California(76)

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Are you going to vote?”

She laughed. “Oh boy.”

“It’s none of my business, sorry.”

“It will be soon enough. The Vote is public. Didn’t anyone tell you that? You’ll see who wants you to stay.”

“And who doesn’t.”

“I wouldn’t worry.”

“You don’t even know what outcome I’m hoping for.”

“Oh, please.” Rachel raised an eyebrow. Cal thought he could see an old piercing there, the tiny hole abandoned; it had been left to close, but it was stubborn, it wouldn’t.

“Everyone knows you’re tight with Micah and them,” she said. “You’re in the meetings now, aren’t you?”

Cal was too stunned to answer. How did she know?

“I’ve gotta get some food in me,” Rachel said. “A sweet pancake maybe.” With that, she turned and left Cal alone in the mud.



Cal went to find Frida to tell her what Micah and Peter wanted. They were right; Frida couldn’t whisper news of her pregnancy to a soul. “I’m serious,” he’d say. He wanted to protect her, but he couldn’t say that: she’d laugh or, worse, be offended. She’d tell him she didn’t need his help, his strength, his useless male bravado. For all he knew, Frida was keeping secrets just to prove he couldn’t keep her safe. But this wasn’t a final paper in a women’s studies class; Frida needed him. He needed her, too.

If Frida could display a few symptoms, that would shut Micah and Peter up. Cal believed what he’d told them, that it was still too early in the pregnancy, but he couldn’t help but wish a little nausea on her, a fatigue that dragged her into a nap every other hour. When he went to find her in the Hotel dining room, Anika had said she was resting, tired after waking up so early to bake. Cal’s heart sped up. Maybe it had nothing to do with getting up early, maybe this was the beginning of the symptoms he had been hoping for. He’d ask her when they were alone.

It was funny to think that way now: when they were alone. Before, that’s all they ever were. He’d loved being the only two people around for miles; he understood that now. The life they’d created for themselves had been fragile and solid at once, and beautiful in those ways, too: the shell of an egg, the stone of a pillar. Now things felt wrong. These people had no idea what Frida was like, what she needed, what she called out for in the middle of the night when she was afraid, when her stomach hurt, when she just wanted dawn to come and ease the dark. She and Cal had been through so much. It was like Frida didn’t agree, like she didn’t care.

Cal found Frida in the outdoor lounge with Sailor and Dave. Dave had shaved, and without the scruff of hair covering his face he looked younger than before, and better looking; his beard had been hiding a strong jawline and a wide smile that made him look almost arrogant.

Did he want to impress Frida? Dave had been so rude when they’d arrived—the suspicious glances, the rough way he’d handled their things—but maybe by now he’d cooled off. And Frida was the new girl in town. The first and last, supposedly.

When Cal was a little boy, his mother had told him that someday his true love would seem different from everyone else in the world. “Like a bright red car in a sea of jalopies,” she’d said. It struck him that, although his mother had not been in love with his father, nor with her various long-term boyfriends, she’d been right. This was exactly how Cal felt, looking at his wife. His red car.

Dave saw Cal first. He waved, and Frida turned.

Though she smiled and called his name, Cal thought he detected a microsecond of disappointment on her face. It reminded him of how she used to act after spending the day with Micah. It was as if she’d gotten so used to her brother’s inflections and cynicism, and the way he could make her laugh, that returning to Cal jarred her. He wondered sometimes if Micah made fun of him to his sister, so that when Frida saw Cal again, she had the urge to laugh and had to force herself not to.

“Hi, babe,” he said now, and bent down to kiss her on the mouth.

“Hi,” she said.

What was it that had fled so suddenly from her face? Was it that she’d been sitting with two attentive men she didn’t know very well, their lives mysteries she could mine for years, and Cal had barged in to interrupt the moment? She’d been so happy just seconds ago, as giddy as she’d been when she first met Sandy Miller by the creek. But now that Cal was here, breaking up playtime, she looked, if not unhappy, then concerned. Perhaps she was worried about what he’d say.

“Nice face,” Cal said to Dave, and Frida giggled.

“He’s a looker, isn’t he?” she said, her hands clasped under her chin like a cartoon animal in love. “Sailor’s jealous.”

“Am not,” he said, pouting.

“Poor baby,” Frida said. She was laughing again.

“I heard about your fancy pancake,” Cal said.

“It was amazing!” Sailor said, and Frida fake-protested.

“It was,” Dave said. “Did you try it?”

Cal shook his head. “Everyone else got a taste but me.”

This time, Frida didn’t laugh.

“How come you didn’t get any?” she asked. “What were you doing?”