Chapter 31 - Pitching Popcorn to the Doves
Saturday, June 6
8:30am
Veronica
The U-Haul takes up one half of Logan's driveway, an oversize green dumpster on the other half. Veronica balances a small paper bag and a large stack of newspaper she took from Lois and Giv's house on top of her oversize, pink cardboard box and crosses the street. When a figure moves on top of the truck, she puts up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and sees Dick.
"Dude," Logan calls to Dick from the second-floor window while throwing Veronica a wave. "I told you the truck wasn't tall enough."
Dick holds up his arms. "Just hand me something."
"Fine. But when you fall and die, I'm marrying your wife."
"She wouldn't have you."
Charlotte, halfway down the path from the front door, hears the exchange. "I might. Logan, are you smart enough not to fall off a truck?"
"I wouldn't climb one in the first place."
"Then I'm all yours. Ronnie!"
"Hey." Veronica accepts the hug Char gives her and points up. "What's the strategy, here? They mess around and we do all the work?"
"They wish. I just got a manicure and don't intend on wasting it." Char points to a pile of scrap wood in the yard, then a serviceable picnic table. "Dumpster, truck."
Veronica lifts an eyebrow, taking in Char's spotless white jeans and peach top. She'd lay money they'll be just as pristine by the end of the day.
At a grunt, they both turn to see Logan maneuvering a solid wood coffee table through the window, his arm muscles pushing the limits of his black t-shirt. Dick, lacking Logan's bulk but still fit, catches the end. Neither seems to know what to do from there since Dick supports the table over his head, and it's too heavy to balance and lower on his own.
Veronica rolls her eyes, forcibly shifting them away from Logan. She'd come for pizza on Thursday, as planned, bringing an apple pie and determination to get through the evening without another almost make-out. Mission accomplished, but there's no denying he's a pretty sight. "I'll put myself in the kitchen and leave the heavy lifting to the brawn up there."
Char clears her throat, her eyes fixated on Dick straining under the weight. "I'll stay. This is working for me."
"You're shameless."
"Yep. Oh! I went through everything yesterday and put a blue sticker on what's staying. Logan needs to keep a few things if he's going to be living here."
Veronica heads to the house, only to have Logan fly past when she reaches the door. Laughter follows a loud crash from the driveway. With an internal chuckle, Veronica imagines how annoyed Sam would be at their goofing off.
The kitchen is a mess, clear signs of Logan's five-day residence. If she ever wondered what his house would look like without a full-time maid she has her answer. Veronica eyes the ancient dishwasher dubiously.
"Donuts," Logan asks from behind her.
She turns around, again taking in the pretty sight of him in the black tee. The very tight black tee riding an inch too high at the hem. It's all she can do not to roll her eyes, realizing he needs a laundry lesson. "Moving day tradition. You have to keep the troops fed."
"Two dozen for five troops is a little overkill, but thanks."
"Didn't Dick tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
A cacophony of deep voices interrupts them, coming from the front of the house. Within seconds it's like a conclave of rich white men in the kitchen. Veronica sidles around the crowd to avoid their rush at Logan and almost steps on Mac's feet when she backs into the dining room doorway.
"Whoa, Nellie," Mac says, placing a hand on Veronica's back.
They both watch as a male ritual unfolds before them—back slaps, hugs, and high fives from Casey Gant, Bob Patton, John Enbom, Howard Grigby, Todd McDane, Steve Wacker, and Jennings Crawford. Dick watches, grinning. Logan takes it well, his surprise replaced by a cautious pleasure. He defers from answering questions about his disappearance with the sarcastic rejoinders and shade-throwing he was so skilled at in their high school years.
Mac, still behind her, rests her chin on Veronica's shoulder and inhales deeply. "I love the smell of testosterone in the morning."
Veronica's careful to keep her expression neutral in case Logan glances over. She didn't like most of these guys in high school, and still doesn't, with the latter exceptions of Dick and Casey. But this is Logan's crowd, where he played first knight and court jester to princely Duncan's right. She won't stand in the way of his reconnecting with even the worst parts of his past.
