Ryan's Return (8 page)

Thankfully the river wasn't slowing down. It sailed by his feet, fast and swift. Jonas loved the rush of the water. It soaked right through to his soul, giving him a thrill of excitement every time he heard it.

All of his memories were of the river. His parents had married on the grassy bank. He had been born in a log cabin where each fall the river rose high enough to wash the summer dust off the front steps. He had spent his summers learning fly-fishing from his father and testing his courage on the white-water rapids upstream. The river had been his playground. While other kids had jungle gyms and toy cars, he had had a big, glorious river to play in, and he had loved the water since his first breath.

When the sky was blue and the sunlight sparkled through the trees to dance on the water, he felt God close to his soul. This morning there were clouds, but as Jonas looked up toward the sky, they broke apart and the sun beamed down a welcoming ray of light.

The light beckoned to him like a playmate's mischievous smile. Oh, to be as free as the birds that flew overhead, that sang their songs to the melody of the river. How he would love to be flung from this mother earth and tossed up high to the treetops, to feel as light and as joyous as a new bird, feeling its wings for the first time.

But his feet still touched the ground. His heart still felt heavy, so he turned his face away from the sun and the joy and looked down at the ground, at the empty granola bar wrapper. This was reality, ugliness in his special place.

He hated the intrusion of such ugliness. He hated when things didn't work out the way they were supposed to.

Thirty-seven years ago he had married Isabelle, a beautiful young girl from New Orleans who had come to live on the river with her aunt Claire. Isabelle's parents had died in an automobile accident, and aside from her maiden aunt, she had been all alone in the world.

He had fallen in love with her on sight. She had seemed so much like the river to him -- long, flowing summer dresses, a smile that warmed his heart, and a passion as exciting as a canoe trip on a wild, unpredictable river.

Isabelle had promised to love him, to stand by his side for all time. He had believed her.

She had given him two sons, and they were happy. At least he was happy. Isabelle had never quite settled into the town. There had always been a part of her that yearned for the magic of New Orleans -- the French Quarter; the jazz clubs; the stories of voodoo magic; the hot, spicy Cajun food; the whole mystical, magical life she had left behind.

Jonas got up and walked on, trying to escape his thoughts, the way he always did. But he knew it was futile. His thoughts would be there when he returned home. Even now, after twenty-five years, his house still carried her scent. The furniture he had built for her still stood solid in the house, the oak chest at the foot of his bed where she had kept her lace shawl and the boys' first shoes and all the other silly feminine things he had had no use for but couldn't seem to throw away.

The house reminded him of Andrew and Ryan, of the two sons he had watched grow into men, one so desperate to please him, the other so uncaring of his thoughts. After his last fight with Ryan, he had said good-bye to the angry young man and watched him leave. But he had never quite said good-bye to the Ryan in his heart.

"Jonas."

He looked up in surprise. A man in uniform stood in front of him, the county sheriff, Dirk Anders, a man he had grown up with, a man who loved the river almost as much as he did.

"Dirk," he acknowledged reluctantly. Although they had been friends since childhood, Jonas had kept his distance in years past. He didn't care to be reminded of happier times when he and Isabelle had double-dated with Dirk and his wife, Susan. Susan had stood by her man as promised. Isabelle had not.

"I'm worried about the river," Dirk said. "She's high from last week's storms. And there's more rain on the way."

Jonas looked at the water. "She'll hold."

"They had heavy rainfall last night in Sonoma County. The National Weather Service is predicting three to four inches by tomorrow night. We've got folks coming in from San Francisco for the celebration tonight." Dirk shook his head in dismay. "I don't know what to do."

"Cancel the damn thing," Jonas said. He didn't like the Centennial Celebration, and now it was turning into a sideshow, bringing in developers and all kinds of people who had no business in his town.

Just like that woman, Kara Delaney, had no business in his town. It was her fault things were changing. But then, she had bad blood. How could he expect more from a Cox? Just their name on his tongue turned his whole mouth sour.

"I can't cancel the centennial," Dirk said.

"Why not? You're the sheriff."

"Everything's set. Folks are counting on a good time. And the shopkeepers are hoping for lots of business." Dirk paused. "I wish you'd stop this war you've got going with Mrs. Delaney."

"I will not let her turn my town into a freak show."

"She's not doing that."

"Oh, no? She's the one who brought that Harrison Winslow to town. Did you know he's planning to put a Taco Tommy's on Main Street? We've never had fast food here." Jonas shook his head in disgust. "Next thing you know there will be a video arcade next to the church."

