“You’re fifteen miles from Cold Brook Prison.”
It’s true, and I don’t have a response.
“For your own safety,” he says, “don’t follow this Michael Rand, especially if you think he’s meeting her. They could be dangerous. I have to go now. We’ll talk again.”
He hangs up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Saturday late evening
I’m not quite done making dinner — I’ve pulled out all the stops and it feels like I’m on the verge of completing an Olympic decathlon — when Sean shows up early.
“Hey,” he says, coming close for a hug. “Traffic was lighter than I expected.” His smile fades as he notices my bruises and small cut. “Mom, what happened?”
I put my arms around him, press my face into his chest.
My son is home.
But I don’t linger; I have to finish cooking.
“What are you doing? Did you get into a fight or something?”
“I hit a deer with the Range Rover.”
“You what? And you got all banged up?” Sean follows me around the kitchen. “I bet it’s that stupid car. You know those things just underwent a huge recall? Why are you making dinner? Ma. You need to sit down.”
Sean’s complaints and concerns seem to motivate everyone else. Michael offers to set the table, while Joni takes over some of the last of the cooking, warming the bread and plating up the meal. Paul comes in and finally distracts Sean. Father and son hug and speak quietly, and then both are looking at me. I’m left standing alone in the kitchen, nothing to do. “I’m fine,” I say, loud and clear.
Once we’re all seated, Paul uncorks the wine and everyone takes a glass, except for Michael. He raises his water. We would toast Joni’s engagement, except Sean doesn’t know yet. She wants to tell him in her own time.
My head is swimming.
“To the lake house,” Paul says. “To us all being together.”
First, Sean regales us with tales of the West. For six months, he worked a grain elevator at a farm in South Dakota. He wintered in Idaho, mostly skiing and bartending. This past spring, he joined up with another farm, this one operating on one-hundred-percent-renewable energy sources to create organic produce.
Sean is ruggedly handsome, with tanned skin and a two-day beard stubble. He’s got the Irish that comes through both my line and Paul’s, but also the bit of Italian I inherited from my great-grandfather, who was from Rome. Sean’s hair is ruddy brown, his eyes dark blue. There’s a bend to his nose from when he broke it — twice. As a boy, Sean was a daredevil. He was always leaping from things: kitchen counters, the backs of vehicles, swing sets — all pretty typical stuff. But then there was the skateboarding, and the snowboarding, with all of the jumps. And when that wasn’t enough, hang gliding and bungee jumping came next. His first skydive was at the age of eighteen. Paul and I were both anxious about it, but we had no choice — he was an adult.
Over the last two years or so, Sean has gotten a little calmer. Some of the jobs — like smoke jumping in Arizona — had me up nights. But the move to the grain elevator job, and then to picking organic produce, gives me hope. I may not go completely gray just yet.
Sean and Michael seem to warm to each other instantly. While talking, Sean’s gaze connects with mine and he winks. It seems a preliminary stamp of approval for Michael.
If you only knew.
Once Paul and Joni are done bombarding Sean with questions, he asks Michael about himself. Michael hits on all the same points he’s shared with Paul and me. Joni glances at me — her eyes convey something much different from Sean’s: a reminder that this was when we were supposed to learn everything about her fiancé. And maybe she has a point: Now, we’re hearing everything twice. But that’s good. I’ve said hardly a word, just listened, and as Michael shares his personal story, I find myself evaluating his performance, checking for inconsistencies. Either it’s very well-rehearsed or it’s genuine. If it’s the latter, then I’ve got some strange, personal knots to untangle.
From there, the conversation moves to more general topics. The weather, plans for the upcoming week. Sean asks Paul, “When’s your boat gonna be ready, Dad?”
“I’m getting close. I’ll put the second coat on her tonight.”
“What about the sailboat? You guys been out in the Cootchie?”
“Sean Anthony,” I say with mock sternness.
He grins. “Sorry, Ma.”
Paul mentions some repairs done to the sailboat the previous autumn. As they talk, Michael listens raptly. Joni pours herself some more wine and offers it around. Paul and Sean agree to more, distractedly. I decline. Sort of in solidarity with Michael, sort of because I’ve been maybe hitting the stuff a bit too hard lately. And I’ve been having those cravings to smoke — even smelling it when there’s none around. Remembering the bluish haze of it in the air. The din of voices from a cocktail party, ice cubes ratting in tumblers, people in a hidden back room, noses bent to a glass table . . .
I’m about to excuse myself for an unneeded trip to the bathroom, just to clear my head, when I notice Michael checking his phone.
Any strange phone calls?
I’d almost forgotten talking to Starzyk.
A moment later, with Sean and Paul and Joni in a lively reverie about the time the three of them capsized the boat, Michael says, “Excuse me. Sorry, I’ll just be right back.”
“Head down the driveway a bit and you’ll have a better chance at reception,” Joni says.
“Thanks, babe.”
She smiles and gives his hand a squeeze and dives back into the conversation with her father and brother.
Michael walks out of the room toward the side door. After a few seconds, I pull together some dishes and head for the kitchen sink.
“Honey, I’ll do all that,” Paul says, noticing. “You’re going to get in trouble with our son.”
“It’s okay. I’m just puttering.” I sneak a glance at Michael stepping outside.
“It’s good to see him,” Paul says about Sean.
“Yes, it is.”
After Paul’s absorbed with Sean and Joni again, I head to the side door. Michael stands near the cars in the driveway.
Subtly, quietly, I drift closer. The solid door is open, leaving the screen. His voice floats to me as a murmur. He sounds calm, striking an almost professional tone.
“Mmhmm. No, I understand . . .” His feet crunch across the driveway as he moves farther out of range.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
Joni startles me. She’s standing in the hallway, looking so pretty in her white, sleeveless blouse, the flower pattern around the midriff. She holds her wineglass in one hand and holds her elbow with the other, her hips cocked at a slightly sassy angle.
“Just propping the door open. The air is so nice tonight. Warm.”
Joni seems to accept this and looks past me, through the open door.
“Sean really likes him, I think,” I say.
“Of course he does.”
“I didn’t mean anything . . .”
“He’s a good man.”