Casey comes over and scoops first Veronica, then Mac up in a hug. The man still looks good—a little wizened around the eyes, but otherwise unchanged. Mac sneaks out the front door, in search of Char, and Casey moves to stand beside Veronica, watching Logan and his old toadies mix it up. "Logan, man." He shakes his head. "I can't believe this."
"Yeah," Veronica says. "It was a shock."
With a knowing side-eye, Casey grins. "Right. You had nothing to do with it."
"Less than you'd think. How's," she pauses, searching her mind futilely for the name of his second wife, "the family?"
"Oh, you didn't hear." He holds up his left hand, empty of rings. "Her personal guru, emphasis on the personal."
"Ouch, sorry. How's that going?"
Casey shrugs. "It's actually okay. The whole thing was kind of a relief. What about you? I haven't seen you since—,"
"It's been awhile," Veronica says, cutting him off. The last time she'd seen him was at Sam's funeral. Casey outgrew his 09er persona after high school, and Sam made a habit of seeking his company at Dick's parties, though their friendship didn't extend beyond that.
Char sticks her head in. "Dick? Did you bring these guys over here to work or not? That truck won't load itself." She points to McDane, Grigby and Enbom. "You guys get started in the living room. Everyone else upstairs."
The kitchen empties, Casey backing away with a nod at Veronica. She checks her phone to make sure she hasn't missed a text from Gai and goes in search of boxes.
9am
Gai
For the dozenth time, Gai opens the pouch and touches the instruments, one by one. It has to be Mom's, of course it is. Why Mom even has a lock-picking set, he has no idea. Much less why it was on the floorboard of her car Thursday night.
Does the FBI let her pick locks? Is it left over from when she was a PI? Whatever the reason, he hasn't been able to stop the gnaw of curiosity he's felt since finding it, and realizing what it was.
Of course, Mom chose yesterday to work from home, and Gai had to satisfy himself with watching videos and reading how-to articles all about shear lines, wrenches, and picks.
With Mom gone, he can finally put it all into play.
Gai starts with the door to the garage. Its simple doorknob is less intimidating than the deadbolt on the front door, and he can hide things fast if mom comes home.
He starts with slipping the key slowly in the lock, listening as each pin disengages the deeper it goes. Keller comes up and sniffs at his arm, an anxious whine in her throat. When Gai ignores her, she goes back to lie by the front door, her toenails clicking on the hardwood the whole way.
It's funny how many times you unlock a door without noticing which way to turn the key. Once he's got the direction down, though, Gai relocks the door, pulls the key out, and slips the tension wrench in, turning it slightly to the left. With the video queued up on his phone, he pauses it at the right spot and slides the rake in.
It takes several tries, adjusting the torque on the tension wrench and listening for each pin, but thirty minutes later he's unlocked his first lock. And, two minutes later, does it again.
Confident now, Gai opens the front door. This lock is harder—he has to use the pick instead of the rake and deal with each pin on its own—but he's still got it done in under ten minutes. Less on the second try.
What surprises him is how easy it is. He'd always seen door locks as up there with prison bars. Like it would take a criminal mastermind to open them. Turns out it's just patience and a good ear.
Twenty minutes later he's reassessing that when the deadbolt proves beyond his novice skills. Gai goes through the house, looking for easier locks to try. The door to the backyard is the same as the one between the garage and the house, so he's through it in minutes. An old toolbox, once Dad's grandfather's, proves tricky until Gai thinks to oil it. The one kitchen cabinet that locks, a leftover from when Gai was little, is ridiculously simple.
All the bedroom and bathroom doors have push button locks he's been able to pop with a skewer since he was five, so Gai doesn't bother.
Mom and Dad both have old-time bureau dressers with a keyhole at the top, though Gai knows the actual keys are long gone. He doesn't mess with those in case he locks them and then can't get them unlocked again.
He has a vague memory of a metal lockbox, though, so goes rifling through Dad's dresser looking for it. The drawers hold nothing but musty-smelling clothes.
Gai's eye falls on the nightstands on either side of his parents' bed. He moves to Dad's side and opens the bottom drawer. More clothes. The top drawer is a mess of books, pocket knives, and papers. And one large, manilla envelope with SDPD stamped across the front. Gai peeks inside to see Dad's cell phone, wallet, wedding ring, and money clip.
