“I’ll grab your clubs,” he offered, opening the tailgate of the truck.
“Thanks.” Cameron shouldered his backpack and went to unlock the side door.
Sean followed him inside, leaning the clubs against the wall of a small mudroom crowded with shoes in varying sizes, a fold-up baby stroller, a selection of umbrellas and hats, and a basket filled with gloves and mittens. From somewhere in the house, a distant beeping sound pierced the silence.
“Answering machine,” Cameron said. “I’d better go check it.”
They stepped into the kitchen, and Sean took it all in with a glance. This was the house of his boyhood dreams, but he’d never been inside it. Now here he was, and the whole place seemed to enfold him. The cluttered kitchen had a wooden floor and glass-front cabinets filled with Martha Stewart–style green glassware. A refrigerator was plastered with a calendar, various lists and kids’ artwork. As he followed Cameron to the front entranceway, he noticed wood paneling, an imposing staircase, framed pictures of the kids everywhere.
Cameron hit Play on the machine. The first message was from someone who identified herself as Lily. “Hello, Crystal, I was just calling to see how you’re doing. I hope you think the meeting went all right, so call me.”
“Charlie’s teacher,” Cameron explained.
She did sound sort of prim and proper, Sean thought, picturing a blue-haired woman with bifocals. “You don’t want to tangle with a woman like that,” he said, nudging Cameron.
Next: “Crystal, this is Jane Coombs…” In the background, fussy baby noises punctuated the message. “I was expecting Derek to pick Ashley up this afternoon, but he seems to be running late. Anyway, I have a class to teach tonight, so I’d appreciate it if you’d come and get Ashley as soon as you get this message.”
“Oh, Mom’s going to love that,” Cameron said.
The third message was from someone RSVPing for Ashley’s birthday party. It seemed strange, like planning a party in a war zone. Sean’s younger niece had been born into the turmoil of an exploding marriage, but of the three kids, she was the least affected, too young to understand what she’d lost.
Then Charlie had called the machine. “Pick me up,” said a petulant voice. “I’m at Lindsey’s house and you said you’d pick me up and you’re still not here. Pick me up, you’re late.”
The final message was nearly unintelligible, but Sean could tell it was from a girl who was more articulate at giggling than at speaking. Clearly, she wanted to talk to Cameron. Just as clearly, he was mortified that she’d called for him. Sean could see the heat of embarrassment in Cameron’s red ears, his averted gaze, his hands pushing into the pockets of his jeans.
“End of messages,” said the mechanical voice in the machine.
Sean felt a weird tightening of his gut. “Call your mother again.”
Cameron shrugged and dialed the phone. “No answer,” he said.
“Now your dad.”
As he held the phone to his ear a second time, Cameron showed the first sign of worry—a small tick in his jaw. “No answer,” he said again. “I’ve already left them messages.”
“Any idea where they might be?”
“Nope.”
It figured. Kids tended not to keep tabs on their parents. Now what? Sean wondered.
The phone rang, startling them both. Cameron snatched it up.
“Hello?” His face flashed momentarily with hope, then fell. “Oh, hi, Jane. No, my mom’s not here. You can drop Ashley off with me, I guess, since I’m home.” A pause. “You’re welcome.” He hung up. “I have a ton of homework, but I won’t get anything done now,” Cameron said. “Ashley’s a pain in the neck to babysit.”
Sean’s tiny niece was so cute you’d have to be made of stone not to like her. Babysitting her, though, was another issue entirely. The prospect of looking after a barely verbal toddler was terrifying to Sean. “I bet your mother will be home any minute,” he said.
Cameron shrugged again.
“What about Charlie?” Sean asked.
“Sounds like she wants to come home.”
“Any idea who Lindsey is? Where she lives?”
“Nope.” Cameron looked at the small screen on the phone. “The number’s on caller ID.”
“I’d better give them a call.” Sean punched in the number. A woman’s voice answered, and for a moment he blanked, then said, “Ma’am, this is Charlie Holloway’s uncle, Sean Maguire. I’m calling about my niece.”
“Oh! I’m Nancy Davenport. Would you like to speak with Charlie?”
“Actually, I was just calling to let you know…I’m afraid her mother might not be there to pick her up. She’s been…delayed. Charlie’s brother is here with me, so I’ll come and get her.”
“That’s no problem,” the woman said. “I’ll run her home. I haven’t started dinner yet.”
Sean thanked her and hung up. He looked at Cameron.
“No clue,” the boy said, but his gaze shifted to the door and then to the floor, a little too quickly. “My mom’s always got something going on. She probably forgot to tell anybody.”
Sean wandered into the kitchen. He studied the calendar clipped with magnets to the refrigerator. The current date had a notation. “Conf. w/Lily & D., 3:15 p.m.”
“What do you make of this?” he asked Cameron.
“Lily—the teacher on the answering machine. Miss Robinson. She was my third-grade teacher and now Charlie’s in her class. Maybe there was a conference with her. Charlie’s been doing lousy in school all year.” Cameron rolled his eyes. “How does a kid flunk third grade, that’s what I’d like to know.”
They waited. Talked golf a little, just to fill the silence and maybe distract themselves. “So you have a tournament coming up this weekend,” Sean observed, noting the team calendar stuck to the refrigerator with magnets.
Cameron turned away.
“Don’t bowl me over with your enthusiasm, okay?” Sean said.
The kid hunched his shoulders even more. “My coach is a dick, okay?”
“Greg Duncan? He seems all right to me.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Sean dug in his pocket and took out an Indian head penny. “This was my good luck charm. I’ve used it as a ball marker since I was younger than you.”
Cameron turned, took the penny and examined it. “That’s cool.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“You just said it’s your good luck charm.”
“Was. I said ‘was.’ It kind of deserted me.”
Cameron nodded. He knew about the fiasco that had brought Sean home. “Did you like playing over there, in Japan and Indonesia and stuff?”
“Sure, while it lasted.” Sean tried to imagine what he’d be doing in his old life as a tour professional in Asia. Once he’d started seeing Asmida, he used to play in Malaysia every chance he got. After a round, there would be far too much drinking and plenty of mindless, gratifying sex in opulent hotel rooms or in expensive cars. It didn’t last, of course. How could something like that last? Especially, he remembered with a twinge of pain, with