4. Caleb
Chapter 4
Caleb
A s I drive in my rental car down Main Street in Prairie Springs, I’m flooded with a thousand childhood memories. I haven’t been back here in well over fifteen years, ever since Grandpa fell in love with a woman in Kansas and started renting out the lake house as an Airbnb. And yet, despite the passage of time, driving through this place still feels like coming home.
Well, I’ll be damned. The tackle shop is still there, same as ever. The hardware store and that dive bar, too. Same with those two rival diners directly across the street from each other, though it looks like one has a different name now.
It’s all the same as it ever was, mostly, with all of it set against a backdrop of purple mountains, leafy trees and pine needles, river valleys, and big sky. In Los Angeles, everybody’s always looking for the next shiny, new thing. Trends and “what’s hot now” rule the day. But here in Montana—at least, in this small corner of it, there’s a sense of time standing still in the best possible way.
Grandpa’s lake cabin, which became mine and my sister’s, once Mom passed almost three months ago, is about twenty-five minutes away from the town’s main drag. But since everyone who lives on or near Lake Lucille comes into town regularly for supplies and everything else, anyone in the generalized area thinks of Prairie Springs as home.
My phone pings with an incoming text, but I ignore it, since I’m driving and only about a mile from my destination. Hopefully, that was Paula giving me an update on the rehab situation. When I stepped off the plane earlier and Paula hadn’t texted yet, I messaged her, only to be met with a curt reply: “Still working on it.”
I reach a stoplight, the street where the navigation lady has told me to turn left, and wait at the red light. Too curious to wait, I reach for my phone and discover that text from a minute ago, was, indeed, from Paula.
It’s good and bad news, but mostly good. Neither the court nor the insurance company will let you off the hook, unless and until you complete the entirety of your three-month rehab stint. However, when I advised them of your family emergency, they said they’ll allow you to satisfy the remaining three weeks and two days remotely. You’ll need to attend all daily therapy sessions via Zoom. Also, you’ll need to get yourself a sobriety coach, basically, someone who’ll supervise you around the clock for the next three weeks and confirm, in writing, on a nightly basis, that you successfully remained sober over the prior twenty-four hours. Said coach must be an adult who passes a background check and isn’t related to you, and you can pay them a reasonable rate. This is the best I can do .
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I grumble. The stoplight is green by now, but there’s nobody behind me, so, as the light cycles back to red, I type a reply to Paula with angry fingers.
I’ll do the Zoom thing, and I’ll put it in writing myself every night that I’m still sober. But I’m sure as shit not going to hire someone to babysit me, round the clock, for the next three weeks and two days. No fucking way.
If push comes to shove, I could ask my good friend, Amy, to help me out, once I get back to LA. When Amy was my personal assistant years ago on a tour, she kicked ass, after a rough start, so I know she’d do a good job for me. True, Amy is a mother now. But I bet if I were to explain my situation to Amy and Colin, they’d both come and bring their kid, Rocco, too. You know, make a family vacation out of it. My place is right on the beach, after all, while their house is inland on a canyon.
The light turns green, once again, and I make the left turn the navigation lady is insisting upon.
In short order, however, as I’m driving down a quiet residential street, my phone pings with another text. When I glance at my screen, it’s Paula again, and the message is long; so I pull over to read.
You have two choices. One, you can accept this generous accommodation from the rehab facility, do exactly what they’re requiring, get a certification of completion in three weeks and two days, and move on with your life. Or, you can refuse their generous terms, thereby officially quitting rehab before completion, and suffer the consequences. It’s up to you. Let me know what you decide.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I shout into the cramped space of my rental car, while banging the heel of my palm on the steering wheel. I know full well what’s at stake here. When I trashed that hotel penthouse in New York three months ago, the night my mother died, I did enough damage to turn my temper tantrum into a fucking felony. Which meant the judge had my nuts in a vise when he ordered me to rehab in lieu of jailtime. After that, the insurance company hopped on board and made completion of rehab a condition of their coverage for any upcoming tour.
With an exhale of exasperation, I press the button to call Paula.
“Are you calling for a reminder of the list of consequences if you quit rehab?” Paula asks calmly, with faux sincerity. “Or are you calling because you finally understand you’ve got no choice here?”
“You’re sure I can’t get a couple days reprieve while I’m here in Prairie Springs? I’ll hire a sobriety coach, once I get back to LA.”
“You need one today. Good news, though. I’ve already run a background check on Aubrey Capshaw, and she’s good to go. You’re welcome.”
“Aubrey Capshaw?”
“Why not? You’re already planning to lure her into becoming Raine’s nanny, right? So, fine, pay her a bit more and add babysitting you to her list of job duties for the next three weeks and two days.”
“I’m not going to tell Aubrey about my mandatory rehab, Paula. There’s already enough shit for us to deal with, without me adding that to the pile.” Aubrey doesn’t know I’m coming to see her today, any more than my daughter does. I got the address from Paula, hopped the first flight out this morning to Billings, rented a car at the airport for the hour-long drive to Prairie Springs, and here I am.
