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 isn’t plugged in, the sound fills Ethan’s small living room, where Cameron is sprawled on the sofa, waiting for his clothes to finish drying downstairs. It’s Wednesday, after all, and Tova is always going on about how Wednesday is laundry day. Apparently, this must’ve wormed its way into Cameron’s 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 Ethan’s basement.
With a showy strum, he hits one of the trickier chords just right. Hell yeah, still got it. He’s hardly played this summer, and the instrument’s coarse metal strings are sharp on the tender pads of his fingers. But it’s 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 he’ll wash it this afternoon, before he goes to meet Avery for their paddle date.
Ethan’s patchy front lawn is fading to a tawny brown. Everyone keeps talking about how hot and dry it’s been.
“Hot and dry” 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?
“Mornin’.” 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 he’s 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, he’s got some striped golf-type collared shirt on. Cameron hadn’t 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.
“Why are you dressed like an extra from Caddyshack?” A corner of Cameron’s mouth ticks up, teasing. “Do you have another date with Tova?”
Ethan fills his teakettle at the sink. “Tova? No.” With a click, he turns on the burner and sets the kettle on the coil. “I mean, I’ll stop over there this week to say goodbye, a’course.”
“Oh. Right.” Cameron wishes he could take back the
Caddyshack jab.
“Doing an interview at the store today,” Ethan says. He takes a travel mug down from the cupboard and drops in a teabag of his usual English Breakfast. “Need to hire a new day manager, or a temporary one, anyway. You heard what happened to Melody Patterson, right? Her little boy’s got some awful disease. Had to be admitted to the children’s hospital down in Seattle. She’s taking an extended leave of absence to care for him.”
“That’s terrible,” Cameron says. And it is. Melody Patterson is a nice lady. But it’s Ethan’s first words that sting him, slicing through poor Melody’s 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 Melody’s husband, and something about how their insurance is being a “real pain in the arse” about the kid’s 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.
“Hey,” Cameron interrupts. “Are you still taking applications?”
“For the manager job? I s’pose so. Why, do you have someone in mind?”
The tips of Cameron’s ears burn so hot, they must be glowing. “Me, obviously.”
“You?” Ethan looks genuinely surprised. “Well . . . maybe.” Then he shakes his head. “See, it’s 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. It’s not to be taken lightly.”
“Do you really think I couldn’t do . . .” Cameron yanks back the words before they come tumbling out. Do you really think I couldn’t do your job? He tries again. “Look. I might not have years of experience. I don’t even have a degree or whatever. But we both know I’m smart.” His voice wavers. “I’m really smart.”
Ethan’s eyes widen. “I never said you weren’t smart, Cameron.”
“Well, then, I can learn.”
“Aye, you could.” Ethan pops the top on his travel mug. “If you really want to work in the grocery business, I’ll show you the ropes. Nothin’ would please me more. But right this minute, I need to fill this position with someone . . . already qualified.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Cameron stomps over to the kitchen window, nearly tripping over one of the kitchen chairs on his way. “What exactly are the qualifications to
work at Shop-Way, anyway? Running your mouth all the time?” He turns back and glares at Ethan.
Ethan’s usual reddish cheeks grow even redder.
Cameron knows he should stop, but he keeps digging. “Airing the whole town’s dirty laundry?” Dig, dig. “Talking shit about people’s private lives?” Dig, dig, dig. “Spreading rumors about my mom?”
“I was trying to find her.” Ethan’s voice is quiet but firm. “I was trying to help.”
“I never asked for your help.” “I wasn’t doing it for you.”
Cameron is about to fire back when Ethan’s words catch up with him.
“I was doing it for her,” Ethan continues. “For Tova. To help bring her . . . closure.”
From the basement, the dryer buzzes, the sound muffled through the kitchen floor. Cycle complete.
“Whatever,” Cameron mutters, stalking off toward his camper. He’ll come back later for the laundry.
IT’S A CRAPPY, fitful nap, but it’s 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 must’ve fallen into a deep sleep, because it’s no longer morning when he wakes to incessant buzzing. Afternoon light pours through the camper’s 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 it’s 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 must’ve escaped this morning’s laundry roundup. He’s about to answer, a string of apologies ready to stream from
his sleep-slick tongue, when he realizes it’s only three. Then he registers the number. A Seattle area code, but it’s not Avery.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice replies, “Mr. Cassmore?” “Uh, yeah? I mean, yes, that’s me.”
“Excellent. I’m glad I reached you. This is Michelle Yates with Brinks Development.”
Cameron sits straight up.
“I know you’ve 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 it’s last-minute, but would you be available to meet then?”
“Meet? With . . . him? Today?”
“This is Cameron Cassmore the developer, correct?” A note of doubt creeps into Michelle’s voice.
Okay, so that was a tiny fib.
Michelle goes on, “You left several messages a couple of weeks ago, looking to meet with Mr. Brinks about a new opportunity?”
All right, maybe it was an actual fabrication.
Cameron clears his throat. “Oh. Yeah, definitely. That’s me.” He can’t 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, “Yes, I can be there. What time?”
Michelle tells him to be there at six o’clock, and gives him a Seattle address, which he scrawls on the back of a gas station receipt. “You’ll want to take the elevator all the way down to the basement,” 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.
“I hate to ask,” Cameron says, “but would it be a problem if took this afternoon off? I could still be there to clean tonight. I just have a . . . thing.” He inhales, then gives Terry the details about the situation with Simon Brinks in what he hopes is a professional manner.
“Sure, Cameron.” Terry still sounds preoccupied. Had he heard a word of what Cameron said?
“Thanks, sir. And, um . . . maybe soon, could we talk about hiring me on permanently for the cleaning part? You know, like . . . not temporary?”
“Sure, sure.” A flurry of muffled voices on the line. “Hey, kiddo, I’ve got to run. No worries about tonight. Take your time, okay?”
“Okay.”
He ends the call, shrugging off Terry’s weirdness. Probably just caught him at a busy time. Then he opens his map app and enters the Seattle address Michelle gave him. It’s a two-hour drive. Which means that at four, he needs to be on the road. Not on a paddleboard.
Avery will understand. He’ll stop by the shop on his way out of town and tell her in person.
SHORTLY BEFORE FOUR, 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 Cameron’s surprise, it’s not Avery.
It’s her son, Marco.
The kid gives him a stiff nod, then ducks back down behind the rack without a word.
“Um, hey,” Cameron says. “Your mom here?”
“She went on some errand,” 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.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” Cameron says, poking at a display of bright orange flipper fins. These are new
since last time he was here. They’re 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. “Not like I have a choice.” 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.
“Ah. Compulsory child labor. A rite of passage.” Cameron laughs.
Marco doesn’t respond.
“So, any idea when your mom will be back?” Cameron glances toward the front door. “We were supposed to meet here at four.” He checks the time. Five minutes until.
Marco looks up. “Were?”
“Yeah. We were supposed to take a couple of boards out on the water, but something . . . came up.” Cameron bites his lip, stopping short of telling Marco the whole story. He doesn’t owe any explanation to a teenager.
“You’re standing her up.” Marco’s voice is flat. “Of course not. She’ll totally understand.” Marco fires off another sticker. “Right.”
“And I came here to tell her myself.” Cameron checks the time again. On the road at four. The most important meeting of his life. He can’t be late. He clears his throat. “Thing is, I kind of have to go. Could you let your mom know I came by? Tell her I’m sorry for canceling?”
“Sure. I’ll tell her.”
“Thanks, man.” Cameron ducks out of the store, and by the time four o’clock hits, he’s headed toward the freeway.
