A Dime a Dozen (15 page)

Smiling at the memory, I realized suddenly that I was nearly at the scene of the trailer fire earlier today. Sure enough, just a few miles out of town, I passed Luisa’s forlorn little trailer in the weeds beside the creek. In the last light of day, the place seemed so small and so vulnerable, and I made a mental note to find out whether or not Luisa’s sister in Texas would be taking the children. Given all that was going on, I thought it important for them to go somewhere safe.

Beyond the trailer was an area where the trees thinned out and the creek widened. There, among the kudzu and the thick underbrush, was where the old migrant camp used to spring up every year, the place that always upset Bryan as he rode past. Now, thanks in part to MORE, there were official migrant dormitories further up the mountain, which I hoped to get a look at later this week.

It wasn’t long before I reached the orchard with its rows and rows of lush, gnarled apple trees. As I rounded a curve, a beautiful antebellum home appeared in the distance, complete with tall white pillars and a sweeping front lawn. The Tinsdale mansion.

I didn’t know anything about the family that owned the place, but I had always loved driving past the gracious home and its surrounding orchards. Tinsdale Orchards was one of the biggest fruit producers in the county, and Dean had told me that they provided generous support for many of the migrant-related charities in the area.

I turned at the Tinsdale Orchards sign, drove past the house, and then switched the car into a lower gear as the road began to climb. Though the way slanted steadily upward, the orchard was laid out in tiers, almost like wide steps that slowly worked their way up the mountain. It was interesting to me how the apple trees were so varied in their stages of growth, and that I could tell the difference between the older, more mature trees and the ones just starting out.

As I drove I thought about Harriet, who had a serious fear of heights. It hadn’t occurred to me until now, but I wondered if perhaps this drive up to my cabin might be too much for her, particularly on a day-to-day basis. That would be a shame, since I had been planning on having her stay at the cabin with me this week. I supposed I would let her decide, and if she was too frightened, we would just have to get her a room in town.

I, on the other hand, was loving every moment of the drive, from the reddish-purple sky overhead to the lush valley below that I kept glimpsing between breaks in the trees.

Near the end of the orchard, I passed a small building with a sign out front that said “Su Casa,” and I remembered Butch Hooper, telling me this was the charity his father ran. I hoped to get in there to see it this week as well.

The apple trees ended a short way behind the Su Casa building, and I wondered if that were the end of the Tinsdale property. More importantly, was this the high block where Enrique Morales disappeared?

Beyond the apple trees were thick woods, a gravel road, and then more, even thicker forest. At that point, the mountain crested, and as I followed the road up and over the top, the sight in front of me took my breath away. Through a wide gap in the trees I could see the gorgeous Smokies in all of their varying shades of blue. Less than a half a mile down the other side, I came to my own property. It was just twilight, and as I turned into the driveway, my headlights swept across the front of the little A-frame house.

My cabin.

I felt excited to be here, not sad, and that was a relief. Climbing from the car, I pulled out the keys and walked up the steps and across the front porch to the door.

Stepping inside, the first thing that struck me was that the house had been stripped of all of our personal items. I vaguely remembered someone doing that for me, though I couldn’t recall if it had been the Webbers or the Realtor. I did remember sending the Realtor a check for several thousand dollars to make the place more desirable as a rental unit. I asked her to replace our garage-sale furniture with nicer stuff and add more beds. She had done a good job, I decided now as I walked around. There was nothing fancy about it, but it was tasteful. And without any of our photos on the wall or our clothes in the drawers, this really did look like some anonymous vacation home, complete with a living room and kitchen area, bathroom, back room, and a loft. Nothing personal about it.

The living room held a big, cozy couch and chairs with an entertainment center at one end and a little breakfast nook with a skylight overhead at the other. The kitchen area was small and fit between the breakfast nook and the bathroom. Stairs led to the loft, and I headed up to peek at the queen-sized bed and chest of drawers that it now housed, trying not to picture Bryan and me up here together, cozy under the covers on an old twin mattress on the floor. We had been so young and so in love that most of the time we were oblivious to everything but each other.