“If you’ve got a better idea than hiring Aubrey to babysit both you and Raine, I’m all ears,” Paula says. “Although, before you enlighten me, I should remind you that your sobriety coach will need to certify your sobriety for the first time today, by ten o’clock tonight, Pacific Time, so whatever brilliant idea you’re about to spring on me had better be easy and fast to implement.”
I feel like a caged animal. But still, I’m not convinced Aubrey is my only option here. “Ten o’clock is still a long way away,” I mutter. “I’ll let you know what I decide in a bit.”
“Suit yourself. How close are you to Aubrey’s house?”
“Exactly point-three miles. I pulled over to talk to you on a residential street around the corner from her address.”
Paula lets out a little sound of relief. “Now, don’t forget, Caleb, you only get one chance to make a first impression. When you meet Raine, remember you’re big and covered in tattoos, so you’ll want to crouch down to her level and?—"
“I’ll handle it fine,” I bark out, feeling annoyed. “Talk to you soon.” Admittedly, I don’t know jack shit about kids, but I know enough, at least, not to barrel in there like a bull in a china shop and start barking orders at a two-year-old who lost her mommy mere weeks ago.
After ending the call, I start up the rental car again; and after a couple turns that wedge me deeper into the tree-lined neighborhood, the robot voice on my phone tells me I’ve arrived at my destination. The Capshaws’ house.
The home is a small but welcoming one. A one-story house that’s well cared for. Probably a two-bedroom/one bath kind of configuration, by the looks of it. Is my daughter inside that house? Is anyone? If not, Prairie Springs is small enough to ensure I’ll meet my daughter, sooner rather than later. Probably, by the end of today, at latest. The thought sends goosebumps rising up on my arms.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, shove my phone in my pocket, grab my backpack, and exit the rental car. With long strides, I make my way up the walkway toward the house. But before I get to the porch, the sounds of high-pitched, happy giggling and squealing catch my attention. They seem to be coming from the other side of a wooden fence—from the home’s backyard. On instinct, I head over to the fence to take a peek.
I’m six-three and change, so it’s easy for me to peer over the upright wooden planks. When I do, my heart stops at the source of those giggles: the little girl from the photo. Raine Beaumont . A pint-sized blonde with soft curls that bounce with every step she takes. She’s being chased around a lawn playfully by a knockout brunette with legs for days.
"I'm gonna get you!" the leggy brunette exclaims, laughing, and Raine screams with unrestrained joy as she toddles across the grass.
Tears prick my eyes, even as I’m smiling. My god, my kid’s laugh sounds exactly like my mother’s, albeit at a much higher octave.
Regret and shame slam into me again, this time because I didn’t fight Claudia tooth and nail, after getting that curt “fuck off” email from her. I emailed her again after that, a few months later, as well as messaging her on social media; but when all my messages bounced back, and it was clear Claudia had blocked me, every which way, I made the regrettable decision to leave it alone for now. To try again later. Mom was going downhill fast, at that point, and I felt like I had enough on my plate without opening up a can of worms that might not even get the desired result in time. The only thing worse than not telling my mother about her grandchild, I figured, was giving my mother false hope about meeting her grandchild.
But now, suddenly, as I stare at my child, my flesh and blood, I know I made a terrible miscalculation. How did I not understand the unbreakable bond that was forged the instant that little angel came into the world with my DNA enmeshed in every fucking cell in her tiny body? That little person right there is mine, goddammit. And nobody, not Ralph Beaumont, or Aubrey Capshaw, not even Claudia Beaumont from the grave, can take her away from me, now that I’m realizing my fucking mistake.
As I’m standing frozen and mesmerized at the scene unfolding before me, the leggy brunette—Aubrey Capshaw, I presume—catches my gleeful daughter, scoops her up, and covers her in noisy, energetic kisses that elicit even more giggles from Raine.
“You’re fast, but I’m faster!” the brunette shouts playfully.
“No, I’m da fasty!” Raine shouts back, still giggling away.
“Oh, yeah? Show me, then!” Aubrey puts Raine down, and the pair repeats the same chasing exercise I’ve just witnessed, much to my grinning, teary-eyed delight.
I’m fixated on Raine, initially. For quite some time. But when my gaze eventually shifts to study Aubrey, it occurs to me she’s smoking hot. She’s got long, tanned legs. Shiny, flowing, dark hair. Smooth, glowing skin and a fresh-faced, girl-next-door kind of appeal that’s insanely attractive to me. I haven’t had sober sex yet. No sex at all for at least six months. And I’m suddenly feeling every minute of my celibacy.
Am I allowed to fuck my nanny/sobriety coach, or is that frowned upon ?
I’ve no sooner had the thought than Aubrey’s eyes land on me—on the top half of my head that’s exposed to her over the wooden fence—and she screams bloody murder at the top of her lungs.