Dirk sighed. "Change is coming, Jonas. It's not our turn anymore. Young Will is itching for my job. And I bet Andrew would like to take a crack at running the paper."

"He's not ready yet."

"Sometimes you gotta let go." Dirk picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river. They watched it skip its way downstream. "You seen Ryan yet?" Dirk asked.

Jonas shook his head. "Nope."

"He'll be at the dinner tonight."

"So I hear."

"Look, Jonas, I don't want any trouble with you. I already have my hands full with Beverly Appleborne and Margaret Woodrich."

Jonas stared out at the water. He didn't want any trouble either, but it was hard to change the patterns of a lifetime. No doubt Ryan was itching for a fight. What was he supposed to do? Turn the other cheek?

"I remember a time when you couldn't say enough good things about that boy," Dirk added.

Jonas felt the anger rise in his soul. He didn't want to remember when Ryan was a little boy, when he had loved him more than he had loved anything or anyone. Ryan had turned on him with a vengeance. He couldn't forget that.

"It's time to move on," Dirk said. "Let the past go."

"When I want your advice, I'll ask for it." Jonas flung his trash bag over his shoulder.

"I guess I'll be getting back to town." Dirk tipped his head at Jonas. "Watch yourself. The current is pretty swift in parts."

"I know this river better than I know myself," Jonas said. "She won't hurt me." He wished he could say the same about his son.

"Billy," Andrew called as he entered the house. A quick glance at the clock told him he'd have to hurry if he was going to get to the rec center by eleven as he had promised Kara. "Billy?"

"In here, Dad," Billy replied.

Andrew jogged up the stairs and pushed open the bathroom door. Billy stood in front of the mirror, a gangly, awkward boy of eleven who was trying desperately to slick his hair down. He had a head full of brown curls that he absolutely couldn't stand, and no matter how many times he tried to wet down his hair, the curls bounced back up. Billy had Becky Lee's hair. Andrew could still remember running his fingers through her hair. He blinked the disturbing image from his mind.

"Oh, man," Billy complained.

"Can I help?" Andrew asked.

"No." Billy stared at him in the mirror.

As usual Andrew didn't know what to say to the boy. Like his father before him, Andrew wasn't good with kids, didn't know how to show affection without looking silly. When Billy was a toddler, Andrew had left the hugs to Mrs. Murray, and as Billy grew up he seemed to expect less and less from his father. They were almost strangers now, sharing the same house, eating their meals in silence, occasionally watching a television show together, but that was it.

Maybe Kara and Angel could bring them back together. Two halves into a whole. Mother and daughter on one side, father and son on the other. They could forge a family together. He wanted a family, sometimes more than anything on this earth. He just didn't know how to make it happen.

His own family had fallen apart with Isabelle's desertion. His whole body tightened at the thought of his mother. She had ripped them apart. It was her fault. Everything was her fault.

"Did I -- did I do something wrong?" Billy stammered, suddenly looking nervous.

Andrew realized he was staring at his son with a ferocious, glaring expression. "No, of course not. I was thinking about something else."

"About Mom?" Billy asked.

Andrew started in surprise. "Becky Lee? No. Why would you ask me that?"

"Because sometimes you look like that when you stare at her picture, the one on the mantel in the living room."

"Do I? I didn't realize."

"I miss her, too," Billy said. "Even though I don't remember her."

Andrew stared at his son, realizing this was the first time Billy had ever said anything quite so personal. Andrew didn't know how to respond. He was inadequate when it came to words. He was a newspaperman; words were supposed to be his business. But it was far easier to write about city council meetings than to talk to his son about the mother he had never known.

Andrew wanted to tell Billy that he understood, because he knew what it was like to lose a mother. Only, his mother hadn't died. She had left him. At least Becky Lee had taken Billy with her. She had deserted her husband but not her child. He could give her credit for that.

"Do you want to use the bathroom?" Billy asked.

"No." And the moment passed before Andrew could say anything more personal than that. "I'm going into town to help Kara decorate the rec center. Do you want to come with me?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

Billy shook his head.

"It might be fun," Andrew added. If he couldn't talk to his son, at least he could do something with him once in awhile.

"Is Uncle Ryan going to be there?"

Andrew tried to stay calm. "I don't know. Does it matter?" Of course it mattered. Andrew and Billy had never spoken about Ryan, but Andrew was sure Billy had heard tales about Ryan all over town. That was the problem with small towns. Everybody knew your business, sometimes before you did. But despite the speculation, nobody knew the real story, and as far as Andrew was concerned, nobody ever would.

