The Fall That Kills You Page 2

  “Ah, but there is something, right?”

  Her expression becomes miserable, and she nods. “It’s…”

  Leaning in, I lower my voice. “Rosie, it’s me. You can tell me anything. What’s wrong? What’s got you so upset?”

  “It’s not a what.”

  Her words were soft enough that I nearly missed them. “Not a what. Okay. Then it’s a who?”

  She gives me a little nod, and I know I’m right.

  “Who is it, Rosie?”

  “It’s my…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s my…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s… my mother!” she finally blurts out, tears starting to flow down her face.

  Okay, I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but whatever it might have been, that wasn’t it. “Your mom? Wait, she came to help with the kids, right? Moved here from Alice Springs?”

  “Oh, she sure did. She won’t let me forget it, neither. Every day she’s over at our house, and telling me that I need to hold Daniel this way, or I need to feed Angus lentils even though he can’t stand the taste of them, or I should put them down for naps at one o’clock instead of two o’clock so I don’t disrupt their meal schedule. She told me I needed to buy a different kind of bra to increase my breast milk, can you believe that rubbish!”

  I catch myself blinking at her. I can’t help it. “Your mother… told you to change your bras?”

  “Yes! Among other things. Oh, and don’t even get me started on her telling Josh to change his brand of underwear so his nether reaches could swing free. Apparently we won’t ever have more children if he doesn’t!”

  Oh, my. I could feel my face heating up just thinking about it. If my mother had ever tried to swoop in and take over my life when I was pregnant with either my son or my daughter, I might be as turned around as Rosie. Now I’m starting to understand.

  “Well… what about Josh? What does he say about all this?”

  “Just as little as possible. He’s not a stupid man. He knows better than to get between me and his mom-in-law. So it’s just her, telling me I don’t know a thing about being a mother, and me on a slow simmer like a lamb stew! I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, I tell you that.”

  “Have you tried—”

  “Talking to her? Oh, no. There’s one thing that I’ve never been able to do with Mom, and that’s talk to her. She just won’t listen. Oh, Dell, I can’t stand being at home. How horrible is that, for a daughter not to want to be around her own mother? Is that what I’m going to get from my own babes when they get older?”

  “No,” I promise her. “No, Rosie, that would never happen. You’re an amazing mother and those two boys adore you.”

  She purses her lips, and starts fiddling with the pleats on her blouse, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “I used to be the same way with my mother, too. There were times I wanted to run away, and times I wanted to scream until my head exploded. Eventually I realized my mother was a friend, not the enemy. It’ll be the same with your two. Kids grow up, Rosie.” I smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “And yours will grow up to be just like you and Josh. Kind, loving people.”

  “How can you be so sure? There’s just so much that can happen between now and when they’ve grown up, ya know?”

  “I can be sure,” I say, “because I know you. Besides. They’ve got me as their godmother, don’t they? What else could they need?”

  Laughing at my lame joke, Rosie takes my hand in both of hers and holds it up to her heart. “Oh, Dell, I’m so glad you’re here for me. You have no idea how much I needed to come back to work. I love those boys with all my heart but with my mother in my home it’s becoming a real hell for me. Er, pardon my language.”

  I laugh with her, which makes her start laughing harder, and the two of us are crying and out of breath soon enough. It felt good. It was a huge relief for her that we could share this moment together, I could tell. It might be short-lived, though. If she has to go back to her house tonight and right back into the stress she was describing… well, maybe I’d better get the staff some flak jackets.

  I imagine that’s going to be an everyday thing for her, unless we can figure some way to fix things for her. No idea what that might be, but her and me usually figure things out.

  “Come on,” I say to her once we manage to stop laughing and calm down. “Let’s go tell the staff you won’t be biting their heads off today. How’s that sound?”

  “Heh, yeah. I guess I was a tad hard on them. Think they’ll forgive me?”