Downstairs I checked out the back room, which had been converted from our game room—complete with Ping-Pong table, shelves of board games, and a sagging orange couch—to another bedroom, with a chest of drawers and two double beds with blue chenille covers.

I crossed the room to push back the floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds and then opened the sliding glass door and stepped through onto the deck. I walked to the edge of the deck and looked out at the view, which even in near-darkness was so beautiful that my breath caught in my throat again. What a vista! In the distance, purple-and-blue peaks of the Smokies reached up to touch the darkening sky. From where I stood, the ground dropped off to a series of rolling, heavily treed hills. Far down at the bottom, between the trees, it was too dark to catch glimpses of Greenbriar Lake, but I knew it was there. Truly, I had forgotten just how gorgeous the panorama was from up here.

My phone rang in my pocket, and my heart quickened at the thought that it might be Tom. I had managed to put the incident from this morning out of my mind—the party, the giggling woman—though now that he was calling the memory sprang forward, unbidden, and the anxious feelings that went with it rushed into place as well.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Tom after all. It was my trusty friend and coworker Harriet, who was driving here from Washington, DC, and was calling to tell me that she wasn’t going to make it in tonight. She was running late and had already checked into a hotel outside of Hickory.

“I’ll get up ’fore the rooster crows,” she said, “saddle up ol’ Bessie, and probably be there by nine or ten in the morning.”

“Uh, Harriet,” I said, “you’re not really coming here by horseback, are you?” Where Harriet was concerned, nothing she ever did surprised me.

“Sure I am, darlin’. I got myself a wild mustang. A wild
Ford
Mustang!”

After she finished cackling at her own joke, I gave her directions to the main office and agreed to meet her there in the morning. In a way, I was relieved she wasn’t coming right away so that I could have this one night to myself.

Once I had unloaded the car and put away the groceries, I decided to call my mother and let her know I had made it here okay. She and I had spoken just prior to my trip to California, and she knew I was on my way to Greenbriar after that, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to touch base with her now that I was here. I was really trying to get better about keeping my folks connected with my life.

As it turned out, my mother wasn’t even home. My dad answered the phone, and I could hear the sounds of a televised basketball game in the background. According to him, Mom was at her Monday night sewing circle and should be home anytime.

“Who’s playing?” I asked and listened as he named the teams and described the game thus far. I hadn’t really been following basketball this year, but it was his passion, so I let him talk.

The conversation eventually moved back around to me and the purpose for my call. I told my dad that I was on a new assignment, though I didn’t say where and he didn’t think to ask. I knew the subject of Greenbriar would inevitably lead to the subject of Bryan, which always led to the subject of his death. It was easier not to go there at all.

“So how are things with everyone?” I asked.

“Oh, fine,” he said, still sounding a little distracted by the game. “Your brother’s got a new girlfriend. She’s very nice and kinda quiet.”

“Quiet? That’s a change from the last one.”

I could hear some shuffling in the background, and then the noise level dropped.

“There. Commercial’s on. Yeah, that last one, she never stopped talking, did she? Never shut up. Drove me crazy. This one, the silence is kinda nice.”

We chatted for a while about Michael and the new girl, but the whole time I kept thinking about Tom and what my father’s opinion would be of him. My parents had never mentioned the subject of my dating again, and I wasn’t even certain how they felt about it. Surely they didn’t expect me to remain alone forever.

My mother would probably love the idea and fall for Tom instantly. My father, on the other hand, might resist it at first, regardless of whether he liked Tom or not. Once he warmed up to the idea of my dating, however, I had a feeling he still might be slightly scandalized by the whole boss/employee angle, despite the fact that Tom and I didn’t really work together.

