My One and Only(56)

Though it was home, Martha’s Vineyard seemed like a memory. Strange, to be so far away, in a landscape that was nothing like the familiar hills and rock walls of the island, the gray-shingled homes and scrubby pines. Here, the land stretched uninterrupted to the horizon, and the sky was a little merciless in its vastness.

“All right. I’m heading down the street,” Nick said.

I glanced down the road. “Stan’s Bar. Sounds perfect. Grab a beer, watch some baseball, soak up a little Montana color, is that it?”

“Exactly.” He paused. “You can come if you want.”

I took a quick breath. “Um…nah. I have to do some work, actually. I’ll just take Coco for a walk and hit the old laptop.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

He got up to go. “Nick?”

“Yeah?” He looked a little careworn, a little creased. He looked his age…not the boy I married. My heart squeezed, and I tried to ignore it. “I really appreciate you doing this.”

He shrugged. “I have to. We’re related now.”

“Oh, God. Is that true?”

His lightning smile flashed. “Well, you’re my half brother’s stepsister-in-law. So yes. I’ll expect presents at Christmastime.”

“Got it. One blow-up doll, superdeluxe model.”

He laughed, gave my shoulder a squeeze, causing that electrical hum to surge to a thousand volts. “Good night, Harper.”

“Night,” I said faintly.

I cleared my throat, tossed my trash into the nearby can and took Coco’s leash. She had a tennis ball, too, which I retrieved from the car—what Jack Russell didn’t love chasing stuff? We walked down the street a little…there was no downtown, no green or park, something I took for granted in New England. But there were fields, endless fields, so we went a few yards in.

“Want to fetch?” I asked, and my dog froze with breathless anticipation, her eyes bright and hopeful. I unclipped her leash, then fired the ball as far as I could, smiling as my little dog streaked across the field. She instantly found the ball and brought it back, tail whipping proudly, and dropped it at my feet so I could throw it again, preferably a thousand or so more times.

It was good therapy, standing in the fresh, cool air, the sky purpling with the onset of night. Sitting in the car for so long had taken a toll, and I was stiff and a little sore.

What would it be like to live in a place like this? According to the map, there were two hundred and fifteen people who lived in Sleeping Elk. What did people do for work? For fun? How did they meet people? Where did they go on a date, other than Charlie’s Burger Box or Stan’s Bar?

Maybe this was the type of place my mother had stayed on her long trek throughout the country. Maybe she’d stayed in this very town. Found a job, worked for a while, moved on. I knew very little about what she’d done the past twenty years, but thanks to Dirk Kilpatrick, P.I., I did know she’d been a wanderer. And I knew where she was now.

The wind gusted, and black clouds rumbled in the west. Time to go inside, give Kim a call, make light of my situation with my ex-husband, write up a brief and try not to think too much about the people I’d lost.

THE NEXT MORNING, WE learned that “breakfast included” meant a voucher at the gas station next door to the motel, as Charlie’s Burger Box didn’t open until eleven-thirty. Our amiable Crimson man had left us a note wishing us well. Nice.

“Can’t we get some steak and eggs?” I asked as we surveyed the paltry selection of plastic-wrapped Hostess baked goods. “Isn’t this Montana, home of beef? Shouldn’t I be able to get some steak and eggs somewhere? Isn’t this Cheney country? Can’t we get some cholesterol somewhere?”

“Can’t you limit the number of sentences you say before 10 a.m.?” Nick returned. But he went to the counter and asked the toothless store clerk about restaurants.

The clerk, who looked as if he was never without either banjo, chewing tobacco or rifle, pondered this difficult question.

“There used to be Sissy’s,” he said slowly, “but that burned down ‘bout six years ago. Maybe seven. Big fire, man, you shoulda seen it. Me and Herb Wilson, you know Herb? Met him yet? No? Well, me and Herb, we was on the fire department back then, and we nearly set ourselves on fire tryin’ to hose down the gas tanks, know what I’m sayin’?”

“So no restaurants?” I prodded. Clearly Jethro here didn’t get to see real live humans all that often, and I was starving.

“No, ma’am. Used to be Sissy’s but that burned down ‘bout six, seven years back. You know Herb Wilson, ma’am? Me and Herb—”

“Then we’ll just take these,” I said, tossing a six-pack of miniature doughnuts on the counter.

“Fill up on pump number one,” Nick added. “And I’m sorry for my…companion’s rudeness. She’s from Massachusetts.”

“Where’s that at?” Jethro asked.

“It’s in New England, and we’re not companions,” I told the clerk. “I’m his parole officer. Thanks for your time.” I slid a five onto the counter, grabbed Nick’s arm and led him out of shop.

“Now that’s local color,” Nick grinned as he filled up the Mustang’s gas tank. Indeed, his mood was very jolly this morning, a vast improvement on last night’s somber tone. He’d always been…moody. No, that wasn’t quite fair. He’d always been expectant. He could be sweet and funny and more energetic than a fox on amphetamines. But then, for whatever reason, his mood could shut off like a light. Sometimes, too, when we were dating or engaged, he’d stare at me…not in-love dopey staring (well, there was some of that), but other times, he’d just look at me and…wait. Wait for something I never gave, apparently, because eventually, when I’d had enough and say “Nick, do you mind?” he’d look away, clear his expression and act normally.