Small-Town Secrets

“You wanted to talk to me?” Adam had ignored his dad’s phone call, but it was harder to ignore the man.

“Sit down.”

Adam reminded himself that he was a foot taller than his dad and that he’d been living on his own a long time: two years working at BAA and five years in three different states as a well-paid muralist.

But all he could remember was that every time he was called into his dad’s office, whether it was here at Snapp’s Studio or at home, he would hear how displeased his father was with him. Adam had sat through hundreds of lectures grilling him on grades that were never the best, goals that were not met and how in the Snapp household everyone had a job.

Problem was, the job his dad wanted him to do and the job Adam had been born to do were two different things. Choosing a paintbrush over a “reliable” career had put the two men on opposite sides, and neither was willing to swim to the other.

Until Dad got sick.

“It’s good to have you home,” Dad said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Adam started to remind his dad that this was temporary, but stopped himself. Adam had had five years to miss his family and to consider the real meaning of home.

“It’s good to be home.”

One thing his ex-girlfriend Stacey had taught him was that home was temporary and love wasn’t always unconditional. To some it was the means to an end.

Now, though, his dad needed him. Dad had injured his back three months ago at the studio. He still moved slowly, and a wrong move would put him in bed. But then a blood test had turned up something more serious: pancreatic cancer. His parents had been very optimistic about treatment and recovery, but Adam hadn’t thought twice about coming home. He wanted to see the world and work a career he loved, but he could put his family first for a while.

Taking a deep breath, Adam reminded himself to keep thinking as positively as his parents, because thinking any other way made the truth all too clear.

His father could die.

So until his dad’s health returned, Adam would teach the classes that his brother and the other instructor, Mr. Chee, couldn’t.

“Glad you’re here early,” his father said. It was his idea of a compliment.

“I was working over at Yolanda’s. She’ll be opening on time.” Adam waited for the chitchat to end. His father wanted to talk about something more important than what he’d done that day.

“She’s a hard worker. So was her mother.” Adam’s dad approved of hard workers, whether they be a waitress at the local restaurant, or a grocery store clerk, or a housekeeper.

Roving mural painter didn’t make his list, though. It didn’t make Yolanda’s list, either. She’d stopped speaking to him when he dropped out of school, muttering something about people not knowing when they had it good. Back then, he’d thought she was talking about his dropping out, home life and art. Now, after working with her these past few months, he realized she’d just meant his home life.

She was right. He’d taken his family, especially Andy, for granted. His talent, too. Now that both were in jeopardy, he realized just how much he could lose.

Adam smiled, thinking about Yolanda. At first glance she was quiet, deceivingly hesitant, but underneath she was all fire and opinions. But she never got flustered. Not even when they’d worked together at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. If they’d had a problem, she’d just calmly tug on his sleeve and say, “The anaconda is loose” with no more concern than if she were asking for a tissue.

But she’d made it clear that she felt he should charge for his murals. She was a bit more impressed that he did caricatures for pay on the weekend, but only a bit.

She was too much of a Type A. Always with her calendar filled with tasks and no time to watch the sunset. Let alone enjoy it.

Just like his father.

“You had something you wanted to say to me?” Adam chose not to sit but remained standing. He didn’t want his father looking down on him.

His dad closed the folder he’d been fingering. The pause was typical, but had a different feel. Adam started to worry. Finally, his dad said, “Shut the door.”

Adam did as requested.

“Your mom and I are going to get a place in Phoenix for a while, close to the Mayo Clinic. The doctors want to do exploratory surgery to see what can be done—either good news or bad.”

“Will this improve your chances?”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you anymore. It might give me five more years.”

Adam’s breath left his chest like a vacuum taking air from the room. The lights seemed to dim. And Adam, who didn’t cry, felt his throat close and his eyes water. He couldn’t talk.

His father continued. “We’ll be relying on you a bit more.”

Adam nodded. His parents couldn’t stay in Phoenix if no one was around to take care of Andy, not just at home but here, at Snapp’s Studio. “Sure, I’ll do it.” Unbidden came the thought: this might be the last thing my father asks of me.

