Rainshadow Road

Thirteen

It was early evening by the time Sam’s pickup turned onto Rainshadow Road and proceeded along the private drive. He had signed all of Lucy’s release forms, collected a sheaf of medical instructions and prescriptions, and had accompanied Lucy as an RN had taken her outside in a wheelchair. Justine had been there too, her manner gratingly cheerful.

“Well, kids,” she had chirped, “this is going to turn out fine. Sam, I owe you. Lucy, you’ll love Sam’s house—it’s a great place—and someday, I guarantee we’ll all look back on this and— What did you say, Sam?”

“I said, ‘Shove it, Justine,’” he muttered, gathering Lucy up from the wheelchair.

Unperturbed, Justine followed as Sam carried Lucy around the truck. “I put together an overnight bag for you, Luce. Zoл or I will drop off more of your stuff tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Lucy had wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck as he lifted her with astonishing ease. His shoulders were hard against her palms. The smell of his skin was delicious, clean with a hint of salt, like ocean air, and fresh like garden plants and green leaves.

Sam placed Lucy in the truck, adjusted her seat back, and buckled the seat belt. Every movement was deft and efficient, his manner impersonal. He kept glancing at her, taking measure. Unhappily she wondered what Justine had said to persuade him to take her. “He doesn’t want to do this,” she had whispered to Justine in the hospital, and Justine had whispered back, “He does. He’s just a little nervous about it.”

But Sam didn’t seem all that nervous to Lucy. He seemed quietly pissed off. The drive to the vineyard was silent. Although Sam’s truck had excellent suspension, there was an occasional bump in the road that caused Lucy to wince. She was sore and exhausted, and she had never felt like such a burden to anyone.

Eventually they turned onto a private drive that led to a Victorian house adorned with gables, balustrades, a central cupola, and a widow’s walk. A lazy sunset turned the white-painted house the color of Creamsicles. The foundation was skirted with a profusion of red shrub roses interspersed with white hydrangeas. Nearby, a stalwart gray barn chaperoned the vineyard rows, which frolicked across the terrain like children being let out for recess.

Lucy stared at the scene with bemused wonder. If San Juan Island was a world apart from the mainland, this was a world inside that one. The house waited with its windows open to catch sea breezes, moonlight, wandering spirits. It seemed to be waiting for her.

Taking in Lucy’s reaction with an astute glance, Sam pulled the truck to a stop beside the house. “Yes,” he said, as if she had asked a question. “That’s how I felt when I first saw it.” He got out of the truck and walked around to Lucy’s side, reaching in to unbuckle the seat belt. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said.

Hesitantly Lucy complied. He lifted her, mindful not to bump her splinted leg. As soon as his arms closed around her, Lucy was aware of a new, baffling feeling, a sense of yielding, something dissolving inside. Her head drooped heavily to his shoulder, and she struggled to lift it again. Sam murmured, “It’s okay,” and, “It’s fine,” which made her realize she was trembling.

They ascended the front steps to a wide covered porch with a light blue ceiling. “Haint blue,” Sam said, as he noticed Lucy looking upward. “We tried to match the original color as closely as possible. A lot of people around here used to paint their porch ceilings blue. Some say it’s to fake out birds and insects, make them think it’s the sky. But others say the real reason is to ward off ghosts.”

The rush of words made Lucy realize that Sam actually was a little nervous, just as Justine had said. It was an unusual situation for both of them.

“Does your family know that I’m visiting?” she asked.

He nodded. “I called them from the clinic.”

The front door opened, allowing a long rectangle of light to slide across the porch. A dark-haired man stood holding the door, while a blond girl and a bulldog came to the threshold. The man was a slightly older, more heavyset version of Sam, with the same roughcast handsomeness. And he had the same dazzling smile. “Welcome to Rainshadow,” he said to Lucy. “I’m Mark.”

“I’m sorry to impose. I—”

“Not a problem,” Mark said easily. His gaze flicked to Sam. “What can I do?”

“Her bag’s still in the car.”

“I’ll get it.” Mark brushed past them.

“Make way, guys,” Sam said to the child and the dog, and they scuttled to the side. “I’m going to take Lucy upstairs.”

They went into an entrance hall with dark floors and a high coffered ceiling, the walls covered with cream paint and hung with framed botanical prints.

“Maggie’s making dinner,” Holly said, following them. “Chicken soup and yeast rolls, and banana pudding for dessert. Real pudding, not from a box.”

“I knew it smelled too good to be Mark’s cooking,” Sam said.

“Maggie and I changed the sheets on your bed. She said I was a good helper.”

“That’s my girl. Go wash up for dinner now.”

“Can I talk to Lucy?”

“Later, gingersnap. Lucy’s exhausted.”

“Hi, Holly,” Lucy managed to say over his shoulder.

