“The new development,” he said. “It sounds like exactly what Hastings Rock needs—a breath of fresh air, new money, new people.”
Because Deputy Bobby and West were moving; that’s what he didn’t have to say. West had told me they were moving. It had been one of the first things he’d said after he and Deputy Bobby had gotten engaged. They were moving to Portland. They were moving away.
“Are you sure you can help load the truck next week?” West’s question broke through my thoughts. “Bobby said you don’t mind, but I know it’s a pain—”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’ll be happy to help. Do you need help packing?”
“We’re almost done, actually. Thank God I was able to talk Bobby into using his leave—can you believe he wanted to work right up until we left?”
I could, in fact. Because not only was Deputy Bobby very good at his job, but he also loved his job. It was part of who he was. Or maybe just who I thought he was. I had a hard time picturing him away from Hastings Rock. What would he do in Portland? Who would he be?
West’s silence jarred a response out of me: “Fox said they’d help too—”
“Absolutely not,” Fox said without looking up from their phone.
“I’ll help,” Millie said. “Dash, we could make it a RACE! And we could see how many boxes we can carry at one time. AND we could see who can pick up the heaviest box! West, are you sad you’re moving? Are your parents sad? Are you going to miss Hastings Rock? We’re going to miss you SO much! I’m probably going to cry when you and Bobby drive away. Oh my God, I think I’m going to cry right NOW!”
Indira patted her on the shoulder. “I already told Bobby I’ll bring sandwiches and sweet tea. It’s going to be a long day. And I’ll pack you something for the road, too.”
“It’s only a couple of hours,” West said with a smile, but he patted Millie’s shoulder as she wiped her eyes. “Hey, don’t cry. We’ll come back to visit all the time.”
Millie sniffled and nodded and said, “And we’ll come visit YOU!”
Maybe it was the sudden ear-blast, but West didn’t look quite so happy about that prospect.
I almost said, You don’t have to move, and then nobody will have to visit anybody, but my phone buzzed (and my better judgment got hold of me). My dad’s name appeared on the screen. (Jonny Dane, the Talon Maverick series.) A call from my dad was—well, unusual was putting it politely. My dad’s focus was on my mom’s books, on his books, and on his guns, and not necessarily in that order. I answered.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey, Dashiell. How’s it going?”
“Uh, good. How are you?”
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve got a great opportunity. St. Martin’s asked me to edit an anthology—crime fiction geared toward men, you know? And I thought it’d be perfect for you.”
“For me?”
“How’s that story going, the one with the PI?”
He meant Will Gower, a character who had lived in my head for as long as I could remember. (That sounded better than calling him my imaginary friend.) In various incarnations, Will Gower had been a hard-nosed police officer, a hard-nosed FBI profiler, and a hard-nosed private investigator. He’d also been a Victorian bobby, a social worker, and a deckhand on an Alaskan shrimping boat—you get the idea.
“Uh, good?”
“Great, great. Send it over. We’ve got to get moving on this.”
“Well, it’s not quite, um, ready. A hundred percent, I mean.”
Dad was silent.
“It’s almost done,” I said. “It’s so close.”
Millie patted my shoulder. Fox snorted offensively. Indira started unpacking one of the slices of cake.
“I can finish it up?” It was a miserable-sounding question. “Next week?”
“Dashiell,” he finally said—and it held an unbearable amount of parental long-suffering.
Fortunately, at that moment Deputy Bobby and Keme started paddling out to catch the next set.
“Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll get you the story next week.”
As I disconnected, Millie screamed, “GO BOBBY! GO KEME!” And then, without missing a beat, “Dash, that’s so exciting you’re almost done with your story!”
Fox snorted again. For someone who was, themself, an artist (and one who—I’d like to point out—spent a high proportion of their artistic time lying on the floor, moaning about how they were a fraud and a grifter and an untalented hack), Fox gave surprisingly little leeway when it came to things like, uh, purposefully postponing the day-to-day instances of artistic production. (That sounded better than procrastinating by goofing off with Keme.)
“Here you are, dear,” Indira said as she passed me the cake she’d been preparing.
It was a surprise cake (meaning I didn’t even know she’d made it—the best kind), some sort of gingerbread confection. It was amazing, of course, and it went a long way toward taking the sting out of that conversation. My dad’s silence. The way he’d said, Dashiell.
What helped more was that I got to watch Deputy Bobby catch his first wave. He made it look surprisingly easy when he popped up on his board, and even at that distance, I could see how natural he looked when he settled into his stance. He was actually kind of amazing—carving turns, slicing the water, his body leaning into each move until I was sure he’d fall. He didn’t, though; he looked like he was glued to the board. I didn’t know anything about surfing, but as far as I was concerned, it was incredible. And then, somehow, it got even better. Deputy Bobby launched himself off the lip of the wave. He went airborne, and as he flew above the water, he grabbed the back rail of the surfboard.
Millie screamed.
Fox shouted.
Indira shot to her feet, clapping.
West was jumping and waving his arms.
