The California Dashwoods Page 5

  “Oh, we’re going!” Abby yelled back, flipping Francesca the bird. “We’re going!”

  Elliott hoped it was before blood was spilled.

  Elliott went looking for John and found him hiding away in Henry’s study. He let himself in quietly. John was sitting on the couch with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and the bottle leaning precariously on the cushion beside him.

  He gave Elliott a weary look when Elliott entered the room, and picked up the bottle to give him space to sit down.

  Elliott sat. “I’m really sorry, John.”

  John sighed. “I know. I’m sorry too.” He cleared his throat. “The family trust won’t budge. They were probably never going to, but I had some savings that—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “Well, Francesca won’t let that happen either. Sorry.”

  Elliott nodded, his throat aching.

  “I was supposed to hate it, you know.” John swirled his whiskey in his glass. “Whenever I got sent here to visit Dad during school vacations. I was supposed to hate Abby, and I guess for a long time I did, but she really was the most fun au pair I ever had. I was angrier with Dad than I was with her. I kind of wish he’d fought my mother harder for custody.”

  “I wish he’d been a better father to you,” Elliott said, his voice cracking.

  “Me too.” John took a swig of whiskey. “But that was never your fault.”

  “I’m sorry about today,” Elliott said. “With Ned.”

  John made a face. “Yeah, that hasn’t gone down well, has it?”

  Elliott smiled despite himself. “It really hasn’t.”

  “Robert’s the problematic one of the family,” John said. “The party boy. Ned’s supposed to be the quiet one, so this has thrown Francesca for a loop.”

  Yeah, well. Elliott was surely proof that even the quiet ones could harbor some surprises. Still, he felt guilty for his part in landing Ned in Francesca’s sights. That was not a fun place to be. At all.

  John sighed again and held Elliott’s gaze. “I know you’re not a gold digger, Elliott. I know Abby isn’t either. But the family’s always had this carefully constructed narrative, you know?”

  “I know.”

  John took a sip of whiskey. “Ugh. This stuff is awful. Is there really nothing better in the house? I looked in the bureau and all I found was some weed.”

  “That’s Dad’s stash.”

  John blinked slowly. “I’m going to pretend it was to help him get through the chemo.”

  “Of course it was,” Elliott deadpanned, and John snorted out what sounded like a reluctant laugh. “One hundred percent medicinal.”

  John poured himself another whiskey and offered the open bottle to Elliott. “Where will you end up, do you think?”

  “California, I guess. Mom’s got a cousin there, in Barton Lake.”

  “Oh, of course.” John nodded. “That’s where Abby’s from, right? We used to spend our summers there, right up until Mom and Dad got the divorce. It was one of those towns that was all the rage for like a season or two when people were looking for the next Hamptons or something. Then it dropped off the radar again.”

  “People were looking for the next Hamptons in California?”

  John shrugged. “I think it has hot springs or something? It was a big resort town back in the twenties or thirties, and someone tried to revive it, but it didn’t take. It is right up near Oregon though. So, you know, not California California.” He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. “It was nice, from what I remember.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Have you . . .” John faltered for a moment. “Have you got anywhere to stay?”

  Elliott wondered what John would say if they didn’t, and got an almost vicious thrill out of imagining lying about it. He didn’t, though, in the end. He couldn’t. John was the one member of the Family he could actually stand to be in the same room with. He didn’t want to sour their already fragile relationship just to score a few cheap points in this moment.

  He remembered the way Henry had held their hands. My boys. My sons. John was the only brother he had.

  He swallowed. “Mom’s cousin has an apartment we can use.”

  “That’s good.” John sounded relieved.

  “I’ve made a list of paintings,” Elliott said. “Odette from the gallery is sending someone to come get them next week, and there are a few that have sold already they’re going to transport for us. Dad left them to Mom and to us, John. I’ve labeled them so you know which ones you can’t just throw out.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Elliott supposed that was the truth. But Francesca might, or someone else in the Family, out of sheer spite.

