“St. Aidan’s is all right, too,” McPhee said. “Bit scorched is all. A service of thanksgiving is scheduled for Sunday.”
“Okay, I’ll try to make it.” His only church attendance nowadays was on the Sunday closest to the anniversary of his mother’s death twenty-six years earlier when he was ten. She’d gone out to get ice cream one Sunday afternoon, and he’d never seen her again. The drunk who’d killed her was sentenced to two years. So now, around June 20 every year his dad came up from Palm Springs, and the three of them, he and Ned and their father attended morning service at St. Aidan’s and had lunch afterward at Jimmy’s.
Matt clicked to the local news. The fire was no longer at the top of the hour. Life was returning to normal for the rest of Los Angeles. With hotspots still in the backcountry, it would be weeks for Malibu, months and even longer, if ever, for those who’d lost everything. He turned off the news and waited for Jimmy to get to the point.
“So, James, what’s up?” he said when Jimmy let a moment of silence linger.
“Had a couple of sheriff’s department detectives asking about you today.”
While listening, Matt walked outside to the deck and looked out over the Pacific. A sliver of moon was rising, stars blazed in a clear sky.
“What did they want?”
“Just had I seen you during the fire. I said I hadn’t, but they went on awhile, wanted to know if I was sure. You know, bunch of questions like that.” Jimmy gave a strained laugh. “What have you been up to? Raiding the old Edwards place while it burned?”
“Thought I might find a Princess Di mug or something.”
Blake Edwards, his famous wife Julie Andrews, and their brood of kids had lived in the house for years without raising comment. But after the Edwards’s moved, Harrods heir, Dodi Al-Fayed, bought the house and started a major remodel, and Malibu was giddy with the rumor that Princess Di was coming to town.
“They seemed pretty serious, Matt. You in trouble?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’ve known your dad for thirty years, kiddo, and I loved your mother, God bless her. If you’re in trouble, you just have to say the word. I’ll help if I can, you know that.”
Matt nodded as if McPhee could see him. After his mother was gone, most family celebrations were held at Jimmy’s restaurant—birthdays, graduations. He’d had his first legal beer at Jimmy’s.
“During the fire after I left the Cove, I found the body of a baby,” he said. “Lying on the beach.”
“Holy Mother of God! Whose baby?”
“Well, I guess that’s what they’re trying to find out, Jim.”
“Oh, sure. Of course. Poor little soul. How old?”
“Newborn.” Matt reached for his beer. He couldn’t bring himself to say that the baby had been alive when he’d found her. “Jim, listen, thanks for calling, but I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, if you need anything, let me know, okay?”
“Sure thing.” Matt put a finger on the disconnect, started to replace the phone, then found himself punching out the number he hadn’t used for almost a year. After she’d left, he’d ring just to listen to her voice on the machine, always hanging up if she answered in person. But one night, she’d said, “Matt, I know it’s you. Please don’t keep doing this. Don’t force me to get an unlisted number.”
It had been like breaking an addiction. Just for today, he’d tell himself, I won’t call her. Just for today. Ten months of one day at a time not calling Genevieve Chang.
After four rings, the familiar voice said, “This is Ginn Chang. If you leave your number I’ll call you back. If you don’t, I won’t.”
Matt hesitated. He wanted to tell her about the baby, about the cops asking questions about him. He wanted…What? Marriage? A family? He dropped the phone into the cradle, went into the bedroom, Barney at his heels.
The eight-by-ten was back on the table by his bed. Every line was etched in his mind, but he picked it up and studied it. Ginn in hipriding white shorts and a bikini top leaned her narrow back against his chest. He had both arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on top of her head, the half-grown Barney stretched at their feet, grinning as only a happy young Lab could. He remembered the day clearly. Ned and Julie and their boys had come over for the day, Ned with a new digital camera posing everyone until they finally rebelled.
Matt thought about his brother. Ned didn’t complicate life. He’d found the right girl when he was twenty-eight, he’d gotten married, settled down, had a couple of kids. No sweat.
Matt replaced the picture on the table. From the moment they met, he’d never doubted that Ginn was the right girl. It was the rest of the story that wouldn’t fall into place. The old family album was still on the dresser where he’d put it after the fire. Slowly he turned to a page—any page—as he did sometimes. They were all photographs taken by his dad of their mother and Ned and himself, with their horses at the ranch on Zumirez Drive on Point Dume; the three of them running on the beach outside this house, throwing sticks for their two Shepherd-type mutts, playing in the surf. His mother always seemed to be smiling. Something he could still remember about her, sometimes the only thing was that wide, sweet smile. He closed the album.
“Come on, Barney. Let’s get out of here.”
He changed into old jeans and running shoes, and opened the door to the deck. Barney pushed ahead of him, but instead of heading for the gate and the narrow stairs down to the beach, the dog dashed along the walkway toward the street, tail wagging furiously. The automatic patio lights, hanging by a wire from the garage but still working, flashed on as Bobby Eckhart stepped across the beam. He was wearing black jeans, leather jacket, heavy boots.
“Hey, Matthew, you coming or going?”
“Going. I was taking Barney for a run on the beach, but it can wait. Did you come on your bike?” He hadn’t heard the sound of the love of Bobby’s life, his Harley.
“What else?”
“What brings you here?”
“You called, master?”
Matt laughed. “Come on in. You want a beer?”
“Is the pope Catholic?” Bobby tussled with Barney until they both banged their way through the door into the kitchen. He looked down at his pants. “Look at this. I’m covered in yellow hair. Don’t you ever brush this mutt?”
“You know where the brush is kept, buddy. Be our guest.”
“Too late. Damage is done.” Bobby crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator, opened the door, looked in, stared at the empty interior. “You got something against food?”
“I picked up some stuff on the way home.” He didn’t explain that no way could he ever open that door without seeing the shirt-wrapped bundle resting on a steel rack. He’d already ordered a new refrigerator, different make, different configuration. “Sit down. I’ve got water, warm beer, or scotch. If you want cold, there’s a bottle of Stoli in the freezer.”
“A glass of your best red will do me fine. Gotta get my sweetie home in one piece.”
Matt grinned. “Would that be Sylvie or the Harley?” Bobby’s wife was also a deputy sheriff.
“Sylvie’s got late duty tonight, that’s why I’m here. So I don’t have to cook.” Bobby peered into the containers of braised beef, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes.
“I don’t know how she puts up with playing second fiddle to that bike.”
“She knows she’s on to a good thing.