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  Sally pretended to have her mouth too full for speech.

  "Walt's going to try to get him to work on the booths for the May Fest. Since Leo Plum went back to Reno, he's short a man on the committee."

  "That's nice." Sally was not sure she wanted to have a conversation about Gus Loring. She'd forgotten how much of a gossip Milly was. The woman knew as much about what was going on in Whiterock as Georgina did, but was much less discreet about telling what she knew than the café owner.

  "He's a good-looking man," Milly went on between bites. "I swear, I've never seen hair that red in all my born days. Have you?"

  "It certainly is unusual," Sally agreed.

  Her lunch inhaled, Milly started clearing the table.

  "Ardith Cowles called. She wants to bring over the ribbons for the maypole today. Maybe you could help me get them all measured and rolled?" Sally's mother had always cut the ribbons, because her dining room table could be extended with leaves to nearly fifteen feet long. It was a simple matter to measure the wide ribbons when they could be laid out almost flat.

  Sally choked down one last bite of salad, feeling her entire too-quickly-eaten lunch congeal into a hard lump in her stomach.

  "I'm pretty busy." Hearing her voice, she winced at the slight whine in it, "but I guess I could help you set up the table." She didn't want to get pulled into the rhythm of everyday life in Whiterock, didn't want people thinking she was any more than a visitor.

  After helping Milly, she escaped into her sewing room. She really was busier than usual, what with Rhoda's dress and Ben Kemp's fancy shirt of matching fabric. She had to smile. If Bill Holmes had been embarrassed to wear a loose, flowing shirt made of natural cotton, plain and unadorned, how did Ben feel about a pink satin, ruffled-sleeved, flamenco-styled shirt? Had he had any say in the matter?

  * * * *

  Gus paid little attention to all the talk about the May Fest. There was seldom reference to any held after 2006, and he gathered the most recent ones had been less exciting and successful than those held in the past.

  One day at lunch, Roy Gilbert—Gus still thought of him as Stocky Man—who always sat on his right in the café, mentioned that Walt Kemp was looking for volunteers.

  "They'll help build and set up the food and game booths," Roy said. "Nothing fancy. Just plastic stretched over wooden frames."

  "I'll think about it." Gus had no intention of volunteering for anything. The last thing he needed was to get sucked up into civic activities.

  Within a couple of days, he realized he had no choice in the matter. If you lived and worked in Whiterock, you worked on the May Fest.

  "I can swing a hammer," he told Roy, the next time the subject came up, "but that's about all."

  "How about the prizes committee?" Roy said, as he dug into a slice of rhubarb-strawberry pie. "We need somebody to canvass the merchants in Ontario for donations."

  "You're kidding! Roy, there are probably a few folks in town with worse people skills than I have but not many."

  It stung that Roy simply nodded his agreement. Once Gus had been fairly successful at marketing, although never as good as Roger.

  "Well, we'll find a place for you. There's never enough willing hands." Roy pushed his empty plate away and left.

  But Gus was not to be left in peace. A few minutes later Walt Kemp slid into Roy's seat.

  "I've got a vacancy on the clean-up committee." He nodded at Georgina, who was holding up the coffee carafe. "Seeing as how you're new in town, I figured you'd want to be free during the day, so you could take in the May Fest."

  "Walt, I can't—"

  "That maypole dance is something to see. The kids work real hard to get it right." He addressed the plate Georgina set in front of him. After a few bites, he said, "We're gettin' together after work tonight at the Chalk Pit, to get the committees set up. You might find something else you'd rather do."

  Gus tried again. "Walt, I'm not much at—"

  "Bernie tells me you're the best shop manager he's ever had. Glad to hear that. It's time he had somebody around to depend on. Now he can get a little fishing in, come summer."

  Gus gave up. "I'll see you this evening." As if I had a choice.

  Whether he liked it or not, he was being caught up into community life, something he'd managed to avoid for three years. There was no quicker route to being needed than to belong.