His dad blinked, clearly surprised. “You will? It means working more hours at the studio and some real time with your brother.”

“Of course. When will you be going?”

“We’re working on—” his dad hesitated “—on getting the money together.”

Adam swallowed. He’d have money to give his parents if he’d been a little wiser. If he hadn’t trusted in Stacey’s supposed love.

Stacey Baer had wanted to be an artist, so she claimed. He’d met her when he’d been commissioned to do a mural for the town of Wildrose, Illinois, and she’d insinuated herself into his work and his life almost immediately. She’d climbed right up on the catwalk beside Adam as he started sketching the train and all the history of Wildrose, population two thousand and three—counting him.

He’d loved the old building the town was turning into a museum. It had character. No one was threatening to paint it Kool-Aid orange! Having someone next to him who appreciated art had made the job all the better.

He’d shared his craft, his apartment and his money.

Growing up in Scorpion Ridge, he’d been insulated. No one had taken advantage of him, ever. And he’d made sure no one took advantage of Andy. They were the Snapp brothers. People admired his family, especially his dad, who’d sacrificed so much. They were pillars of the town. They paid their bills, attended parades, went to church... It had ill prepared Adam for the realities of life.

Six months later, as soon as he finished the mural, Stacey had cleaned out his bank account and broken his heart. Last he’d heard, she was in Boston. That is if she hadn’t run out of his cash. He hadn’t been able to paint since.

“You need money, Dad?”

“I’ll get it.”

Which probably meant Adam’s grandmother was already involved. She’d been careful with every cent, but still couldn’t have that much to spare. More than ever, Adam wished he had the money he’d earned and the muse that Stacey had taken when she left. He’d been foolish. And now he realized the cost.

“How much will the surgery cost?”

“Between medical bills and living expenses...at least twenty thousand dollars. But I don’t want you to worry about that. The operation’s been scheduled for a few weeks from now.”

“You gonna be able to get around okay until then?” Already Dad was missing work, sitting down a lot when he used to always be on the move. He wasn’t eating much, either.

“I plan on giving it my all.”

“Andy know?”

“Not yet.”

Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the room when Mom told his big brother about the change in his routine. Older by just two minutes, Andy was brilliant, which sometimes made living with his disorder harder. People started to expect him to be brilliant in everything, which was impossible.

Looking around his father’s office, Adam took in the pictures. They were mostly of Dad and Andy. Andy was shorter than Adam, coming up to Adam’s chest. He was thicker, too, but not by much. Tae Kwon Do was to thank for his fairly slender build because Andy loved to eat. They both had the same brown, unruly hair, the same nose, same smile. Adam was a bit more prone to whiskers, though. Adam was in a few of the photos. He and his brother both were featured in the one where his dad had been painting the words Snapp’s Studio onto the building. Each brother held a paintbrush and was looking at the camera, both innocent still, not realizing how much time and energy this new endeavor would take.

Adam had gone the whole route, all the way to black belt. He’d competed and done well. But in about eighth grade, he’d backed off, realizing that Tae Kwon Do was something his brother needed more.

And really, Adam had his art. Snapp’s Studio was awash in murals. It had been Adam’s first blank wall and the one time when his father hadn’t shook his head at the waste of time.

“Are you going to ask—” Adam began.

“GG already said she’d move in, too, while we’re gone.”

“Did you talk her into teaching the senior session?”

His dad laughed. For all their angst, Dad’s disappointment and Adam’s disregard for “going into a profession where you can make a living,” they shared one trait. Both fiercely loved and protected their family, especially Andy.

Adam wondered if the bond between him and his brother would have been as strong if Andy hadn’t had autism. He doubted it.

When Adam was in fifth grade, his mother had told him that having an autistic brother made the family more of a unit, working together for the good of the whole. Andy didn’t get other people’s jokes, often said the wrong thing and liked routine. He was perfect at Snapp’s Studio, though. He’d laugh at the little kids’ jokes no matter if they were funny or not. In turn, the kids didn’t notice or care when he said the wrong thing. And, as long as the kids tried to follow him, that was routine enough. Best of all for them, he clapped no matter how the students performed.

