Beach Town (23 page)

“Yeah,” Greer said wistfully. “I'll pick up the phone to tell her something, and then I remember.” She didn't admit to Dearie that she'd kept half a dozen of Lise's old messages on her phone, and that she replayed them sometimes, just to hear her mother's distinctive low, raspy voice once again.

“What about my money?” Dearie asked, getting back to her own needs. “I seem to remember, back when you were in college, there were lots of months I sent you extra checks to help you make it through the month.”

“For things like food and rent and gas for my car. Not stupid Internet games,” Greer groused. “Are you going to continue guilt tripping me and calling in the middle of the night if I don't put money in your account?”

“What do you think?”

“Ten dollars. That's all I'm giving you. No more.”

“Scrooge. Listen. I better go now. They have bed check in this place.”

“Wait,” Greer said. “There's something else I want to tell you.”

“Are you pregnant?”

Greer hooted. “God no.”

“That's good. I'm too young to be a great-grandmother.”

“It's about Clint.”

She'd halfway expected Dearie to have forgotten her father's name. “What about him?”

“Did you know he and Lise were in touch—before she died?”

“No kidding. She never mentioned that to me.”

“Mom was bugging me to call him, after she got sick. She even gave me his phone number.”

“Clint Hennessy,” Dearie said. “Wonder what ever happened to him?”

“He's living down here in Florida. I think he does something with cars.”

“That's not a surprise. He's not still in the business, is he?”

“I don't know. I just know he lives about an hour away from this little beach town where we're filming.”

“How on earth do you suppose Lise got in contact with him?”

“Facebook,” Greer said. “I don't know who reached out to who first, but I think they must have talked on the phone. And get this: he's called and texted. He wants me to come see him.”

“For what?”

“I think he's got some crazy idea that we'll have a father–daughter reunion.”

“You're not gonna go, are you?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Good for you. What's past is past,” Dearie said.

“I just don't get why Lise was so insistent I should get together with him. The guy walked off and abandoned us. How is that okay?”

“Well…” Dearie's voice trailed off.

“What?”

“That's not exactly how it happened. I mean, they split up, yes, but my recollection is that Lise was the one that did the leaving.”

“No. That's not right. Mom always said he took off.”

“Not right away, he didn't. He couldn't. He had you to take care of.”

Greer gripped the phone so hard her fingertips burned. “Dearie, are you saying Mom left—and didn't take me with her?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now,” Dearie said, her voice suddenly faint and quivering. “I'm tired. I want to go to bed.”

“Don't you dare hang up on me, Deidre Kehoe,” Greer ordered. “And don't even try to pull that feeble old lady crap. Answer my question.”

*   *   *

“It doesn't matter who left first,” Dearie said finally. “It all happened a long time ago. And it was all for the best. Look at you. You didn't end up so bad, even if you didn't have a father in the picture.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Tell me about what happened. When they split up.”

“How much do you remember?”

“Not much,” Greer admitted. “I was only, what, four or five? I do remember starting first grade, and Lise telling me to tell the teacher that I didn't need to waste time making a Popsicle stick frame for a Father's Day present because I didn't have a grandfather, or a father.”

“Oh, Lise, Lise.” Dearie said it as a sigh. “Look. They were too young to get married. Young and selfish. Your mother was hell-bent on being a big movie star. Clint? Looking back on it, I guess he wasn't a bad person. He was just all wrong for her. He was a good old boy from Georgia who got hired as a stunt driver on that stupid show … what was it called?”

“
Dukes of Hazzard.
”

“Stupid show. But Clint was a good-looking stud, no doubt about it.”

“I can't believe she fell in love with a guy with a mullet.”

“What's that?”

“Nothing. You were about to tell me about their breakup.”

“Breakups. Plural. They'd get to fighting, and the next thing I know, she'd tell me he'd gone off to Vegas with his buddies. Or she'd show up at my place in the middle of the night with you and a suitcase.”

“What was all the fighting about?”

“Everything. Nothing. She didn't like his friends, he didn't like hers. She didn't like him smoking around the baby, he thought she drank too much. But they'd always get back together after a week or so.”

“Until the last time. What happened? What was different about that breakup?”

“Lise never would tell me. I think she was too ashamed of herself. Which she should have been. Look, honey, are you sure you want to hear all this? Your mom's gone now, so what's the difference?”

“I need to hear it,” Greer said, her voice steely.

“It was pilot season, February or March, and Lise had a callback for a sitcom on ABC, I think it was. She'd been shut out of so many parts, but this one looked like a real possibility. You'd been sick all winter—nothing serious, mostly ear infections, but oh my Lord, you would be up screaming half the night. I know, because I babysat you a lot on weekends. I thought you'd pop a lung, you'd scream so loud.”

“Go on.”

“That's really all I know. You had an earache, Lise had an early Monday morning callback. They'd had a fight, and your mom was so mad she threw him out. He stayed gone maybe a week, but when he finally did get home, late on a Sunday night, Lise was gone.”

“She left me there … by myself?” Greer was stunned.

“No, no. She wouldn't have done something like that. There was a teenager who lived next door. She came over to watch you. Lise just didn't bother to tell her she wouldn't be coming back.”

Greer felt her chest tighten with anger.

“You really don't remember any of this, do you, honey?” Dearie asked.

Greer tried to summon up the memories, but it was like that dark, half-hidden road she'd traveled earlier in the evening. The past was out there, bumping up against her subconscious, like bugs on a windshield. She could sense it, but she couldn't see it.

“The babysitter. Was her name Claire? She used to give me Pepsis. And let me stay up late and watch TV, but I wasn't supposed to tell Mom.”

“I think her name was Claire, now that you mention it.”

