Chapter 50
“CLINT.” My voice gets stuck in my chest. I cough and try again. “Clint, can you come here?”
Clint strolls into the room. “Our son is going to be a successful leader one day. He got me talking about Jiffy Pop, and somehow, I was making his popcorn. You better grab a handful if you want any. Unfortunately, we only had the one foil pan left.”
“We?” I spin around.
“Oui oui.” Clint laughs.
“No.” I close my eyes. I don’t want to fight. Just the opposite. I want to congratulate the love of my life on launching his dream.
Tru-ly is the song of the eastern bluebird.
The New York state bird is known to roost in flocks of up to fifty, hiding together at night to stay warm.
They are the reason Clint and Rob met, when both answered a Brownie troop’s distress call that ended up being about a bluebird flock in Hiawassee, Georgia, caught up in some aggressive mating ritual.
After assuring the spooked campers they were in no danger, the guys had a good laugh, and a friendship was born.
When, years later, they both wound up in the New York Hudson Valley, they blamed it on the call of the New York state bird. Tru-ly Trails was inspired.
I open my eyes and place both my hands on my husband’s chest. “You launched.”
His gaze flicks over to the wall. “Oh, not entirely. Not really. You know, we’ve just been knocking around the nonprofit idea for years.”
“I recognize the logo.”
Clint cocks his head.
“Dave Alliston has a trail map with that exact logo in his office.” I run my fingers over the logo. “I saw it this week.” A shiver runs down my back.
“Right.” Clint shifts his gaze away from my face. “Dave has been a supporter and has opened some amazing doors locally. Beyond the maps and experiences, he’s had great ideas on structuring a nonprofit while also being able to sell outfitting supplies.”
“Dave?” I want to shake my husband or maybe punch him. My fists clench at my sides. “We’ve been debating who could do this to our family, and you never thought to mention your relationship with Dave? Clint, I don’t—”
“It’s not a relationship. Calm down, Meredith.” Clint swiftly shuts the door.
“No. I will not calm down. Is he after us? Are you blind? This could all be part of taking me down.” My hands reach toward the door. “Does he know where we are?”
“He knows there’s a cabin, but he’s never been here. We’ve only met—”
“Would Rob tell him?” I push past Clint to get to my kids.
“No.” Clint holds on to both my arms. “When I told Rob to tell no one, he even mentioned Dave. We need to connect about the grant. I explicitly told Rob not to tell him.”
I remember the call from the car. We have to be able to trust Rob. Right?
Clint tries to tug me toward him, but I resist.
I want to rail at him about why he hasn’t told me about Dave, but I feel like both a broken record and a hypocrite. Exhaustion steals over me. “Is this another thing you tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen?”
“No.” He runs his fingers up my arm. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Why?” I whisper. Dave has been so difficult. Never an ally. I still remember him grabbing me at the bell ringing reception. His hands were where Clint’s are now. The bruises fainter but still there.
“He asked me not to.”
“And you took his side?” I pull away.
“I didn’t know there were sides to take.”
I stare at the trail map. The path through is never the most direct.
“You know who he’s been to me at work. I’ve complained about that man.
” But not often, I now realize. Another protective measure, I guess.
Keeping the ugliness at work out of my home.
“I did tell you that he wouldn’t help me with sales, and he’s head of sales.
” My voice goes a little screechy. I swallow.
“Yes. I think that’s why he asked me not to mention anything. I told him I’d never lie. If you asked me or it came up, so be it, but I agreed not to volunteer his name.”
“I don’t understand.” I finally look into my husband’s eyes.
“From what I’ve gathered, he hasn’t been proud of the way he’s treated you. Competition gets the best of him. He’s told me more than once that he’s wanted to start over with you, but then he experiences another slight or rebuff, and he’s right back to where he started.”
I didn’t invite him to ring the closing bell.
There is no doubt he felt my slight, but I have felt far more from him.
He is not an ally.
Clint pulls my hand toward him. “He’s wanted to make amends, but not because he helped me. He didn’t want your sense of duty to bridge a gap he should have paved over.”
“You guys have really talked a lot about this.” A sticky chill creeps up my back.
“Some. You know me and wanting to talk about my feelings and relationships.” He chuckles and I tug my fingers from his.
