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Authors: Christy Evans
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was sad he was dead—we had been close once—but I could stop thinking about him for a little while.
A very little while.
chapter 10
I arrived home with a better attitude, freshly groomed dogs, and a feeling of accomplishment. The thumb drive problem had turned out to be a simple conflict caused by connecting two drives at the same time. All I had to do was disconnect the other drive, and everything was fine.
I thought about what might have caused the problem as I fed the dogs and checked the refrigerator for dinner.
Same stuff that was there at lunchtime, plus a fresh loaf of whole wheat from Katie’s sitting on the counter. I’d stopped in after I’d solved Sue’s computer issue.
The stale bread gave me an idea. A quick check of the cupboard turned up cinnamon and vanilla. With eggs and stale bread I had French toast, and the dregs of the marmalade would substitute for syrup.
My mother would be proud.
The pan was hot, and I had just put the first bread slices in when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was familiar.
San Francisco.
Another ghost.
I let the phone play its cheery ringtone. I knew the call would ruin my mood, and my evening. I could just let it go to voice mail, and worry about it later. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
But if I did that there was a good chance that the ghost, whoever he was, would show up in Pine Ridge. Ignoring the call wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, I’d obsess about it the rest of the evening if I didn’t pick up.
“Hello.”
“Is this Georgiana Neverall?” The voice was vaguely familiar. I had heard it before, but it was older and deeper than I remembered.
“Speaking.”
“Georgie! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?” This time, the voice squeaked a little at the end, and a face attached itself to the memory.
Richard Parks. He was an intern at Samurai, a student from the local community college with too little money and a terrifying talent. I swore the boy dreamed in machine code, the way fluent foreign language students dreamed in French or German. Within his first week I had realized he could have my job if he wanted it.
I wondered if he did.
“Richard?” I asked.
“Yeah, Georgie, it’s me! It’s really good to talk to you again. I mean, the circumstances and all, that’s not so cool, in fact it’s really terrible. But I just never thought we’d hear from you, after you took that buyout and moved away. And then Blake called and said he’d run into you in some tiny town up in Oregon, but he hadn’t got a chance to talk to you.”
Richard’s words rushed out, piling on top of one another, and threatened to overwhelm me. It took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in.
“Buyout?”
“Oh! I’m not supposed to know about that, am I? Forget I said it, okay? It was just that everybody knew, and it’s been a long time, and . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What are you talking about, Richard? And how did you get my cell number anyway?”
“From the sheriff. He called here about Blake, and I might have mentioned that I knew you and did he know how I could get in touch with you, since I knew you were up there.” I could picture Richard’s baby face—heck, he was a baby—with a blush creeping up his neck. Richard may have been a computer genius, but he was still just an awkward kid.
“Blake told you he ran into me?” I was still trying to process the torrent of words.
“He said he bumped into you in a local restaurant. Told Stan Fischer he didn’t get much chance to talk, but he figured he’d see you later and catch up. That’s all I heard, but I know Stan talked to him a couple times.”
I remembered Stan Fischer all too well—the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of the investors, and one of the architects of my ouster. The legend was he’d made his money working the Alaska pipeline in the seventies, and come back to California to invest it. He’d done well, but money and age
A very little while.
chapter 10
I arrived home with a better attitude, freshly groomed dogs, and a feeling of accomplishment. The thumb drive problem had turned out to be a simple conflict caused by connecting two drives at the same time. All I had to do was disconnect the other drive, and everything was fine.
I thought about what might have caused the problem as I fed the dogs and checked the refrigerator for dinner.
Same stuff that was there at lunchtime, plus a fresh loaf of whole wheat from Katie’s sitting on the counter. I’d stopped in after I’d solved Sue’s computer issue.
The stale bread gave me an idea. A quick check of the cupboard turned up cinnamon and vanilla. With eggs and stale bread I had French toast, and the dregs of the marmalade would substitute for syrup.
My mother would be proud.
The pan was hot, and I had just put the first bread slices in when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was familiar.
San Francisco.
Another ghost.
I let the phone play its cheery ringtone. I knew the call would ruin my mood, and my evening. I could just let it go to voice mail, and worry about it later. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
But if I did that there was a good chance that the ghost, whoever he was, would show up in Pine Ridge. Ignoring the call wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, I’d obsess about it the rest of the evening if I didn’t pick up.
“Hello.”
“Is this Georgiana Neverall?” The voice was vaguely familiar. I had heard it before, but it was older and deeper than I remembered.
“Speaking.”
“Georgie! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?” This time, the voice squeaked a little at the end, and a face attached itself to the memory.
Richard Parks. He was an intern at Samurai, a student from the local community college with too little money and a terrifying talent. I swore the boy dreamed in machine code, the way fluent foreign language students dreamed in French or German. Within his first week I had realized he could have my job if he wanted it.
I wondered if he did.
“Richard?” I asked.
“Yeah, Georgie, it’s me! It’s really good to talk to you again. I mean, the circumstances and all, that’s not so cool, in fact it’s really terrible. But I just never thought we’d hear from you, after you took that buyout and moved away. And then Blake called and said he’d run into you in some tiny town up in Oregon, but he hadn’t got a chance to talk to you.”
Richard’s words rushed out, piling on top of one another, and threatened to overwhelm me. It took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in.
“Buyout?”
“Oh! I’m not supposed to know about that, am I? Forget I said it, okay? It was just that everybody knew, and it’s been a long time, and . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What are you talking about, Richard? And how did you get my cell number anyway?”
“From the sheriff. He called here about Blake, and I might have mentioned that I knew you and did he know how I could get in touch with you, since I knew you were up there.” I could picture Richard’s baby face—heck, he was a baby—with a blush creeping up his neck. Richard may have been a computer genius, but he was still just an awkward kid.
“Blake told you he ran into me?” I was still trying to process the torrent of words.
“He said he bumped into you in a local restaurant. Told Stan Fischer he didn’t get much chance to talk, but he figured he’d see you later and catch up. That’s all I heard, but I know Stan talked to him a couple times.”
I remembered Stan Fischer all too well—the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of the investors, and one of the architects of my ouster. The legend was he’d made his money working the Alaska pipeline in the seventies, and come back to California to invest it. He’d done well, but money and age
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