Rainier Drive (Cedar Cove #6)(38)

“I won’t see him again,” she said. She gave him a long, involved kiss.

“You promise?” Seth asked.

“I promise.”

Then she told him about the job at the bank, which she’d be starting the following Monday.

His eyes revealed his astonishment. “When did you arrange this?” he asked, still frowning.

“A week ago.”

“You want to work?”

She did—for a dozen different reasons. She needed the escape into another world. She needed something to do; like him she’d been at loose ends. When they’d had the restaurant, she’d worked nearly every day and now there was a void. The money would come in handy, too. “Just a few hours a day. Do you mind?” If he did, she’d tell the bank she couldn’t do it.

“No—it’s totally up to you.”

Although Justine hated to bring up the subject of the restaurant, she felt it was necessary. “What about The Lighthouse?”

A pained look came over Seth, as if even talking about it distressed him. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” His gaze held hers as he used his index finger to outline the shape of her lips. His touch was gentle and his eyes filled with tenderness. “Whatever we decide, it doesn’t need to be this very minute. We’ll take things one day at a time.”

“Okay.” Justine sighed and rubbed her bare foot along the outside of his leg. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you.”

“Never,” he whispered. “I would never have let that happen.”

And yet Justine feared it almost had.

Fifteen

Allison Cox checked the address and space number a second time, uncertain whether she had the right trailer house. Anson had never told her which one he and his mother lived in. When she’d asked the manager, the woman had pointed to the back of the park, saying, “Cherry’s at the end. Space fifteen. When you see her, tell her the rent payment’s past due, would ya?”

“Ah…”

The woman had frowned. “Forget it, kid. I’ll deal with her myself.”

With more than a little trepidation, Allison walked up the rickety steps of number fifteen. The thought of Anson living in this poor excuse for a home nearly broke her heart. After a brief hesitation, she knocked at the thin door.

“Who is it?” the woman inside shouted.

“Allison Cox.” She spoke as loudly as she could without yelling.

The door slowly opened. Dressed in a housecoat, Anson’s mother stood on the other side of the screen door, holding a cigarette. Her hair was lank and dirty, and it looked as if she hadn’t been out for a while.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded. One arm was tucked around her waist; ash fell to the floor when she flicked her cigarette with the other hand.

“I’m a friend of Anson’s,” Allison explained. “I…” She lowered her voice in case someone was listening. “He phoned me and I thought you might want to hear how he’s doing.”

Anson’s mother laughed as though the statement amused her. “Sure,” she said, unlocking the screen. “Come on in and tell me what you know about the little bastard.”

Allison flinched at the word and resisted the urge to retaliate. If Anson was a bastard, then that woman was responsible for it. Biting her tongue, Allison stepped inside. The trailer was in shocking disarray. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and the countertops covered with junk. The living room obviously hadn’t been picked up in months.

There was a stale, musty smell—smoke, spilled booze, judging by the rye bottle lying on its side, and just…dirt. The smell of squalor. “Excuse the place,” Cherry said with a dismissive gesture. “It’s the maid’s day off.”

Allison smiled weakly at the woman’s attempted joke.

Cherry shoved a stack of trashy grocery store magazines from one of the chairs, indicating Allison should sit there. “Where’s he at?” she demanded before even Allison had a chance to sit down.

“He, uh, didn’t say.”

“Did you tell him the sheriff’s looking for him?”

“Well, no…He already seemed to know that.”

“He’s goin’ to prison this time.”

“Mrs. Butler, Anson didn’t set that fire.”

The woman snickered. “First off, I ain’t never been a Mrs. anybody, and second you and I both know Anson did it. You don’t need to pretend for my sake, sweetie. My son likes fires. He nearly burned the house down when he was six years old playin’ with matches. When he was ten, he and a group of his little friends started a brush fire that got me in a whole lot of trouble. Next thing I knew, Child Protective Services are all over my ass like I was the one who lit that match.” She paused and inhaled deeply on the cigarette, then smashed it out in a glass ashtray overflowing with ashes and crumpled butts. “Last year he gets himself in real trouble by burning down that toolshed in the park. Far as I’m concerned, he’s just building bigger fires. It started when he was a kid and it hasn’t stopped.” When she finished, she walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “Want a beer?”

Allison slowly exhaled. “No, thanks.”

Anson’s mother grabbed a bottle, twisted off the cap and took a swig. “Problem is,” she said without looking at Allison, “I never was mother material.”