He moves to Mom's nightstand, feeling the weight of trespass for the first time. He slides open the bottom drawer, slowly, as if doing so will activate a tripwire. The top layer is a mishmash of silk and lace in every color. Gai turns his head, looking away, and presses down with one hand, testing for a hardness underneath.
There's little resistance—a few lumps and something that feels like a flashlight, so he toes the drawer shut and moves to the one on top. Typical of Mom, the drawer is totally organized. Her books sit in a stack, pages marked. Here another flashlight sits, barrel up, and when Gai tests it, he can tell the batteries are fresh. The only thing out-of-place is a handwritten letter, thrown on top of the lockbox he's looking for.
Gai puts the letter on the bed and pulls out the lockbox. Thinking it should only take a couple tries, he's frustrated when, after fifteen minutes, he still doesn't have it open. Every time he moves, even a little, a pin falls back into place and he has to start all over.
Keller scares him by barking.; Gai runs to peek out the window and make sure it's not Mom outside. Finding only the mailman walking away from their house, he double-checks the deadbolt on the front door and goes back to his parent's room.
He yells, surprised, when he finally hits the last pin and turns the wrench slightly, tipping the box with the effort. The damn thing pops open and spills its contents on the floor in front of him.
IDs. So many IDs. All his mom, most with fake names. Some are driver's licenses, most security cards or ID badges for various businesses. The only one that's real is his mom's PI badge, from before she went fed.
Cash, too, about three thousand dollars by his count. A couple old rings, and a necklace he's only seen Mom wear in old pictures. By his foot, Gai scoops up what he recognizes as Polaroids. He flips them over to find pictures of his dad flexing in muscle-man poses, butt-naked and hard. Gai scrunches up his nose and throws them face-down in the box.
He feels hot all over. It's like, he knows his parents had sex. Duh. But he didn't want to KNOW.
Gai puts everything back into the box and manipulates the lock closed again. He places it carefully in the drawer and grabs the letter from the bed to throw on top of it, picking it up again when he notices the Logan dude's signature.
He doesn't want to read the letter, wants nothing from the guy, including words on a page. Except...
The lies. All the lies Mom's told him lately. It's enough reason to at least skim the first page. And the next, and the next.
Words jump at him, burrowing their way into his brain where he'll never forget them: so fucking sorry… crazy in love… goddamn missed you… I'm here…
His parents and sex was bad, but this is worse. Gai throws the letter back into the nightstand and slams the drawer so forcefully the lamp on top wobbles. He scoops up the lock pick set and the loose tools from it and leaves the room fast, afraid of what else he'll find if he keeps looking.
Instead, he goes into the office, intending to leave the lock pick set on the desk for Mom. He can explain it away, like it landed in his backpack by mistake.
A calm seeps into him. The room feels like Dad. He used to spend hours in here, playing on the floor while Dad went over work stuff or downloaded music. How many times did Dad say his name, then play a song while telling him the history behind it? Or pull Gai onto his lap to watch to watch a video of a musician or a band?
Wanting to feel closer to those memories, Gai sits in the old oak and leather chair. A deep ache opens up and his eyes fill. Dad's gone. He's gone and everything is shit. If Dad was here, the Logan dude wouldn't be hanging around. Fish wouldn't go off with the guy and Mom wouldn't spend all her time in the garage or shut up in this office—
Mom. In this office. Secrets. Lies.
Gai's glance falls on the one desk drawer with a lock. He pulls on it, to be sure it won't open, then checks the contents of the others, starting with the shallow top drawer of the desk. It's a boring mass of paper clips, pens, erasers, and ink refills in the organizer. Nothing. Underneath it he finds only Post-its, written in his mom's handwriting. Be safe. Blue 3pm. Miss you. And several that say, simply, Love you. Notes his dad saved.
In the top left drawer is a heavy wooden box. Gai finds it full of black and white photographs of Grandma Lois and her parents, back in the old days, a couple hundred tickets stubs from concerts, and a drawing of a dinosaur Gai did when he was six, but no key. The bottom left is full of hanging files, stuffed with warranty cards, instruction manuals, and old tax returns.
