Chapter 23 Cosi #2
“I heard about the cabin and her truck.” There was a note of accusation there.
It irritated Mom to no end that she typically learned about happenings around town through the rumor mill rather than directly from me, the source. But she also respected my job and knew I’d share what I could. And usually, it wasn’t much.
“Do you have any idea who did it?” she asked.
“We’re still sorting it out.”
She frowned. “So no, you don’t. Damn.”
“Pretty much.”
“How’s she holding up?”
I lifted a shoulder. “She’s taking it in stride.”
“She’s got gumption, that girl. I like that. She’s not afraid to push back. We need someone like that in Dalton. Especially at that school.”
“Well, don’t get attached.” I pulled off my leather gloves, tucking them into the back pocket of my jeans. “She’s leaving.”
“Because of what happened at the cabin?”
“No. She was never planning to stay.” I waved her toward the sidewalk so we could head inside and get out of the cold.
“And how do you feel about that?”
Like my soul was being crushed. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“At least I know this time around. I can take care not to get attached.”
Mom stopped walking to face me. “I’ll never forgive Gwen for making you this way.”
“What way?”
“Scared.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Ilsa isn’t Gwen.”
“She’s leaving too, Mom. And I can’t do it again.” Even if I wanted to try. Even if I wasn’t ready to see the last of Ilsa’s smiles.
“When we first moved here, I’d hear the occasional story about Ilsa’s mother,” she said.
“How she ran from this town so fast it gave poor Ike whiplash. I always felt bad for him. But I remember how he’d become a different man during the summers when Ilsa would visit.
He’d parade her around town and wear this beaming smile wherever they went. ”
It hadn’t really occurred to me that Mom might have remembered Ilsa from decades past. I wish I had known her back then too.
“There’s a lot working against her right now,” Mom said.
“Ike’s death. The cabin. A school full of men and that little shit, Tim Harlan.
The women who do work there are snotty and awful.
They’re all probably making sure Ilsa knows she’s not welcome.
But someday, Ilsa’s going to remember those summers.
And how her smiles were just as bright as Ike’s.
She loved it here. Don’t give up on her. Not yet.”
Was it really that simple?
“I like her, Mom. A lot.”
“As you should.”
“And Spencer? How does he take this if she leaves?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “You’ve used that boy as an excuse to avoid relationships for far too long.”
“It’s not an—”
“It is an excuse. We both know I’m right.”
She was right. Damn it.
“When was the last time you reviewed his homework?” she asked.
“Made him show you what he’s been doing this week?
Whether she stays or leaves, that girl is good for Spencer.
And she’s good for you too. Pull your head out of your ass, Cosi Raynes.
” Mom smacked my arm and walked away. Not to the house, like I’d expected, but along the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m meeting a friend for lunch at the Grizzly. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I waved as she continued on, and I headed inside.
It smelled like bacon and burnt toast. Someday, I was going to have to teach my son how to cook.
I found Spencer in the kitchen, carrying plates to the table. Three instead of two. “Lunch?”
“BLTs.” He shrugged. “I burned a piece of toast.”
“I’ll eat it.” I went to the fridge, taking out a jar of Mom’s strawberry jam she made each summer. “Your grandma just walked by. She said something about your homework from this week.”
“Oh, it’s, uh . . . nothing. She was looking at it when I went over there yesterday after school.”
“Can I see it too?”
He hesitated before setting down the last plate. Then he walked down the hallway to get his schoolwork while I checked the bacon on the stove to make sure it wasn’t burning too.
It was. So I shut off the stove and took out the strips to dry on a paper towel.
“Here.” Spencer handed me a stack of papers before going to the silverware drawer.
I flipped through the worksheets and quizzes, focused on the grades circled on each page. As and Bs. Not a single C or D. If not for his name—Spencer Raynes, not a Spencer Michael in the bunch—I would have thought these were from other students.
“This is . . . Wow. Good job, pal.”
These were the best grades he’d gotten since fourth grade. Fifth was the year he’d stopped applying himself. Ironically, Mrs. Riley had been his fifth-grade teacher before she’d moved up to the high school.
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugged, setting out forks.
“It is a big deal. I’m proud of you.”
He tried to hide a shy smile. “Thanks.”
I had no clue what Ilsa had done to inspire this change, but I’d kiss her for it later. A kiss that lasted all night long. A kiss to say I was sorry.
Yeah, it was time to pull my head out of my ass.
“Hey, Dad?” Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together. “Did you find out if Paul was the person who trashed Ilsa’s cabin?”
“No, not yet.”
On the drive back from his basketball game Wednesday, I’d been real with him about what was going on with Ilsa’s place. He’d already heard the rumors going around school. So I’d told him everything I could, including how I suspected it was Paul, trusting him not to share.
Paul hadn’t said much when I’d questioned him with his parents. They’d brought their lawyer, who’d advised them to stay quiet.
But the other kids had been much more forthcoming. Most had been terrified to sit across from me and be questioned, their parents too. From them, I’d learned that Paul harassed Ilsa almost daily. That he called her Miss Crone. That he used every insult possible, from bitch to cunt.
Ilsa and I would also be talking about how she hadn’t told me this was happening.
“Paul was talking shit about her after practice,” Spencer said. “In the locker room. He was being really loud, like he knew I was in there and wanted to make sure I heard.”
Paul was on the basketball team with Spencer, and being a senior, he was a kid Spencer looked up to. The last place I wanted my son was in the middle of this mess, but like it or not, he was in the middle.
“Sorry.”
“Screw Paul. He’s a dickhead if he did this.”
I barked a laugh. “Definitely. But I don’t know if it was Paul. So let’s not say he’s guilty yet.”
“’Kay. But you’re going to find out who did it, right? And if they burned down her shed too?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” His frame relaxed. “Is Ilsa going to be okay? Where is she, anyway?”
“Her truck was fixed, so she went to pick it up.”
“Should we wait for her?” he asked as the sound of his growling stomach filled the kitchen.
“You go ahead and eat. I’ll wait until she’s back.”
He heaped his plate full of bacon, taking the burnt toast for himself and making a sandwich so thick it barely fit in his mouth. But he still inhaled it in less than five minutes.
I checked the clock as he rinsed his dishes, walking to the living room window to peer out over the street.
The garage was a ten-minute walk from my house. Marty was chatty, but Ilsa had been gone for over an hour. What errands had she needed to run?
I waited another thirty minutes before I ate a piece of toast. I waited another thirty before I put the bacon in a Tupperware container. And I waited another thirty minutes before I stopped ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut.
She wouldn’t go out to the cabin, would she?
Fuck. She definitely would.
“Spencer,” I hollered. “I gotta go.”