  “They’re good folks. They’ll forgive you right quick as long as you apologize. Er, but making them some jelly slices to share couldn’t hurt.”

  “Ooh, yes. Too right. Nobody can stay mad when there’s jelly slices to be had. I promise I’ll try not to bring my issues to work anymore. Ugh, but when I go home tonight it’ll just start all over again. Mom will be right there, telling me nothing I do is right. I don’t know what to do, Dell.”

  “It’s your house, Rosie. Your life, and your children. Just tell her that she needs to respect that, even though you love her. She’ll understand. She’s your mother.”

  “Exactly.” Her hands gesture helplessly, trying to express her feelings. “That’s the problem right there. It shouldn’t be this hard between me and her.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder again. I feel sorry for her. Wish I knew what I could do to make things better.

  A knock on the entryway to the kitchen draws our attention. At the swinging half doors, stands my daughter.

  Carly and I had gone through a very rough time of it for years, something similar to what Rosie and her mom are having now, I suppose. We were reconciled now, and on the road to having a healthy and strong relationship again, working together here at the Inn and everything. That’s why she’s wearing a white dress shirt with her jeans today, instead of her usual t-shirt. She’s a beautiful woman in her own right, more her father’s daughter than mine with that short pixie-ish black hair and the way her jaw slants just so. Every time I look into those eyes of hers and see that unique pattern of hazel that filters to brown at the center, I’m reminded of her father. He would have loved to see what she’s turned into.

  Of course, in some ways, he has.

  “Hey, Mom, a guest just came in. Can you…?”

  “Oh, honey, can you book them in for me? Me and Rosie are still talking. Look, I wasn’t expecting anyone so if they’re just walking in off the street you know the rate, right?”

  My daughter’s been working with me at the Inn for a while now. She’s good at it, too. Makes me think that maybe I’ll have someone to hand this dream of mine down to when I finally retire or move on. My son’s the senior sergeant in the police here in town, so I doubt he’d have any interest in taking over for his mother as an Innkeeper.

  “Um.” Carly hesitates at the doorway, running her handmade copper necklace through her fingers nervously. “Would you mind coming to take care of it instead? It’s that Mister Brewster fellow. He’d like his room back and I suppose I can just give him the key but honestly… the man weirds me out.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, because I have to agree with her. Mister Brewster has been staying here with us at the Pine Lake Inn for years now, a longtime resident who pays his bill every month without fail. All of that aside, I still know virtually nothing about him other than his great ability to make people nervous.

  I do know that he hates to celebrate Christmas. That’s why he was gone for the last two weeks and why he’s coming back now looking for his room. I know his habits. He likes to keep the same room. Every time.

  “Yes, baby girl,” I tell Carly when I realize I haven’t said anything yet. “I’ll go out and take care of it. Just give me another moment, okay?”

  Carly tugs at her necklace again, but she smiles, happy to pass Mister Brewster off to me. My daughter believed that wearing metal jewelry, especially handmade stuff, brought her c
loser in tune to the natural energies of the Earth. Her earrings are dangly metal chains. There’s ten or more bangle bracelets on each wrist. I’m pretty sure she’s wearing the silver anklet I got her for Christmas under her jeans.

  She has her own sense of style, my Carly does. Not like those commonplace beauties on the cover of Marie Claire magazine. She’s her own person. I like to think I had a little to do with that, but truth be told, it’s more due to her own determination than mine.

  I’m okay with that.

  “Rosie, can you take care of things here?” I ask her. “I’ll check back with you.”

  “Sure, sure.” She sighs, and drops herself from the kitchen stool to the floor. “Go help our paying customers. I’ll do my thing and have lunch on the tables on time, I promise.”

  “Remember to apologize to them, okay?”

  “Will do. Just let me start the base for the sauce first. Dinner’s got to get to the table, no matter what.”

  That’s my Rosie.

  Out in the dining room, Carly and I hear the clatter of a metal bowl hitting the floor in the kitchen.

