Page 9 of In the Bones
When Blair’s voice caught her father’s attention, Woody’s head whipped around like he’d been slapped. He was in the garage working on a repair to one of the structures from the golf course, a replica of Tibbetts Point Lighthouse. Some kid had thought it would be fun to hang off the tower, and had managed to punch a hole in the roof. He’d told Blair all about it a few days ago; not only had the parents refused to pay for the repair, but they hadn’t even sprung for a freaking hot dog—and now, Woody was covered in sawdust and spray paint, working after hours to fix some out-of-towner’s careless mistake. Blair watched as he searched for a rag to wipe his hands on. The paint, the same shade as the lighthouse roof, had tinted his fingernails green.
“What do you think?” he asked, arms outstretched. “Do I look like Frankenstein?”
“You mean Frankenstein’s monster,” Blair replied. “And no, he was actually yellow.”
“No chance,” Woody said. “I’ve seen the Halloween costumes.”
“Well, I’ve read Mary Shelley’s book, and there was no mention of green.”
Shit. Her dad looked completely deflated. Why did she have to be such a wiseass? It wasn’t like she wanted to make her father feel stupid and small. It was easy to forget Woody had never gone to college, choosing instead to launch a business of his own right after high school. Blair knew how proud he was of her, all those fives on her AP exams and the scholarship offers from colleges in Texas, Indiana, California. She also knew how tough it must be to watch your kid outmaneuver you in Trivial Pursuit at age twelve.
“How was school?” he asked, giving up on the cloth and wiping his hands on his tatty cargo pants.
Pulling up a plastic storage box, Blair dropped her backpack and plunked down next to her father. Her eyes roved over the boxes, hundreds of them, stacked against the back wall of the garage. Once or twice, her dad had given the girls some stuff he’d intended to sell online. Fake Nike sweatshirts. A Gucci purse with stitching so uneven no one would believe it was real. The equivalent of hush money, because the gifts came with a demand: never, ever tell your friends. She knew he wasn’t proud of his side hustle. Marking up counterfeit shit for online buyers wasn’t the most evil thing in the world, but it made Blair nervous all the same. She wasn’t sure it was legal, or even if her mom knew exactly what Woody was doing, and she was afraid of what might happen if Aunt Maureen and her cop friends found out.
“School was fine,” she said. “Same old.”
“Good, good.” Woody’s eyes cut away, landing on a spot he’d missed on the lighthouse. Reaching for his paintbrush, he shifted his focus back to his touchup work. “I can’t believe you’ll be done soon. Ready for your last hurrah? I’ve still got some work to do on the course, but it’ll be fresh and ready when things pick up. With any luck, you can save up a grand for spending money.”
Blair’s smile faded on her lips. She’d been working at the mini putt course since she was in the ninth grade. She had loved the people-watching; even if they were only from downstate or somewhere normal like Pennsylvania, the summer people saw Blair’s world differently. They’d rave about prime rib and lobster tail dinners, boat tours, the startling beauty of the river—all things she often overlooked. Hearing that praise used to make her proud. But the idea of spending three months surrounded by homemade props and balding turf and ending the summer with a thousand bucks at most was depressing.
“Dad?” Blair said.
“Hm?”
“Is everything OK with you and Mom?”
Woody had once told Blair he’d been terrified of fatherhoodbefore she was born, convinced he didn’t know a thing about raising a family. As it turned out, he was great at it, a master swaddler and burper who could soothe the girls no matter what had caused their crying. Later, he wasthat dad, the one who built forts and got right in the sandbox with you. He’d take Blair and Alana to the mini putt after closing, holding Mom’s hand on the bench by the wind turbine while the kids ran wild on the empty course. He’d told Blair all of this after catching her topless in the basement with Nash, whose face had gone so white Blair worried he was going to pass out. She’d been expecting the speech about sex and drugs, the one her mom gave her years prior, but Dad had gotten weirdly nostalgic.Make good choices, he’d said.The bad ones follow you forever.
That same night, Blair had heard her parents arguing, their voices low and tight. She figured the fight was about her behavior, but it happened again and again. Blair tried to put it out of her mind, hoping that ignoring it would make it go away. Recently, though, the arguments had ended with the torturous sound of her mom sobbing, and Blair was officially freaking out.
“Everything’s fine,” said Woody. “Why would you even ask me that? We’re all good, Blair. Of course we are.”
He was doing that thing where he gazed at her like she was a painting on a museum wall. Every now and then, he’d comment on how little Blair and Alana looked like him. The sisters got the McIntyre genes, apparently, and that had bothered Blair when she was small and no one believed that Woody was her dad. She didn’t care about that now. He was here, and he was hers, and that was more than Blair’s mom and aunt had when they were young.
“OK,” Blair said. “It’s just, you guys have been acting strange lately.”
“You’re leaving soon,” he said. “Everyone’s struggling with that. We’re going to miss you like hell around here.” The words sounded oddly rehearsed. He reached over and patted her knee.
Maybe that was it. In three months, Blair would be leaving for college. She hadn’t thought that much about how herdeparture would affect her family, focused as she was on her own emotions. She wasn’t going to be alone, not now that Nash was coming too, but Mom and Dad and Alana had nothing to fill the hole she’d leave behind. It made sense that they’d be upset. Firstborn, moving out of the house. That was a lot for parents to deal with.
“I’m not going far,” Blair assured him. “And I’ll visit a ton.”
“You better, kiddo.”
Her dad had a great face, fleshy and weathered in all the right ways, and his smile swallowed his eyes. “OK then. I’ll see you inside,” Blair said.
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
Glancing back on her way out of the garage, Blair caught sight of her dad. The paint on his brush had gone tacky, the bristles sticky and stiff, but Woody dabbed at the lighthouse anyway, his eyes on his green-tinted hands.
TEN
Mac
Mac’s foot made contact with the door, the impact tingling the toes inside her loafers. It wasn’t ideal, announcing herself in this way, but her arms were full and the old Victorian house lacked a doorbell, not that she had a free hand to ring it anyway. She kicked again, a little harder, and realized her mistake. The wail her banging had triggered was piercing, loud enough to wake the dead.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered when Tim Wellington opened the door. The man had remarkably thick eyebrows that could have provoked ridicule but—coupled with his muscular build and arresting gray-blue eyes—actually gave Tim an air of approachability that invited trust. At the moment, those eyebrows were arched. “Jesus, I’m an idiot.”
