Moth Sausage always played the same sequence of songs to end a show. Cameron strums the opening chords of the last number on his Fender, and even though the guitar isnโt plugged in, the sound fills Ethanโs small living room, where Cameron is sprawled on the sofa, waiting for his clothes to finish drying downstairs. Itโs Wednesday, after all, and Tova is always going on about how Wednesday is laundry day. Apparently, this mustโve wormed its way into Cameronโs brain, because without really thinking about it, the first thing he did when he woke up this morning was bundle up his dirty clothes from the floor of the camper, grab his jug of knockoff Tide, and head for the utility room in Ethanโs basement.
With a showy strum, he hits one of the trickier chords just right. Hell yeah, still got it. Heโs hardly played this summer, and the instrumentโs coarse metal strings are sharp on the tender pads of his fingers. But itโs a good type of pain.
Yawning, he nests the guitar between two lumpy sofa cushions, then grabs a bite of cereal from his bowl on the side table and swipes milk off his chin with the back of his hand before standing and sauntering over to the front window. His camper looks kind of dirty from here, the glare of the sun highlighting the grimy windshield. Maybe heโll wash it this afternoon, before he goes to meet Avery for their paddle date.
Ethanโs patchy front lawn is fading to a tawny brown. Everyone keeps talking about how hot and dry itโs been.
โHot and dryโ has a different meaning in Modesto, but lately Cameron finds himself nodding along, as if the Modesto is slowly draining out of him. When did that start to happen?
โMorninโ.โ Ethan comes through the living room, leaving the smell of soap in his wake. Cameron follows him into the kitchen. His beard looks damp, and heโs attempted to slick down the wiry fuzz that normally floats over his mostly bald head. Instead of wearing a ratty old rock band tee or one of his usual flannels, heโs got some striped golf-type collared shirt on. Cameron hadnโt realized Ethan owned something so . . . normal. The shirt is tucked into a pair of khaki pants that are an inch too short, the waist saddled under his bulblike belly by a braided-leather belt.
โWhy are you dressed like an extra fromย Caddyshack?โ A corner of Cameronโs mouth ticks up, teasing. โDo you have another date with Tova?โ
Ethan fills his teakettle at the sink. โTova? No.โ With aย click, he turns on the burner and sets the kettle on the coil. โI mean, Iโll stop over there this week to say goodbye, aโcourse.โ
โOh. Right.โ Cameron wishes he could take back the
Caddyshackย jab.
โDoing an interview at the store today,โ Ethan says. He takes a travel mug down from the cupboard and drops in a teabag of his usual English Breakfast. โNeed to hire a new day manager, or a temporary one, anyway. You heard what happened to Melody Patterson, right? Her little boyโs got some awful disease. Had to be admitted to the childrenโs hospital down in Seattle. Sheโs taking an extended leave of absence to care for him.โ
โThatโs terrible,โ Cameron says. And it is. Melody Patterson is a nice lady. But itโs Ethanโs first words that sting him, slicing through poor Melodyโs tragedy to spear him personally.
A manager. Had Ethan even considered Cameron for the position? He remembers his first night here, drunk on
expensive scotch, when he asked for a job at the store.
Ethan starts going on about Melodyโs husband, and something about how their insurance is being a โreal pain in the arseโ about the kidโs coverage. Details that are surely none of his damn business, but Ethan clearly has no boundaries when chatting with his customers while scanning their milk and weighing their tomatoes.
โHey,โ Cameron interrupts. โAre you still taking applications?โ
โFor the manager job? I sโpose so. Why, do you have someone in mind?โ
The tips of Cameronโs ears burn so hot, they must be glowing. โMe, obviously.โ
โYou?โ Ethan looks genuinely surprised. โWell . . . maybe.โ Then he shakes his head. โSee, itโs a manager job. Would normally be looking for someone with years of experience. Need to be familiar with all the systems. Inventory, point of sale, even a bit of bookkeeping. Itโs not to be taken lightly.โ
โDo you really think I couldnโt do . . .โ Cameron yanks back the words before they come tumbling out.ย Do you really think I couldnโt do your job?ย He tries again. โLook. I might not have years of experience. I donโt even have a degree or whatever. But we both know Iโm smart.โ His voice wavers. โIโm really smart.โ
Ethanโs eyes widen. โI never said you werenโt smart, Cameron.โ
โWell, then, I can learn.โ
โAye, you could.โ Ethan pops the top on his travel mug. โIf you really want to work in the grocery business, Iโll show you the ropes. Nothinโ would please me more. But right this minute, I need to fill this position with someone . . . already qualified.โ
โOh, give me a break.โ Cameron stomps over to the kitchen window, nearly tripping over one of the kitchen chairs on his way. โWhat exactly are the qualifications to
work at Shop-Way, anyway? Running your mouth all the time?โ He turns back and glares at Ethan.
Ethanโs usual reddish cheeks grow even redder.
Cameron knows he should stop, but he keeps digging. โAiring the whole townโs dirty laundry?โ Dig, dig. โTalking shit about peopleโs private lives?โ Dig, dig, dig. โSpreading rumors about my mom?โ
โI was trying to find her.โ Ethanโs voice is quiet but firm. โI was trying to help.โ
โI never asked for your help.โ โI wasnโt doing it for you.โ
Cameron is about to fire back when Ethanโs words catch up with him.
โI was doing it for her,โ Ethan continues. โFor Tova. To help bring her . . . closure.โ
From the basement, the dryer buzzes, the sound muffled through the kitchen floor. Cycle complete.
