that loser campground they call a resort.”
“With her father.”
“I don’t want to discuss my sister. And I definitely don’t want to discuss her father.”
Harriet tapped her pen on the table. “Okay, how about this: When was the last time you slept with the same man twice?”
“You’re the only one who thinks that’s a bad thing. I like variety.”
“The way you like younger men, right? Men who have no desire to settle down. You get rid of them before they can get rid of you.”
“Again, sleeping with younger, sexy men who don’t want to settle down is not a bad thing. I don’t want a house with a picket fence in suburbia. I’m not interested in family life, but I like sex.”
“And the loneliness, do you like that?”
“I’m not lonely,” she said stubbornly. “I’m independent. Men don’t like a strong woman.”
“Strong men do.”
“Then I better start hanging out in gyms instead of bars.”
“And strong women face their fears. They talk about the painful choices they’ve made in their lives.”
Meghann actually flinched. “Sorry, Harriet, I need to scoot. See you next week.”
She left the office.
Outside, it was a gloriously bright June day. Early in the so-called summer. Everywhere else in the country, people were swimming and barbecuing and organizing poolside picnics. Here, in good ole Seattle, people were methodically checking their calendars and muttering that it was June, damn it.
Only a few tourists were around this morning; out-of-towners recognizable by the umbrellas tucked under their arms.
Meghann finally released her breath as she crossed the busy street and stepped up onto the grassy lawn of the waterfront park. A towering totem pole greeted her. Behind it, a dozen seagulls dived for bits of discarded food.
She walked past a park bench where a man lay huddled beneath a blanket of yellowed newspapers. In front of her, the deep blue Sound stretched along the pale horizon. She wished she could take comfort from that view; often, she could. But today, her mind was caught in the net of another time and place.
If she closed her eyes—which she definitely dared not do—she’d remember it all: the dialing of the telephone number, the stilted, desperate conversation with a man she didn’t know, the long, silent drive to that shit-ass little town up north. And worst of all, the tears she’d wiped from her little sister’s flushed cheeks when she said, I’m leaving you, Claire.
Her fingers tightened around the railing. Dr. Bloom was wrong. Talking about Meghann’s painful choice and the lonely years that had followed it wouldn’t help.
Her past wasn’t a collection of memories to be worked through; it was like an oversize Samsonite with a bum wheel. Meghann had learned that a long time ago. All she could do was drag it along behind her.
Each November, the mighty Skykomish River strained against its muddy banks. The threat of flooding was a yearly event. In a dance as old as time itself, the people who lived in the tiny towns along the river watched and waited, sandbags at the ready. Their memory went back for generations. Everyone had a story to tell about the time the water rose to the second floor of so-and-so’s house … to the top of the doorways at the grange hall … to the corner of Spring and Azalea Streets. People who lived in flatter, safer places watched the nightly news and shook their heads, clucking about the ridiculousness of farmers who lived on the flood plain.
When the river finally began to lower, a collective sigh of relief ran through town. It usually started with Emmett Mulvaney, the pharmacist who religiously watched The Weather Channel on Hayden’s only big-screen television. He would notice some tiny tidbit of information, something even those hotshot meteorologists in Seattle had missed. He’d pass his assessment on to Sheriff Dick Parks, who told his secretary, Martha. In less time than it took to drive from one end of town to the other, the word spread: This year is going to be okay. The danger has passed. Sure enough, twenty-four hours after Emmett’s prediction, the meteorologists agreed.
This year had been no exception, but now, on this beautiful early summer’s day, it was easy to forget those dangerous months in which rainfall made everyone crazy.
Claire Cavenaugh stood on the bank of the river, her work boots almost ankle-deep in the soft brown mud. Beside her, an out-of-gas Weed Eater lay on its side.
She smiled, wiped a gloved hand across her sweaty brow. The amount of manual labor it took to get the resort ready for summer was unbelievable.