Chapter Seventeen
DAVIS
I arrived at Shep’s Place five minutes ahead of schedule—a rare achievement in my profession. But working through my lunch break wasn’t an option today. Not when I could spend an uninterrupted hour with Callie. An option I’d choose every day of the week if given the chance.
I hadn’t planned to feel this way about her. The rational part of my brain had been positive I would never feel this way again. And that was the irony.
Of all the dates Shep had set me up on in the last year, of all the numbers that friends had texted me, trying to pair me up with their cousin’s sister’s best friend, no woman I’d met had been half as interesting as Callie Quinn. The thought punched through my chest with boxerlike accuracy as I parked next to her Subaru.
Her arrival in Lenox had been as unexpected as she was unpredictable.
While so much of my life had been based on logical decision making, her quirky sense of humor and contagious personality managed to outshine and out-reason our obvious differences. And if that wasn’t enough, her ability to pull my son out of his protective shell in less than a minute had switched something on inside me that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to turn off again.
Mainly because I didn’t want to.
I pulled open the glass door to Shep’s Place and stepped inside. The sound of Shep’s jovial tone bounced off the walls.
In an equally amused tone, I heard Callie reply, “I’m not sure you can afford me.”
“I’m sure we could figure something out.”
As I approached the chummy duo, a primal instinct I hadn’t felt in years rose to the surface. “Shep’s famous last words when it comes to keeping a budget of any kind.”
The pair spun around, and Callie’s carefree smile knocked my climbing jealousy down several rungs on the ladder.
“Hey, you,” she said.
I pressed a hand to her midback. “I’m glad you made it.”
I shot a watch yourself look at Shep, and he responded with his usual overly cocky shrug.
“Guess who just offered Callie a job?”
“A job?” I dipped my gaze to Callie.
“For a mural. Right there.” Shep pointed to the new wall divider in the center of the room. “She’s talented, dude. Like, seriously talented. Whatever she needs to be paid, we can figure it out. I’ll take on a second job if I have to.”
“You already have a second job.”
“Then I’ll take on a third. I’ll do whatever I need to. But she’s it. She’s our décor plan.”
Only one thought crossed my mind during Shep’s dramatic plea. “You saw her work?”
Callie touched my arm. “He saw my early sketch work on the bakery wall. You can see it, too, after lunch if you want to. That’s the nice thing about murals. They don’t move.”
Cheeky and cute. I slid my gaze back to the blank wall in front of us, my mind absent of a single creative idea. What did she see? “You’re actually interested in painting something in here?”
She rubbed her lips together—her tell. She was more than interested. “Why don’t I create a mock concept. And if you like it, I could do it at cost for you.”
“Say what?” Shep blurted at the same time his pocket began to croon Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” Yet he kept right on yapping as he took a few steps back. “Davis, you better not say no to that. Technically it’s my name on the building, so my vote should really count twice.” Finally, he waved us off and answered his phone, ducking inside the kitchen and leaving me alone with the artist.
“Honestly, though,” Callie said, “if you hate the concept I create, there’d be no hard feelings.”
“I won’t hate it.”
“You can’t say that for sure—you haven’t even seen my work yet.”
“I’m sure.”
Hands on her hips, she huffed. “Oh yeah? What if I suggested circus clowns and prickly cacti for the motif?”
“Then I’d trust your judgment.”
This seemed to throw her plan for sassy comebacks into a tailspin. She dropped her hands to her sides and glanced at the blank wall again. “Well, my point is, I have no issue telling Shep I don’t have time in my schedule this summer if you decide a mural won’t work.”
“But do you? Have the time this summer?” A question I’d planned to ask her over lunch. Just how long was Callie planning on staying in Lenox? And where was she going next?
Those, and several other questions, had disrupted my sleep last night.
“I think I could work it out.” She smiled. “Especially if you’re planning on taking me to that Mexican restaurant with the sombrero-shaped roof across from the high school. I’ve been dying to go there.”