โWhatever,โ Cameron mutters, stalking off toward his camper. Heโll come back later for the laundry.
ITโS A CRAPPY,ย fitful nap, but itโs better than nothing. Aunt Jeanne always said, when shit starts to go sideways first thing in the morning, go back to bed and start over.
Sounds about right for today.
But at some point, Cameron mustโve fallen into a deep sleep, because itโs no longer morning when he wakes to incessant buzzing. Afternoon light pours through the camperโs windows, and he squints as he ruffles through his bedding in search of his phone.
Shit. Avery. The paddle date. Is it past four? The camper is hot and stuffy inside, the way it always is when itโs been baking in the sun all day. Where the hell is his phone? What happened to the alarm he set?
Finally, he finds it on the floor, under a dirty sock that mustโve escaped this morningโs laundry roundup. Heโs about to answer, a string of apologies ready to stream from
his sleep-slick tongue, when he realizes itโs only three. Then he registers the number. A Seattle area code, but itโs not Avery.
โHello?โ
A womanโs voice replies, โMr. Cassmore?โ โUh, yeah? I mean, yes, thatโs me.โ
โExcellent. Iโm glad I reached you. This is Michelle Yates with Brinks Development.โ
Cameron sits straight up.
โI know youโve contacted us several times trying to secure an appointment, and I apologize for the delay. Mr. Brinks has been out of town. But he has returned, and as it happens, he has an opening in his schedule later today. I know itโs last-minute, but would you be available to meet then?โ
โMeet? With . . . him? Today?โ
โThis is Cameron Cassmore the developer, correct?โ A note of doubt creeps into Michelleโs voice.
Okay, so that was a tiny fib.
Michelle goes on, โYou left several messages a couple of weeks ago, looking to meet with Mr. Brinks about a new opportunity?โ
All right, maybe it was an actual fabrication.
Cameron clears his throat. โOh. Yeah, definitely. Thatโs me.โ He canโt believe that story he spun on those voice mails worked. It actually worked. All these weeks of showing up at closed offices and empty bluffs, and it was this that worked. A big, bold lie. Ignoring the twinge of guilt that nags at him, he says, โYes, I can be there. What time?โ
Michelle tells him to be there at six oโclock, and gives him a Seattle address, which he scrawls on the back of a gas station receipt. โYouโll want to take the elevator all the way down to the basement,โ she adds, which strikes Cameron as odd. A basement office?
As soon as he hangs up with Michelle, Cameron calls Terry, who answers on the fourth ring, sounding distracted.
โI hate to ask,โ Cameron says, โbut would it be a problem if took this afternoon off? I could still be there to clean tonight. I just have a . . . thing.โ He inhales, then gives Terry the details about the situation with Simon Brinks in what he hopes is a professional manner.
โSure, Cameron.โ Terry still sounds preoccupied. Had he heard a word of what Cameron said?
โThanks, sir. And, um . . . maybe soon, could we talk about hiring me on permanently for the cleaning part? You know, like . . . not temporary?โ
โSure, sure.โ A flurry of muffled voices on the line. โHey, kiddo, Iโve got to run. No worries about tonight. Take your time, okay?โ
โOkay.โ
He ends the call, shrugging off Terryโs weirdness. Probably just caught him at a busy time. Then he opens his map app and enters the Seattle address Michelle gave him. Itโs a two-hour drive. Which means that at four, he needs to be on the road. Not on a paddleboard.
Avery will understand. Heโll stop by the shop on his way out of town and tell her in person.
SHORTLY BEFORE FOUR,ย he pushes open the door of the Sowell Bay Paddle Shop.
A figure pops up from behind a rack of wet suits in the far corner of the store. To Cameronโs surprise, itโs not Avery.
Itโs her son, Marco.
The kid gives him a stiff nod, then ducks back down behind the rack without a word.
โUm, hey,โ Cameron says. โYour mom here?โ
โShe went on some errand,โ Marco is kneeling on the polished wood floor next to an open box, holding some black plastic thing with a trigger and a thin strip of waxy-looking paper trailing from its snout. A pricing gun.
โI didnโt know you worked here,โ Cameron says, poking at a display of bright orange flipper fins. These are new
since last time he was here. Theyโre lined up in a perfect row from smallest to largest. It looks like someone stole the feet from a family of ducks and strung them up on the wall.
Marco grunts. โNot like I have a choice.โ He slaps a price sticker on the tag of a neoprene life vest and threads its topmost loop onto a long metal peg coming out of the wall.
โAh. Compulsory child labor. A rite of passage.โ Cameron laughs.
Marco doesnโt respond.
โSo, any idea when your mom will be back?โ Cameron glances toward the front door. โWe were supposed to meet here at four.โ He checks the time. Five minutes until.
Marco looks up. โWere?โ
โYeah. We were supposed to take a couple of boards out on the water, but something . . . came up.โ Cameron bites his lip, stopping short of telling Marco the whole story. He doesnโt owe any explanation to a teenager.
โYouโre standing her up.โ Marcoโs voice is flat. โOf course not. Sheโll totally understand.โ Marco fires off another sticker. โRight.โ
โAnd I came here to tell her myself.โ Cameron checks the time again. On the road at four. The most important meeting of his life. He canโt be late. He clears his throat. โThing is, I kind of have to go. Could you let your mom know I came by? Tell her Iโm sorry for canceling?โ
โSure. Iโll tell her.โ
โThanks, man.โ Cameron ducks out of the store, and by the time four oโclock hits, heโs headed toward the freeway.