Cody sits in the office, a pile of paperwork in front of her, a wastebasket nearly full beside her. She’s to sort through things, file what she should, toss the rest. She has no phone. Mom has taken it away from her, and the relief is astounding. Without the phone, and its near-constant texts from Molly, she’s safe. In a weird way, it’s like she’s not being punished. Not only is she free from the onslaught of texts but she’s forbidden to enter the rooms. This is clearly a twisted idea of Skye’s, but if she thinks that not trusting Cody in the rooms is a penalty, an illustration of her deep disappointment, Skye is sorely mistaken. A little filing is a fine substitute for cleaning toilets.
Being forbidden the AC, that’s a little harsher. She’s no longer afraid of Mosley’s ratting her out—what more can he do than her own confession has done to further destroy her relationship with her mother? Stole some pot? Ha! Who cares? She’s filched actual drugs. Pot is no biggie. She can just hear her mother laugh. It’s more that she’s actually made some progress in the past few weeks, and even Kieran has complimented her on her work. She’s got some momentum going, and being denied access to her art space is painful. Besides, the AC is the only place where she can put everything aside and just focus on something pleasurable.
But what truly hurts the most is being given the silent treatment by her mother, being treated with the kind of hostility that she herself has dealt her mother for more than a year. It should make things easier. If they don’t speak, then there will be no accidental revelations. But it still hurts. It’s the first time in her life that Skye hasn’t been there for her.
Cody has the bills sorted into paid and unpaid, then alphabetized, arranged by date and ready for filing. She slices her finger on a file folder. The blood oozes, streaking the top of the folder, where the stain quickly turns brownish. She should make a new folder, but Cody kind of likes the idea that she’s bled over this make-work job.
She hears the sound of the housekeeping cart being wheeled by. Skye tending to the rooms. For the first time in their ownership of this white elephant, they are at 90 percent capacity. One room unoccupied. No help.
“Mom?”
Skye glances back at Cody. Doesn’t speak.
“I’ll help you.”
Skye doesn’t answer.
* * *
I’m alone in the office when a rather nice-looking man comes through the open door. I’m a sucker for type. Like Randy, this guy is dark-haired and dark-eyed. He’s got a jaw like an old-fashioned Hollywood star, a Kirk Douglas or Cary Grant. A dimple square in the center of his chin. I give him my best hello and he asks if there’s any chance I have an open room. One more room. I can’t believe that I’ll be at full capacity with the click of the mouse. Two nights. Sweet.
He fills out the registration form, slides it back to me. Tom Blair. An address in Rhode Island. He’s left the auto information blank.
“Just fill out the line for your car.”
“Can’t think of the tag number. It’s a rental.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just the state is fine, and make and color, if you don’t mind.”
Rhode Island, Chevy and silver.
I ask for his credit card.
“Do you take cash?”
“Of course.” This is a bit unusual, but money is money. “I’ll have to ask for it up front, but cash is fine.” Registration complete, I do what I always do: take him to his room, show him the layout, see if he has any questions, and then hand him the key. I like to chat up my new guests, get a sense of their interests in case they need some restaurant or sightseeing suggestions, so I ask, “Are you here for work or pleasure?”
Tom Blair pauses, a tiny hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Both.”
* * *
Chance lounges at Adam’s feet, eyes closed, but his ears twitch, keeping tabs on the comings and goings of those walking through the postage stamp–size park. Adam sips at his take-out coffee, picks chunks of crumbling apple muffin from the white paper bag in his lap. They’ve just hiked a good couple of miles up Mount Greylock and he’s due a reward. His shins are screaming from the effort of climbing up, and then down, the trail. Chance suddenly sits up, makes a throaty little grumble, which quickly becomes his excited greeting voice.
“Mr. March?” It’s Mingo, Dawg beside him, wagging his whole body.
“Mingo. It’s good to see you. Sit down.” Adam moves over on the bench to give the boy space. He tries to appear sanguine, betray nothing of his anxiety about finding this kid who has miraculously appeared when least expected. “How’ve you been?”
“You heard?”
“I did.” Adam offers Mingo the bag with the muffin in it. “Where are you now?”
“I’m okay. Doing day labor. Pays better.”
“That’s good.” Adam runs a hand down Dawg’s bumpy spine. “Can I ask where you’re living?”
“I’m bunkin’ in with one of the guys. It’s all right. But—” He stops.
