Starfish Pier, page 10
“Did you shoot people?”
His gut clenched, and he shifted in his seat. “Most days were pretty quiet. I did a fair amount of reconnaissance.”
Jonah’s forehead puckered. “What’s that?”
“Information gathering. Kind of like . . . like being a spy.”
“Wow! I didn’t know soldiers could be spies too.”
“It depends on what job they assign you.” A change of topic was in order. “Now tell me more about school. Your mom said you like your teacher.”
“Yeah. She’s fun. This week it’s my turn to be her helper.”
“What does her helper do?”
“If her back gets tired and she has to sit down, her helper does different jobs—like collecting papers or getting her a pencil or passing out tests.”
“Why does her back get tired?” Could that have anything to do with the kid-gloves treatment her parents had given her earlier today . . . and her slightly off-kilter gait?
Jonah lifted his shoulders. “I dunno. Old people can get tired, I ’spose.”
Old people.
Steven stifled a smile.
Thirtysomething was hardly old—except to a youngster like Jonah.
Patrick joined them, putting an end to the conversation—but after the rest of the evening passed without incident and they all said a pleasant good night, Steven’s mind returned to his brief chat with his nephew.
What was Holly’s story?
He dug his keys out and slid behind the wheel of the jeep as he pondered that question.
Came up empty.
He was an expert at finding answers, though. That had been a critical part of his job in The Unit, and he’d learned to ferret out information under the most adverse conditions.
Yet this reconnaissance challenge was as tricky as any he’d faced overseas.
It also had ethical issues.
Digging around behind Holly’s back wouldn’t be honorable.
That meant he’d have to go to the primary source—Holly herself.
But that wouldn’t work either.
He started the engine and put the jeep in gear.
If he sought her out, began asking questions, she might think he was attracted to her. And giving her the impression he thought there was potential for them as a couple would be wrong.
Because based on their brief but instructive encounters, every instinct in his body told him they came from two very different worlds that could never, ever be compatible.
Cindy’s eyelids flickered open, and she blinked at the dark ceiling. Shifted onto her side toward the nightstand. Peered at the bedside clock.
Twelve-thirty.
What had awakened her?
She rolled back toward Patrick’s side of the bed.
Empty.
Had he heard Beatrice stirring, perhaps, and risen to see to her?
She listened.
The house was silent.
For half a minute, she lay there, straining to detect any sound that would give her a clue to her husband’s whereabouts.
Nothing.
But Patrick always tried to be considerate during late-night rising—unless he was hungover, in which case he tended to fumble doorknobs and bump into furniture.
That wasn’t the case tonight, however.
Still, if he was moving about, she ought to be able to discern some sound. As she’d learned after Jonah was born, mothers developed supersensitive hearing—especially in the wee hours of the night.
Giving up the guessing game, she rose, clapped a hand over her mouth to cover a yawn, and tugged her sleep shirt down. She’d find Patrick, confirm everything was fine, and fall back into bed. While the evening with Steven had been far more amiable than she’d dared hope, the underlying fear that the situation would implode had taken a toll—and every muscle in her body was tired.
Hopefully the next visit would be less stressful.
Aside from the success of their family get-together, though, the best part of the weekend had been Patrick’s promise to stay away from the scotch.
A promise he’d honored.
Lips curving up, she padded into the hall. Peeked in on Beatrice and Jonah. Continued past the living room, to the kitchen.
The instant she spotted her husband, her spirits tanked.
He was sitting at the table playing with his phone, a glass filled with golden-hued liquid in his hand, a bottle on the counter within reaching distance.
As if sensing her presence, he lifted his chin.
“Oh, Patrick.” She didn’t attempt to mask her dismay.
“What?” His jaw jutted out, as it always did when he got defensive. “I kept my promise. The weekend is over.”
“It’s twelve-thirty. Half an hour past the end of the weekend. Are you so desperate for a drink that you had to get up to track one down at this hour?”
“I didn’t get up. I’ve been up. I’m just having a nightcap before I come to bed. And I’m not desperate.”
“How many have you had?”
His cheeks grew ruddy. “Tonight was stressful, okay? I’m too wired to sleep. This will relax me.”
“Booze isn’t the best way to unwind. We could have cuddled. That used to help you chill if you were tense.”
“You were asleep.”
“I wouldn’t have minded being woken up if it would have saved you from that.” She motioned toward the glass.
“Saved? Isn’t that being a bit dramatic?”
“It fits.” She crossed to the table. Lord, please let him hear my message. Let him realize I have his best interest at heart. “Your hands were shaking at dinner tonight—and you didn’t eat much. You even skipped dessert.”
“I was nervous. That can cause the shakes and dampen your appetite.”
“So can withdrawal. Two days without booze can have an impact.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Am I?” She filled her lungs. Tried to stay calm. “The signs are all there, Patrick. You’re in serious trouble. This”—she waved a hand toward the glass and bottle—“is telling. You had to have a drink as soon as your promise expired.”
