Firefly Island (34 page)

“I think I'm onto something, too.” I rested my cup on the back of the seat and stretched my neck. Now that there was a pause in the wild rush, the night was catching up with me. Outside, the storm had quieted to a gentle rain, as if Moses Lake were waiting for something to happen. A yawn pulled at me, and I felt my eyes tugging. I wanted some dry clothes and a hot bath . . . and my own bed. But I couldn't go home.

“If we find anything, we need to make it as public as we can, as soon as possible,” Al pointed out. “The minute it's all out there, the motivation to come after us is gone. In fact, they'll stay as far away from us as possible, to avoid looking guilty.”

I moved to the other computer, logged into my email, thought,
Come on, Josh.
Minutes ticked away. Ten, fifteen. I imagined Josh at the Gymies' favorite pub booth, bent over his iPad and little keyboard, surrounded by nine kinds of pie, his fingers flying.

“Y-y-y-yes!” I cheered when Josh's email came through, and then a text. Attached to the email were two documents, comprising several hundred pages of the amendments to the Clean Energy Bill. I held my breath as it downloaded, and I
opened it, my mind slipping back into another life. The day I'd met Daniel in the rotunda seemed so long ago.

How could that girl have ever guessed that she would end up here in Moses Lake, holed up in a combination bait shop, convenience store, and café, married, pregnant, hopelessly in love, and wondering if somewhere, someone in some other office deep within the bowels of the Capitol building had slipped the words
Gateway To the Coast
neatly in with the amendments, never to be seen again.

I plugged the words into the search window, and then . . . “There it is.” The quiet relocation of the Gateway To the Coast power corridor, snuggled in with all the other pork, where you'd have to be combing the fine print in order to discover it. “I think I found exactly what we're looking for.”

We're here to make a dent in the universe. Otherwise why else even be here?

—Steve Jobs
(Left by Josh and Kaylyn, finally in Moses Lake for that ranch vacation)

I
t sounds so strange when you say it all out loud—speak it into the air and let it hover there, the entire journey from the white space at one end of the map, where a girl rushed through the Capitol building, not even noticing the sights and sounds of spring, to here. Such an unlikely journey, a life-changing road trip of epic proportion.

The lights glare, mesmerize me, and for a moment as the cameraman at CNN's Washington Bureau counts down, my mind slips away and glides over the waters of Moses Lake with the red-tailed hawks and the bald eagles. Who could have imagined such a journey? Who but God could have laced together the twists and turns, the blind curves, the valleys and peaks? Who could have ever looked at that blond-haired girl in her favorite suit and designer knock-off shoes, and seen a mother, a wife, an advocate, a blogger, a woman-of-the-moment . . . The Frontier Woman?

No one. No one but the God who knit us together, who knows the very fiber of who we are and who we can be.

Beside me, Keren glances my way, widens her eyes, and
takes a breath. Her hand touches mine. Her fingers are shaking, but she looks determined, nervous but poised in her soft blue suit, her hair pulled neatly into a bun.

She tucks her hand into her lap as the cameraman finishes the count and points the gun finger at the host. The host recaps the story for all those who haven't been following the press coverage of the congressional investigation. When a scandal involves a congressman, a senator, a state politician, several well-known wealthy investors, and potentially even a state governor's office, there's no end to the media frenzy.

“Take us back to that night before the story broke.” The host turns from the camera to me, his lips quirking slightly to one side. I know where he's going with this. “So you're sitting in the local bait shop with two laptop computers, the bait shop owners, a neighbor who raises goats, and two retired fishermen, and you uncover an alleged influence-pedaling scandal of massive proportion. Set the scene for us. What happens next?”

I sit up a bit straighter, shake off the lingering weariness of testifying before Congress, flashbulbs popping like Christmas lights. I remind myself that I am an Ellery woman, descended from the line of Grandma Louisa. Ellery women are always confident and poised in public. Aside from that, an Easter gathering with the family looms just ahead. They'll all be critiquing my performance here today, as will Al, who traveled along on this trip—though she stopped short of attending the congressional proceedings or accompanying us to the TV studio.
Too many memories
, she says, and I don't blame her. It's enough that she has come along for moral support. There's a sweet irony in the fact that she and my father will sit down together at the dinner table tonight. My mother has insisted that my
new friends
must join us for a gathering before returning to Texas. I imagine that, as this interview
takes place, my mother is tormenting the catering staff and buzzing around the house like a honeybee on steroids.

The breath I take in smells faintly of baby powder, Dreft, and Johnson's shampoo. No More Tears. Emmie's sweet scents. In the hotel room, she's curled up in front of the TV with Al. Al is pointing and saying, “Look, look, Emmie, there's your mom!” Emmie looks at the TV through her sweet, dreamy baby eyes. Her daddy's gypsy green eyes. She jabbers and coos and blows little bubbles with her lips. She smiles, because somehow Al can always make her smile. There's a bond between them that began when Al drove me to the hospital, in labor three weeks earlier than expected. Considering that she'd stood in through the worst of it before Daniel could get there, an official position as godmother seemed a fair reward. It's a distinction that Al and I share. I am a godmother to Trudy's first child, Aaron. There's finally another boy in the family. Nick is thrilled.

Standing just off-camera, Daniel smiles at me, as in,
Come on, tell the story.
They're gonna love this one.
Beside him, my father gives me a thumbs-up. He smiles and picks Nick up so that Nick can get a better look at one of the cameras. He puts a finger to his lips to remind Nick to be very quiet as I answer the question. “Well, of course, when we started putting together all the details, we knew we had to make it public as soon as possible—certainly before the Clean Energy Bill could be released from committee and brought to the floor for a vote. We all knew we couldn't let that happen.”

