Barbara White - The In-Between Hour

“Yup. Agreed.”

“If you’re going to stay, Poppy—” the director’s eyes, which were too small for his face, flicked sideways in an oddly reptilian gesture “—at least close the door.”

Will tugged on the neck of his T-shirt. Closed doors, trapped in a confrontation with two other people. Not good. So much of his life wasted hoping his mom would be incarcerated, and yet shove him in a room and shut the door, and he could blow. Claustrophobia—yet another legacy of his childhood, and the one thing he could blame on his dad. He used to beg—please, Daddy, don’t lock me in my room—but his dad always had the same response, “It’s for your own good, son. I need to deal with your mama.” What was that supposed to mean? That Will could look after himself even as a tyke?

Will stood and grabbed the back of the chair. He had an appalling desire to shove the director and make a run for it.

The director’s index finger tapped the open folder on his desk. “It says here your mother died four years ago.”

“You think there’s an expiration on grief?” Will glanced at the now-shut door. His mouth was dry; the words tasted stale. Palpitations, definitely had heart palpitations. “You want my dad to be complacent, easier to handle, right?” Firing dumb questions again. Stupid. Might as well be tumbling off a rock face in an uncontrolled fall.

The art teacher with the cute butt gave a smug laugh.

“Mr. Shepard, this meeting is over.” The director closed the folder. “You have two options: you take your father to a geriatric psychiatrist and get medication, or you find alternative accommodation for him.”

Reason snapped. Will would not be cornered like a dog. He was done listening; he was done following other people’s ultimatums. Cass’s voice seemed to trill in his head—He’s my son, William, and you will see him when I say. This small-minded stranger had no understanding of a private family matter and no right, none, to make decisions about the old man’s mental health.

“You know what? Forget it. He’s leaving today.”

Relief—the relief in the room was palpable. But was it his or the director’s? Didn’t know, didn’t care. Needed out.

Will tugged his books free from the bookshelf—a self-destructive act that deleted a fan from his Facebook page. Team Shepard would not be happy.

“I donated these to the library,” Will said, “not to you personally.”

“We don’t have a library, Mr. Shepard.”

“Exactly. Which makes this place hell.”

* * *

Will tossed open the door and slammed into his father’s chest.

“Aren’t you a little beyond listening at keyholes, Dad?”

The old man’s shirt was untucked on one side, and he was carrying an armload of empty cardboard boxes. He was smiling, too—his grin as fat as Freddie’s had been after he’d unwrapped the two huge Playmobil sets on his fifth birthday. Will had been unable to decide which castle to buy, so he’d settled on both. Plus the catapult. And the battering ram. And the dragon.

“Where you been, son? Got some boxes off Poppy.”

“Boxes?” Will bit his lip.

“For packin’, son. For packin’. Ol’ possum face kick me out, did he? And look!” His dad held up a cardboard mailing tube. “Look what Poppy found me. I said I reckon it’s the perfect thing to protect our Freddie’s map.”

Behind him, Poppy shouted, “You can’t fire me, asshole, I’m a volunteer.”

“Hi, Poppy,” his dad said. “Have you met my son? Poppy’s a firecracker. Only spark of life around here. You leavin’, too, Poppy? You leavin’, too?”

His dad repeated himself when he was excited, which, admittedly, wasn’t often these days.

Great. Will had just hit the self-destruct button, and the old man was behaving as if they were embarking on a fishing trip.

“Yup, we’re both moving on to greener pastures, Jacob. Can I borrow your cute son for a sec?” Poppy beamed at his dad, who beamed back.

“Sure thing, Poppy. I’ll wait right here.”

His dad used the cardboard tube to point at the red carpet that appeared to be the evil twin of the hall carpet in The Shining. Will looked up at the empty bulletin board with the smiling employee-of-the-month photo, and along the silent hallway of closed doors with the handrail that ran only on one side. Somewhere a door slammed. This was a place inhabited by nothing but echoes. Why had he never noticed before?

“Come with?” Poppy stroked Will’s arm, and the edge of a jagged scar poked out from under her cuff.

Will jolted back. He was so done with crazy. “Nasty scar.”

“No, I didn’t try and off myself,” Poppy said in a bored tone that suggested she was used to this comment. “I rescued an abused horse, a Thoroughbred chestnut mare. In other words, the triple whammy of high-strung. Miss Prissy’s as spirited at they come. Bucked me off into some barbed wire during the breakout. Love that mare, hate her former owner—my turd of an ex. Asshole wanted to make her another tame possession, like his trophy wife, who wasn’t me in case you’re wondering. Best guess? He abused them both.”

A story Will would normally consider harvesting for his writing notebook—despite the undercurrent of betrayal. As a kid, he’d collected stories the way most boys collected live critters or plastic dinosaurs. Right now, weighed down with a full set of Agent Dodds hardbacks, he lacked the energy to care.

Poppy opened the second door on the right, and they entered a small bedroom with a walnut dresser and a rocking chair. The bed was too neatly made, the colors in the framed print of Jesus too sunny.

“I’m sorry about your job,” Will said.

“Bah. I’ve been fired before. Being dumped from a volunteer job might be a first, though.” She bounced onto the bed, grabbed a needlepoint cushion that had been placed in middle of the pillows and hugged it to her chest. “Where’re you taking Jacob? Any thoughts?”

“I have a motel room in town. Guess we’ll stay there while I search for a new place.”

“You make crap decisions.”

“This wasn’t exactly something I planned.” He scowled at her.

“Yeah, whatever. I have this friend, a holistic vet, with a secluded place in the country. Ten acres of pasture in front, one hundred acres of forest behind. And a guest cottage with beautiful views. She’s looking for a tenant.” Poppy grabbed a copy of Triangle Gardener magazine from the nightstand. She ripped off a piece, then tugged a pencil from behind her ear and scrawled a phone number. “Hannah. Give her a call.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking to rent. I have to be back in the city by—” When? He’d thrown his deadline away. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t have to be anywhere.

“Wait lists around here are a nightmare. Could take a while.” She wrote an address under the phone number. “Drive by, have a look. You’ll love Hannah. She projects calming vibes.”

Right, the last thing he needed—some new-age hippy-dippy chick projecting anything at him.

“She’ll adore Jacob. Her own father—” Poppy waved the rest of the sentence away. “Jacob can catch his breath, detox from this place. You really think he’d cope with the bustle of a motel?”

I don’t think I can cope with the bustle of a motel.

“Want directions?”

“No,” Will said, but she kept writing.

A decade younger and she’d be just his type: great curves, shiny chestnut curls fighting to escape from a barrette. He had only one dating rule—no woman old enough to hear her biological clock, and this art teacher with the great butt was definitely over twenty-five. Closer to forty, if he had to guess.

By sixteen, he’d known he never wanted kids, which was a no-brainer for anyone with his family background. Birth control was something he established at the get-go of a sexual relationship, and Cass had told him she was on the pill. A lie, of course, since she’d hand-selected him to be a sperm donor. But the instant he drew his son close and smelled that powdery baby scent, Will had known their relationship was forever. And yet forever had turned out to be less than five years.