“You can’t lie to me again.”
“I wasn’t—”
We both paused. He said, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” I fought the urge to cry.
“You don’t sound fine.” His voice was concerned.
I said, “It’s just work stuff.”
“What are you working on?”
“Just a lamp table right now.”
“What kind of wood is that made from?”
“This one’s cherry.”
“Cherry’s beautiful. Nice rich tones.”
Surprised at his insight I said, “Yeah, it really is.”
“What kind of tools do you use?”
“Mostly smaller tools, planes, sanding clamps, drills. But for work like this it’s usually done with brushes.” I eyed mine. “I have to get some new ones soon. They’re getting kind of ratty, but I want a new jack plane too.”
“Evan should get you what you need.”
“I can buy things myself. I just get distracted.”
“I saw his Web site — he’s one of the guides, so he’s away all the time. A husband should be there for you.” Great, one father thinks my fiance is too good for me and the other one thinks he’s not good enough
“He makes it home often.” Except for the next couple of weeks, when he has back-to-back bookings.
“Is he home now?”
My eyes flicked to the door. Had I locked it when Dad left?
“He’s coming home soon.” I sprinted to the alarm and made sure it was set. “And my brother-in-law stops in all the time.” Greg had never stopped over once.
“But Evan leaves you alone and unprotected?”
I caught my breath. “Do I need protection?”
“Not anymore. I have to go, but I’ll call soon.”
When Evan called that night he apologized for getting pissed off earlier and said he was glad Billy was helping me. I knew he was just saying that so we could move on, but I was more than happy to go along with it. I didn’t tell him I’d just gotten off the phone with Billy, who told me John had called from somewhere between Prince George and Mackenzie. They still didn’t get there in time, but I was happy he was at least heading in the opposite direction of me.
Later, when I was lying in bed, I thought about my phone call with John, about how concerned he sounded when he thought I was upset. Then I realized I’d never heard that tone in my dad’s voice. Not once. If John wasn’t the Campsite Killer, I probably would’ve been happy I finally had a father. I didn’t know which thought was worse, but they both made me cry.
On Monday another package arrived — same delivery driver, same address. When I saw it was from Hansel and Gretel I called Billy right away. He was over in Vancouver with Sandy, meeting with the rest of the task force, and told me not to open it. It was still sitting on my counter when John called later that afternoon.
“Did you get my present?”
“I haven’t had a chance to open it.” The package was larger and heavier than the last one, but I still asked, “Is it jewelry again?”
His voice was excited. “Open it now.”
“Right now?”
“I wish I could see your face.”
That was the last thing I wanted. “Hang on, I’ll open it.”
With John still on the phone, I pulled on a pair of garden gloves from my shop, then took a knife to the seal, feeling guilty about not waiting for Billy.
John said, “Is it open yet?”
“I’m just taking the paper out.” He’d packed whatever it was carefully. I lifted the object out and unwound the bubble wrap.
It was a brand-new jack plane.
“It’s beautiful.” And it was. The handle was hardwood and stained dark chocolate, the steel blades gleamed. My fingers itched to try it out, but I only allowed myself to pick it up, to feel the weight of it, to imagine it gliding over wood, shavings falling to the floor, lifting off years of— Stop. Put it back in the box.
“You
“It’s perfect. That was thoughtful.” I remembered how Dad would watch Lauren and Melanie on Christmas morning, how he’d smile when they opened their presents, how he’d leave the room to refill his coffee when it was my turn.
We were both silent.
“John, you seem like such a nice guy.…”
No answer. I strained to hear his breathing. Was he mad? I eased forward.
“You don’t have to tell me today. But I’d like it if you were honest with me.”
“I am honest.” His voice was cold.
“I know, of course. I just meant that if I understand you, it will help me understand myself. Sometimes…” I imagined Sandy and Billy listening. Tuned them out. “Sometimes I have terrible thoughts.”
“Like what?”
“I lose my temper a lot. I’m working on it, but it’s hard.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything, so I kept going. “I feel this darkness come over me and I say awful things, or do really stupid stuff. It’s better now that I’m older, but I don’t like that side of myself. When I was younger I even got into drugs and alcohol for a while, just trying to block it all out. And I did some things I really regret, so I started seeing a psychiatrist.” “You still see one?” Would he think it was bad or would it encourage him to get help? As I continued to hesitate he said, “Sara?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you talk about me?”
The tone of his voice told me how to answer. “No, I wouldn’t do that unless you said it was okay.”
“It’s not.”
“No problem.” I tried to keep my voice casual. “So can you tell me anything about your parents? That’s one thing about growing up adopted — you never know your history.” Both sets of my grandparents are gone now, but I still remember Mom’s gruff German father and how her mom barely spoke English, just scurried around the kitchen like she was afraid to stop moving. Dad’s parents were blue-collar, his dad a carpenter and his mom a homemaker. They were nice to me, but
John said, “What do you want to know?”
“What was your dad like?”
“He was Scottish. When he spoke, you listened.” I pictured a large man with red hair yelling at John in a thick accent. “But I learned how to survive.”
“Survive?” He didn’t elaborate, so I said, “So what did he do for a living?”
“He worked in logging, a faller right up to the day he died. He was having a heart attack and still took down a hundred-and-fifty-foot Douglas fir.” He laughed and said, “He was a mean son of a bitch.” He laughed again and I wondered if it was something he did when he was uncomfortable.
“What about your mother? What’s she like?”
“She was a good woman. Things weren’t easy for her.”
“So they’ve both passed on, then?”
“Yes. What kind of movies do you like?” Thrown by the abrupt change of subject, I took a moment to