"It doesn't really matter, but..." Billy stumbled over his words. "I just, sort of, thought that well, you know, maybe..."

Andrew waited patiently for the sentence to come out.

"Maybe he'd want to meet me or something, or maybe not." Billy looked down at his hands, obviously worried about his father's reaction.

"I'm sure you'll see him before he goes," Andrew replied, not sure at all, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Grandmother Margaret hates him, doesn't she?" Billy asked with surprising clarity.

"I guess she does."

"And you hate him, and Grandfather Jonas does, too. I don't think I'll like him either. He's probably a jerk."

Andrew didn't know what to say. As much as he wanted to agree with Billy, he couldn't find the words.

It suddenly seemed wrong to talk about Ryan to a boy who ... Well, it just seemed wrong.

"I don't think I'll go with you," Billy decided, not waiting for Andrew to reply. "Angel wants to check out the river. It's really high, almost to the bottom of Tucker's Bridge."

"Stay away from the fast parts," Andrew said, relieved at the change in subject.

"I will."

Andrew turned to leave.

"Uh, Dad?" Billy said, looking suddenly uncertain.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I'm getting some hair above my lip?"

Andrew walked over to Billy and looked into the mirror with him. He had a feeling this was the most important question Billy had asked him in a long time.

"Yeah, I think so."

Billy ran his finger along his upper lip. "It feels kind of rough. Maybe I should shave tonight, before the party."

Andrew nodded his head solemnly. "Good idea."

"Dad -- uh, do you think -- uh, you could show me how -- I mean, if you have time?"

"Yeah, I could do that."

Billy met his eyes in the mirror, his expression full of adolescent pride. For the first time in a long time, Andrew felt confident in his role of father.

If Andrew hadn't stopped at the pharmacy to pick up some shaving cream for himself and Billy, he would have missed Ryan. Or at least he wouldn't have had to see him for a few more hours.

But no, he had to stop. He had to go in, even after he saw the red Ferrari in the parking lot.

Ryan was talking to Harry Bender, the pharmacist, and Leslie Bender, the pharmacist's daughter. Leslie had a hand on Ryan's arm. She smiled up at him like he was a goddamned hero. And Ryan soaked it up, the way he always had.

Andrew felt his body tense. Ryan looked just the same, just as attractive, just as arrogant. It wasn't supposed to be this way, Andrew thought desperately. If Ryan was going to come back at all, it should have been as a failure, not as a rich celebrity.

The door closed behind Andrew, jangling the bell overhead. Ryan, Leslie, and Harry looked up. Their laughter stopped. Their smiles faded, as if he were the intruder. Dammit, this was his town, not Ryan's, not anymore.

Andrew picked up a can of shaving cream and walked over to the counter. He handed Harry a five-dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said. Then he walked out -- without saying a word, without acknowledging his brother.

Andrew was still shaking when he got into his truck. He sat there for a moment, watching Ryan through the glass door of the pharmacy. Andrew should have said something to him, should have confronted him, told him to get the hell out of town or at least stay away from Kara, but he'd been a coward, the way he'd always been.

He hit the steering wheel with his hand, angry at himself, angry at Ryan for making him feel like a stupid kid again. As Ryan came out of the pharmacy, Andrew turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot.

Ryan caught up to him a block away, at the corner of Highland Avenue and River Road. Andrew's ten-year-old Toyota pickup truck felt like a clunker next to Ryan's sleek red sports car, and Andrew prayed the light would change. But instead of a green light, the railroad crossing gate came down, signaling the arrival of the morning train. Dammit all! And this was the only way to the recreation center. He wondered if that's where Ryan was going.

Seeing Ryan with Leslie Bender had only reminded him of the night before when he'd seen Kara in Ryan's bedroom, when he'd been reminded of all the old feelings of inadequacy. He had never measured up to Ryan before. How could it be different now?

Andrew took a quick glance at his brother. Ryan stared straight ahead, his profile etched in stone. Then he turned and met Andrew's gaze.

Andrew looked away, watching as the train halted in front of the station.

Ryan pushed down on the gas pedal. The Ferrari whirred a challenge.

Andrew pushed his own gas pedal before he could think of the consequences. Then he felt foolish. He was not going to race Ryan down River Road. It didn't matter that once past the train crossing and the turn that led into town, the road was long, straight, and fast. Ryan had been the king of River Road. Andrew had never done anything so reckless. The engine on the Ferrari came to life once again. Andrew's foot hovered above the gas pedal. In his mind he could see himself and Ryan lining up on the riverbank when they were not more than eleven and eight.