“But what?”
“You said you’d take Dawg if, you know, if things changed.”
“I did and I will.” Adam can’t believe his luck. Patience has won out.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about how I got him. I need to tell you that, ’cause it’s why I got to give him to you for safekeepin’.”
If the kid wants to use the word safekeeping to make himself accept the wisdom of this act, then so be it.
“Guy name Russell had him. Trainin’ him up, road work and chains and such. Dawg was one of four Russell got. Youngest, and biggest. First time Russell fought him, he won big. Lotta money. Dawg already lookin’ like a champ.”
It’s what Adam has suspected, but expecting this doesn’t make the truth of it any easier to hear.
“I knew Russell a little, like people do, seen him around and knew he was into dogs. My boys and I ran into Russell one night and he invited us to see his dogs at work. Now, Mr. March, despite what you think about me, I don’t hold with dog fightin’. Not one bit. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, but I never looked highly on dog fightin’. But I was with my crew, so I went along.
“First time I saw Dawg, he’d just finished his fight. This one he lost, and he looked terrible, bleedin’ and limpin’. Russell was mad as hell. Dog’s all beat-up and he’s cowerin’ at Russell’s feet, wantin’ help, but what I saw was that Russell was gonna punish him. The dog, Dawg, looked at me. My heart, Mr. March, my heart died right there. He looked at me to save him. I told Russell I’d buy him off a him. Right then an’ there, the whole wad of cash I had that I was gonna use, well, for other stuff. I stuck it in his hand. Russell so mad, he said, ‘Take him.’ Pocketed my money.
“Thing is, Russell wants him back. Says I stole him.”
Adam crumples the paper bag, twists it. In some ways, this is Chance’s story, too. Brutality and hope. “I’ll keep him safe for you.”
* * *
“Where did you find Mingo?” Skye is seated in the freshly vacuumed front seat of Adam’s Jetta. She’s wearing a silky teal-and-blue cocktail dress she says she hasn’t worn since attending a cousin’s wedding three or four years ago.
“He found me.” Adam has Dawg hanging out with Chance in the cottage. He fills Skye in on how this all came about.
“Adam, I have to tell you something. I shouldn’t have fired him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. There are only so many chances a kid gets.”
“No. You don’t understand. He didn’t do it. I reacted with prejudice and without any proof, and I was wrong.”
Adam looks over at her, puzzled. “Then who did it?”
Skye reminds him of Cody, always staring out the window when she doesn’t want to answer a question.
“Oh.” He gets it. “That’s pretty serious.”
“I thought you should know. I didn’t want to keep you in the dark, being that you’ve been a part of this.”
“I appreciate that. What are you going to do?” Such a loaded question.
No answer.
“Can I say something?”
Skye nods. Pulls her gaze away from the window and looks at him.
“Why did she take the pills? To get high?”
“To sell. Her friend, Melanie Frost, the one who calls herself ‘Black Molly,’ convinced her to steal them so they can sell them.”
“Enterprising.”
“Like her father. It’s like she’s turning into him. And you know how it ended for him.”
Adam takes Skye’s hand. “Don’t. She’s maybe mixed up, but I don’t think she’s a criminal.”
“But there’s the rub. She is a criminal. She’s a thief. How do I deal with that?”
They’ve arrived at the Holiday Inn, where the gala is being held. Adam slides the car into a space in the garage and shuts it off. “What did Molly say to convince Cody to do this? I can’t believe she’d do it on her own.”
“I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”
“Is Cody maybe the victim here?”
“Adam, it would be so easy to make that assumption, to be, as usual, the parent who sees no wrong in her kid’s behavior. The one who always blames others. I can’t keep doing that. This is serious.”
* * *
Because of the full house, Skye has ordered Cody to spend the evening in the office. She’s given strict orders that she’s to be the smiling face of the LakeView Hotel tonight. There was her mother all dressed up, her sandy hair swept into a proper updo, bare legs above the strappy sandals Cody has never seen before. A stranger, a glimmer of the person she might have been had her life been easier. But she wasn’t smiling, wasn’t looking the least bit like she was going to go have fun.
After all her begging and pleading to be allowed to attend, Cody had the ultimate humiliation of having to tell Mosley that she couldn’t help out after all. Not with hanging the show, not with ticket taking, not with being the coat-check girl. Grounded with a capital G, and she can’t tell him why.
