The In-Between Hour. Barbara White Claypole

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      Seven

      Will circled the bathroom. How were two grown men expected to share a space this small? How long would they have to stay here like a pair of shipwrecked refugees?

      Dinner sat in the middle of his stomach—a coagulated mush of hushpuppies, the only thing he’d dare eat in the diner where everything was drowning in grease and nothing was organic.

      He should find a hotel with a suite. No, find somewhere with a kitchen, a real kitchen, so he could prepare real food for his now-homeless dad. If nothing else, he could at least feed the old man. Will had learned to cook through observation at corn shuckings, wheat thrashings, canning parties and hog killings. The Shepard clan was huge. You only had to clock reactions when you answered the question “Who’s your people?” to realize the reach of his family. And yet it all boiled down to him and his dad and a cardboard tube in a Best Western. With a tiny bathroom.

      On the other side of the paper-thin wall, a handful of kids screamed and giggled. A parental voice shushed them, and Will’s heart raced like a souped-up engine. No way could he stay here another night. He needed out; he needed to ditch this feeling of running barefoot through briars. He yanked the scrap of paper from his back pocket and stared at it. A cottage would come with a kitchen. Maybe Poppy’s friend would even consider a short-term lease. Really, at this point, what did he have to lose by asking? Will took a deep breath and punched in the phone number.

      “Hello?” a quiet, warm voice answered immediately.

      Was it too late to call? Had he woken her? He breathed through his mouth as he tried to block the smell of his dad’s shaving cream. A memory tackled him: his mother, breasts exposed, drunk in the family bathtub. His dad lifting her out. Now, son. You don’t need to see this. Go to your room and shut the door. Most of his family life had happened on the other side of his bedroom door.

      “Who are you trying to reach?” the voice said.

      Jesus, he’d forgotten to talk. “Sorry. Hannah Linden.”

      “I can barely hear you. Can you speak up, please?”

      “The art teacher from Hawk’s Ridge gave me your number. You have a cottage for rent?”

      “Yes, Poppy stopped by earlier this evening, mentioned she’d given you my number.” Hannah paused but something had shifted. Wary, she had become wary. “I’m afraid she made a mistake. I’m not renting the cottage right now.”

      In the next room, his dad snored.

      “I’ll pay double whatever you’re asking.”

      “That bad?”

      “Have you ever shared a motel room with an aging parent?”

      “I’d like to say yes, but both my parents are dead.”

      Her honesty slapped him; pain settled in his temple. He was losing this conversation before it had begun. “Sorry. About your parents, I mean.” Apologizing, retreating. Time for his ace, the one that never failed. A lousy trick or a sign of desperation? “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Will Shepard, the writer. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

      “The Will Shepard? The one and only?”

      “Poppy didn’t mention it? She saw me lugging a full set of Agent Dodds novels out of the director’s office.”

      “When Poppy’s on a mission she doesn’t notice much. You could run past her buck-naked and she wouldn’t clock your ass.”

      He smiled and caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The smile, a nod to pleasure and happiness, felt like a betrayal to Freddie. He contorted his face back into its customary mask. Blank, expressionless.

      “Plus, Poppy only reads glossy magazines,” Hannah said. “Ones filled with celebrity gossip.”

      “But you’ve heard of me?”

      “I’m a fan. Your plots suck me in and don’t let go.”

      “And my characters?” Damn, his ego had to ask.

      “You seem to enjoy exploring broken minds.”

      Not so much enjoyment as an inability to escape total psychos.

      Hannah started talking again. “Poppy hasn’t been at Hawk’s Ridge for long, but I’ve heard a great deal about your father. I gather he loves to brag about his grandson.” She paused. “Such a special bond between young boys and their grandfathers.”

      A bond that transcends even death. Grief stirred in his stomach, moved up through his esophagus, threatened to spew out of his mouth in a macabre chant of He’s dead, my son is dead.

      “Yes,” Will said quietly. He wanted to say more, but just breathing was a struggle. This bond, this special bond between young boys and their grandfathers, also led to fiction. To a lie, even though Poppy clearly thought it was the truth. He’d assumed all the staff knew about Freddie’s death. Or at least the night staff who’d had to restrain his dad one hundred and two days earlier when Will had driven down with the news of the accident. Maybe the director hadn’t briefed Poppy because she was a volunteer.

      Will took a deep breath. Now he really, really wanted that cottage. It offered a clean chalkboard. No explanations necessary. What the hell, he’d go for some honesty. Not his normal strategy with women, but it was the only play he had left.

      “My dad’s had a few rough years since my mom died. She was his life. His world collapsed and he’s...he’s not bouncing out of his grief.” The hitch in his voice was surprising. Unnerving. “We drove by your place earlier СКАЧАТЬ