Anthony Cannero and Myron Riles were the other two members of the team working in Los Angeles. Boone called both men and told them he was going to evaluate a site for a meeting. Then he left the hotel in his rental car and turned onto the coast highway. Route One marked the transition point between the continental United States and the blue-green expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Boone felt like he was passing through a borderland with surfboard shops and seaside villas. He drove a little faster as the morning fog burned away and patches of reflected sunlight appeared on the water.
Santa Barbara was two hours north of Los Angeles. It had once been a sleepy retirement town with strict construction codes that mandated red tile roofs for every downtown building. These days, the community was an odd mixture of wealth and beach style; it was the sort of place where the women shopping in expensive boutiques wore torn jeans and T-shirts.
North of downtown, the city planners had allowed strip malls and tract developments of flimsy-looking ranch houses with stucco walls. Boone had once lived in one of those houses, but that was a different life, a different reality. He felt like he was driving slowly into his past.
Ruth’s office was in a two-story office building near the freeway. After their separation, she started working for an insurance agency and was now a licensed broker. Boone entered a waiting room where a young woman answered the phone while destroying space monsters on her computer.
“May I help you?”
“Tell Ruth that Mr. Boone is here.”
“Oh.” The receptionist stared at him as she picked up the phone.
Footsteps on the staircase, then Ruth appeared, a practical-looking woman wearing a blue pants suit and black-framed glasses. “This is a surprise,” she said cautiously.
“I guess it’s been awhile.”
“Almost eight years.”
“Can we talk?”
Ruth hesitated and then nodded slightly. “I don’t have a lot of time, but we can have some coffee.”
Boone followed his wife out the door to a nearby coffee shop where the counter girl had sea shells braided into her hair. They took their paper cups and went outside to a patio next to the parking lot.
“So why are you here, Nathan? Do you finally want a divorce?”
“No. Unless you want one. I was in Los Angeles and thought I’d drive up the coast and see you.”
“There’s only one thing I know about you. One indisputable fact. You don’t do anything without a reason.”
Should I tell her about Michael Corrigan? Boone thought. He wasn’t sure. The problem with talking to other people was that they rarely followed the script that was in your mind. “So how are you, Ruth? What’s new in your life?”
“My income went up last year. I got a speeding ticket eight months ago. But, of course, you probably know all that.”
Boone didn’t object to her statement. After he joined the Brethren, he arranged to receive monthly reports on Ruth’s phone calls. The call sheet was cross-referenced with detailed information about whoever she spoke to more than three times in a six-day period. In addition, the Norm-All program constantly evaluated Ruth’s credit card activity and compared her liquor and prescription drug purchases with the regional norm.
“I’m not talking about the
Ruth stared at him and Boone felt like he was being interrogated. “I’m fine, Nathan. I have friends. I’ve gotten into bird watching. I’m trying to lead a productive life.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“What happened to us and the other parents was like a plane crash or a car accident. I still keep in touch with some of the people from the support group. Most of us have moved on with our lives, but we were all injured in a profound way. We wake up every morning, go to work, come home and make dinner-but we’ll never be completely healed.”
“I wasn’t injured,” Boone said. “The incident
“You have to accept the past and move on.”
“I have moved on,” Boone said. “I’m going to make sure that that kind of incident will never occur again.”
Ruth touched Boone’s hand, but let go when he flinched. “I don’t know what you’re doing with the Evergreen Foundation, but it’s not going to give you what you want.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know…”
“No, I don’t!” Boone realized that he was shouting. A young man glanced at them before he entered the coffee shop.
“You want Jennifer back. She was our angel. Our precious little girl.”
Boone stood up, took a deep breath, and regained his self control. “It’s been nice seeing you again. Incidentally, my insurance policy still has you down as a beneficiary. Everything is in your name.”
Ruth fumbled with her purse, pulled out a wad of tissue, and blew her nose. “I don’t want your money.”
“Then give it away,” Boone said, and marched back to his car.