  Elliott handed him back the bottle of whiskey. “I should go pack, I guess. I’m assuming Francesca has doubled down by now on kicking us out, and Mom will need some help.”

  “I’m sorry, Elliott.”

  “It’s okay.” Elliott smiled. “We should probably be out of here by the time Great Uncle Montgomery discovers the spiders anyway, right?”

  John started to nod, and then jolted. “Discovers the what?” He stared at Elliott for a moment, eyes wide, and then abruptly sank back into his seat and waved the bottle of whiskey at him. “Greta?”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, I suppose.” John wedged the bottle under his arm and held his hand out. “Good luck, Elliott.”

  Elliott took his hand and pulled him into an embrace. “Take care, John.”

  It was the closest either of them would ever come, he figured, to an I love you.

  ***

  Elliott waited until everyone else was at dinner to return to his room and pack. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, not really. Or at least he didn’t have a lot of stuff he felt obligated to take with him. There were probably boxes of old toys and school reports and the entire detritus of his youth either shoved in the back of his closet or up in the attic somewhere, but this would be a clean break, right? Minimalist living, unburdened by possessions. This would be good for the soul.

  It didn’t feel good for the soul, but it was either convince himself this was a positive step or punch a few holes in the walls. And Elliott would prefer not to drive all the way to California with busted knuckles.

  Clothes, a few books, and some knickknacks and trinkets he’d picked up over the years. A stuffed duffel bag and a box. It was less than most kids took to college. Except it was also a hell of a lot more than many people had, so Elliott needed to remember that and excuse himself from the pity party he was throwing in his own head.

  California.

  A fresh start.

  No more Family drama.

  He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and hefted the box into his arms.

  He ran into Ned on his way downstairs.

  “Hi,” Ned said, flushing.

  “Hi,” Elliott echoed softly.

  “I’m really sorry,” Ned said, dragging a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have—” He broke off with something that sounded too bitter, too full of self-recrimination to be a laugh. “What a mess!”

  Elliott shrugged and tried to force a smile. “Our family’s always been a mess. You just came along at an exciting time.”

  “I tried telling Francesca that it . . . that it wasn’t a thing.” Ned worried at his lower lip with his teeth. “She, um, wasn’t in the mood to listen.”

  “If it wasn’t this, it would have been something else,” Elliott said. He and Abby and the girls had been on borrowed time since the funeral, and they’d all known it.

  Ned’s forehead wrinkled, and he tilted his head as he looked at Elliott. “Don’t you ever get angry?”

  Elliott’s stomach clenched. He shifted the weight of the box in his arms. “What would be the point of getting angry?”

  “That’s not an answer, Elliott,” Ned said softly, and reached out to touch him.

  “I’ve got stuff to do.” Elliott stepped around him. “It was . .
.” He shrugged again. “It was fun, I guess.”

  Fun, he thought as he continued on his way. Not a thing.

  He could feel Ned’s worried gaze on him all the way down the stairs.

  Not a thing at all.

  ***

  At ten minutes to midnight, with the Naked Blue Lady wrapped in several protective layers of plastic and canvas and strapped securely to the roof rack of Abby’s twelve-year-old Subaru Impreza wagon, Elliott and his mother and his sisters set off for California.

  Barton Lake was a small town less than seventy miles from the Oregon border. Mount Shasta dominated the horizon. It was beautiful, probably, but Elliott was too damned exhausted to appreciate it. It had been drizzling for the last hour of the trip, the windshield wipers were only doing their job half as well as they should, and Elliott didn’t have a field of vision as much as a narrow arc. And running up the ass of a car in front of them would pretty much be the last thing they needed.

  They’d taken it slow, stopping for plenty of breaks, and after three and a half days, Elliott never wanted to get in a car again. He and Abby and Marianne had shared the driving, but Elliott was still bone-tired and aching, and sick of gas-station food and shitty motel-room beds.

