6 Rainier Drive (12 page)

A
llison 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.”

Allison didn't say anything, although she definitely agreed.

“You say he called you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

Allison hated the implication. “He didn't
want
anything. He said he needed to hear the sound of my voice. He told me he didn't start the fire.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do.”

“You tell the sheriff he phoned you?”

“No.” Technically she hadn't. It was her mother who'd contacted Sheriff Davis.

“Good,” she said and nodded approvingly. “If he calls you again, don't, okay?”

Allison couldn't promise one way or the other, so she didn't say anything.

“He wrote me,” Cherry said, shaking another cigarette out of the pack.

Allison sat up. “You have an address?” she asked excitedly.

“I wish. Little bastard owes me money.”

“Can I see the letter?” Allison pleaded.

His mother shrugged. “It's around here somewhere.” She walked over to the toaster and sorted through a tall stack of flyers and bills until she found what she was looking for. She held the envelope out to Allison.

Allison stood, but before she could take it, Cherry yanked it out of her reach. “You ain't gonna mention this to the cops, are you?”

“No,” Allison promised, her heart in her throat.

Cherry gave her the letter.

Sitting down, Allison removed the single sheet from the envelope and read.

Allison stopped reading and examined the envelope, which had a Louisiana postmark. She hated that he was so far away and hoped what he said was true.

This was underlined several times.

Allison replaced the letter in the envelope. “Anson borrowed almost five hundred dollars from you?” she asked softly.
That
explained why he didn't need any money. Yet it'd been weeks since she'd seen him. That money couldn't have lasted long.

“He didn't borrow anything. He
stole
it,” Cherry
said, puffing on a new cigarette. “I'm never gonna see that cash again. It's gone and so is Donald.” She took a crumpled tissue from her housecoat pocket and blew her nose. “And he did too look like Tobey Maguire.”

She seemed more upset about Donald than her own son, Allison mused.

“Anson was nothing but trouble to me from the day he was born,” Cherry said, suddenly angry. “It would've been a whole lot better if he'd been a girl. I knew the minute that nurse told me I'd had a boy this wasn't gonna work. But as soon as I saw him, I knew I was gonna keep him.” She shrugged her shoulders and took another puff. “The kid would have done a hell of a lot better if I'd given him to that lady from the state. She said she had a home ready and waitin'. But I wouldn't listen to her. Oh, no. I figured this kid came from me and that he'd love me.”

“Anson does love you.”

“Yeah, right,” she muttered. “That's why he did what every man I ever loved did. He left and took something of mine with him. In his case, it was that five hundred bucks. He might as well have taken my car for all the good it's doing me with a busted transmission.” She ground out the half-smoked cigarette. “Not that five hundred bucks would've paid for a new one.”

“Despite what he did, Anson's a wonderful
person,” Allison felt obliged to tell her. “And he's smart, too. He's really good in languages and science. He could've gotten top grades.”

His mother blinked as if this came as a surprise, and then shook her head. “The problem is, he's a man. I never could hold on to one. His own daddy dumped me soon as I got pregnant and then disappeared. I found out later he was married, anyway.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well he wasn't my first mistake or my last.” She gulped down another swallow of beer. “You go ahead and believe in Anson if you want,” she said, giving Allison a shaky smile. “He needs someone who will. I don't believe in myself anymore, so I don't have it in me to believe in him.”

“I love Anson,” Allison admitted.

Cherry looked away for a moment, and Allison thought she saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. When Cherry looked back, she pointed the bottle at her.

“Time for you to go.”

Allison nodded. “All right.” On impulse, she opened her purse and took out a small pad. Tearing off a piece of paper, she wrote down her phone number. “If you hear from Anson again, would you call me?”

Cherry didn't answer.

“I'll let you know if he phones me.”

When Cherry turned her back, Allison laid the sheet on the table and quietly left the trailer.

W
hen Charlotte left the Garden Club meeting, she stopped by her friend Helen's on Poppy Lane. Ben was playing bridge with some other men, and then later Charlotte would meet him for soup at the Pot Belly Deli, one of her favorite lunch spots. Their homemade soups were not to be missed. However, she'd promised Helen Shelton a quick visit before lunch. Her friend was working on a Fair Isle sweater for her only granddaughter and wanted Charlotte to take a look. At one time or another, Charlotte had tackled just about every type of project in the knitting world, and Fair Isle was no exception. Helen found this sweater a challenge; Charlotte admired the way she'd refused to give up, although she'd had to restart more than once before she figured out the correct tension.

Charlotte and Helen were both widows. They'd
begun as casual acquaintances, but their friendship had grown through their involvement in the Senior Center. Now Charlotte considered Helen one of her dearest friends. She knew Helen had been in France during World War II, but only recently had she learned that Helen had been part of the French Resistance. This information came to her by accident, when Charlotte happened to see a faded poster while visiting her friend. She'd asked about it and then, reluctantly, as though every word had to be forced out, Helen explained that as a young college student, she'd been trapped in France after the German invasion.