I’d never met an easier-to-please woman in all my life. “That was my plan.”
“Oh good! My sister hates Mexican food, and I have a personal policy against eating chips and salsa alone. There are just some meals that beg for conversation, know what I mean?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever given much thought to the relational dilemmas of chips and salsa.”
Her crystalline eyes shone in a way that made me want to search them up close. “But I bet you will now.”
“Will what?”
“Think of the relational dilemmas.”
A sly smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “I’d be hard-pressed not to.” I glanced behind me at the kitchen door before nodding toward the exit. Shep knew I had limited time to spare today. If he wanted to go over his progress report before I took Callie out to eat, he’d missed his chance. “Let’s head out. He’s probably talking to one of his brothers. It could be a while.”
“Oh, that’s right. He told me he has six brothers. That’s just . . . wow.”
“Yep, it is. The first time I attended an event with Ian’s family . . . well, let’s just say I had a whole new appreciation for his mother.”
“Ian?”
“That’s Shep’s actual name, though nobody calls him that. And yes, his mom’s a saint.”
Callie laughed. “I wouldn’t doubt it.” She lunged over a pile of construction debris as she made her way to the front. “I always imagined Clem would have a dozen kids or more. She was made to be a mother.”
“How did things go with your sister after you got home last night?”
Her arm brushed my chest as she passed through the front door. “I didn’t hang around too long after I brought the kids home, but the scene between them hadn’t altered much—although Chris was out of his crumpled suit and Clem wasn’t neurotically scrubbing the kitchen countertops. And I didn’t see any sign of couch sleeping this morning, so . . . that’s good, I suppose.”
We headed toward my Jeep, the sun bright and hopeful, much like Callie’s demeanor today.
“Marriage struggles can take time to work through.”
She opened her mouth to reply—
“Davis.” Shep jogged across the parking lot, stopping a few feet from us, phone still in hand. “Uh, there’s a situation. With Brandon.”
Fear clawed into my chest. Shep took one look at my face and shook his head. “No, no, sorry. He’s not hurt or anything, it’s just . . . I think he may have gotten into some trouble again.” He glanced at Callie, but I waved him on. She knew more about my son than the majority of our blood relatives.
“Did he call you? Where is he?” I reached for my phone and ticked off a mental list of possibilities.
“No, Brandon wasn’t who called me. That was Patrick McCade on the phone.”
My hand stilled at my pocket.
Why was Willa’s husband calling about my son?
“Who’s that?” Callie asked, settling herself at my side.
Shep didn’t spare a glance in my direction when he answered her. “Willa’s husband.”
Callie quizzically swung her gaze in my direction, but I didn’t have time to discuss Patrick right now. Or Willa. My patience was wearing thinner by the second.
“What did he say?”
“He saw Brandon inside that old abandoned building on Birch and Third last week—you know, the old laundromat near your mom’s flower club. Anyway, he said he was on his way home from the clinic when he saw Brandon enter the building, but he figured the kid was just being curious and didn’t think too much about it. Until he saw the sheriff poking around in there this morning.”
I crushed my car keys into my palm. Six months ago I would have challenged anyone who questioned my son’s character—much less his whereabouts. But a lot had changed in that time. Brandon was no longer the predictable kid I used to know.
I looked to Callie. “I think I need to take a rain check on lunch so I can throttle my son.”
And then she was in front of me, her hand on my arm, her face edged with determination. “You don’t even know if he did anything wrong yet.”
“Odds are not in his favor.”
“Let me go with you. Please.”
“You don’t need to—”
She squeezed my arm, cutting off my protest. “I want to, Davis.”
Maybe it was the earnestness of her expression that made it impossible to deny her. Or maybe it was the assurance of her presence.
Either way, Callie was about to see the worst side of the Carter family.
A firing squad of questions pelted me the second the vacant laundromat came into view. What had Brandon done this time? And when had he found time to do it?