He opens the drawer on the top right. Mom's camera bag, a weird-looking thumb drive that says "data recovery stick" on it, and some other tech gadgets he has no idea what they're for. It's all interesting, but nothing that would keep her shut inside the office. Except maybe in the locked drawer.
Gai slides the zipper open on the pick set and pulls out the tension wrench again. It takes a few tries and a couple different sized rakes to get it right, but he does. With his breath held tight in his chest, Gai slides the drawer open.
A fat brown file nests inside. Gai pulls it out, careful to keep a tight grip so nothing loose falls out. He places it directly center on the desk and gently lifts the top flap.
Recognizing mom's handwriting on the separator tabs, he reads them to himself, tilting his head to the side rather than moving the file. Interviews. Timeline. Background. Evidence. Autopsy.
Autopsy. Mom has pictures of a dead body.
But she's in Cyber now, right?
The lies she's been telling fall into place. It's not just that Mom's working a fresh case, she's gone back to Violent Crimes and doesn't want him to know the Big Bad she's up against, so he won't worry. They just had that whole talk about him worrying.
If she's lying, it must mean this one is really bad. Or she's putting herself in danger.
His phone buzzes with a text, Grandpa Mars. "Put on your shoes and stretchy-waist pants, kid, and meet me out front in 10. We're going to feast like kings!"
Gai shoves the file in the drawer and slams it shut. With his mind so full, it takes three tries before the lock turns over. He barely has time to stash the lock pick set under his mattress before Grandpa honks outside.
5:30pm
Logan
Most of the guys have cleared out, returned to their families and busy lives. Also gone are the day laborers Todd McDane went and picked up an hour into the move, when he decided he'd rather drink than work. Only Veronica, Dick, Char, Mac, and, for some reason, Casey, remain to reminisce over Thai food and jasmine-infused water. Char tactfully sent all the beer home with his old toadies.
Those years on the boat feel a distant haze right now, a long, involved dream. One where he couldn't even speak. This, here, is real. Sitting around a table with friends, laughing and joking around like he did most of his adolescent life.
Looking around, Logan catches Veronica's eye. She's quiet while others laugh, and her eyes sad and thoughtful. When she sees him watching, she can only manage a small smile of reassurance.
Noticing, Char squeezes Veronica's hand and speaks to the others. "It feels weird without Sam here."
"Bitching about the smell of curry," Mac says while stealing the last scoop of rice from Cassey's plate. He raises an eyebrow at her and gets a sly wink in return.
Veronica smiles wryly, the humor not quite reaching her eyes. "Trying to talk Logan into keeping half this stuff, because," she rolls her eyes, "no sense in buying new when you've got perfectly good right here."
"Or wondering how in the hell any of those guys run Fortune 500s when none of them know how to 'buckle down'." Char uses a deep voice and air quotes on the last words, getting a laugh from everyone else.
Dick also lowers his voice in imitation. "'I grew up hosing down shithouses for gas money, and you think a round of golf is hard work'."
"He had a point." Logan feels as much as hears the cynicism lacing his voice. "You spent more time riding mattress down the stairs than moving furniture."
Cassey snorts. "Or locked in the den with Char. That was a lot of grunting for not actually moving anything."
Logan shifts his glance to Charlotte and finds her occupied with stacking the paper food containers, intentionally not meeting anyone's eyes. "Unlike Casey," she says, her voice prim and tight, but with an undercurrent of laughter. "I have no complaints."
The evening is still bright as he walks them all out, except Veronica, and exchanges hugs, handshakes, and thank you's in the doorway. Dick promises to be back next Saturday to surf, Mac later that week to set up a secure desktop system and firewall his laptop, and Casey to call him soon to hang out.
Logan slips a hand in his pocket , waving with the other as they drive away. Interestingly, the night carries Mac's low voice telling Casey, "I'll follow you," just before she slips into her car and does just that.
Nearby, a dog's playful bark accompanies children's' laughter. A neighbor down the street waters her lawn while another plays their TV a bit too loud, the window open to catch the evening breeze. Logan turns around to go back in the house, surprised at how his it feels.