Determined to support the Allies, she'd joined the French Resistance, helping downed American and English pilots find their way back to England. Although Charlotte had tried to ask further questions, Helen sidestepped them. Instinctively Charlotte had realized that her friend didn't want this information shared. The only person she'd ever told was Ben. The friendship between Helen and Charlotte had deepened from that day forward.

Helen met her at the door of her duplex and immediately ushered her inside and out of the drizzle. No one used umbrellas in the Pacific Northwest—or residents didn't, anyway. An umbrella was a sure sign of a tourist.

Now, as she sat in Helen's living room with a cup
of tea, Charlotte examined the body of the sweater, which was knit in the round. This was the method Charlotte had recommended and it seemed to be working well.

“It's all in the tension,” Charlotte said, looking closely at Helen's knitting. She nodded. “Nice job.” Holding a strand of yarn in each hand was a learned skill, but one grew accustomed to it quickly enough. “Ruth's going to be thrilled when she sees this.”

“I certainly hope so,” Helen said, shaking her head. “I can't tell you the number of rows I've had to take out.”

“You're doing just fine.”

Helen set her tea aside. “Ruth's engaged—did I tell you?—and I'm thinking of knitting something for her wedding.”

Since Helen was already knitting her granddaughter this difficult sweater, Charlotte was loath to suggest a wedding coat, which was meant to be worn over the wedding dress following the ceremony. She'd come upon a 1970s pattern for one and was quite taken with it. Perhaps she'd find an excuse to knit it up herself.

“Let me look through my patterns to see what I can dig up,” Charlotte said.

Helen thanked her with a smile. “I'd appreciate that. Any suggestions are welcome.”

Charlotte finished her tea and bade her friend an
affectionate farewell, promising another visit soon. She put on her raincoat, collected her large purse and stepped into the May drizzle. With gas prices what they were, Charlotte had decided to walk. Fortunately the Garden Club meeting room, Helen's duplex and the deli were located only a few blocks apart.

By the time she arrived at the Pot Belly Deli, Ben had secured a table and was reading the menu. As soon as her husband saw her enter, he stood, giving her a discreet kiss on the cheek and helped her remove her coat. The fact that Ben exhibited such impeccable manners had endeared him to her from the very start. Such courtesies didn't play much of a role in social relationships anymore, so when they existed, she felt they were often indicative of real respect. In Ben's case that was definitely true. Those protective, caring gestures—opening a door, helping her into a car, walking on the curb side of the street—touched her. She and Ben believed in treating each other with politeness and consideration. Her first marriage, to Clyde, had been marked by those same small displays of love.

“How did the meeting go?” Ben asked after seating her and reclaiming his own chair.

Charlotte was afraid he'd ask. “I was elected president again,” she said with a slight grimace. “Everyone's so busy these days, and no one else wanted the
position.” The Garden Club didn't require a lot of her time, but it was a monthly commitment that took her away from him.

His lack of response unsettled her. “Are you upset with me, dear?”

Ben lowered the menu and his eyes widened at her question. “Why would I be upset? If I were a Garden Club member, I'd want you as president, too. You're the perfect choice. You're organized, practical, responsible—and the most incredible woman I've ever met.”

The things this man said. Things that made her heart expand with joy. “Oh, Ben, I do love you.”

Smiling, he set the menu aside. “I know, and I consider myself the most fortunate of men because you do.”

They both ordered the chicken-and-wild-rice soup, with large chunks of warm-from-the-oven sourdough bread. The restaurant owner had once told Charlotte that the sourdough starter had come from Alaska and was more than a hundred years old. Whether or not the story was true, the bread did have a flavor that couldn't be matched.

“I stopped by the house before I came down to the deli,” Ben told her as they got ready to leave. “Justine phoned and asked if we could see her at the bank before one.”

Charlotte had heard only a few days ago that her
granddaughter had gone back to work for First National part-time. Justine had served as manager until shortly after her wedding to Seth. She sincerely hoped the young couple wasn't having financial problems, although she didn't think so. Olivia had told her that Justine and Seth were getting interim insurance payments. She had the feeling that her granddaughter had returned to the bank more to structure her time than for financial reasons. Justine had never been a girl who liked being idle.

After their bill was paid, Ben helped Charlotte on with her coat and together they left the deli. Although she'd enjoyed their lunch, Charlotte missed The Lighthouse. It had become a popular place in the community and she was so proud of everything Justine and Seth had done. Any meal there was a notable dining experience. She couldn't begin to understand why anyone would burn it down. She had to believe it'd been a random act of violence. Surely no one would wish her granddaughter and Seth any harm.

Perhaps because this was a Monday, the bank didn't seem too busy. Justine sat behind a desk set against the far wall and stood when she saw them.

“Hello, Grandma,” she said, smiling. “Ben.” She came forward to meet them and kissed Charlotte's cheek, then led them toward her desk. “Sit down, please.”

Charlotte couldn't remember her granddaughter calling her into the bank even once. There must be some problem with Justine's finances, after all. Her gaze seemed to avoid Charlotte's, as if she was embarrassed about something.

