The Night Swim(32)
I didn’t know what to think and so I didn’t. I went about the usual morning routine instead. I ate breakfast and packed our beach bag with towels and sandwiches. When Mom woke, I brought her toast with jelly and a weak coffee. She sat up with the tray on her lap, picking at her food. Noticing the time, she asked why Jenny and I weren’t already at the beach. I muttered something about how we were leaving soon. Satisfied, she turned over and went back to sleep.
The heat hung heavily that morning and I was becoming impatient as the day dragged on and Jenny showed no signs of waking. Eventually, I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Jenny? It’s time to get up.” I shook her gently. “It’ll be too hot to walk to the beach if we don’t go soon.”
“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” she slurred.
Jenny lay like that for days. Listless. She didn’t wash. She barely ate. She’d go entire days without uttering a single sentence.
I had no idea what was wrong. I was a kid. I couldn’t even speculate. Either way, I was so consumed with taking care of Mom, who could barely get out of bed most days, that I didn’t know how to break through the wall of silence that my sister had erected.
It must have been three or four days later when we ran out of food. Not a slice of bread or a drop of milk was left in the kitchen fridge. We had nothing except for the lemons on our tree and a few carrots and tomatoes that Mom had planted in the spring.
I told Mom we were out of food and she gave me money from her savings to go shopping. She assumed I was going with Jenny. I didn’t tell her the truth.
Rick’s convenience store was the closest shop to our house and the only one I could reach on foot. I walked down there and filled a shopping basket with a few staples. I paid Rick at the counter. He packed all the groceries into four plastic bags. I carried them, two in each hand, as I walked home on the shoulder of the road. My arms quickly became sore from the weight of the groceries. I had to put the bags down by my feet to take a short break every few minutes.
It was during one of those rest breaks that I heard gravel crunch behind me. I turned to see an open-back truck pull to a stop next to me. It was the same truck and driver who’d given us a ride home that day after the beach. This time, there were no passengers. The driver was alone. His elbow rested casually on the open window as he leaned out to talk to me.
“How’s your sister?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” I lied.
“She around?”
“At home. Why?”
“No reason,” he said, shoving an open pack of gum in my direction. Despite my immediate inclination to say no, I took a stick of gum and popped it in my mouth.
“Do you want a ride home?” he asked. “Those bags look heavy. That one has a split in it.”
I looked down and saw that the plastic bag with the milk carton was splitting. I was tempted. A ride in the truck would get me home in minutes instead of half an hour struggling uphill with torn grocery bags. As I hesitated, the driver leaned across the cabin and swung the passenger door open.
“Get in,” he ordered as if I didn’t have any choice. I climbed in and sat as far away from him as I could manage. My grocery bags rested by my feet.
Instead of dropping me on the main road like last time, he took a sharp turn down the rough access road to our house. He stopped outside our front porch, his truck engine running. He looked toward the house. His eyes were searching for something. I guessed he’d hoped to see Jenny. I snatched my shopping bags and clambered out, relieved to be home.
“Thanks for the ride,” I called out in a shrill, nervous voice as I stepped onto the porch.
He put the stick shift in gear and the pickup rattled forward. “Tell your sister that I said ‘hey,’” he called out. “Tell her I hope to see her real soon.”
20
Rachel
Scott Blair’s family home was an ultra-modern architectural masterpiece in the most prestigious neighborhood of Neapolis. It had beach access, a putting green, and a resort-style pool. Rachel had seen the house in a design magazine. Even that didn’t prepare her for the real thing when Cynthia Blair opened a double-size front door to reveal a black-and-white-tiled hall with an overhanging chandelier.
“Greg is one of your biggest fans,” gushed Cynthia as she escorted Rachel into the living room, where a white leather sofa faced floor-to-ceiling windows with breathtaking ocean views. Cynthia was tall and slim, with long blond hair. She wore figure-hugging white pants and a sleeveless matching top with a deep neckline. Nestled between her breasts was a thick gold necklace with a diamond pendant.
“My wife’s right. I am a huge fan, Rachel,” said Greg Blair as he finished a phone call on the balcony and came inside to meet her. He was dressed in immaculately pressed chinos and an off-white open-collar cotton shirt. He had the same handsome square-jawed good looks as his son and the same blue eyes and light brown hair.
“When your producer contacted me, I told him we’re happy to cooperate in any way we can. We have nothing to hide. We’re an open book. Anything you need, you let me know.”
Rachel knew exactly what she needed: an interview with Scott Blair. Even though the family had already said twice it wouldn’t happen, she decided to put Greg Blair’s generous offer to the test. “Is Scott home? I’d love for him to join us for our chat today,” she said.