California. Suburbia. A home with neighbors, rather than a lone shack on a stretch of beach in another country, on another continent. Though it took the help of six Mexican immigrants, they moved the furniture out in a matter of hours. Also, while Veronica worked in the kitchen, Mac and Char attacked the tchotchkes. Gone are the possessions, photographs, and sad momentos of another man's life. In their place are bare walls and empty rooms, waiting for Logan to fill with his own.
The crank of the dishwasher draws him into the kitchen. Veronica, wiping down the counters while humming a song, has spent the day putting the room in order. The counters are clear, save for a mushroom shaped jar she's filled with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Logan watches as she grabs a pair of tongs off a hook on the wall and uses them to reach for something on a top shelf.
The scene brings the reminder that, given different circumstances and choices, this could have been their home and their kitchen. All it took was one visit from Gorya's henchman to knock him on course to Chile and Eva. Veronica dropping back into his life, bringing news of Gai, has him knocked on
to another course, leading who knows where.
Logan steps behind her and grabs the roll of paper towels she's trying to get down. "Good thing perps can't hide on top shelves. You'd never find them."
"Short jokes. They never get old." She grabs the towels out of his hands and moves over to the paper she has pinned to the fridge with a peeling, fruit-shaped magnet. "I'm adding a stepstool to your list."
"What list?"
She hands it to him. Char showed up this morning with a small jar of organic cleanser, fragrant dish soap, pink plastic gloves, and a flower-shaped sponge. Veronica's list is long and includes everything from window cleaner to a drain snake.
While Logan did plenty of cleaning on the ship, at home Eva handled anything domestic. Including shopping. "Where do I get all this?"
"You're tall. You'll figure it out." Veronica's smile turns enigmatic. "So, happy to have all your high school buddies back together?"
"Honestly? Other than Dick, and maybe Casey, I'm pissed even one of those douchebags know where I live. They only showed up for the gossip."
Regardless of the years since Logan left, Neptune is still a small town feeding at the trough of others' misfortune. He spent the day deflecting questions about his money, his scars, and his disappearance. "Speaking of Casey," he changes the subject. "What's going on with him and Mac?"
Veronica leans back against the fridge. "What is going on with him and Mac?"
"She followed him when they left."
"Now who's gossiping?"
Logan rests with his backside against the countertop, across from Veronica. "What's his name? The guy that broke her heart?"
Veronica's teasing grin falls away, and she crosses her arms. She never did like talking about her friends' private lives. "How do you know someone did?"
"Hunch. She wouldn't be the first to get under someone to get over someone else."
The shadow of an old hurt comes into her eyes. "No, she wouldn't. I have to go."
"Veronica—,"
"Gai's heading over to see Steph soon, and my dad's waiting for me."
He drops it, as she so obviously wants to. Just as well—he's not interested in a rehashing of the Madison incident, either. Logan follows as Veronica gathers her few things and heads for the door. "Steph. Is that the girlfriend?"
"Unfortunately."
"You don't like her."
Veronica shakes her head and leans against the wall by the door. "I took them swimming this weekend, got to spend a little time with her. She's actually kind of sweet."
Logan puts a shoulder against the living room doorway and quirks an eyebrow. "Then what's the problem?"
"It's nothing, just—I overheard her call Gai 'Shaggy Boy' a couple times, like he's her pet."
Remember Lilly's siren call of lover, Logan chuckles. "And I bet he melts every time she does it."
She rolls her eyes. "The kid is basically a puddle."
"And you want him to have the upper hand."
"Is that so terrible?"
"Depends. What are you afraid will happen if he doesn't?"
"Um," her brows draw together in thought. "I guess it's two things. That she'll either break his heart, or lead him down paths he's not ready to go down yet. She's a year older and," Veronica flushes and glances away from him, cupping her hands in front of her chest, "developed. But it's crazy to think that, right? I mean, he's only twelve."
Something must show in his expression because she squeezes her eyes shut. "Oh god. What?"
"I didn't say anything."
This time she openly glares at him, though he can see the edge of humor there. "Your face did. How old were you?"
"How old was I what?'
"Any of it. All of it."
"How old were you?"
"He's your kid."
"He's yours too."
"Doesn't matter. If anything happens I'm blaming your genes."