No matter how my father might react to my dating someone, I knew I would need to start paving the way soon for the possibility of it, rather than springing things on him full blown once Tom and I got more serious.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said casually, “that I might start going out a bit myself.”

My dad was quiet for a moment.

“That’s good, Callie,” he said finally. “You still got time on that clock of yours to give me some grandchildren.”

“Oh, thanks, Dad.”

“Just don’t let your dates come pick you up at your house.”

“Why?”

“The dog!” he said, surprising me so much that I had to laugh.

“What’s wrong with my dog? Sal’s sweet.”

“Yeah, but she’s just a little powder puff. You wanna attract a man? You need to get a real dog, like a German Shepherd or a Lab.”

The conversation led off that way, and I gladly followed along. The first bit of groundwork had been laid with no harm done.

When the game came back on, I told Dad to let Mom know I had called and that I would try her again later in the week. We said our goodbyes, and then I hung up the phone.

Feeling antsy, I decided to put together a light dinner for myself. I had bought some chicken breasts at the store, so I stir-fried the chicken with some broccoli and soy sauce before turning my attention toward making a fruit salad. As I was cutting up an apple, I thought about how funny it was that I always craved apples whenever I found myself surrounded by orchards.

Thinking of my conversation with my father, I decided I should call Tom myself. It would be around 8:00 a.m. where he was. Despite my earlier hurt and confusion, I was eager to talk to him. I felt a need to hear his voice, to ground myself in the reality of our connection. I quickly ate my supper and then washed my dishes, dried my hands, and settled down on the couch.

He answered on the first ring.

“Callie?” he said, the voice that always brought everything sharply into focus. “I’m so glad you called.”

“Hi,” I said calmly, not knowing what kind of tone to take.

“So how are things going?”

I hesitated, wondering if he really didn’t know what this morning’s phone call had done to me. I didn’t answer, trying hard to phrase the obvious question. “Did you have a date last night?” sounded so juvenile, but “I thought we were going steady” was even worse. Finally I just decided the truth might be the best option.

“Things are not going well.”

“What’s wrong? Your voice sounds weird.”

I took a deep breath, pinching my lips together.

“I’ve been wondering if I misread our situation, Tom, if I made certain assumptions that weren’t true.”

“Assumptions?”

“About us. About our relationship.”

That seemed to quiet him for a moment.

“Last night,” he said finally, as if the memory was just coming back to him. “The phone call at the party.”

“Yeah,” I replied, trying not to sound nervous. “The phone call at the party.”

I felt the pressure of tears at the back of my eyes, and I stood and began pacing, thinking a little activity might fend the tears off. I realized I was actually afraid to hear what he had to say.

“What can I tell you, Callie? I’m sure it sounded bad, but the situation was completely innocent.”

“That’s just the thing, Tom. Did it need to be innocent? Was it supposed to be innocent?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve never declared anything. We’ve never made any promises. If you had a date last night, who am I to say you were breaking any rules? We’ve never made any rules.”

My comments seemed to bring him up short. He was quiet for a while, and I didn’t speak just to fill the silence but instead let it sit there between us. Finally, his voice came back to me, soft and thoughtful.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we never made anything official. I suppose I thought the rules were implied. I guess I made my own rules, Callie. Because I’ve been here for four months, and I’ve been true to you every single minute of every single day.”

I was so touched by what he’d said that I sat back on the couch and let the tears spring unbidden into my eyes.

“You have?” I whispered. “You’ve been faithful?”

“Of course I have,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, my laugh catching in a sob. “But then this morning, and that woman…”

“That woman was a pain in the neck,” he said. “But she was the sister of an important associate, so I put up with her for as long as I could.”

“Was she pretty?”

“I guess,” he said. “But she wasn’t
you
.”

“Ah, Tom,” I whispered.

“To be honest,” he said, “I think she was making a play for me. Maybe I’m a little slow on the uptake. But as soon as she started trying to hand-feed me a piece of Pulau chicken, I figured out what was going on and extricated myself from the situation.”