“And Lise really just walked off and left me? Because she had an early-morning audition? How long before you knew she'd gone? How long before you came and got me?”

“Maybe a week,” Dearie said. “Not that long. Clint finally called and admitted Lise'd left. I think he was too proud to ask for my help before that.”

“And how long before Lise came home again?”

“I don't know, Greer. It was a long, long time ago. All that matters is, she did come home. She wasn't perfect, but she loved you, and she did the best she could.”

Greer tried again to summon the past. She had dim memories of being upset because, after the divorce, she'd had to leave behind her swing set when they moved in with Dearie. In all the upheaval in her childhood, her grandmother had been the one constant. Dearie couldn't have made much money working as a seamstress in the studio costume department, but somehow she'd seen to it that her granddaughter didn't do without.

“Uh-oh,” Dearie said. “I hear the Beast coming down the hallway, rattling doorknobs.”

“Who's the Beast?”

“Night supervisor. I've gotta go. You won't forget about my money, will you?”

“I'll transfer the money as soon as we hang up. 'Night, Dearie.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

 

26

Saturday morning was sunny and should have been full of promise, but Greer found the idea of a day off work oppressive. She stared moodily out the window at the glassy waters of the Gulf. Twice she started to put on her bathing suit. A day at the beach was what she needed, she told herself, but the idea held no real appeal.

Her thoughts kept returning to the conversation she'd had with Dearie the night before. At some point she got in the Kia and headed out of town, telling herself she was going out to search for alternative locations for the casino.

She drove north for a half an hour, then abruptly turned east, driving through the lush green swamps and flat pasturelands of the central Gulf Coast. Finally, she pulled into a gas station and typed “Alachua” into her phone's GPS. According to the map, the route would take her through Gainesville, a big university town, where she might decide to go shopping.

But when she reached Gainesville, she kept going. She lived in Los Angeles, California, where she could buy anything, any time she wanted, although she rarely did.

The Alachua city limits sign gave her pause. Was she really going to do this?

Maybe she would drive past his house, just to satisfy her own curiosity.

The problem with the drive-by strategy was that she didn't know where Clint lived.

That was easily remedied. She typed “Clint Hennessy” and “Alachua, Florida,” into her phone's search engine and quickly came up with an address on a county road. According to her GPS, the address was only five miles away.

She found a convenience store, used the restroom, bought a bottle of cold water, then sat in her car, tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel, torn with indecision. Why was she doing this? What could be gained by looking up a man she didn't really care to see again?

But the glowing dot on her GPS called out to her. She was so close now, what was the sense of turning back?

The county road led her through a rural area of dilapidated houses, stretches of pastureland with grazing white, humpbacked cattle, and scattered trailer parks. Not exactly the promised land. And to make matters worse, what houses she saw were haphazardly numbered, if at all.

Finally she spied a mailbox with the street number matching Clint's address. There was no actual house in sight, just a sandy road that wound through a lane of oak trees and underbrush. On an impulse she picked up her phone and snapped a few photos.

As she was snapping, her phone dinged to alert her to a text. It was from CeeJay.

Sorry about last night. Meet up at the Coffee Mug and I'll explain all?

She was so intent on typing out a response that she momentarily forgot where she was. Until a sudden tap on her car window startled her so badly she dropped the phone.

She looked up into the face of a stranger, who was bent down, staring into her window. But this stranger had a familiar face: square jaw, sharply planed high cheekbones, bushy white eyebrows, brown eyes the same shade as her own, with a fine network of crow's-feet extending to his hairline.

“Can I help you?” The stranger leaned in closer, and now a slow smile spread across the weathered face. “Greer? You're Greer!” He gripped the Kia's door handle and she saw that his hands—large, chapped, and banged up, with a network of scars and cuts—were violently shaking.

“I'm Greer,” she said finally.

“Well, what are you doing sitting in the car? Come on up to the house, okay?”

“I really can't stay,” Greer said feebly.

His smile faded. “Aw, c'mon. Please?”

Ten minutes, and then I am so out of here.

*   *   *

“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “Son of a bitch. Sorry, but I just can't believe you're really here. Son of a bitch.”

They were seated in the living room of his trailer, or double-wide, as he referred to it.

He'd removed his baseball cap once they were in the house. Clint Hennessy wasn't bald at all. He had thinning but still wavy silver hair.

Thank God the mullet is gone.

His living room was small but tidy. Shag carpet, a flat-screen television, a shiny leather recliner, leather sofa, and coffee table and end tables, all matching.

All screaming “I bought all this furniture for less than a thousand bucks!”

Clint was seated on the recliner. Greer was on the sofa, with her hands folded in her lap, wondering just how long she would have to stay.

“You sure I can't get you something to drink? I got beer, sodas. Or I could make some coffee.…”

“No thanks. I'm fine.” The end of the sentence trailed off. She couldn't bring herself to call him Dad, but she wouldn't hurt his feelings by calling him Clint. So she wouldn't call him anything at all. She would leave just as soon as common courtesy allowed.

“You're as pretty as Lise said you were,” Clint said, his gaze fastened on her face.

“Lise was always given to exaggeration,” Greer said.

“No. You're beautiful. You were a pretty baby, but you're beautiful now. Just like your mom.”

Greer felt herself squirming under the intensity of his stare.

“This is nice,” she said, gesturing toward a picture window that showed a small backyard with a brick patio, barbecue grill, and picnic table. “Have you lived here long?”

“I moved to Alachua twelve years ago, after I finally got fed up with California. Four years ago, I found this place. This trailer was already here. I bought it for the land, and the fact that there was a barn big enough for the cars.”

“You keep your cars in a barn?”

What kind of redneck has a barn full of cars but lives in a trailer?