  “I’m okay!” Rosie calls out.

  Once we’re far enough away Carly leans over and whispers, “What does she have to apologize for?”

  “She’s just going through some things at home. Not my place to talk about it, I’m afraid.”

  “Hmph,” she complains. “You never let me in on the good stuff.”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise.”

  “I wish I could say the same about Mister Brewster.”

  “He’s a good man, honey. He’s been staying here for years and he’s never been a problem for me. He’s just a little…”

  “Creepy?”

  “I suppose that’s as good a word as any,” I admit with a little grin. “He prides himself on that, I think.”

  There at the check-in desk is our Mister Brewster, dressed in black as always. Black dress shoes. Black slacks. Black button-up under a black suitcoat. Under shaggy black hair that hangs low across his forehead, his piercing silver-gray eyes turn toward me.

  “Greetings, Miss Powers. I’m here for my room.”

  Beside me, Carly clears her throat and abruptly turns for the front door. “If you don’t need me, Mom, I’m going to take off. Drew’s waiting on me.”

  “Go ahead,” I tell her, although I doubt there’s any stopping her at this point. “Tell your boyfriend hi for me.”

  “Will do.” Then she was off with a backward wave, glad to be away from Mister Brewster, and glad to be spending the rest of the day with Drew. Maybe the night, too, the way things have been going for them. She’s an adult now, and I like that my daughter has found someone to be her soul mate, but I don’t know how I feel about her sleepovers.

  Call me old fashioned. Or, a mother.

  “Children,” Mister Brewster says abruptly, “are the joy of their parents.”

  I’m surprised to hear that from him, spoken in that deep gravelly voice of his. Like Michael Clarke Duncan with a throat full of gravel.

  “Do you have kids, Mister Brewster?”

  His smile widens, but doesn’t touch those eyes. “I do, in fact. I haven’t seen them in a very long time, but I remember every moment of raising them.”

  Interesting. In all the time I’ve known him, that might be the first personal detail of his life that I’ve ever heard.

  Looking through the sign-in book, I find the page we have reserved for permanent guests easily enough. It’s only Mister Brewster that has that privilege for the moment, although there’s been others in the past, and line after line is his signature.

  Mister Brewster.

  Mister Brewster.

  Mister Brewster.

  “Here you go.” I turn the book around for him, and hand him a pen. I keep all of our records in the computer, of course, but just like the real keys I also like to have a real book for people to write their names into.

  Which is what he does now.

  Mister Brewster.

  “Why don’t you ever write your first name?” I asked him before I could think better of it.

  He runs the tip of the pen down the page, from his first signature to the last. “Fifteen. I’ve signed your book fifteen times. Why are you only asking me about this now?”

  That’s a good question, actually. I’ve wondered about it for a while now, but Mister Brewster isn’t the sort of man you ask questions of. There’s always an aura about him—if that’s the right word—and it makes you want to turn away, not get involved in deeply meaningful conversations.

  I’ve thought of the question, and forgotten it, time and time again.

  This time, I make myself stick to the question. Seems I should have asked it before now, actually. “I’ve never heard you mention your first name before. I was just curious, I suppose.”

  His smile is frozen in place. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask. I was sure, of all the people who know me, that you would be the one to ask.”

  Well, that’s definitely an odd thing to say. I feel like I should be flattered.

  Instead I’m just sort of… weirded out, as my daughter would say.

  “Maybe I don’t have a first name,” he says to me. “Maybe all I have is my family name.”

  “Oh, come on now. Everyone has a first name.”

  “Not always.” He straightens the lapel on his jacket. “Once upon a time, all that anyone had was their family name. A single name to say who you were. It was something to be proud of. Something to own, to mark you as one thing, or the other.”

  It almost felt like a history lesson, although I wasn’t sure what he was on about. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  He shrugs, as if the answer was obvious. “I am one thing, Miss Powers. One thing, and not the other.”