Logan laughs, giving up. "Oh, I'm sure I get blamed for the bad stuff while you take credit for the good. But fine, if it helps, first wet dream and successful jack off at eleven. Twelve when I felt up Lauren Baxter. Hand job from an Olsen twin, also at twelve. Some bimbo crew member on my dad's movie set blew me at fourteen, and my camp counselor allowed me the liberty of both going down on her, and sleeping with her, at fifteen. Well, on the cusp of fifteen."
Her lips press together. "On the cusp?"
"I may have fudged my birthday by about six months, just to seal the deal. And then Lilly."
Veronica rolls her eyes. "Well, thanks for that. Somehow it does not make me feel better about Gai and Steph."
"You've done a good job with him. Don't worry so much."
"Words wasted on a mother."
"Well, I tried. Dinner Tuesday?"
"Sure," she nods. "I'll bring subs."
"Works for me." Logan opens the door for her. It's not until she's about to step out that he remembers, and puts an arm in the way, blocking her. "Wait, you never told me yours."
"My what?"
"Any of it, all of it."
She crosses her arms. "You know I slept with Duncan."
"Uh huh. Confess, Mars. It's good for the soul. Did you and Troy Vandergraff get your freak on in the backseat of the LeBaron?"
She ducks under his arm and walks backward. "Everything else was you, dummy."
Stupid, stupid Duncan, he thinks with a grin. You never knew what you had. "I wasn't there for the solo act. It was that summer Duncan got a speedo, right? After seventh grade?"
"Was that the summer you got that blue surfboard?"
"Yeah."
She spins around, making fast feet toward her car. "Sounds about right."
"Pervert," he calls out, making sure his voice is loud enough to reach her, and anyone else in earshot.
A moment later, after he's closed the door, the thought comes to him—timed perfectly with the last working lightbulb over his head to fizz out.
Did that mean it was him or Duncan riding out that first fantasy with her?
Bitch, he thinks good-humoredly. She was always good at cliffhangers. Probably a question best left unasked, at least until Tuesday.
It's good to have another thing to anchor himself to next week. After years of schedules and routines, he's unmoored without them.
Glancing up at the darkened fixture above, Logan goes in search of light bulbs. If he accomplishes nothing else this weekend, he'd like to at least be able to chase away the shadows. Half an hour later, though dusty from his search through the tomblike garage Veronica helped him break into earlier that week, he gives up. Like the husk of the pickup in front of him, hiding under a canvas car cover, it's one more sign the former owner gave up years ago. No stockpiles of supplies for a future he didn't want.
Going back through the house, Logan gets the oddest feeling, as if moving the furniture around today and the dozen people milling through the rooms were more than the place could to abide. Like a curmudgeon who had to suffer a day of visitors he didn't ask for, the house wants him gone.
Anthropomorphizing a house is not a sign of mental health, dude.
Logan grabs the list Veronica made him, adds 'lightbulbs' to the end, and heads out for the nearest box store.
He can't say what makes him go by way of Veronica's. There are more direct routes. But it's the way he goes every morning, and it's become a habit. By now the landmarks are familiar, from the half-dead hydrangea bush to the leaning, twenty-foot palm tree. He doesn't have to think about where to turn or watch for oncoming stops, since he has them memorized. The only difference is in the number of kids out playing this time of the evening, as opposed to five-thirty in the morning.
Near Veronica's, leaving a house and carrying two cans of soda, is the pretty girl who hugged Gai at the party. The girlfriend. Steph. He watches as she disappears behind a copse of bushes between her and the neighbor's house as if it's the entrance to Narnia. The 80's XM station on his radio plays Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now," as if to underline the obvious.
Indecision keeps him rooted at the next stop sign until another car pulls up behind him and honks. Veronica's house is just ahead, her and Keith's cars side-by-side in the driveway. It's selfishness as much as indecision that keeps him driving past.
Ratting out Gai will do nothing to break down the wall between them. Nor will Gai having his mom storm into a potentially intimate moment. Besides, Gai is only twelve, right? Unlike him, the kid grew up in a stable home with outstanding role models, so odds are whatever's happening in that bush is totally innocent. And if something is going on, the kid has lots of people to confide in, right?
Hell, he thinks. If this is parenting, maybe Gai's right to leave me out of it.
