Chapter16

Sam sat down on his narrow bed, rested his forearms on his thighs, and relived his asinine act of an hour ago. Throwing his life away for a dog he didn’t even know? What the hell was wrong with him? And Red, a psychologist. What must she be thinking? He sighed and scraped his hand through his hair.

And then there was his childhood home. That was a close call tonight. How had he gotten himself backed into this corner?

He was fated to be a liar, that’s how. Lying was the best weapon he knew to handle Psychodad’s sick manipulation: denying that it happened. Sticking it away in a box on a back shelf of his mind. If no one else could see it, he could pretend it didn’t exist.

Luke and Cindy had their own way of dealing. They hightailed it out of town the minute they could and never looked back, leaving Sam to endure the constant friction between his parents.

Until one day when Sam was eight, his mom took him out to Dad’s truck and pointed to the lipstick-stained cigarette butts in the ashtray as proof of Dad’s infidelity. Then Mom packed some clothes and left.

Sam reached under the bed and pulled out the newer of the two duffel bags that he’d slung there on the day he’d moved in.

He loosened the Miller’s Knot, pulled out its contents and laid them across the top of his dresser, his blood rushing through his veins like Walker Creek in the spring floods.

First, his digies, still neatly rolled. Night vision camera. Binoculars, various disguises.

And then, inside his old mess kit with a misshapen tube of toothpaste and a plastic razor, he found The Silver Star.

Sam tossed the medal onto the dresser as if it were nothing more valuable than a quarter. He had never set out wanting to lie to Red. He just wanted to be economical with the truth…keep a half-wall up between them to protect her from the bullshit.

If she would have let things go on the way they were, everything would be fine. That’s not how Red operated, though. All those degrees and her obsessive house hunting were proof of that. When Red wanted something, she didn’t stop until she got it.

Now she had her sights set on him. His fear was that once she caught him, she’d be repulsed with what she had found.

* * * *

Sam shot up in bed, still wearing his street clothes. His body was hot, but his hands were freezing. He fell back on his pillow with a forearm slung across his eyes, trying to remember the night terror. Something about a dog. But the dream merely changed shape and then disintegrated. Sam drew his hand down his face, distorting his features. That’s how all his dreams ended, unresolved.

Light from the morning sky filtered in from his open window. A car shushed by on the street. Sam checked his watch. His meeting at the Wine Press commenced in twenty-two minutes.

In boot camp he had seventeen seconds to be out of his room before the end of reveille. Those seventeen seconds had taught him how to be ready for any situation. That with every new day comes responsibility and living the core values of honor, respect, and devotion to duty.

He raced to the shower, cranked the knob, and braced himself for the lash of icy needles on his face.

There was a certain, cold comfort in being uncomfortable. Pain forced him to be in the present.

Briskly, Sam lathered himself from head to toe, the day’s priorities unfolding in his brain. He’d been waiting for this day all week. It was the day Dad’s doctor was supposed to be back. He had the Wine Press meeting to attend to first. Then, another phone call to get the update on Dad’s medical situation.

The consortium was going to be hopping. Today was the first day they were shipping wine for the new wine club. Sam had hired extra hands to come in and help, but it was up to him to supervise.

Finally, after all that was done, he had tonight with Red to look forward to.

As he did every morning, he flicked on the TV to listen to the forecast while he dressed. The weather played a significant role in the annual grape crop. Today was going to be a hot one. There was something about a tropical storm over Hawaii that might bear watching.

One hand pressed the electric razor to his face while the other tugged on a fresh pair of jeans. Then he was out the door, keys in hand, the contents of his duffel still strewn, forgotten, across the dresser.