“I think you should go.” She forced the words out through teeth that wanted to bite and tear. “I’ll tell Drum you came by. I’m assuming he knows how to contact you.”
“He has to want to be helped. That’s what the therapists say. He has to want to rebuild a normal life. And yes, yes, he knows where to find me.”
She walked Alan out. He was red-faced and flustered and she hated herself for acting on Drum’s behalf and getting it so wrong. The last thing he needed was the kind of disapproval his father offered under cover of redemption.
At the top of the stairs there was a plastic grocery bag: eggs, bread, milk, tomatoes, mushrooms. There was a cardboard tray where two cafe-made coffees had sat. Only one remained.
Alan looked out into the foyer. “He’s back.”
Foley knew Drum had been and gone. “I’d like you to go, please.”
Alan gestured to the grocery bag. “But—”
“He’d be standing here if he wanted to talk to you. I’ll tell him you called.”
She watched Alan leave in his big shiny car and then bolted upstairs to dress. She could scream. She had to find Drum and make sure he understood she hadn’t set him up again, make sure he understood she wasn’t siding with his father. Everything echoed in this place, he’d have been able to hear them talking from the landing, how much had he heard? She had to find him before some media posse did and made his life even more impossible.
She dressed in yesterday’s suit and way the wrong kind of shoes for fast walking on grass and most certainly for climbing on rock ledges.
She pulled the front door closed, knowing she wouldn’t be able to get back in. There was a guy with a pro-looking camera leaning on a car parked four doors down. He looked her over when she closed the gate. She stared him out. She didn’t have time to waste. She hoofed it across the park, heels sinking in to the still dewy surface.
At the railing she wondered if bare feet would be better. She should’ve left her hosiery off. She craned her neck to look down to the second ledge and seeing nothing but rock face, she called Drum and, much as expected, got nothing. He might not be here, but where would he go when he felt threatened? He had to be here.
She ducked under the railing and moved to the edge of the first ledge where she’d be able to see more. He was standing at the cliff edge. Her heart punched against her ribcage and she stifled a cry. He wasn’t going to jump. He didn’t think that way. He wasn’t playing chicken with the edge, he was remembering why life was good. He still had the coffee cup in his hand. He must’ve heard her breathing, felt her alarm in waves of tension. He turned his head then shouted, “Wait there.”
He came over the ledge the easy way and she would’ve thrown herself at him in relief if he’d been close enough. “Not the right shoes for this,” she said.
“No.”
Why wasn’t he close enough? What was with the one word answer? Once upon a time he’d offered his hand. He had them jammed in the pocket of his coat.
“Your dad, he just arrived, I didn’t ask him to come.”
“I’m not mad with you.”
“You don’t think I sold you out again?”
“I don’t think you ever sold me out. You did what you had to do.”
“You are mad with me. You’re all the way over there.” She took a wobbly high-heeled step on uneven ground towards him.
That got his hand out. She clasped it and he stepped towards her and the sense of dread she’d carried since seeing the dumped groceries dialled back to dismay, with a side menu of pissed off they were out here and not back in his glorious big bed.
She looked into his eyes, “Hi.”
He didn’t dodge the contact. “Sorry about breakfast.”
“It doesn’t matter. Come back to the house and we’ll call it lunch.”
“I can’t come back to the house.”
“He’s gone. I asked him to leave.”
“I’m not coming back to the house.”
“I … Right, okay.” If he needed the safety of the cave for a while, that was fine. She bent her knee up behind her to take her shoe off.
He caught her hand before she could get it to her foot. “Don’t.”