C
HAPTER
8
Capers
I
t was late Saturday afternoon and they'd just climbed back into the truck to head home from the classic movie matinee at the Imperial Theater. So far, their quiet celebration of Jack's fortieth birthday had gone off without a hitch. Linny had given him a card at breakfast and made a big show of paying for their movie tickets. She'd helpfully pointed out the sign about the senior citizen discount he'd soon be eligible for and sprang for the popcorn, candy, and Pepsis.
Now, Neal sat in the back of the crew cab, eating the last of his Sno-Caps.
“Thanks for a real nice birthday, Lin.” Jack gave her a grateful look and squeezed her hand, then turned the key on the truck.
Linny smiled at him and clicked on her seat belt. Did Jack think the movie constituted his entire birthday celebration? Did he really think there wouldn't be any cake or presents? As Jack slid into his seat, she glanced over the backseat to Neal. “After all your eye rolling and deep sighs, you and your dad seemed to like
Key Largo
.”
“I did,” Jack admitted as he pulled out onto Bainbridge Road. “Makes me want to see more Bogart movies, like
Casablanca
.”
“The movie was okay, but it was old,” Neal said, sounding bored. “Mom and Chaz are taking me to
Universal World Dominance
next week. In 3D.”
She felt her scalp prickle with irritation. Of course they'd take him to the new blockbuster. Linny carefully folded her hands in her lap. Still, no matter how cool he was acting, she knew Neal had enjoyed the Bogart movie. During the most suspenseful parts, she'd given him sideways glances, and he'd been sitting on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed. Linny's lips turned up. She had learned one trick to try to keep him from going into full-bore prickly mode: play. “My father used to do an amazing Humphrey Bogart impression. No talking, just the face. Don't suppose it's anything you boys could do, though. Took years of practice,” she said airily and looked out the window.
Neal was quiet for a moment, then leaned over the seat, straining against his seat belt. “Let's have a contest about who can look more like him, me or Dad. Linny, you judge.”
“Okay.” Linny shrugged and reached in her purse for her to-do list notebook. “I'll rate you each on a scale of one to ten.” Linny turned around, pen poised, and gazed at Neal. “Go ahead.”
Jack's mouth quirked up as he glanced over his shoulder to watch.
Neal squinted, darted his eyes back and forth, and made his mouth a hard, thin line.
“Pretty good,” Linny observed, and made a show of scribbling lines in her notebook. She looked up. “You look bitter and dangerous. Reminded me of how Bogie looked when he got in the boat with Johnny Rocco and the boys. I'll give you a 9.5.”
Neal leaned farther over the front seat and held up a hand for Linny. She met his fist bump with an awkward high five. Pathetic. A cooler stepmom would have known a fist bump was what was called for.
Jack pretended to wipe his brow. “Whew. Tough competition.” He signaled and pulled into a gas station.
Neal gently pushed his father on the shoulder and teased, “Go ahead, Dad. Show us your best Bogart. Don't choke, now.”
At the pump, Jack turned off the engine and closed his eyes for a moment, muttering, “I'm getting in character.” A moment later, he opened them. Furrowing his brow, he thrust out his jaw and gave them a steely gaze.
Linny eyed him speculatively and nodded as she jotted notes. “You look brooding and menacing, like when the bad guys showed up at Hotel Largo. I'll give you a nine. Took one point off because your eyes were too happy.”
“Darned happy eyes,” Jack said, pretending to grouse. Swinging down from his seat, he whistled as he pumped gas. Because Jack played opera constantly at his house, Linny recognized a section from
The Barber of Seville
. She smiled and shook her head. He followed NASCAR, knew the free throw line percentages of all of the basketball teams in the Atlantic Coast Conference, knew his hockey stats, and got misty-eyed at opera. She loved the contradictions. Neal turned off his DVD and leaned over the front seat. “Everything A-OK for tonight?” he asked sotto voce and tapped the side of his nose.
He looked adorable, but where had he learned the nose tap? Linny tried to keep a solemn face. In a low voice, she reviewed the plan. “Your dad will go down to feed the horses. I've already told him I need your help putting boxes in the attic. The fire pit is on the patio, loaded with logs and kindling. We'll have it blazing by the time he gets back.”