  Well, he'd help out at the May Fest, since it was for a good cause. And he'd do a good job for Bernie. But otherwise, he'd keep to himself, stay well out of the social life of Whiterock. Folks around here would learn soon enough that there wasn't much of the milk of human kindness in him.

  * * * *

  "Owww! Pop, please! Don't fight me." Sally did her best to hold her father in his bed, but it was like trying to hold a wild animal. He pulled away and rolled out the other side of the high hospital bed, landing with a solid thump. Sounds poured from his mouth in an obscene stream, unconnected syllables mixed with curses.

  As he scrabbled across the floor, she caught him by one ankle. His other foot whacked her on the cheek, making her head ring. She held on, soon caught his wrist.

  "Pop! Pop, damn it, calm down. Please!" With both arms around him, she tried to hold him still.

  He caught her under the chin with his shoulder as he made one last lunge before going completely limp in her arms. She held him while she caught her breath and worked her tongue gingerly over her molars. They all seemed unbroken, thank goodness.

  Although he had lost considerable weight, it still took all her strength to get him into bed.

  "Why couldn't you have relaxed ten minutes ago," she muttered, tucking a leg under the covers. She pulled the blanket up under his chin and gave it a pat. "I sure hope you sleep well tonight. I don't think I could do that again."

  At the door she paused, looking back. In the beam of light from the hall, his face seemed younger, as if the signs of age were disappearing along with his memories.

  "Oh, Pop," she murmured, "I wish..."

  Sally left the wish unspoken. Some wishes should never be made.

  Later, she sat on the front steps and just listened to the stillness. It helped her to deal with her resentment and the guilt it caused.

  She had made the choice to stay with Pop, freely and with love. She was still here out of love—and duty. No one was forcing her to keep him in his beloved home. No one forbade her to go back and pick up her career. There was enough money. She could put Pop in a home—there were some well-run, almost luxurious ones in Vale and Ontario—and close up the house.

  The only reason she didn't was that she loved him and believed he was better off in the place he'd always called home.

  So why did she resent his every demand on her time?

  Tonight he'd been little more than a lump, having to be fed, drooling every other bite out over his chin. She'd practically had to carry him to his bed. Getting him into his pajamas had been like pushing a rope. And as soon as his head had hit the pillow, he'd become frenetic.

  While she was fighting him, she'd wanted to scream, to strike out at him, to go away and leave him alone and unattended.

  My God! No wonder some people abuse or abandon their parents.

  She buried her face in her hands, shocked at her thoughts, and ashamed. She did love Pop. She would never mistreat him, never abandon him. No matter how long he lived, she would always be here, keeping him in the family home, giving him the best care she could.

  Because she owed him.

  Because he was her father.

  Because she loved him.

  She removed the cloth from her face, twisting it to wring out the water from the melting ice cubes. Prodding the swollen flesh with a gentle finger, she decided it had stopped swelling. With luck her eye would be open enough to allow her to see to sew tomorrow.

  If it wasn't, she'd just have to call Frank Tsugawa and tell him why the three prom dresses he'd sent her for hemming weren't ready. And she hated to do that, since
they weren't ready because she'd chosen to work on Rhoda's dress instead. It had been months since she'd had an entire garment to work on, so she'd decided to treat herself. There was nothing quite so boring as taking in and letting out waistlines, lengthening and shortening skirts and pants.

  Sally had kept on with her mother's little mending business because she needed something to do. The first year she'd been home she'd also helped with the junior class play over at Vale High School. While designing and making the costumes for a small-town production of Auntie Mame wasn't quite the same as designing the entire wardrobe for a Seattle Opera production, she'd enjoyed herself. And the kids had been a lot of fun—enthusiastic and innovative.

  The next year Pop had been just bad enough she couldn't leave him for any extended period, and she'd been reluctant to call on her neighbors, who'd already been so unselfish during her mother's final weeks. When the drama coach again asked for help, she'd reluctantly refused.