Callie stuck close to my side as we walked the path to the abandoned building.
A CLOSED sign hung cockeyed on the other side of the storefront window. We rounded the building and slipped into the alley. Sure enough, the lock on the back door had been tampered with, the exit jarred just enough that it couldn’t properly latch. As I gripped the doorknob, Callie tugged on my sleeve. “Wait. Just . . . take a deep breath first, okay? You look like you’ve already proven him guilty, and we don’t even know if there’s been a crime committed here yet.”
“Callie—”
“I’m serious. This is Lenox. Not inner-city Chicago. Whatever happened in here, let’s keep in mind that we’re not dealing with a master felon.”
Callie’s glass-half-full outlook was harder for me to grasp in light of Brandon’s recent history. “Fine, but do you mind if I see what my non-mastermind’s been up to now?”
Resigned, she took a step back. “Sure.”
The instant we pushed inside the abandoned building, the stale smell of detergent assaulted us. Dust mites scattered in the patch of sunlight that broke through the shadows of the room. I tried the light switch near the door. Nothing. The power had been cut.
My jaw ticked rapidly as I searched the row of blue plastic chairs for any incriminating evidence. Had Brandon slipped away from the garden club and broken in? For what? What would he want with an abandoned laundromat?
“Oh my . . .” Callie’s sharp inhale snapped me into action. I spun around quickly, my hand reaching out and then falling away in one succinct motion.
Neither of us could find the words to speak.
The image on the wall took every ounce of my mental energy to process. Shaded and detailed to perfection was a single life-size robot.
The tightness in my chest finally gave way to relief. This wasn’t Brandon’s work. I’d seen the graffiti he’d done on the school fence two months ago. A few amateur initials. Childish scribbles. Nothing fancy or realistic.
This was much too advanced to be his.
Thank you, God.
Callie made the first move. Tilting her head side to side as if engaged in an intense internal debate, she stretched her arm toward the wall and gingerly skimmed her fingertips over the dried paint as if she were sketching it herself.
I rolled the stress out of my shoulders. “You were right. He didn’t do this, although I’m sure Brandon would be just as intrigued with it as you are.”
The fluid stroke of her hand continued as if I hadn’t spoken. Her distracted silence unnerved me.
“Callie—I said it wasn’t him. Patrick was mistaken.”
She stopped. Turned. And then stared at me with a look that made every hair on my neck stand at attention.
“This is extraordinary. Spray paint is very difficult to master at this level.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but let’s not forget—this is vandalism,” I countered, glancing at my watch. “Good news is we still have thirty-five minutes to go to lunch and put your chips-and-salsa debate to the test.”
“Davis.” She said my name with the same female inflection Stephanie used in our marriage—the inflection that meant I’d failed to comment on something she felt worthy of acknowledgment.
But I hadn’t missed anything this time. In fact, I’d done everything I could to prevent this very thing from ever happening again. And thankfully, it hadn’t. Brandon was with my mother. Safe and sound and better yet, far away from spray paint.
Callie’s eyebrows lowered. “When was the last time you saw Brandon’s sketchbook?”
I thought back to when Viv had given it to him last Christmas, along with a shiny new box of colored pencils. Had he ever offered to show me his drawings? “I’m not sure.”
“You’ve never seen it, have you?” Her voice swam with pity.
“Seen what?” My chest tightened as I pushed away the assumption I read in her face. Of Brandon’s implied involvement. Of my failure as his father.
She released a deep sigh. “A true creative stamps their signature on everything they touch. It’s innate. Singers, photographers, writers, poets . . . all of us.”
I eyed the wall again, trying to decipher between the shapes and shades, trying to convince myself this was only artist-speak and that her next words wouldn’t disrupt my entire world. “Okay . . .”
“Everything Brandon creates has a common thread—a common denominator.” She pointed to the lifelike spray-painted robot on the wall. “And this is it.”