Chapter 7 #3
And Dove sat alone, trying to think about her mother, about her family in that restaurant, and picking out the different tables where she had memories of them together.
To draw on what she knew rather than accessing any of the emotion that led her through life, certain that doing so in that moment would release the fear waiting to drown her.
When Mitchell appeared in her line of vision, heading her way, she was still breathing, thinking about a birthday she’d celebrated at the table in the corner.
She couldn’t remember how old she’d been.
But she remembered the purple glitter birthday hats she and her mother had worn.
Her dad had been out to sea. But he’d radioed in before she went to bed that night.
Mitchell didn’t have a radio. He had a cell phone. Still in hand.
Heart pounding, she glanced up as he reached their table. Got nothing from blue eyes staring straight in hers. No warmth. No fear. No strength. Or weak knees, either.
“Tell me,” she said.
Wondering what it meant when he sat first, instead. Had they found Whaler? Was he…
“Kansas found drag marks in the back alley, behind the bar.”
The last place her father had been seen.
“They end abruptly right next to a pair of tire tracks that left rubber and debris behind. As though a vehicle accelerated rapidly. A truck, most likely, based on the tire tread. But a newer one.”
Relief hit for a brief second. She grabbed a breath while she could and said, “Not my father’s truck.”
He shook his head. Didn’t seem to find the news as good as she did.
Because her father wouldn’t have hauled himself away. Someone else would have done that. In their own or a stolen vehicle. Made more sense that way.
She didn’t want sense. She wanted her father home. Passed out drunk if it had to be that way, but home.
Was that the lesson she was there to learn, then? To be more tolerant of Whaler’s drinking? To accept the liquor as part of their lives, rather than constantly trying to get her father to leave it behind?
Fine then. She’d make peace with the bottle.
Did you get that? She wanted to scream the words aloud. Settled for the silent communication that wouldn’t get her thrown out of polite society. I get the message she added for good measure, just in case someone out there in the spirit world was having as bad a day as she was.
“Kansas is heading up a search and rescue team, and they’ll be heading out shortly, starting from the bar. Welding and his partner are going to be canvasing the area, talking to everyone who was in the bar yesterday.”
Feeling her face start to tingle from tension, Dove forced herself to relax back in her seat. One muscle at a time. Starting with her neck. Her cheeks. Her fingers. Not in any of the orderly ways she taught. Didn’t matter. Toes. Elbows. Any relaxing at all.
Lavender. Remembering that she had it on her, she shoved a hand down her shirt, in between her breasts, and pulled out the sachet, holding it under her nose with both hands. Breathing deeply.
And slowly realized that other than looking like some kind of weirdo, she was just fine. Not passing out. Or losing her life.
It was all right there. Waiting for her to take control and move forward. From a bad moment to what came next. Knowing that if she just kept going, good would be there waiting.
Even if the relief just came from a whiff of lavender.
Mitchell’s voice came back to her. “…out of an abundance of caution. There’s no evidence to prove that Whaler, or a human being for that matter, was dragged.”
Dove took it in, the deep timbre. The warmth. Along with the words. And drew in a full breath, too. “What’s next? How can I help?”
“You keep your cell phone charged, and on your person, in case he tries to contact you.”
Of course. A given. She nodded anyway. “What else?”
The look in Mitchell’s eye brought another flash of fear for a second, but then all she saw was warmth, and she wondered if she’d imagined the fear. Or had projected her own terror onto his glance.
“We go to the grocery store,” he told her, as though they’d already had the plan.
She was game. If there was something there, some camera, some person, that could give them information. When he didn’t offer more, just counted out cash from his wallet, placing it with the bill on the table, she asked, “What are we doing there?”
“Buying groceries.” His tone sounded so normal, she went with it for a second.
Until reality hit again, and with dread she asked, “To feed the search and rescue team?”
Mitchell stood, and so she followed suit. “No,” he said. “You said you’d cook for your keep. Dinner’s in just a few hours.”
Oh. Well. Dove hurried after him out to the car. Thinking about what he’d said. Another few seconds of something to focus on other than what could be happening to Bob St. James.
Or what could already have…
No. It hadn’t. She’d know.
The fates had strongly prompted her to seek out Mitchell Colton’s help. She had to trust that he knew what he was doing. That whatever it was, and for whatever reason, she was meant to follow along. And so she asked, “Do you prefer your vegetables sautéed, boiled or baked?”
Because at the moment, the thought of planning anything more than the side dish was beyond her.
She’d be in better shape once they were actually at the store. Walking the aisles. She’d find her strength. Come through.
She just had to trust. Trust herself.
Trust her father to stay alive.
And trust Mitchell Colton, too.