  By the time she got back to her career, would she even have the spark of creativity necessary to lift her above the ordinary? With each year that passed, she felt it slipping away, fading from lack of use.

  She raised her head at a faint sound from the road. Listening, she heard another, then a third. For a brief moment, she felt the urge to flee indoors, as she would have in Seattle, where the night was no longer safe.

  But this was Whiterock. Anyone walking along its gravel streets was a resident, someone she'd probably known all her life. She was all but invisible, hidden in the shadows of her front porch. The gibbous moon's pale light could reach only halfway up the steps.

  He appeared out of the night, silhouetted against the star-studded sky. She recognized the profile, sharp, with a strong nose and stubborn chin, and the shoulders, wider than most men's. She would have known it was Gus, even if she hadn't seen him, for his very presence sped her heart's pace, robbed her of breath, sent waves of heat through her body until each nerve ending quivered, waiting to be stimulated.

  Her mouth went into motion before her brain was in gear.

  "Nice night for a walk," she called.

  He stopped, dead still. Turned. Peered into the dark, although she didn't know who else he expected to see sitting on her front steps at eleven at night.

  "Come walk with me." His voice was velvety, enticing. "It's too nice a night to waste."

  Sally didn't acknowledge the mental voice that told her she was setting herself up for a fall. She just smiled. "Just a minute, while I check on my father."

  Pop was sleeping soundly. Surely he'd be all right if she escaped for a little while. He'd never awakened once his pill took effect.

  She grabbed a sweater from the hall tree and stepped back outside.

  "The creek's running high," Gus said when she joined him at the edge of the road, "and the bats are hunting in the park."

  He took her hand, and once again the contact shot through her body like a jolt from a live electric wire. She did her best to ignore it, and forced her voice to remain steady.

  "I used to go down to the park when I was a kid and listen to the creek sing."

  "We had a brook," he said, as they walked along Fifth Avenue, "on my grandfather's farm. It had some ordinary name—Hayden's or Hardin's or something—but to me it was always the Singing Brook because of the way it sounded as it bounced along on its rocky bed."

  His voice was soft, thick with memories. It lacked the harsh note she'd often heard in it before.

  "Hackberry Creek used to be dammed for a small grain mill," she told him. "My great-grandfather built it. The rocks that make it sing are all that's left."

  The mill had been torn down long before she was born, but somewhere, in a box in the attic, were old sepia-toned photographs of it when it ground all the grain for Whiterock, Harper and Westfall.

  Their footsteps slowed as they approached Main Street. At this time of night there was no need to watch for traffic, but both stopped and looked both ways before crossing.

  The elk's antlers held sparkles of moonlight at their tips. It stood tall and stalwart, guarding the entrance to the park as it had for almost three-quarters of a century. Sally was glad someone had decided to restore it.

  I wonder why I didn't hear about it.

  "Do they ever have concerts there in the summer?" Gus waved in the direction of the old bandshell.

  "No, not anymore. It's not..." Sally looked again. She would have sworn she'd seen gaping holes in the stucco facade the last time she'd been here, but the roof was intact, the facade unbroken. Oh, the paint was streaked, and the two old-fashioned light sconces held only broken globes and gaping sockets, but those could be easily fixed. "Not for a long time," she amended.

  I'm not crazy! I just wasn't paying attention. She hadn't really looked closely at the bandshell the last time she'd walked here, that was all. And who was to say her own sense of devastation hadn't colored her perception of the world around her?

  She looked again.

  "Gus, you're around town more than I am. Has anyone said anything about fixing up the park?"

  "Just that they had a work party a couple of weekends ago, to spruce up after the winter."

  That must be it. They'd fixed the elk, patched the bandshell. She really hadn't been imagining the deterioration.

  They walked the twisting path until they came to the arched bridge across Little Hackberry Creek. The intermittent stream chuckled and gurgled to itself in a quiet little song whose notes were almost lost in the unrestrained hilarity of the larger stream as it tumbled over the rocks. Instead of continuing, Gus stopped at the top of the arch. He released her hand and leaned on the rail.