“I told you. It’s been a stressful day.” He picked up the glass and finished off the scotch in one gulp. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
She hesitated—but only for a few seconds.
There was nothing else to say.
Fighting back tears, she retraced her steps to the bedroom.
Words weren’t going to work with Patrick. It was going to take a traumatic event for him to realize the extent of his problem.
Climbing back under the covers, she suppressed a shiver as she sent a prayer heavenward that her husband would receive a wake-up call soon.
And that no one would get hurt if and when it arrived.
9
Getting laid off on April Fool’s Day was like a bad joke.
Except no one in the small office was laughing.
Not him.
Not his boss, Harv.
Not Peg, wearing her HR hat.
Patrick twined his fingers together in his lap and regarded Harv across the desk as he attempted to wrap his mind around the shattering news.
“Let me be certain I understand this.” He tried to keep breathing. Tried to swallow past the bile rising in his throat. “You’re laying me off because I missed marking a few boards?”
“More than a few, Patrick. On several occasions.”
“I’m still learning the ropes on the new job.”
“You should be up to speed by now.”
The same thing Jack had said last week.
As the throbbing in his temples intensified, he gritted his teeth. Man, he needed a chaser. Bad.
Rewarding himself for a booze-free weekend by indulging in a midnight binge after Steven’s visit yesterday hadn’t been his most brilliant idea.
“I’ll try harder, okay?”
Harv folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, his expression pained. As if he was finding this session difficult and uncomfortable too. “Trying harder at work isn’t going to fix the problem, Patrick. The source is elsewhere. I’ve talked to a few of the guys, kept my ear to the ground. I’m sure you know what I heard.”
Some of his friends had ratted on him about his frequent trips to the bar?
If he found out who they were, they weren’t going to be his friends much longer.
But in case Harv was talking about an issue besides alcohol, he ought to play this cool until the man spelled it out.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His boss raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “Look . . . I’m not here to judge what you do in your personal life. But if it starts affecting your job—and this company—I have to step in. You’ve been here eleven years. You’ve worked in most areas of this operation. You know our equipment can be dangerous. We can’t have people who are less than . . . alert . . . putting themselves, or others, at risk.”
“I’ve never done that.”
Harv exhaled and picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “Two years ago, you had a near miss when you slipped while trying to clear a jam in the bander. You walked away with a dozen stitches, but it could have been much worse.”
“Accidents happen. Like you said, a mill can be a dangerous place.”
“Last year, there was another near miss, this one on the debarker. You and a coworker entered the drum to clear an obstruction. You told your coworker you were going to lock out the debarker. You didn’t. Nor did you hit the stop button. Fortunately, the third employee who joined you did. You know what would have happened if you’d removed the obstruction and he hadn’t done that.”
Yeah, he did.
Just thinking about it could make him break out in a cold sweat.
Once they’d cleared the jam, the hydraulically operated drum would have begun to rotate—and from the infeed end of the unit where they’d been, the only escape from the rotating logs had been back through the drum or up a steep chute.
They would have been trapped . . . and crushed.
That was a story he’d never shared with Cindy.
But most of the guys didn’t bother to lock out the debarker to deal with jams—and forgetting to hit the stop button wasn’t proof that drink had impaired his thinking that day.
Even if it had.
No one knew that other than him, though—and after that incident, he’d cut back on the booze.
For a while.
No reason to share any of that with Harv, however.
He had to stick with the story he’d told at the time.
“People do forget procedures once in a while. And two slipups after working in a high-risk environment for eleven years isn’t that unusual.”
“Patrick.” Harv set the paper on the desk in front of him. “We all know mistakes can happen. That’s why there weren’t any repercussions from those incidents. But after we began to see lapses on the grading line . . . and started asking questions . . . we connected the dots. Alcohol and mill work don’t mix.”
So his boss had nailed the source of the mishaps on the job.
That didn’t mean he had to admit it, though—and going on the offensive would put him in a stronger position
“A lot of the guys enjoy a few drinks after work. If visiting the bar was an issue, you’d have to lay off most of the workforce.”
“No one has a beef with an employee having an occasional drink—but from what we’ve gathered, it’s gone beyond that with you.”
“That’s hearsay. And laying someone off for drinking is . . . it’s got to be illegal. Discriminatory, even.”
His boss’s mouth thinned and his voice hardened. “We’re not laying you off for drinking. We’re laying you off for poor job performance.”
“Without giving me a chance to improve.”
“We are giving you a chance to improve.” Peg spoke at last. “If we weren’t, we’d fire you. But you have a long tenure with us, and for most of your years here you’ve been an excellent, reliable employee. We wouldn’t have sent you for grading training if that hadn’t been the case. We want you back.”
That was positive news.
But there was a catch. He could feel it in his bones.