The child beamed at her. “Uncle Sam never invites anyone here for a sleepover. You’re his first one!”

“Thanks, Holly,” Sam said under his breath as he carried Lucy up the sweeping mahogany staircase.

A breathless laugh shivered in Lucy’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know Justine made you do this. I’m—”

“Justine couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Lucy let her head fall to his shoulder, unable to look at him as she said, “You don’t want me here.”

Sam chose his words carefully. “I don’t want complications. Same as you.”

As they reached the landing, Lucy’s attention was captured by a huge window that afforded a view of the front drive. It was a striking stained-glass work, a bare tree delicately holding an orange winter moon in its branches.

But when Lucy blinked, the colors and patterns disappeared. The window was bare. It was nothing but clear float glass.

“Wait. What’s that?”

Sam turned to see what she was staring at. “The window?”

“It used to be stained glass,” Lucy said dazedly.

“It could have been.”

“No, it was. With a tree and a moon.”

“Whatever was in there was knocked out a long time ago. At some point someone tried to make the house into apartments.” Sam carried her away from the window. “You should have seen it when I bought it. Shag rug in some rooms. They’d knocked out support walls and put in some flimsy chipboard ones. My brother Alex came in with his crew to rebuild load-bearing walls and put in support beams. Now the place is rock solid.”

“It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale. I feel like I’ve been here before, or dreamed about it.” Her mind was tired, her thoughts not connecting properly.

They went into a long rectangular bedroom paralleling the bay, the walls paneled with wide beadboard, a fireplace in the corner, abundant windows revealing the shining blue flat of False Bay. The window on either end of the row had been fitted with screens and opened to let in the outside air.

“Here we go.” Sam set her on a large bed with a seagrass headboard and quilted blue covers that had already been folded back.

“This is your room? Your bed?”

“Yes.”

Lucy tried to sit up. “Sam, no—”

“Be still,” he said. “I mean it, Lucy. You’re going to hurt yourself. You’re taking the bed. I’m going to sleep on a rollaway in another room.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room. I’ll sleep on the roll-away.”

“You’re going to sleep where I put you.” Sam tugged the snowy white and blue quilt over her. Bracing one hand on either side of Lucy’s body, he stared down at her. Maybe it was the effect of the sunset glow pouring through the windows, but his face seemed to have gentled. He reached down to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “Think you could stay awake long enough to have some soup?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Rest, then. I’ll check on you in a little while.”

Lucy lay quietly after he left. The room was serene and cool, and from the distance she could hear the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Pleasantly indistinct sounds filtered through the floor and walls, voices punctuated by an occasional laugh, the clinking of pots and dishes and flatware. Sounds of family and home, floating on the air like a lullaby.

* * *

Sam paused to stare out the window on the second-floor landing. The moon had appeared even before sunset had finished, a massive white-gold circle against the magenta sky. Scientists said that the size of the summer solstice moon was an optical trick, that the human eye was unable to accurately measure distance without the help of visual cues. But some illusions were truer than reality.

Once Sam had read a story about an ancient Chinese poet who had drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He had been drinking rice wine along the Yangtze River—too much wine, in light of his ignominious death. But God knew there was no choice in yearning for something or someone you would never be able to have. You didn’t even want a choice. That was the fatal temptation of moonlight.

Lucy was in his bed, as fragile as a broken orchid. He was tempted to stay in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting for any sign that she needed something. But he made himself go downstairs, where Renfield was trotting back and forth with a discarded sock in his mouth, and Holly was setting the table, and Mark was on the phone talking to someone about scheduling a dentist appointment.

Heading into the kitchen, Sam went to the big freestanding wooden worktable where Maggie stood whisking cream in a bowl.

Maggie Conroy was pretty rather than beautiful, her personality so effervescent that she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. It was only when you stood right next to her that you realized she couldn’t be more than five foot one. “I’m five one and a half,” Maggie always insisted, as if that last half inch made a damn bit of difference.

In the past Mark had always gone for trophy chicks, the kind who were great to look at but rarely fun to spend any actual time around. Thank God that when Mark had finally gotten serious with someone, it had been Maggie, whose quirky optimism was exactly what the family had needed.

Wordlessly Sam approached, took the whisk and bowl from her, and continued to whip the cream.

“Thanks,” Maggie said, shaking out her cramped hand.

“Why don’t you use the mixer?”

“Mark didn’t tell you?” Maggie scrunched up her face adorably, and hung her head in shame. “I burned up the mixer motor last week. I promise, I’ll replace it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, still whisking. “We’re used to kitchen disasters around here. Except that Mark and I are usually the cause. How did you burn up the motor?”

“I was trying to make whole wheat pizza dough, and it got too heavy and stiff, and then there was a burning smell and the mixer started smoking.”

Sam grinned, using the tip of the whisk to test the whipped cream, which was holding its shape. “Maggie, sweetheart, pizza is not something you cook at home. Pizza is what you get when you don’t feel like cooking at home.”

