doesn’t bother me in the least. And he’s not alone in his attitude. I’ve found it all over the U.S. Californians are weird.”
“But you aren’t really one, are you? Didn’t you say you’d lived in every state except Nebraska and Ohio?” It had been a throwaway comment over lunch, and when she’d tried to go back to it earlier, Jase had steered the conversation down another alley.
“That’s right,” he said, his tone nonchalant. “But I’m all Californian now, so there must be something wrong with me. I mean, who in his right mind would live on a geological fault and shrug off the idea that the entire western edge of the state could end up in the Pacific Ocean in the blink of an eye?”
“Makes a person wonder, doesn’t it? And don’t forget, we live with that same danger right here. Every year there’s a measurable difference in the height of two slabs of bedrock on Vancouver Island—right over there.” She gestured at the lights of Nanaimo, the city across the Strait of Georgia. “If the Island falls into two big pieces, there’s going to be one unholy big splash and the resulting tsunami is going to wipe us right out. But do we care? Nah. Living here’s worth it.”
Slipping her hand out of his, she asked, “Why are you so reluctant to talk about your childhood, Jase? I mean, especially to me. After all, I shared a few months of it.” And why, she wondered, was she pressing him to do what she couldn’t do in return?
Because, she had to acknowledge, she wanted to know him better, wanted to understand what made Jase O’Keefe tick.
It was more important than she liked.
He shrugged and came to a halt on the side of the path where rough-cut logs formed five steps down to the beach.
“It wasn’t such a great childhood,” he answered at last. “What’s to talk about?”
He said nothing more, and they stood silent, listening to the slow, lazy swells curl and wash up over the gravel, then recede, rolling pebbles out with them in a gentle, rattling sound. Overhead, a three-quarter moon on the wane shone down between straggling, wind-streaked clouds. Shell turned off the flashlight, and as her eyes adjusted, she could see the waves on the beach, black with shining edges, gleaming under the moon. The marker on White Islet, half a mile offshore, blinked monotonously, warning ships away.
To get a little, she thought, you have to give a little.
“As you might have gathered from the conversation today,” she said, “my childhood wasn’t exactly modeled on a TV sitcom family, either. At least your parents were married to each other. I didn’t even know I had a father, let alone who he was, until I was ten and we moved up here.”
He took her hand again and, still holding it, slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Mine weren’t married very long. They divorced when I was five, Jenny four, and Marcus about two. After that, they traded us back and forth as if none of us mattered much more than the family camping gear, which also traveled from household to household when it was needed.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Jase … I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I came to terms with it long ago. My dad called it ‘getting along,’ my mother, ‘dealing with reality.’ ” He laughed, to show he really didn’t care, though Shell knew he did. “Joint custody,” he added. “What a crock. The courts that order it never ask the kids if they want to be human Ping-Pong balls. The only normalcy in my life was the times I spent with my grandmother.”
“Such as that summer we played together? Your brother and sister weren’t there. Why?”
“Because Jenny was with Dad, and Marcus was with Mom. I rebelled, so they sent me to Gran to get ‘straightened out.’ ”
“Did it work?”
He chuckled. “Not appreciably. How about you? How did you and your mother come to be in Rhode Island that summer? Lil said she worked in the Los Angeles area.”
“Why, uh, I guess we were … on
“But you aren’t really one, are you? Didn’t you say you’d lived in every state except Nebraska and Ohio?” It had been a throwaway comment over lunch, and when she’d tried to go back to it earlier, Jase had steered the conversation down another alley.
“That’s right,” he said, his tone nonchalant. “But I’m all Californian now, so there must be something wrong with me. I mean, who in his right mind would live on a geological fault and shrug off the idea that the entire western edge of the state could end up in the Pacific Ocean in the blink of an eye?”
“Makes a person wonder, doesn’t it? And don’t forget, we live with that same danger right here. Every year there’s a measurable difference in the height of two slabs of bedrock on Vancouver Island—right over there.” She gestured at the lights of Nanaimo, the city across the Strait of Georgia. “If the Island falls into two big pieces, there’s going to be one unholy big splash and the resulting tsunami is going to wipe us right out. But do we care? Nah. Living here’s worth it.”
Slipping her hand out of his, she asked, “Why are you so reluctant to talk about your childhood, Jase? I mean, especially to me. After all, I shared a few months of it.” And why, she wondered, was she pressing him to do what she couldn’t do in return?
Because, she had to acknowledge, she wanted to know him better, wanted to understand what made Jase O’Keefe tick.
It was more important than she liked.
He shrugged and came to a halt on the side of the path where rough-cut logs formed five steps down to the beach.
“It wasn’t such a great childhood,” he answered at last. “What’s to talk about?”
He said nothing more, and they stood silent, listening to the slow, lazy swells curl and wash up over the gravel, then recede, rolling pebbles out with them in a gentle, rattling sound. Overhead, a three-quarter moon on the wane shone down between straggling, wind-streaked clouds. Shell turned off the flashlight, and as her eyes adjusted, she could see the waves on the beach, black with shining edges, gleaming under the moon. The marker on White Islet, half a mile offshore, blinked monotonously, warning ships away.
To get a little, she thought, you have to give a little.
“As you might have gathered from the conversation today,” she said, “my childhood wasn’t exactly modeled on a TV sitcom family, either. At least your parents were married to each other. I didn’t even know I had a father, let alone who he was, until I was ten and we moved up here.”
He took her hand again and, still holding it, slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Mine weren’t married very long. They divorced when I was five, Jenny four, and Marcus about two. After that, they traded us back and forth as if none of us mattered much more than the family camping gear, which also traveled from household to household when it was needed.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Jase … I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I came to terms with it long ago. My dad called it ‘getting along,’ my mother, ‘dealing with reality.’ ” He laughed, to show he really didn’t care, though Shell knew he did. “Joint custody,” he added. “What a crock. The courts that order it never ask the kids if they want to be human Ping-Pong balls. The only normalcy in my life was the times I spent with my grandmother.”
“Such as that summer we played together? Your brother and sister weren’t there. Why?”
“Because Jenny was with Dad, and Marcus was with Mom. I rebelled, so they sent me to Gran to get ‘straightened out.’ ”
“Did it work?”
He chuckled. “Not appreciably. How about you? How did you and your mother come to be in Rhode Island that summer? Lil said she worked in the Los Angeles area.”
“Why, uh, I guess we were … on
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