“So what do I have to do to get back?” He didn’t try to mask his caution.
She opened a folder, pulled out a printed sheet and several brochures, and handed them over. “These are resources we recommend through our employee assistance program. The company will pay for you to see any of those counselors.”
Patrick skimmed the sheet of paper . . . riffled through the brochures . . . but it was all a blur.
Only one word kept looping through his mind.
Counselors.
They were forcing his hand.
Forcing him to admit he had a problem.
Forcing him to acknowledge he was addicted to alcohol.
His stomach bottomed out.
Harv and Peg were communicating the same message Cindy and Steven had been trying to beat into his brain for the past twelve months.
But this time, ignoring it was going to have serious consequences.
Like . . . how was he supposed to take care of his family if he wasn’t bringing home a paycheck—and health insurance?
Panic clawed at his throat.
“What if . . . what if my wife or kids get sick while I’m laid off?”
Peg’s demeanor softened. “Your benefits will remain in place during the layoff period.”
Relief coursed through him. At least that gave him breathing room.
“How long is that?”
“Six weeks. If you see a counselor on a regular basis and we get a positive report, your job will be waiting for you—but on a probationary basis for six months.”
Probation at his age. After all his years of experience.
How depressing was that?
Yet if he was honest . . . if he viewed the situation impartially . . . they were being fair with him.
Fairer than they had to be.
Still, the whole mess left a sick feeling in his gut.
Head down, he fingered the pieces of paper in his hands as the truth he’d been shunning refused to be suppressed any longer.
If the powers-that-be at work, and the people he loved most, all agreed he was hooked on booze . . . maybe he was.
Especially after his mighty struggle over the weekend to lay off scotch for a mere forty-eight hours.
And he sure didn’t want to end up like Dad. Much as he’d loved the man, his father’s weakness had been apparent to everyone but him. Denial had always been his dad’s crutch.
Kind of like it had become his.
“Patrick—are you on board with this plan?”
At Harv’s question, he lifted his chin and forced out the hardest words he’d ever said. “I’ll see one of the counselors.”
“Good.” Peg stood, and Harv followed her lead, signaling the end of the meeting—and the discussion. “Let them know you’re on our dime. They can fill out all the paperwork. I’ll be in touch with you in a couple weeks to see how it’s going.”
He nodded, feeling as off balance as if he’d downed one too many scotches, and walked through the door.
Outside the mill, he paused and filled his lungs with salt-laced air. But the cloudless blue dome above and bright sunny weather didn’t lift his spirits.
What was he supposed to do now? Being at loose ends on a Monday morning during a normal workweek was . . . weird.
Glancing again at the papers in his hand, he sighed. Closed his eyes. Swallowed.
Might as well pick a name on the list and set up an appointment.
First, though, he needed to clear his head.
A hike to Pelican Point light, where the view was expansive and you could almost touch the sky, should do the trick.
Perhaps while he was up there he could also figure out how to deal with the questions that had started gnawing at him as Harv’s message began to register.
How were they going to survive on a part-time waitress salary for the next six weeks?
What if he couldn’t convince the company he’d licked the problem everyone said he had—and he ended up losing his job permanently?
How was he going to tell Cindy he’d been laid off?
And what was this going to do to their marriage?
That looked like Holly’s car.
But what was she doing in his neck of the woods?
Steven pulled in beside the red Civic parked at the end of the road that wove past his apartment toward Starfish Pier and set the jeep’s brake.
Odd that his visit had coincided with hers.
Odder yet that half an hour ago, when he’d stopped for tacos after taking care of chores in town on this Monday afternoon, Charley had urged him again to visit the tide pools.
A timely suggestion after the stressful if uneventful dinner at Patrick’s yesterday. Wandering among the rocks had seemed like a relaxing way to spend an hour.
Now . . . not so much.
Not with Holly here.
He tapped a finger against the steering wheel.
Go or stay?
As he debated, two seagulls swooped low over the small dune that hid his view of the beach and the tide pools at the far end, circled twice . . . and landed on top of the sand.
After staring at him for a few seconds, one ruffled his feathers and the other began to cackle. Like the gull in the pocket park by Charley’s had, the day Holly joined him for an impromptu lunch.
Was he being stalked by seagulls?
One corner of his mouth turned up at such a fanciful notion.
A moment later, the gulls put that idea to rest. With a flutter of wings, they took off again—toward the tide pools.
Where Holly likely was.
After all, there were plenty of beaches prettier and more accessible than this one. The big draw here was the tide pools, according to Charley.
Tide pools the man had said were nestled among slippery, jagged rocks.
Steven frowned, and his pulse quickened.
Given Holly’s apparent balance issues, that kind of terrain could be dangerous. If she fell and hurt herself . . . hit her head, twisted an ankle . . . no one would know. She could be trapped there as the tide came in. There wasn’t much chance anyone would be rambling around out there at three-thirty on a Monday afternoon.