“I was trying to make a healthy version.”

“Pizza’s not supposed to be healthy. It’s pizza.” He handed the bowl to her, and she proceeded to cover it with plastic wrap and put it into the fridge.

After closing the Sub-Zero, which had been camouflaged with cream-painted cabinet doors to blend in with the rest of the kitchen, Maggie went to the stockpot on the stove and stirred the soup. “How is your friend?” she asked. “Lucy, right?”

“Yeah. She’ll be fine.”

Maggie sent him a perceptive sideways glance. “How about you?”

“Great,” he said, a shade too quickly.

She began to ladle the steaming soup into bowls. “Should I fix a dinner tray for her?”

“No, she’s down for the count.” Sam went to an already-opened bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.

“So you’ve brought Lucy here to recuperate,” Maggie remarked. “And you’re going to take care of her. She must be someone special.”

“No big deal.” Sam kept his tone scrupulously offhand. “We’re friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a chance of anything more developing?”

“No.” Again, his response was a little too fast. He scowled as he saw Maggie’s knowing smile. “She doesn’t want my kind of relationship.”

“What kind is that? Sex with random beautiful women with no chance of commitment?”

“Exactly.”

“If you find the right woman, you may want to try something a little more long-term.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t do long-term.” He set the table and went in search of Mark and Holly to tell them that dinner was ready. Finding them in the living room, he paused at the broad threshold, where a superfluous wall had been knocked out to allow for a more open floor plan.

Mark and Holly were seated close together on the sofa, a boatlike antique that Maggie had found and convinced Mark to buy. In its original condition, the sofa had been a monstrosity, all scarred and moth-eaten. But after the carved rosewood had been stripped and refinished, and it had been upholstered in acres of sage-green velvet, the settee possessed a whimsical grandiosity that suited the house.

Holly’s legs dangled from the sofa. She swung her feet idly while Mark made notes in the family planner spread out on the coffee table.

“… so when you’re at the dentist’s, and he asks how often you floss,” Mark said, “what are you going to say?”

“I’ll say, ‘What’s floss?’” Holly giggled as Mark goosed her in the side and kissed the top of her head.

Not for the first time, Sam was struck by the fatherly quality in Mark’s attachment to her. In the past, it hadn’t been a role that Mark had seemed particularly suited for … but he had grown into it with lightning speed when Holly had come into their lives.

Mark leaned over to scribble something in the family planner. “Did Maggie order those ballet shoes for your dance class yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her.”

“Uncle Mark?”

“Mmmm-hmm?”

“The baby’s going to be my cousin, isn’t he?”

The pen stopped moving. Mark set it down carefully and looked into the child’s solemn face. “Technically, yes. But I imagine…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I imagine it will feel like the baby is your brother or sister. Because you’ll be growing up together.”

“Some kids in my class think you’re my dad. You even look like a dad.”

Sam, who had been about to say something from the threshold, closed his mouth. He didn’t dare disrupt the moment by leaving or intruding. He could only stand there, frozen in the understanding that something important was happening.

Mark’s face was carefully impassive. “What do you tell your friends when they ask if I’m your dad?”

“I just let them think it.” Holly paused. “Is that wrong?”

Mark shook his head. “’Course not.” His voice was husky.

“Will I still call you Uncle Mark after the baby comes?”

Reaching down, Mark took one of Holly’s hands, absurdly small in comparison to his, and sandwiched it between his palms. “You can call me whatever you want, Holly.”

The child leaned closer until her head was on his arm. “I want to call you Dad. I want you to be my dad.”

Mark was robbed of speech. It was clearly something he had not expected, or had even allowed himself to consider. His throat worked, and he bent to press his face against her pale, moonlight-blond hair. “I would love that. I … yes.” He lifted her onto his lap and hugged her, clumsily petting her hair. A few indistinguishable murmurs followed, three syllables repeated over and over.

The muscles of Sam’s own throat knotted. He was outside the moment and yet part of it.

“You’re squishing me,” came Holly’s muffled voice after a long minute.

Mark’s arms loosened, and she wriggled off his lap.

Renfield had padded into the room, a wadded-up paper napkin hanging from his mouth.

“Renfield,” Holly scolded, “don’t eat that.”

Pleased at having gotten her attention, the dog trotted from the room with the napkin.

“I’ll get it away from him,” Holly said. She paused to rub noses with Mark. “Dad,” she said with an impish grin, and dashed after the dog.

Sam had never seen his brother so utterly humbled. He came into the room as Mark let out a short, winded sigh and wiped his eyes with his fingers.

Seeing him, Mark blinked and began unsteadily, “Sam—”

“I heard,” Sam interrupted quietly, and smiled. “It’s good, Mark. Holly was right. You do look like a dad.”