Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

She was always working, always strategizing. She’d exhausted me since I was a kid, and especially then because I had no way of creating distance from her. I wondered if she’d exhausted herself. Maybe, in some deep corner of her mind, loneliness and boredom felt like a soothing break.

I didn’t hold out much hope of that.

“I’m okay I guess,” she said, followed by a long-suffering sigh. “I joined a pinochle club. It meets every Monday.”

My eyebrows rose. “That’s good.” She’d always enjoyed socializing.

She moved her finger idly along the edge of the counter. “And I’m seeing someone.” She waved her hand around as though dismissing the importance of her own comment. “It’s casual. He’s older. Just someone to pass the time with.”

“That’s good, Mom,” I said. “Finding people to pass the time with is good.” I’d bet anything he was quite a bit older. And rich.

Possibly hooked up to oxygen, or in hospice care.

Nasty thought, Hale.

Why did I always let my mother bring out the worst in me?

But as long as he was a mentally functional, consenting adult, I’d consider it a positive. Maybe if she got herself more of a life, she’d stop calling me for every little thing that barely needed fixed or replaced in her apartment.

“Yes, yes. Listen, Travis.” She walked from the open kitchen to a writing desk in the attached living room area. There was a stack of photo albums and file folders sitting to the side. She picked up the folder on top. “I found these albums and papers in the bottom of a box that I thought was mostly junk. I’ve been reading through the bylaws from Pelion’s founding in 1724. I think there are a couple ways you might challenge Archer’s right to the—”

“Okay, then,” I said dismissively, picking up my toolbox and walking around her toward the front door.

“Wait!”

I stopped, turning toward her. “Give it a rest, Victoria. God, please, for once in your life, just give it a rest.”

She flinched slightly at my use of her given name. “I’m only looking out for you,” she said weakly. “What happened wasn’t fair and—”

“It was fair, Mom. And more than that, Archer’s good at running the town. Pelion is thriving. The citizens are happy. I wouldn’t take it away from him—or from them—even if there was a foolproof way to do it.”

She waved the folder around, looking confused and flustered. “You can’t be happy living on a public servant’s salary alone, Travis, deprived of the things we used to have, privileges that I believe are rightfully yours.”

I was suddenly weary. She did that. She made me feel tired to my marrow. She obviously saw that I had no intention of answering her questions and so she thrust the folder at me. “Here. Along with the bylaws regarding town ownership and legal paraphernalia I just discovered, there are all kinds of things in here that belonged to your father . . . certificates, awards he won. As far as the legal documents, they’re all original. Just look it all over. When you see what I’ve highlighted, I think you’ll understand the line of my thought. See if you agree.”

All kinds of things in here that belonged to your father.

I took the photo albums and the file folder of my father’s papers when she held them out to me, unable to resist that which my father had once touched. Something, anything, that I might have a right to even as second best. His handwriting . . . I couldn’t even remember what his handwriting looked like. A scrawled note. A photograph I’d never seen. Something. I held it tightly to me as though a part of him might live inside these dusty pages. “Goodbye, Mom,” I said, walking out and closing the door behind me. And for God’s sake, drop this, I wanted to say, but I had a well-earned feeling that it wouldn’t make a difference what I said. Tori Hale still felt wronged. It wasn’t about me at all. It never had been.





CHAPTER NINETEEN




Travis



The air was still and muggy, not a whisper of breeze off the lake. I rolled the cold beer bottle across my forehead, sighing at the momentary relief. The porch swing creaked under my weight as I used one foot to move it idly, taking a sip of the cheap beer, the only kind Betty offered. It was still welcomed, as was the peace of this front porch, away from the hooch-drunk revelers joined together for social hour. It sounded like they were involved in a rowdy game of charades, although that couldn’t be right, because they’d never leave Burt out and blind men wouldn’t be a team asset when it came to charades. Whatever it was, there were lots of distant hoots and hollers.

I used my toe to give myself another small push. A fish jumped in the water beyond, its small splash leaving ripples on the deep blue surface of the water.

“Lonely, mister?”

My lips tipped and I turned my head slightly. I didn’t need to see her to know who it was. She pushed the screen door open, stepping forward into the dim light of the covered porch. She leaned a hip on one of the columns near the steps and turned my way. “And you look like you’re thinking very hard about something,” she noted.

I gave a half-hearted smile. “I went to see my mother today. She inspires reflection.” I held up my beer. “And alcohol.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, studying me. After a moment, she looked away, seeming to be wrestling with something. “I . . . uh”—she picked at a splinter on the wooden railing—“I looked up the town today . . . read more about the Hale family history.” She paused, finally meeting my gaze. “I hope you don’t consider it a breach of privacy.”