“You, the bait shop owner, and the fishermen,” the host dabbles in a joke. I can't blame him. Beside me, Keren laughs politely.

“And the woman who raises goats,” I add. A little levity makes for a good interview. “But in all seriousness, when we learned that the alternate route took in a far greater number
of privately owned acres, traveled through a federal preserve, vastly increased the corridor's cost to taxpayers, and followed almost no existing power line rights-of-way, we realized that the public had a right to be made aware of the facts. Aside from that, for us personally, there was the issue that the new corridor plan routed a mile-wide swath of high-voltage power lines through the state park and across several family ranches. Because most of those ranches are small, the landowners don't have the means to legally fight the plan, but many of those ranches are of historic significance. The rerouting plan was being kept as hush-hush as possible to avoid any action from larger landowners in the area who might have the connections and the funds to stall the corridor plan legally.” I stop without mentioning West Ranch and Jack West by name. I imagine Jack back at the ranch, still recovering from the knowledge that his son's only purpose in their reunion was to distract Jack, to be sure he didn't find out about the power corridor and use his money and influence to protest it.

Even with that knowledge, Jack has so far refused to accept the idea that Mason might have caused the pickup to roll over the cliff on purpose, or that he could have had anything to do with the disappearance of Jack's second wife and her young son. Jack insists that Mason was not responsible for either incident. If the truth is otherwise, he is not willing to disclose it yet, but if Al has anything to say about it, that day will come.

There's more of the old Alex Beck inside Cowgirl Al than I would have guessed, and she's on Mason West's history like a catfish on stink bait, as the Docksiders would say. She's certain that she's on the trail of evidence that will finally solve the disappearance of Jack's wife and stepson. She's convinced that Mason is guilty, and I believe she'll prove it sooner or later. Now that she's oddly on the side of looking out for Jack's best
interest, a strange tango has developed across fences back at the ranch—a dance of aggression and resolution, hate and . . . maybe love? Every once in a while, I wonder if almost anything could be possible in Moses Lake. Even two lonely hearts finding each other across enemy lines.

At least Mason is long gone from the ranch. He has plenty of other things to worry about now. Like the end of his political career and a potential stint in prison for the Kingdom Ridge scheme.

“Aside from that . . .” I continue on, leading to another point I want to make. There's a reason why Keren is here beside me today. “ . . . there was the fact that the new corridor would route power lines through the economically sensitive area of Chinquapin Peaks. Hundreds of families already struggling to survive would be displaced with nowhere to go. I've been covering Keren's work with the kids of Chinquapin Peaks for a while now on
The Frontier Woman
, and when people who'd been donating to her supper garden program found out about the power corridor, they were outraged.”

I nod toward Keren, addressing the next question to her as much as to the host. “Why should the taxpayers tolerate far greater expense—and sacrifice both federal land and state park land—to reroute a power corridor through virgin territory that is topographically less suited to the building of power lines? When something like this happens on the backs of poor families and ranching families who have worked their land for generations . . . when plans are made in secret and kept secret, so that a handful of multimillionaires can rake in billions selling luxury vacation home lots, the public should be outraged. Elected officials should be in the business of protecting our citizens, not selling their influence to the highest bidder. When something's wrong, ordinary people have to speak up.”

The host nods, sharing a fierce look with me. He likes the idea of seeing government graft exposed. It's what he lives for.

His smile says as much as he formulates the next comment: “And as a former insider, you were in a perfect position to understand what was going on and to bring it to light.”

I think about that for a moment, imagining Josh sweating off twenty more pounds, wondering if the email hacking thing will somehow come up on national television. “I was in the right place at the right time, but it was a team that brought down the rerouting of the power corridor. A team of neighbors.”

I picture them now. There's a watch party going on at the Waterbird. When it's over, Nester and Burt will head out to troll the waters near Firefly Island in search of the perfect fish. Pop Dorsey and Sheila will serve up coffee and lollypops, handing out Sharpie pens to visitors so that they can leave a signature or a favorite quote on the Wall of Wisdom. The ranch hands will go about their day, Tag making sure to stop by and milk that silly cow. It's Wednesday, so he'll share the milk with the church ladies, who are gathering in the fellowship hall to have a Bible study and talk about their latest charitable project. In my mind, even Claire Anne Underhill is there with them, smiling. She's pleased that Moses Lake has finally made national headlines. Maybe now she'll forgive me for all the discounted supplies she's had to provide for the gardening program.

The announcer uses the word
neighbors
as a segue into a discussion of Keren's supper garden program—a little personal interest to bring this big, big story down to a human level. Down to the fate of one small town, and faces like Sierra's and Sergio's, and even down to the tiniest of things. Seeds, and the hope that lies inside them.

Dozens of gardens will rise from the soil of Chinquapin Peaks this spring, if the rains come.

Beyond the glow of the spotlights, Daniel smiles at me in a way that whispers,
Let's go home.
That errant curl falls over his forehead, and I am filled with love, with wonder. I am in awe of this journey, this trip across the map from one life to another.

I smile back at this man, my husband, and I wonder where the roads will lead as the years pass, the miles drifting by beneath our feet. Will we live all our lives along the quiet, glistening shores of Moses Lake, or are there other things in store? Other journeys? Other discoveries?

For the first time I can remember, I'm satisfied not to know. To wait, and to watch. To see, as Keren says beside me now, what God can do with a single, ordinary life.

When it's given over to love.