  After the highway, it felt like they were crawling as they drove into Barton Lake. Main Street was only a few blocks long. The buildings were almost all Art Deco, the uniform facades of low-reliefs with richly embellished chevrons and ziggurats only broken once or twice by a less exuberant modern design. It really was picturesque.

  A faded sign pointed out the way to the hot springs.

  “There it is!” Abby exclaimed. “That’s John’s store! Pull over where you can, Elliott.”

  Elliott found a parking space a few buildings down from the one Abby had pointed out, and climbed out of the car. Marianne and Greta got out of the back, yawning and stretching. Elliott rolled his shoulders and pressed his hands against the ache in his lower back. The cold drizzle was bracing, and Elliott stood in it for a moment before stepping into the shelter of the awnings on the pavement. He dragged his fingers through his hair, and then rubbed his face. The heel of his hand rasped against his jaw. He hadn’t bothered to shave since they’d left. God, he hoped the apartment had a decent shower.

  He followed Abby and the girls along the sidewalk. There was a spring in Abby’s step that he hadn’t seen in a while, and when she turned to check he was behind them, she was smiling.

  “Here we are!” she exclaimed. “At last!”

  The sign hanging from the awning was bright yellow, with the store name painted in cursive: Lake Springs Crystals and Healing. The bells on the door jingled as Abby pushed her way inside, and Elliott almost choked on the sweet miasma of incense that escaped from the shop in a warm cloud.

  He exchanged a glance with Marianne.

  Yep. Their mom was definitely related to the person who owned this store.

  Inside the store it was dark, and Elliott’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Shelves and display cases packed the space, almost overflowing with crystals and dream catchers and intricate figurines of wizards and wolves and dragons. There were incense holders and hookahs and oil burners; tea glasses, tarot cards, worry dolls, and books; and on every shelf, crystals of every color and cut imaginable. Panpipes played softly in the background.

  “It’s like a hippie exploded,” Greta whispered.

  Marianne coughed pointedly, but that might have been the incense.

  Abby bustled toward the counter at the rear of the shop. “John!” she exclaimed.

  A large bearded man in a tie-dyed shirt rose from a seat behind the counter and stepped out to meet her, knocking a display of beaded bracelets as he moved and sending them rattling against one another. “Abby!”

  They embraced warmly.

  “Ah!” John exclaimed, releasing Abby and beaming. “And this must be Marianne, and Margaret—”

  “Greta,” Greta corrected, stepping forward dubiously for a hug.

  “—and Elliott!” John finished.

  Elliott found himself briefly enclosed in a fug of patchouli. And weed. Definitely weed.

  “How wonderful to meet you all at last,” John said. “I was so saddened to hear of Henry’s passing.”

  Abby smiled sadly and leaned into John’s embrace again. “Thank you for everything, John.”

  John waved his hand. “No, no. None of that. It’s what family does.”

  Elliott stared at a figurine of a wizard, and it stared back at him.

  Not every family.

  ***

  The apartment above the store was small. It had one entrance through the shop, the door hidden behind a beaded curtain behind the counter. The other entrance led down a set of narrow steps into a thin backyard populated with a few stringy weeds and not much else. There was an alleyway behind it, with a pair of dented trash cans by the gate.

  The apartment had two smallish bedrooms, a joint living-and-dining area, a bathroom and toilet, and a small kitchen space. The fixtures looked like they dated back to the seventies, but everything was clean and appeared to be in working order.

  Rent free, Elliott reminded himself as he took in the double bed in one bedroom and the bunk beds in the second.

  “I call top bunk!” Greta exclaimed.

  “I was thinking,” Abby said, “that me and you could share the double, Greta.”

  Greta’s face fell.

  “I’ll take the couch,” Elliott said.

  Greta was a thirteen-year-old girl. She didn’t need to share a bed with her mom.

  “Are you sure, Elliott?” Abby asked worriedly.

  “I’m sure. It’s fine.”

  The couch was a foldout, and he could keep his clothes and things in one of the bedrooms. It was fine, and it wouldn’t be forever. He’d find a job, and get some money coming in, and maybe they could look at renting a bigger place.

