Pearl checked every public lot, every store that Dad went to, but each was closed and quiet. He was nowhere. Why’d she ever let him get rid of his phone? Of the two of them, he was the one who needed a connection. When she pulled into North Beach, it was because she was out of ideas, and North was the only place she wanted to be until she could fight back her panic. And there was the truck, in the far corner spot, completely alone as it faced the bay.
She parked beside him, saw the vague dark shape of him through the glass. She was about to rap on the window when he looked over at her, blinking as if she’d wakened him, and straightened a little.
Pearl let herself in to sit on the bench seat beside him. The air in the cab was stale, used. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Dad shifted, rubbed his eyes with one hand. “It was late. Easier for everybody if I pulled in here.”
“I didn’t know where you were. I thought something had happened.”
He cleared his throat, rolled down the window, and spat. “Well, it didn’t. So you can relax.”
She worked her jaw, remembering Mom’s words: it’s not your job, fixing Dad. Beyond the windshield, the tide was going out, exposing rocks strung with black seaweed, spotted with lichen. She smelled whiskey, saw the glass bottle sheathed in a paper bag nestled beneath his elbow.
Defeat sucked everything away, all her defenses. At once she was so horribly tired that her voice broke when she said, “We can’t keep going like this,” not even fully sure what the words meant, just that it was something to say that he couldn’t ignore.
Dad propped his elbow on the window casing, squeezing his forehead. “It was one night.”
“It’s every night. Either you’re at the Tavern or drinking yourself to sleep at home, and I’m sick of it.” She grabbed for the whiskey protected beneath his arm, succeeded in ripping the bag. “Like this. You’re seriously drinking from the bottle before eight in the morning? Dad—” She shut her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. “What the hell?”
He swallowed, staring at the steering wheel. “I could ask you some questions, too. What the hell have you been doing this summer? You’re hardly ever around, and when you are, you’re shut up in your room. That Spencer kid comes by the house in his fancy-ass car looking for you, and then Dickie tells me that word is you were at that ball the other night. People saw you, all dressed up. You didn’t think I’d find out?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I’m trying to help you.”
“How does you running around with some rich summer boy help me? Jesus, Pearl, I thought you were smarter than that. Don’t you know this crap has been going on forever? They come up here, use what we got, and then they go home. You think because he tells you you’re different, that makes it true?”
“Yeah, Dad, that’s it. I’m this pathetic loser now who needs some guy to tell her she’s good enough. You figured it out.”
“I’m not calling you a loser.”
“You’re just mad because I brought up the drinking. Period. You never used to care when I went out at night, or who I was with.”
“That was before.”
Before and After. She was sick of the words, fed up with them both for letting their lives be divided that way for so long. “It wasn’t your fault that they died, okay?” Her voice was loud, filling the cab. He’d never forgive her for bringing it up in the daylight, when he was mostly sober, but she couldn’t stop now. “You didn’t kill them. If the people in this town don’t get that, then maybe it’s time to find another town.”
He snorted, looked out the driver’s-side window at the deserted stretch of beach. “Right. With what money?”
“I don’t know, Dad, we’ll figure it out. God! It’s not like Tenney’s Harbor is the whole world. And you’re not the only one who can earn a paycheck, either. I’ve been doing pretty well for a while now.”
“You’re talking giving up college? Forget it.”
“I’m talking about helping out so it’s not all on you, just like I’ve been doing this whole time. But we can’t keep”—frustration bound her tongue for a moment—“bitching about the summer people for things that they can’t change, and not doing anything to change ourselves, either. You know? It’s stupid, and I won’t do it anymore.”
Her words were the last sound in the cab for some time. An SUV pulled into the lot; the driver let her golden retriever out of the backseat, tossing a rope toy for it to chase.
When Dad spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’ve screwed a lot of things up. I know that. With your mom, and you.” His arm twitched by the bottle, fell still. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure how . . .” He jerked his chin, blinking, a moistness in his eyes that she’d rarely seen. “Guess I need some help.”
Pearl watched him for a moment; then, tentatively, she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder. On the beach, the dog played in the surf, hunting the rope, which bobbed and rolled, disappearing and reappearing in the waves.
Dinner shift. Indigo was in Pearl’s way. She placed slices of the same cheesecake the Davidsons had just ordered from Pearl onto plates, not seeming to notice Pearl’s presence until she’d finished. Indigo gave her half a glance and stepped away from the fridge.
Pearl moved in, pulled the plastic wrap from the next cheesecake dish, wondering if she should say something. As if they were friends now because Indigo had made a two-minute phone call to her grandmother. Anything she’d done had been for Reese, who was now out there working the room while Pearl was in the kitchen, angsting about decorum. “Thanks,” she finally blurted, keeping her gaze firmly on the pieces she was slicing, “for yesterday. With your grandmother and everything.”
She could feel Indigo standing close, watching as Pearl parceled out servings. No mystery where the girl had learned that unreadable quality, the tough shell that deflected countless pickup lines and come-ons from middle-aged men in golfing getups throughout the course of the day. Like it or not, there was no going back to thinking of Indigo as bursting into spontaneous existence just to thwart her; thanks to Marilyn, Pearl knew better. “Reese said you’re going after those guys,” Indigo said.
It was the first time she’d heard it phrased that way. She stopped, still holding the pie server. “Yeah, I am.”
Indigo picked up her tray, balanced it, and said, “Good,” before heading back out the swinging kitchen doors, prep cooks and dishwashers nearly knocking heads as they turned to watch her leave.
At closing, Pearl went out to look at the little club again. Someone had added a display of photographs from the ball, and there was a filigreed sign on a stand advertising the upcoming charity golf tournament, the last hurrah of the centennial celebration before July faded into August.
Knowing Meriwether, she was keeping a keen eye on the club’s latest prize, so Pearl leaned close but didn’t touch, examining each room. The amount of money and time required to make such a thing, haunted or not, was boggling. The attic even had stacks of little cardboard storage boxes, large enough to hold maybe a cotton ball, and furniture odds and ends. All the drapes in the house looked handmade, and Pearl tried to imagine Cassidy’s fingers making the tiny stitches, sinking the needle, tugging thread through cloth. Controlling a small world because her own had become uncontrollable. But why the club? Why not her own house, or something generic, where she could decide for herself how things should look?
Pearl’s phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out without taking her eyes from the house, assuming it was Reese back in the dining room, sending her some ridiculous emoji. Instead, it was a text from a number she didn’t recognize, caller unknown.
Do you run?
It took her a second to catch the meaning, to understand who she was talking to. Only when chased.
That can be arranged.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she hurried back through the deserted dining room, chairs upturned on tables, floor damp from mopping. Bridges must be handing out my number. Nice.
A pause. Ocean Ave in an hour. If you can keep up.