“Dad will think it's so cool,” Neal said, rubbing his hands together. His brows knit. “He won't think the house is on fire and call the fire department, will he?”
Linny pinched her lip and thought about it. “Maybe you can wait to strike the match until he's almost at the house.”
Neal nodded and bounced back in his seat.
Linny smiled. Neal loved being part of a secret, or a caper, as he called it. When she'd spied the copper and sea glass fire pit on sale in the Lowe's flyer, she'd circled it with a Sharpie and slipped it under the boy's pillow with a sticky note on it that read,
Let's surprise your dad with this for his birthday. He really liked the one he saw at Uncle Jerry's
. His eyes had danced when he and Linny had told Jack they were going to the library and instead gone to the store to pick it up. He'd loved it when she'd asked him for a good spot to hide it on the farm, and he'd looked proud as he'd carried his end of the heavy box to the spot in the back corner of an outbuilding.
Neal called from the backseat, sounding worried. “Are you sure you didn't spend too much money? It cost pretty much.”
Touched by his concern, Linny reassured him, “It's fine. It was a good sale.” But this was the second time he'd asked her about her money. When they'd lugged the box to the checkout at Lowe's and he'd seen the price, his eyes had widened, and he'd whispered, “Should you find him something that doesn't cost so much? Maybe new socks or underwear.” He'd blushed bright red as he said the latter.
As she watched Jack squeegee off the windshield, Linny found the small bottle of lavender moisturizer from her purse and pulled off the cap. Hoping she sounded casual, she said, “You seem worried about my money situation, Neal. Is there anything you want to know?”
“Maybe,” he said. After a long moment, he asked tentatively, “Are you poor, Linny?”
Her heart squeezed and her breathing slowed, knowing what a big risk Neal was taking in airing his concern for her. Slowly, she rubbed lotion into her hands. “What makes you think I'm poor?”
“Well, your car has that rip in the front seat,” Neal said.
She nodded. “True. But your dad did a good job with the duct tape, and my car is a good one. It will go another hundred thousand miles.”
“Whoa,” Neal said, and was silent for a beat. “But your car's not new.”
“That's also true,” Linny agreed, but pointed out, “but a new car doesn't always mean someone is wealthy and an old car doesn't always mean someone is poor. It just means they're making different choices about how to spend their money.”
“Huh,” he said thoughtfully.
“What else makes you think I'm poor?” Linny asked quietly.
Neal sounded apologetic as he said, “Well, you live in a trailer.”
“I do, but I thought you liked that trailer,” she said.
“Oh, I think it's way cool, but I thought poor people lived in trailers.”
“Not necessarily,” Linny said evenly, waiting to see how this spun out.
Sounding puzzled, he said, “You don't have any trash around it, though.”
Linny's thoughts scrabbled around as she tried hard to follow him. “Well, there was a bunch of trash in it when I first moved in. The renters before me were . . .” What was a way not to say piggish and nasty? “Well, they were lazy about that sort of thing, but I got it all cleaned up.” Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him. “Remember? That's how I met your dadâat the dump.”
“Oh, yeah,” Neal said, grinning. “I knew that.” He asked his next question just as Jack stepped into the truck. “Then what's trailer trash?”
Automatically, Jack said, “Son, that's not a very nice term to use.” He looked at her, one brow raised.
She shrugged, mystified. “I was just talking to Neal about whether I was poor or not.”
“Well, looks like I've missed some real interesting conversation,” Jack said mildly.
But as they rolled down Route 32 toward Worth County she thought about it. There was real worry beneath the boy's questions, and she wanted to put his mind to rest. “One thing I'll tell you, Neal. I was poor not that long ago and I didn't like it a bit. Luckily, I was able to change my job and figure out how to get . . . comfortable again.” She gave her head a rueful shake at that understatement.
“Okay,” Neal said, talking through a yawn. “Dad, can you turn on the radio so we can catch some scores?”
