ONE
What if thiswas the rest of his life?
Sweaty, covered in grime, reeking of frustration, rooting around the dungeon of his father’s workshop, hunting for, well, in this case, a battery.
But Steinbeck might as well have been hunting for his future.For hope.For anything that could jostle loose a fragment of a lead as to where?—
“You find it yet?”
His brother Jack stood in the open doorway, an outline against the bright light of the hot August day, the scant breeze off the lake not enough to stir the heat of the old shed.Humidity sheened Jack’s skin, plastering to it the sawdust and woodchips that also littered Stein’s slickened skin.The place smelled of its vintage, humble beginnings as a wooden garage built in the thirties.
Stein longed for the fresh, salty breezes of the ocean.“No.Are you sure Dad kept the extra battery in here?”
In heremight have been a vague term, given the mess of tools that were scattered across the worn, chipped workbench, intermingling with old gum wrappers, rusty nails, oily bolts, crumpled sandpaper, and tangled wire.
“He said it’s here.”
Steinbeck shook his head, pushing against the old drawer until it groaned against its runner, caught, and wedged sideways.
He gave it another shove, but it only jerked and stuck again, and he bit back a word as he lifted his hands in surrender.
“For the love.I don’t know how he can find anything in this disaster.”He pulled the drawer back out and reworked it in.Then opened the one below it.“This is like walking into a time warp.Grandpa’s been gone for years, and still”—he pulled out an aftermarket service manual of a 1973 Alfa Romeo Spider, the pages coffee stained and wrinkled, as if the old man had set one of his crackedI Love Minnesotamugs on it while studying the schematic of the dual side-draft carburetor that had endlessly plagued him—“it smells like stale coffee and old oil in here.”
“And varnish and dirt.Grandpa must have spent thousands of hours in here.Wow, I miss him.”Jack came into the room, shirtless, wearing a pair of paint-stained khaki shorts and beat-up runners.“Forget the battery.We’ll recharge the one we have.”
“I wanted to get the table done today.”Steinbeck closed the drawer and shoved past Jack into the sunlight and beyond, to the shade of the towering cottonwoods and birch that arched over the maintenance area of the King’s Inn compound.
A twelve-foot table, handmade, stained white, awaiting a second layer of sanding, stood on the cracked concrete driveway.
The story of Steinbeck’s life—another unfinished project.
Finally a breeze, and he stopped, hands on his hips, staring out across the impossibly lush, meticulously kept back lawn—good job, Jack—to the deep indigo lake, where a handful of guests sat on the long dock or in lounge chairs on the sandy beach.
The perfect getaway.Or prison, depending on your view.
The wind skimmed over his body, the scent, just barely lifting from the lake, carrying with it not only the white pine but the aroma of his mother’s fresh-baked bread in the kitchen of the nearby Victorian home-slash-inn.
Steinbeck’s stomach growled.
“You’re a real peach today,” Jack said, turning his ball cap around.Stein’s brother needed a haircut and maybe a shave, but he’d been spending long hours at a nearby rented garage, working hard remodeling a city-bus-turned-mobile-home, so maybe he didn’t care about his appearance.Stein could nearly smell the wanderlust emanating from his older brother.
“No word on your missing friend?”Jack asked.
Missing.Friend.Two words that didn’t exactly describe Phoenix.First—not missing butcaptured.Imprisoned, and yes, missing because, according to his contacts, no one had seen her since she landed in Cuban custody nearly a month ago.
His gut tightened.She was valuable.And tough.And would hold out?—
Nope.He blew out a breath.“She’s not myfriend.We worked together.”
Jack had walked over to the table, started to wipe off the last layer of sawdust with a clean rag.“Yep.”
“Really.We knew each other—well, in a different life.”
“When you were active duty.”
Steinbeck grabbed a thermos of water, took a drink.It went down cool in his throat, loosened the simmer in his chest.“Yeah.Met her on an op in Poland.”
Jack stood up.“Wait—not the?—”