So here she is, alone. Hoping that none of the guests will need her. Without her phone, she doesn’t even have the distraction of playing games. She’s supposed to be doing her summer reading, True Grit, but she can’t concentrate on Mattie Ross’s life right now. Her own is just as crazy, without having a Rooster Cogburn to help.
Cody pulls a couple of sheets of copy paper out of the drawer and finds a number 2 pencil. She sharpens it and begins to sketch. Maybe Skye won’t let her continue with lessons, but she’s not going to stop drawing.
The long evening light lingers over the hills, backlighting them, an areole of rose-gold light defining their shapes for a few minutes until the darkness overwhelms the shapes. It is so quiet that she can hear the peepers, the white noise of crickets. The rush of a car speeding up and over the hill. The sound of the pencil against the paper. Her own breath.
* * *
The food was okay, and the free wine mediocre, but it was lovely being waited on and to sit at an eight-top table with six strangers and talk about inconsequentials and art, to pretend I knew anything about what’s trending and post-postmodern art. Adam was showing his style as a professional mingler, and I was growing a little bored with the incessant live auction of pieces of art that were out of both my intellectual league and my budget. I wouldn’t hang any of this stuff on the walls of my hotel. The crowd was polite, and one by one the pieces sold.
“Having a good time?”
It’s Mosley, standing over the woman opposite me. At first, I think he’s speaking to her, but then I realize he’s speaking to me.
“Yes, thank you. I hope that you’ve raised a lot of money.”
“Me, too.” He comes around and sits in Adam’s empty seat. “I’m sorry Cody couldn’t be here tonight. She’s earned a little fun.”
My impulse is to say Not really, but I don’t. “She had to work for me. Family business.”
“Of course.” He gets to his feet. “You know, she is coming along with her work. Has she shown you anything?”
“No.”
“She should. For a youngster, I see some potential. I hope that you’ll let her keep on with lessons.”
After her revelations, I’m not ready to give Cody anything. The damage she’s done, despite Adam’s kind suggestion that it might not have been her doing, is still too fresh, too painful to think about. “For the time being, she’s not going to be able to take lessons. We’ll see what happens in the fall.”
The auctioneer announces the next lot, an original Mosley Finch triptych, oil on canvas. To be polite, I fix my attention on it. Our table is comfortably close to the auctioneer, so it’s easy to see the painting. At first, I am actually impressed; it’s a pretty thing, very ethereal, its composition clear in its meaning, not abstract in any way, more like those lush Victorian paintings of children. And then I realize that I’m looking at three versions of my fifteen-year-old daughter. With wings.
The auctioneer mistakes my gasp for an opening bid.
* * *
Adam sees the look on Skye’s face. Sees what she’s looking at. That bastard Mosley. The little sketches on his wall have evolved into this three-paneled exploitation of a kid. What Adam had seen in the prototypes, the subtle borderline between child and woman, has been expanded, and he feels himself blush in anger, never a good thing for him, particularly on a night when his dog, his calming agent, isn’t at hand.
“Who’ll give me a thousand?” The auctioneer is a semiprofessional and is obviously getting near to the end of his stamina. His tie is loosened. “Opening bid. Come on, people, this is an original Mosley Finch. Do I hear five hundred?”
Mosley stands nearby, a goofy smile on his face, expectant. He’s of the generation that received participation awards and thought that everything it did was perfect. He can’t imagine that no one wants this piece of …
Adam waits, watches, and when the starting bid comes in at an even hundred, he raises his hand.
It’s over in less than two minutes. Adam buys the triptych of Cody Mitchell for $135. Worth every penny to get it out of the sight of this crowd. He’ll offer an X-Acto knife to Skye, see if she wants to cut it up.
* * *
The triptych sits on an easel at the back of the room. The overhead lights have been turned up as the crowd departs, some of them clutching their acquisitions close, others just scrambling to get to the parking garage and out before anyone else. Adam joins me, a half bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other.
“Honestly, what do you think?”
He hands me a glass. “Objectively, it’s quite lovely.”
I stare at the three images of my daughter. The fairy wings, the suggestion of the primeval and dark woods. Looking closer, I see that there is actually a theme here, a progression. From the first image to the third, it is a story of transition. A girl growing up.
“It reminds me of who she was not so very long ago.” It breaks my heart that all the lightness Mosley Finch has depicted in Cody is gone. How did he ever see it?