“You’d need to move back home,” his dad said.

Adam nodded. He really liked living in the groundskeeper’s cabin over at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. It was off the beaten path and felt right. His best memories were there: learning how to make it on his own, realizing that he could make a living off his art. Best of all, he could paint there and leave his supplies where they lay. The house he’d grown up in hadn’t offered that option. It was a “clean up when you’re done” kind of atmosphere where get-er-done meant get-er-done in one setting. Most of Adam’s projects took a week if not more.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I might be able to handle things without GG needing to move in,” Adam offered.

Loretta was in her late eighties and still sold realty. Granted, those transactions were few and far between and mostly just for dedicated clients—most as old as she was. But she had her own routine, and it wouldn’t jibe with Andy’s.

“We appreciate it, Adam. You can make the guest room your own,” his father offered.

But it had been a long time since Adam had felt anything was his own.

* * *

CHECKING HER WATCH, Yolanda decided to finish stocking the last few rows of the children’s room. The decor there was the opposite of the history and nonfiction room. The room had not a shred of seriousness in its atmosphere; instead, it was bright, colorful and inviting.

She’d already spent way too much time investigating what was probably a harmless old woman who simply wanted to read about the history of a town her forefathers helped create. With that in mind, Yolanda went looking for the books she’d left waiting on a shelf in the middle of the second floor.

Two Ramona books were on the floor. Yolanda picked them up. Their author, Beverly Cleary, had started life as a librarian before writing some of the best children’s books. Five-year-old Yolanda had begged for a chapter of Henry and Beezus each night.

Two books remained on the shelf where Yolanda had placed them earlier.

Two?

Yolanda frowned. She only remembered carrying three books in the series. Two were on the floor; only one was supposed to be on the shelf.

“How funny,” she whispered as she picked up the top book, which was clearly not intended for the children’s area. It was dark blue, dusty and had faded embossed gold lettering proclaiming the title Stories of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona.

Unease followed Yolanda as she walked toward the history and nonfiction room. She really wished that Adam hadn’t left. She was sure this book hadn’t been in her hands this morning when she’d been interrupted by the old woman. The book certainly hadn’t made its way to the shelf by itself.

Someone else had been in her used bookstore.

Or perhaps the old woman had found the book—without Yolanda noticing?—and then realized it was the wrong one.

Yolanda might have chosen to forget the whole incident if she hadn’t been a stickler for details. Inside the cover page a name was written. Black ink, perfectly formed letters, all caps, looking almost like one word.

CHESTER VENTIMIGLIA

CHAPTER THREE

TUESDAY MORNING ADAM’S phone sounded way too early. He’d always preferred to wake up when his body wanted to wake up rather than when the alarm said it was time.

Nowadays he woke up a lot earlier. Mostly because he wasn’t painting way into the night.

“I’m awake,” he muttered into the phone.

“I’m trying to find Adam Snapp,” a voice said.

“You found him.”

“I’m William Woodhull Huckabee. I’m just outside of town. I own—”

“You own all the ostriches.”

Huckabee chuckled. “That would be me. Huckabee’s Harem is about to expand. We’re trying to bring more visitors to our door. I’ve seen your work around BAA, and I wondered if you’d be willing to do a mural for us?”

“No,” Adam said, swallowing hard. “No, I’m not doing murals anymore. But I can make a referral.”

Huckabee paused before saying, “No, I don’t want a referral. I was hoping to do a bit of tie-in with BAA. After all, they don’t have ostriches, and when we get visitors to town, having two places to visit is a plus. If both attractions have a similar look, we can maybe combine our advertising. I can make it worth your while. What do you usually charge?”

He’d been paid twenty-five thousand, plus room and board, for the Wildrose job. From start to finish, it had taken six months. Since then, he’d had three more offers, all in the same price range. He’d turned the jobs down and come home with an almost empty checking account.