"Race you to the house," Ryan said.

Andrew dug his shoe in the dirt and played with a stick. "Nah."

"Come on, don't be such a wuss."

"I don't feel like racing."

"I'll give you a head start."

Andrew took off running. "Okay," he yelled over his shoulder, hoping without hope that he would make it to the house before Ryan. He was almost there when a tree branch snapped up in his face. He lost his balance and fell down. Ryan breezed past him the last twenty yards. Andrew felt like crying. Then he saw his dad on the porch and knew he couldn't cry. Slowly he got to his feet and walked up to the house.

"Beat you again, did he?" Jonas asked, slapping Ryan on the back in congratulations. "Don't know why you keep racing him, you'll never win."

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. He walked up the steps to the porch. Jonas grabbed his shoulder with his hard hand.

"You ripped your jeans, goddammit," Jonas said. "If I have to buy you new jeans, you'll be doing more chores next week. You can start by moving that pile of firewood back behind the house."

Andrew looked at the firewood in disbelief. It was four feet high. It would take him hours. But he couldn't argue with his dad. He would only find himself moving it twice just for the heck of it.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled as he walked into the house.

An hour later Ryan came up to Andrew as he was moving the wood. "Want some help?" he offered.

"This is your fault," Andrew said.

"It's not my fault you fell down. You want some help or not?"

"I don't need your help."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Ryan had stormed away, and Andrew had stacked firewood till his back hurt and his hands blistered. He could almost feel the pain now as he gripped the steering wheel and watched the train pull out of the station.

The Ferrari's engine stopped whirring. When Andrew looked over at Ryan, he saw his brother fiddling with the radio. Maybe, just maybe ... It was stupid, foolish. But damn, he wanted to win, just once in his life.

The gate went up on the railroad crossing. The light turned green.

Andrew pushed the gas pedal to the floor. His truck skidded down the first part of the road. In the rearview mirror he saw the Ferrari respond, but he had a head start. The roads into town flashed by on the left-hand side. He pushed the truck to the limit, faster and faster until he left the city boundaries. The road curved.

Andrew sped into the turn. He had barely straightened when a trio of ducks ran across the road. Instinctively he turned the wheel.

Ryan's car was right there, and the truck bounced off the front fender of the Ferrari. Suddenly they were both off the road. Andrew hit the wooden fence head-on, breaking it in two as he headed across the meadow toward Miller's duck pond.

Ryan's car seemed to be clinging to the back of the truck. Andrew braked just in time, two feet short of the pond. As the truck came to an abrupt stop, Ryan crashed into the back.

Ryan jumped out of his car.

Andrew did the same.

They met face-to-face next to their locked bumpers.

"You hit my car," Ryan said in disbelief.

"What do you mean? You hit me."

"You stopped too fast."

"It was your fault. You were trying to pass me."

"You're the one who swerved."

"I didn't want to hit the ducks."

"What ducks? I didn't see any ducks," Ryan declared.

"Oh, yeah? Then you must need glasses."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I think you're lying. You just lost control of the car." Ryan stuck his face right in front of Andrew's, like an angry baseball coach arguing with the umpire.

"I won," Andrew declared.

"Don't be such a jerk."

Andrew pushed Ryan on the shoulder to get him out of his face. Ryan pushed back. And suddenly they were kids again, wrangling in the living room over control of the television set.

They pushed and shoved and landed on the ground, rolling around like a pair of school kids. The ducks flew off the pond, upset by the chaos. They landed in the meadow, squawking around Ryan and Andrew like a bunch of teenagers rallying around a lunchroom fight.

Ryan was oblivious to the sound of the ducks, to the sound of a car approaching. He just wanted to get Andrew off him. He wanted to shake some sense into his big brother, make him admit for once that he could be wrong, that he could be the one at fault.

That's when Andrew socked him in the eye. Ryan howled in pain. For a moment he couldn't see a thing. Instinctively he hit back.

But Andrew was gone. There was another man in Ryan's face. A man wearing a hat and a badge and some kind of uniform. Ryan tried to pull his hand back, but it was too late. His fist connected with the jaw of Dirk Anders, county sheriff.

The ducks scattered, and silence overwhelmed the three men.

Dirk rubbed his hand along his jaw as he straightened up. His pulse beat frantically in his neck as he wrestled with his temper. Andrew stood behind Dirk, as stunned as Ryan.

"Uh, sorry," Ryan said, getting slowly to his feet. "I thought you were Andrew."

"Did you now? Well, you just assaulted a police officer."