Linny cast a sideways glance at Jack, but he was busy fiddling with the settings, trying to find ESPN Radio. She gazed out the window as the dusk faded to dark and mulled it over. The conversation with Neal had zigged and zagged. His concern about her was a sure sign she was making headway with him, but what was he getting at with his questions? Linny sighed so heavily that Jack sent her a questioning glance. She gave him a reassuring smile but flushed, feeling inept.
At the farm they piled out of the truck. Jack stopped in the mudroom, flipped on all the outdoor lights, and slipped on his heavy down coat and boots. In the kitchen Linny fished a box from the pantry and stooped to peer in the under-the-counter cabinets. Noisily banging pots and pans around to add credibility to her ruse, she extricated some and stacked them in the box on the floor beside her. “Neal, I need you, remember?”
Neal gave a put-upon sigh and pulled down the stairs to the attic. Crossing his arms, he called to her in a mutinous voice, “Where do you want me to put the dumb boxes?”
“We need a cheerful attitude and respect, Son.” Jack shot Neal a sharp warning glance, stepped out the door, and trudged toward the barn.
Linny grinned and gave Neal a thumbs-up. Clutching an imaginary microphone, she said in a hushed voice, “And the Academy Award for best young actor goes to . . . Neal Avery.”
The boy blushed and tried to hide his smile as he let the stairs retract into the ceiling. “I'll keep an eye out and tell you when he's on the way back.” He hustled to the window and used the sleeve of his flannel shirt to rub a clear spot in the steamed window. “Let's use code. I'll say,
the Eagle has landed
when he starts up from the barn.”
“Ten-four,” Linny said solemnly, trying to hide her smile. Reaching under the counter where she'd noisily rummaged just a moment ago, she carefully lifted out a Tupperware cake carrier. Sighing happily, she unclasped the top and gazed at the three-layer, light-as-a-cloud froth of a coconut cake she'd baked from her mother's recipe. She'd painstakingly followed each step and even baked a practice cake that she'd sent over to her neighbor Margaret, who'd delightedly assured Linny that she'd gotten it right. She had. The secret was in the sour cream. Her mama used to be a fine cook before she slid into microwaving Michelina's Mac and Cheese and becoming a regular at the K & W.
She felt a happy buzz of excitement when she thought about her special gift for Jack. Unable to resist, she stepped into the guest room, knelt beside the bed, and slid out the banged-up old guitar that had been her father's. After he'd died and, apparently, Mama found out about his Ava Gardnerâlooking girlfriend, she'd thundered in and out of the house, tossing all his things in back of the station wagon. Linny and Kate had managed to spirit away some mementos before Dottie had sped off to Goodwill. She touched the red velvet bow she'd tied around the arm of the instrument, thinking of Jack's wistful expression when he told her he'd always wished he'd learned to play the guitar. He thought it was too late, but she didn't. Softly, she ran her fingers across the smooth grain of the wood. Her daddy used to sit on the front porch, strumming and picking, with her and Kate sitting beside him like bookends and sometimes singing along. Closing her eyes, she remembered the peace of those evenings: the smell of his Marlboros, the whirring of cicadas, the vibration of his voice she could feel through her knee as it pressed into his. In the kitchen her mother would smile as she fried chicken or slid a ham into the oven, happy when her husband was home. Mouthing the words softly because he claimed his voice was a chicken squawk, her daddy sang in a fine, warm tenor that did justice to Hank Williams, Randy Travis, and Woody Guthrie. Smiling, she shook her head. She felt such calm and comfort when he played guitar. Linny wanted to create that same feeling in this house. She needed to hold that sweet memory of her father, too, and not just think about him being gone so much, and the woman on the side. Giving the guitar a pat before she slid it back in its hiding place, she decided to give it to Jack after Neal went to bed. She didn't want to take away from their fire pit surprise.
Back in the kitchen, she pulled the box of matches from the drawer and handed it to Neal. He carefully tucked it in the pocket of his jeans, looking important. She eyed him, guessing he was at an age where it was still a big deal to be trusted starting fires.
Linny warmed up the As Good As Your Mama's Potpie she'd made from a Fun Mom's Fast Frugal recipe, while Neal stayed at his post at the window. After a while, he called softly, “The eagle has landed.”