Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [66]
I was opening the screen door when the red Harper truck pulled up in front of the house. Sam popped out, grabbed his surfboard from the bed, and started across the lawn. I sat down on the steps and waited for him.
“Hi,” he said, propping his surfboard on the porch and sitting down next to me. “How was your day?”
“Busy. How were the waves?” I smiled teasingly and bumped his shoulder with mine. “And the chicks?” He smelled clean and slightly salty.
He grinned. “Dove squealed on me, huh? It was great. But that’s not all I did today.”
“What other kind of mischief did you get into?”
“I got a job.” His face glowed with pride, like a five-year-old showing his first finger painting.
“A job? Where?”
“At Eudora’s. I’m working the counter four nights a week. I started tonight. I hope it’s okay, but I used your name as a reference. I was going to ask you first, but I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign and just went for it.”
“No, that’s fine.”
“Mr. Stanhill said you and he were old friends. When I told him who I was, he said he’d give me a try. I mean, if you can’t trust the police chief’s son, I guess you can’t trust anyone. That’s what he said, anyway.” He tightened his bottom lip. “I don’t know how Dad’s going to take it, but I want to pay you that money back and I need to save some so . . .” He left it open.
“I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be happy for you.” Actually, I didn’t know how he would feel. I don’t think he intended on Sam setting up shop here in San Celina, and then there was the question of where he would live. I rubbed my forehead.
“No, he won’t. He’d be happy to see me split,” Sam said, standing up, his voice cool. “You can tell him I will as soon as I save some money. Until then, just let him know I’m looking for another place to crash.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure something out that everyone can live with.”
“Just tell him, okay?”
As he started up the steps a paperback book fell out of his sweatshirt pocket. I picked it up and glanced at it before handing it back to him.
“Pascal?” I commented. “Is that your father’s book?” Gabe had been doggedly working on a master’s thesis in philosophy since I met him. His books and notes were scattered around the house like confetti.
He glanced over his shoulder furtively, as if expecting Gabe to storm out of the house and demand the book back. “I just saw it lying around. Is he looking for it?”
“No, he’s too busy with Nora’s murder to be working on his thesis right now. He probably doesn’t even miss it.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you finding it interesting?”
He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. I felt like hugging him. I knew exactly what he was doing because I’d done it myself: trying to find a clue to Gabe’s personality in the underlined passages of his schoolbooks. I wish I could tell him that it was futile, that his father was more complex than that, that those underlined passages were only vague hints about who he was.
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” I said. “Congratulations on the job. And don’t worry about repaying the money. I told you it’s a gift.”
“I’ll pay it back,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding. “I’m not a flake, no matter what my dad says.” He touched my arm lightly when I brushed past him on the porch. “Thanks, madrastra. Thanks for being cool about all this.”
“You’re welcome, stepson.”
In our bedroom, Gabe was propped up against our pine headboard, reading a thick file. He peered at me over his gold wire-rim glasses.
“Was that Sam?” he asked.
“Yes.” I undressed, pulled on a clean T-shirt from his dresser drawer, and crawled into bed.
He went back to reading his files. I picked up an oral-history book Elvia had just given me on rodeo cowgirls in the first part of the century. Without looking up from his files, Gabe asked, “Is he okay?”
I laid the book down. “Gabe, he’s just fine, which you’d know if you’d gone out to see him.”
His head didn’t move. “We’d just start arguing again.”
I sighed and scooted under the covers. “Yes, you’re probably right. If it’ll make you feel any better, he