  I have no idea what that means, but while I’m staring at him and trying to figure it out, someone else walks into view behind him.

  Right through the wall.

  A man of something less than average height, with a blocky face that I’ve gotten very used to seeing around the Inn. Unremarkable blue eyes. Rust colored hair that speaks of a proud Irish heritage. He’s in the same white shirt and leather suspenders that he always wears but today he’s added a rounded felt cap with a stiff brim. Well. Good to know he’s switched things up a bit.

  Lachlan Halliburton gives me a wink, standing over there by our painting of Lieutenant Governor David Collins, over by the fireplace. With a twirl and a little jig step, he leans up against the same wall that he just walked through.

  And then, his face changed.

  Not just his face, either. His entire wardrobe. He became the spitting image of Mister Brewster, standing there in all his daunting melancholy.

  Then he promptly began to dance again, which made it very hard for me not to laugh.

  I should probably explain. Lachlan is a gentleman ghost from the 1800s, one of several spirits who haunt the Pine Lake Inn. He’s here and then gone again, just as he pleases, only I’ve made it very clear that my rooms are off limits to him under penalty of exorcism. Not that I’d go that far with any of our resident ghosts unless I had to, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  In life, Lachlan was a gentleman thief. A con man. He specialized in committing robberies while wearing disguises. He never hurt anyone. No one would even know what he’d done until much later when they figured out the nice man—or woman—who took their money wasn’t who they thought.

  He was good at disguises back then. He’s better at them now.

  In the guise of Mister Brewster, he begins mimicking the man’s stiff manner of standing. His very proper demeanor. Then he began dancing the Macarena.

  I know my eyes went a little wide, but I mostly controlled my facial expression. Oh, I was going to have such a talking to with Lachlan once Mister Brewster wasn’t around to hear me. Lachlan Halliburton was going to get the worst tongue lashing that he’s ever had in this life or any—

  Mist
er Brewster half turned away from me, to face Lachlan.

  “That isn’t very nice,” he said, and his basso voice fairly vibrating through the room.

  Lachlan’s disguise of Mister Brewster faded away. No. It shredded away, under the force of that voice. Lachlan’s ghost was pushed back several feet across the floor and then he was just himself, standing there, a look of utter confusion on his face.

  Which must have matched my own.

  Did Mister Brewster just see Lachlan’s ghost? And… talk to him?

  And make him stop acting like a complete ratbag?

  Turning back to me, Mister Brewster drops the pen on the book. “Quite the collection of guests you have here at your Inn. Some of them should learn their manners.”

  He did. He did see Lachlan! Well I’ll be stuffed. How long has that been going on, I wonder.

  “By the way,” he says from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s Malik.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My first name. You asked, so I feel it’s only right that I tell you. My first name is Malik.”

  I feel a shiver going up my spine when his smile falls away. I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone named Malik. Not exactly a friendly sounding name. Not the way he said it, anyway.

  Malik Brewster. There can’t be that many people with that name around this part of the world. Maybe I should look him up…

  Just as that thought is crossing my mind someone tramps through the front door. There sure are a lot of people coming in and out, considering I thought I was done with guests checking in for the day.

  Only, this isn’t a guest. This is my son.

  Kevin Powers has been the senior sergeant of police here in Lakeshore for a fair amount of time now. Ever since we got rid of that no good senior sergeant Cutter. Never cared for that man, and our town’s a far sight better for his not being here. Haven’t heard a word from him in God knows how long, and that’s fine by me. Whenever I think of him, part of me wonders what’s become of him now.

  Then the rest of me remembers that I just don’t care. Kevin’s a better senior sergeant than Cutter ever thought of being. He’s a better man, too. Where his sister Carly got more of her father’s looks, there’s a lot of me in Kevin, including those freckles across the bridge of his nose. His bristle-short hair is auburn, like mine. His eyes are a darker shade of green and he’s a good bit taller than me, too. He grew into a strapping man that both me and his father can be proud of.