Huckabee’s Harem, however, was not a twenty-five thousand dollar kind of establishment. And Adam, still licking wounds that weren’t healing, couldn’t take the job. Didn’t matter the payoff.

But the money could go right to his father. He paused for a moment, running the idea through his mind, trying to picture himself with a clean slate.

No picture came; only a clean slate remained.

He’d make the money some other way. He could do it. Would do it.

“Sorry, I’ve gotten out of the business. I’m doing something else now.” It wasn’t a lie. He was teaching Tae Kwon Do classes, taking over the care of his brother and remodeling Yolanda’s Victorian.

None of which would bring him the money he needed to help his father. Maybe he should take a lesson from Yolanda. At least once a day she sat down with her spreadsheet and made sure that she was sticking to her budget, following the business plan she’d created. If Adam were lucky, he’d break even this month and manage to put gas in his van and food in his belly.

He was right back where he started: just getting by. Proving his father right. But his lack of career had also made him available when his father needed him.

Getting back that career would help his father even more.

“Tell you what,” Huckabee said, “I’m not in a hurry. I’ll give you a few weeks. You change your mind, give me a call. Better yet, come on out. We’re fairly new, and the locals haven’t really taken to stopping by. I’ll show you around. Bring the family.”

Definitely not an outing that would fit into his brother Andy’s routine. Adam had taken him to BAA, but he hadn’t been able to handle all the noise and chaos.

“Okay, I appreciate that.” After a quick goodbye, not giving Huckabee a chance to say any more, Adam rolled out of bed.

Good thing Huckabee had called. Adam had to teach a class this morning. After a decent breakfast, doughnuts and milk from the grocery store in town, Adam made it to Snapp’s Studio where his first step was to head down to the dressing room and change into his uniform. He had a ten-thirty class with ten students, all at various levels. One was actually better than he was. Two were beginning their second week. There was even a mom.

An hour later Adam applauded his class for being the best they could be and went through his list of reminders: their next lesson was on Thursday, there was a competition in Mesa this coming Saturday and they still had time to sign up and that a School Special started in just over a week. For the month of September, anyone who brought in a spelling test with a perfect grade got a ten dollar coupon for a Snapp’s Studio T-shirt.

His dad believed that Tae Kwon Do had to include the whole student, not just the student who showed up for lessons a few hours a week. Adam’s dad monitored the school kids’ homework and attitude.

Nobody dared mention Adam’s own past grades or bad attitude.

Changing back into his regular clothes, Adam tossed his uniform into the laundry bag and headed for the front lobby. There would be another lesson at four, but it would be taught by Mr. Chee.

Adam’s dad and brother were in Phoenix volunteering at a food donation center. They’d been going every Tuesday morning for a decade. Andy was a natural at sorting, and sorting was just what the donation center needed.

Adam had gone with them a time or two. But the repetition, standing still, had made him want to scream. His dad, however, never even blinked at the challenge.

Adam’s mother was up front. The beginning of the school year meant his parents put out a rash of advertising. She had stacks of brochures ready to go, all crisscrossed with sticky notes marking their destination.

“Want me to deliver these, Mom?”

She looked up at him, a half smile on her face, but tears were shimmering in her eyes.

“Mom, you all right?”

“No. Yes. There’s just such a lot going on. And I appreciate you staying with Andy while...” She didn’t finish. Instead, she came around the desk and reached up to hug him. He realized just how small she was, and yet she always carried so much: his dad, his brother, him.

He was more like her than he was his father. She was the decorator, and he’d gotten his love of color from her. When he was six, he’d helped her paint the living room as well as put tile down.

After a while she let go and stepped away.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mom.”

“Your delivering these fliers would really help.”

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Snapp’s Studio, staring at the sign, at the advertisements posted on the windows and at his mom still working at her desk inside.

It was in little more than a strip mall.

His dad had traded the highlife for such a venture. His dad had had a good reason, though. He’d not given up on his old life; he had instead given his all to what mattered.

Adam wasn’t sure he could say the same. But he was determined to change that.