“What's wrong, dear?” Charlotte asked, holding her purse on her lap and leaning forward in the chair.

“Ben,” Justine said, looking directly at him. “You deposited a check for a thousand dollars a while back.”

“That was from David, his son,” Charlotte explained before Ben had a chance. Although he hadn't said anything, she knew Ben had been pleased with David's gesture in repaying him part of the money he owed. Father and son were estranged, and Charlotte had done her best to bring them together. Ben didn't discourage her efforts, yet she had the distinct feeling that he thought it was a waste of time. Certainly David was a problem child.

“The check was returned—insufficient funds,” Justine said, keeping her voice low. “I'm so sorry. As soon as I saw the name, I took the check and handled it myself.”

Ben remained stoic. “The truth is, I'm not surprised. Could I have it, please?”

Justine handed it to him and without so much as glancing at it, Ben tore it in two.

“Ben!” Charlotte was shocked at her husband's
action. “I'm sure there's a logical explanation for why this happened.”

“It's worthless,” her husband said without emotion. “I should've known that from the first. David's had constant financial problems from the time he was a youth. He's never been able to repay me a dime he's borrowed. That's why I refuse to lend him money anymore.”

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte murmured, genuinely saddened by this turn of events.

“His lack of financial sense is the reason he went to Charlotte for a loan, which infuriated me more than just about anything David's ever done in his life,” Ben continued.

“You can't let money stand in the way of love,” Charlotte admonished. She made sure her tone was without censure.

“Don't misunderstand me,” Ben said, his words weighted with sadness. “I love my sons, both of them. David, however, has never grown up or learned to accept responsibility. It's always someone else's fault, always a temporary condition. Everything will be better later, and instead of facing the truth, he looks for an easy out or a quick fix. His immaturity has cost him deeply, and his excuses have only led him further into debt.”

Charlotte placed her hand on her husband's. “You aren't to blame.”

“I made a call to David Rhodes,” Justine said, interrupting their conversation.

Charlotte turned her attention back to her granddaughter.

Justine seemed decidedly uncomfortable. “David asked if I'd hold the check until the first of the month, which I did.”

“And when you resubmitted it, the same thing happened. It was returned because of insufficient funds,” Ben finished for her.

Justine confirmed his suspicions with a nod. “I couldn't hold on to it any longer.”

“Of course not,” Ben assured her with such a facade of calm that even Charlotte was nearly fooled. She, however, knew her husband far too well—and knew that Ben was both embarrassed and unsettled. “Please, if anything like this ever comes up in the future, do not do my son any favors.”

“I'm sorry, Ben,” Justine said sympathetically.

“No,
I'm
sorry.” Ben got to his feet.

“Thank you, Justine, for letting us know,” Charlotte said. With a polite nod, Ben took her arm.

“We should phone David,” Charlotte suggested as they left the bank. She still felt there must be some kind of explanation. She
had
to believe that or she'd give up on Ben's son the same way he had, which was exactly what she wanted to avoid. To
Charlotte, it was important to build good relationships with Ben's children.

When they got home, Ben excused himself and went into the bedroom. The urge to follow him left Charlotte's stomach in knots. She knew how bad he felt and wished she could alleviate his disappointment. At the same time, she recognized that he needed to be alone.

As she walked into the kitchen, the answering machine light was flickering. She pushed the message button and heard David Rhodes, speaking clearly and distinctly. “Dad, give me a call once you're home.”

As soon as the message had finished, Ben entered the kitchen.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

Ben nodded.

“Will you phone him?”

Her husband shook his head adamantly. “There's no point. I already know what he wants.”

So did Charlotte. Surely David had phoned to apologize. He wouldn't be foolish enough to ask for another loan. This situation must be just as embarrassing for his son as it had been for Ben.

The phone rang and Ben glared at it accusingly.

“Shall I answer it?” Charlotte asked.

“No,” Ben snapped. “It's David.” Then, as if realizing how harshly he'd spoken, he gathered Charlotte into his arms. “My son can't say anything that I
haven't heard a hundred times before. He's sorry—and I believe he is—but it never makes any difference.”

“Oh, Ben.” Charlotte understood; she really did. It was almost as if Ben was talking about
her
son, Will. David had been careless with money, Will with people's affections.
Women's
affections. Charlotte knew the kind of man he was and yet she chose to look the other way and ignore his faults. A mother did that. She wasn't sure what else to do, even now that his marriage had failed. She didn't feel it was her place to interfere between a man and his wife. Yet Charlotte knew that not only had her son been unfaithful, he'd taken advantage of Grace, a woman almost as close to her as her own daughter. Yes, she acknowledged that Grace had played a role in this, too, but she blamed her son far more than she did Grace.

No one had told her what had gone on between them; no one needed to. She'd figured out that it was Will with whom Grace had been involved over the Internet. Her married son had led that lovely woman down a path of promises he had no intention of keeping, and to her detriment, Grace had followed him. Now Will's own marriage was in shambles and he was blaming Georgia, the woman who'd stood by him all these years. No, Charlotte understood far better than Ben realized what a disappointment one's children could sometimes be.