  Just . . . It wasn’t Norland Park. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t the house he’d grown up in, happily heedless of his own privilege until it was ripped away from him. Elliott resented the small voice inside him that complained this wasn’t fair, but at the same time . . . Fuck, it wasn’t fair. His parents should have been more responsible. They should have planned for this. Taken out life insurance, or something. But no. They’d both floated along through life as though nothing could touch them, and now Elliott was stuck sleeping on a foldout couch in a tiny little apartment in Barton Lake, California.

  Elliott drew his fingers through his hair and forced his resentment away. He was tired, that was all. He’d been driving for too long, and he just needed to sleep. Things were always more dire with the added weight of exhaustion.

  “Marianne,” Abby said, “you and Greta bring the bags up. If I remember, there’s a grocery store just down the street. I’m going to get us some bread and cheese, and we can have grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.”

  Elliott nodded and dug into the pocket of his jeans for the car keys. “I’ll help with—”

  “No.” Abby snatched the keys off him. “You’ve been driving all day. Have a rest. The girls and I will take care of things.”

  “Okay,” Elliott said. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Abby stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the forehead.

  ***

  It was getting dark when Elliott woke up to the smell of grilled cheese and the sound of Abby and Greta jostling in the cramped space of the kitchen. Elliott blinked out the window that overlooked the narrow backyard. Gray and drizzling. He uncurled himself from the couch and stood, then stretched until his back cracked. He hadn’t bothered to unfold the couch before taking his nap, and he was sore. He’d also woken with a vague headache. He wondered if the bathroom stuff was unpacked yet, and if they’d brought any Tylenol.

  What time did the stores close in a town as small as Barton Lake?

  What time was it now?

  He dug his phone out of his pocket to check. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. The clouds and rain were ushering in an ea
rly nightfall.

  The living room was tiny. Apart from the couch and a shelf for a television to sit on, there was only room for the small table with its four mismatched chairs. Marianne was already seated, a brightly colored tourist map of Barton Lake spread out on the table. She was eating her grilled cheese, dropping crumbs over all of Barton Lake’s landmarks.

  “Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “We’re actually really close to the lake!”

  “You could walk it,” Abby called from the kitchen. “Not in this weather, though. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “That’s a myth,” Greta informed her. “Pneumonia is caused by a virus or bacteria, not by getting wet.”

  “Yes, we know,” Marianne shot back before Abby could answer.

  Greta appeared, glowering, in the doorway. “Then why do people say it, doofus?”

  Marianne rolled her eyes. “Why do you call everyone a doofus?”

  “Because Mom says I’m not allowed to call everyone a dickweed.” Greta stuck her tongue out. “Doofus.”

  Elliott sat down at the table.

  Marianne raised her eyebrows. “We can have her enrolled in school by the end of the week, right?”

  Elliott snorted.

  Abby swept out of the kitchen and set a plate on the map. She kissed Elliott on the top of the head. “That’s yours.”

  “Hey!” Greta exclaimed, indignant. “Mom! I was waiting for mine!”

  “Your brother did most of the driving today. He gets his grilled cheese before you. That’s how it works.” Abby returned to the kitchen.

  “In what? Grilled cheese law?” Greta asked.

  “Yes!” Abby called. “And if you don’t like it, you can get yourself a grilled cheese lawyer.”

  Elliott bit into his grilled cheese and studied the map. It was upside down for him, but there wasn’t a lot to it. It seemed to be mostly the main street with a few places of interest marked with numbers that corresponded to the cartoonish key that ran down the side of the map. It also showed the lake itself, which appeared to be about a mile away on what was optimistically called the Barton Lake Tourist Route. The Tourist Route ran out at the edge of the map, where the lake was, but a big red arrow and some awful Comic Sans pointed the way to the hot springs and something called the Crystal Caves. Elliott couldn’t help imagining the caves like the inside of John’s shop: full of incense and wizards. He pushed the image away.