What We Find (Sullivan's Crossing, #1)(54)

Cal was at peace with the place. Since he’d grown up with no security or schedule, always some new agenda or scheme, he fell in love with the routine. Mornings he used Sully’s kitchen for breakfast, though Sully rose at dawn and headed for the store. Then he’d have coffee on the porch with Frank, Sully, and often Tom who would come by on his way to some job—usually a handyman project for a local home owner. Sully would let Cal know what he wanted done that day, Frank would head to his ranch to give his sons advice, everyone got to work. The end of the day found him back on the same porch, talking with hikers, having a cold drink.

He hated to go inside at the end of the day unless it was raining, which was seldom this time of year. He would sit outside with Sully and Maggie until the sun was well set. When he retired with Maggie to the rumpus room, he took at least an hour in that old leather chair, feet up, nose in a book. There was a bookstore in Leadville he’d visited a couple of times and he had a nice library forming on that bookcase of Maggie’s.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“I’m doing a lot more rereading than reading these days. Isn’t that what you do on vacation?”

“As hard as you work all day, this is hardly a vacation. What are you rereading?”

“Great Expectations.”

“You’re the only theme park employee I’ve ever known who reads classics.”

“Literature major,” he reminded her.

“Why reread now?”

He closed his book. “Sometimes it takes me back in time, remembering who I was the first time I experienced a great book. It reminds me where I thought I was headed and how life changed and changed me. When I first read this I was a kid—it was one of my mother’s favorites. I thought I might be a famous playwright. Or at least a rich novelist. I changed my mind and direction a few times. At least.”

Cal didn’t explain how much he liked the language of exceptional storytelling because in a way he was a storyteller, but he’d done it in court. He never made things up or lied, but he offered possibilities. Enough to cloud a jury’s decision. Enough to confuse human nature. Sometimes he’d complicate an already complex process—that was plotting. That was what the greats of literature did—they got their characters up a tree and threw rocks at them.

He thought again about explaining things to her, who he was, what baggage he was bringing to the relationship. After all, they were playing house in Sully’s basement. Every time he thought about it, it felt a little bit heavier. Eventually he’d unload it. But tonight was not the best night. Maggie was getting ready for bed and other things came to his mind.

He didn’t explain himself but he did ask her if she wanted to talk about the lawsuit, the case against her. “Eventually,” she said. “Not yet. Frankly, I get tired of thinking about it and talking about it is even worse. Thanks for offering.”

Wednesday brought Tom for grounds keeping. Cal stocked shelves before getting out the rake and edger to help. Maggie, he noticed, was in the garden, which was beginning to flourish. They were already getting their salads from the backyard and the first tomatoes were coming in. At lunchtime he was headed with Tom back to the store. Maggie was on the porch with a bottled water and a lot of mud on her shoes and knees. She wore a ball cap with a short ponytail pulled through the back and just a look at her, all a mess from gardening, created carnal thoughts he looked forward to acting out later.

“You’ve been farming,” he said.

“How could you tell? Hey, Tom,” she added.

“We’re going to get some lunch,” Cal said. “You want anything?”

“Yes, exactly. Anything. And a green tea?”

“Coming up.”

Tom and Cal returned immediately cradling wrapped sandwiches, a bag of chips, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, drinks. They put everything on the table and Cal pulled napkins and a packet of salt from his pocket. A couple of campers with a small ice chest passed by the porch and yelled out, “Hi, Cal. Hi, Tom. Hi, Maggie.”

Maggie unwrapped her sandwich and froze. She was staring at the drive. “Oh God,” she said.

Pulling up to the store was a shiny BMW convertible, the top down. Inside the car was a woman with dark glasses and an elaborate scarf covering her head.

“What?” Cal asked, his mouth full.

“Phoebe,” she said dismally. “My mother.”

“Really,” Cal said slowly, smiling.

“Oops, I just remembered something,” Tom said, gathering up all his food in his big arms and fleeing the porch, into the store.

“Would you like me to leave you two alone?” Cal asked.

“It really doesn’t matter. But if you stay, I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”

“This could surpass interesting. After all you’ve told me about—”

Maggie stood. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

Cal also stood and although he’d just given his hands a good washing in the kitchen, he wiped them on his khaki shorts.

Phoebe proceeded up the steps to the porch. “Is it enough that I’ve hardly seen you in three months?”

“I saw you a couple of weeks ago and called you almost every day. I’m not in Denver. It’s quite a drive.”

“I managed quite nicely, except that last bit. Messy, rotten road. Slow.” Then she looked pointedly at Cal, waiting. She was probably five foot two and slight. She was attractive; her scarf, pushed back, revealed red hair and a beautiful, youthful face. Fifty-nine, Maggie had said. Dressed pretty well for a road trip, designer slacks and jacket, pumps... Pumps? To a campground? She was spit-shined, polished, her jewelry tasteful and expensive. Just her watch was worth a month’s salary. A month of his old salary.