  Bats swooped between the trees, briefly appearing in the light from the ornate lampposts along the path. She imagined she heard their almost inaudible calls as they hunted, dipped into the creek to drink and returned to pursue yet another insect attracted by the lights.

  She leaned beside Gus, not quite touching him but comfortable in his nearness. The powerful awareness she felt whenever she was anywhere close to him had not faded but was simmering, just beneath the surface. Ready to burst into full boil with the slightest incentive.

  "Tell me about this May Fest," he said, his voice still quiet and soft.

  "It used to be really grand." Closing her eyes, she pictured the May Fest as she remembered it. "When I was a little girl, I could hardly wait until I was in first grade, so I'd be old enough to dance around the maypole. One year—oh, I guess it was my second or third year of dancing—the TV station in Boise sent a crew over to film us. We were on the evening news."

  She still remembered how thrilled everyone had been. They'd closed the carnival for an hour so everyone could go home or to the street in front of Peterson's Furniture, with its window full of a dozen TV sets, and watch the news.

  And now Peterson's Furniture was boarded up, and the children she'd danced with were grown and gone—away from Whiterock.

  Gus turned sideways and leaned one elbow on the rail. "I've read about maypole dancing, but I've never seen it."

  She felt his gaze on her face and was glad her bruised cheek was on the other side. He hadn't noticed it yet and perhaps he wouldn't in the dark.

  "It's practically a lost art. I don't know if we did it right, but we did have fun." In spite of herself, she was almost looking forward to the May Fest. "I haven't been to one for a long time, since I was in high school, I guess." That had to be why she couldn't remember hearing about recent celebrations. She hadn't been in the mood for fun, so she simply blanked them out of her mind. "But I don't imagine they've changed any. Everyone takes turns working the booths, so nobody misses too much. We get a lot of people from nearby towns, and a few from farther away, like Burns and Boise."

  "Are you going this year?" He'd moved closer, until he was looming over her, almost touching her.

  She shrugged. "I don't know. A lot depends on how Pop is that day." She allowed her head to fall forward, her back to relax, until she was slumped ove
r the rail. "I still don't feel much like a party, and that's what the May Fest is. A big party."

  "Any chance of your changing your mind?" Now his voice was even softer. It tempted her, even as his arm slipped around her waist. "Show a little hospitality to a stranger in town, perhaps?"

  His fingers tilted her chin up, and she had not the strength—nor the inclination—to resist.

  "I...Pop...I'll see if someone can come in..." She stopped stammering her capitulation as his fingers tightened on her chin and he turned her head to the side.

  "Who did that to you?" he demanded, his voice no longer soft, but hard and insistent. His fingers touched her swollen cheek, soothing rather than hurting. A faint tingle seemed to radiate from the point of contact.

  "Pop," she said. "Pop did it."

  INTERVAL

  Useless Carruthers deterioration virtually complete, no further benefit obtainable. Difficult to maintain contact.

  Potential hazard to replacement?

  Terminate association?

  Energy trickle from Loring anger. Inadequate for survival, but advantageous to environmental enhancement.

  Long term use contraindicated. Undependable and erratic...

  Possible reserve for translocation of mineral salts, however. Consider...

  Utilize all feasible resources to prevent dissociation...

  NINE

  "Your own father blacked your eye?" Gus felt murderous rage that a father could so abuse his own daughter.

  "Wait!" She fought to free her chin from his grasp. "Please. Listen to me. He didn't mean to."

  Aware that he held her tightly enough to leave a few bruises himself, he released her, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his chest. While all he'd wanted from her a few minutes ago was a kiss or two, now he wanted her trust. Senile or not, if her father was abusing her, she needed his help.

  "Tell me," he commanded, and wondered why he cared so much.

  "Sometimes Pop gets violent." Her words vibrated against his chest. "He's a gentle man. You know, he never spanked me when I was growing up, rarely even scolded me."