This conversation just feels wrong.
Clint’s face loses its mirth.
“I think you should steer clear. He’s . . . unpredictable.” The least of his worst attributes that I can muster.
Clint breathes out a heaviness and something else, like sadness.
“Is there more?”
He glances back at the map. “I thought I’d be happier about Tru-ly, but our issues . . .” His words fade away, and I feel him studying much more than the map.
He’s right; there are so many issues. Are they because we don’t fully trust each other?
Because I do worry that his patience and forgiveness will dry up. I will run out of chances.
I wrap my arms around his waist and crush him against me. “We need help.”
He doesn’t stiffen. Perhaps he is resigned. “More counseling?”
“Maybe, or maybe something different this time.” I speak into his chest. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Oma lately.”
“Wise woman.” His chest vibrates as he chuckles.
“Remember that first Easter when she stayed with us and then woke us up clanging those pots and pans, singing at the top of her lungs? We shot straight out of bed, still tangled in our sheets.” He pauses.
“But her prayer as the sun rose above the ocean was beautiful. You miss her.”
“I do.” I want to say more, but perilous emotions strapped down inside me threaten to burst free.
He seems to feel my need to process. “Well, the popcorn is probably all gone.” He looks down at me with eyes attempting to be playful. “Are you hungry?”
“Strange, but yes.”
“Let’s get my woman something to eat.”
We walk back into the main room. Reid’s head is in Erika’s lap, the empty popcorn bowl on the coffee table.
“He fell asleep talking,” Erika says as she tries to smooth his still-spiky hair down on his head. “I forgot to make him take a shower.”
“In the morning.” I glance over at the basic bathroom with a beautiful regular toilet and magnificent pint-size stand-up shower.
One of the first renovations Clint said they did.
The outhouse with a toilet plumbed to the same septic tank and leach field is still operational, but I’m thankful for the indoor variety. I can rough it, but only if I must.
I dig into Reid’s backpack to find his toothbrush and paste while Clint rouses him from his nest on the couch.
“Come on, buddy.” Clint pulls him to his feet.
“I want to check who won.” Reid yawns.
“Tomorrow.” Clint pushes him toward the bathroom.
“Oh, please, Dad. You said I could.” He wrenches his head around, suddenly wide-awake. “I can’t sleep without knowing.”
“All evidence to the contrary,” Erika grumbles, her face still in the novel she picked up earlier. When Erika got her first iPhone, she stopped reading. She used to always be tucked into a story.
“It’s too late, buddy. It’s already . . .” Clint looks at his watch. “Eight thirty?”
“What?” I pull out Reid’s brush from his bag. “But it feels like midnight.”
“I forget about the time vortex in the woods.” Clint squints at the blackened windows.
“Please, Dad.” Reid jumps, jangling his body up and down.
“Sure, buddy. I’ll crank up the sat phone.” He walks back into the bedroom.
“Now come here and brush those teeth—thoroughly.” I kiss Reid’s forehead.
“And wash your face and pits,” Erika yells over from the couch.
“Do I have to?” Reid picks up his toothbrush.
“I’ll find you a washcloth, and you can give yourself a little sponge bath before you put your pajamas on. When you’re done, maybe your dad will be ready.” I find a few towels, reserving a couple for Clint and me, and shut the bathroom door as I walk out.
“Did you figure out why they’re after us?” Erika asks as if she’s asking what I’m going to fix for breakfast.
“Getting closer. Still not sure who.” I ignore the kitchen. Work has a way of killing my appetite.
“Dad’s a really good judge of character.” Erika’s nose is still pressed into the old romance novel.
I freeze as I pick up one of the files. Strange thing for our teen daughter to say.
Erika turns and slides her elbow over the top of the blue corduroy couch.
“No, really.” She lowers her voice, glancing at the bedroom as if she’d hate for him to overhear.
“At school, he always knows the parents to avoid and has a sense of my friends right away. I usually blow it off, but he’s almost always right. ”
“I’m not sure your dad knows any of these folks well enough to render a judgment.” I pick up another page of my notes, Dave’s face swimming into view.
“You might be surprised. He pays attention.” Erika says and then curls back around to continue reading.