* * *

YOLANDA HADN’T SLEPT all night. Every noise she’d heard had had her grabbing a flashlight and heading downstairs. Plus, when she’d showed the book to Rosi, her grandmother hadn’t remembered owning such a book and refused to even look at it, muttering that she didn’t want to remember the Ventimiglias.

Odd.

Yolanda had then spent an hour going through the books she still had to shelve. None were on the history of Scorpion Ridge. Later that evening Gramma Rosi begged off Yolanda’s offer to take her out to dinner because her favorite television show was on. Gramma Rosi never put television before family.

So she’d taken the mysterious book to bed. Now on Yolanda’s nightstand was a book that didn’t belong to her, but possibly did belong to a woman who’d not only disturbed Yolanda but had also disturbed her grandmother.

Adding to Yolanda’s anxiety, the book’s letters were small and handwritten, the words running close together—forget paragraphs. There were no indentations. Her head started hurting after reading two pages. So at midnight, when she realized sleep was a goal not to be realized, she settled on reading the pages devoted to a Ventimiglia: Richard. Chester wasn’t mentioned at all.

What she did like about the book were the drawings. Hundreds of thumbnails all about Scorpion Ridge. Some were faded and impossible to make out. Others, though, were still crisp and clear, almost jumping off the page in bold strokes.

Bold strokes? Now that was an Adam Snapp term.

The pictures were of homes and people—mostly faces. Most of the places were long gone; most of the people had passed away. She recognized her own house, looking much the same only with a stable. The other house she recognized was downtown and housed the Scorpion Ridge Historical Society Museum. The drawing showed the building with a door in the middle and two windows flanking it on each side. It looked the same today, except the front door had been moved, and there was now a swamp cooler on top. Yolanda had been there many times and remembered that the hardwood floor creaked and the ceilings were low. The back porch was big enough to sleep on. It was an old adobe dwelling with a plaster coating, same as in the picture.

Next came a drawing of an old mission that looked a lot like San Xavier Mission in Tucson. Under the drawing was a name, but Yolanda couldn’t make it out. The last structure she recognized was the old Scorpion Ridge courthouse. She remembered hearing about it in school. The old building had burned down in nineteen hundred and forty-six and had been replaced with an ugly cement structure.

But Adam had mentioned there was a plaque on the wall that mentioned Chester Ventimiglia. Here was something Yolanda could actually investigate! She finally fell asleep knowing how she’d spend her morning.

Her alarm sounded and she rolled out of bed at the first ring. Today she’d strive for good mood and peace of mind.

Not always easy. Yolanda had always been a worrier. Gramma Rosi blamed Yolanda’s mother for passing on such an unnecessary pastime. Yolanda knew that worry was a choice, and one she needed to make differently. She got up, got dressed and made an easy breakfast: cereal. Then she checked her to-do list before spending the next few hours stocking the last empty shelves in the children’s area.

Tired of bending, dusty from the books and needing to get outside, Yolanda locked the front door behind her and walked downtown. It took her three blocks and ten minutes. It would have only taken her eight minutes, but there were plenty of people to say good morning to. All asked about her grandmother. Two asked about the opening of her bookstore and promised to bring her some gently used books. And one offered a marriage proposal.

“No, thanks, Otis. I’m too busy to get married.”

Otis Wilson gazed past Yolanda at her Victorian. “I used to love a girl who lived there, you know.”

Yolanda wasn’t surprised. According to legend, her Gramma Rosi had been quite a looker. Of course, Gramma Rosi liked to weave her own legends. Whether they were true or not...

Yolanda arrived at Scorpion Ridge’s courthouse at the same time as the mayor, who’d been her third grade teacher. Janice Kolby had handed Yolanda her first Ramona book. “I hear the bookstore’s coming along,” Mayor Kolby said.

“Every room is stocked.”

“Make sure you take advantage of all the tax breaks given to female business owners.” With that, Mayor Kolby hurried through the front door. According to Gramma, the mayor was just as good at fiscal responsibility as she was averaging classroom grades. Which meant Gramma was pleased because Scorpion Ridge was debt-free.