of the pine trees, but he gazed in that direction anyway.
It was a hot day. The mountains blocked the sun by that late point in the afternoon, leaving the deck in a warm, only-just-comfortable shade. The heavy scent of the pines wafted over Spencer as he stood. Focusing his mind in the way he’d learned to do from his meditation teacher, Spencer let the trees fill his senses. First the smell, then the sound of them. They were very still because of the heat, so he listened for the sound of birds and pine squirrels instead. He turned his attention back to the scent, trying to draw it in enough to get a taste of it, and the taste was there. Only very, very slightly but he could indeed sense the pines, pitchy and acrid, on his tongue.
He should meditate. Right then and there on the deck. It would be such a good place and Spencer kept meaning to establish a meditation practice. Meditation was so good for you, doing all those things like making you compassionate and lowering your blood pressure. If only it wasn’t so boring …
He lowered himself into a lotus position. His teacher in LA had complimented him on his flexibility and it was true. At forty-eight he could still do a full lotus perfectly. Spencer spent several minutes getting settled. Into the lotus. Out of the lotus. Back into the lotus. It was quite hard to imagine sitting for half an hour in such a position. All right for people who were malnourished anyway and would be lucky to see forty-five, but not so great for someone needing his joints to last eighty years. Spencer settled for just crossing his legs. Forefingers to thumbs, he rested his hands on his knees and exhaled deeply three times to release tension. Then he started into following his breathing in and out. Perfection, Spencer was thinking. Sitting here on the deck in the warm shade, the scent and sounds of the Montana mountains wafting over him. What could be more peaceful than this?
‘Have you found him yet?’ Sidonie asked when Spencer came back into the kitchen.
For just a split second Spencer wondered who ‘he’ was. Pleased with himself for having managed to spend a good twenty minutes properly meditating, Spencer had forgotten about the boy.
‘Maybe he’s with Guff,’ Sidonie said. ‘Could you ring the bell? I’ve already started dinner. By the time he gets here and washes up, we’ll be ready to eat.’
A wrought-iron triangle of the sort used on chuck wagons in the old West hung off the edge of the deck. Spencer took down the iron striker and clanged the triangle noisily. It was a rewarding activity. Like banging pot lids together when you were a child. He clanged it again. It was an effective means of communication too. You could hear it halfway across the valley.
For several moments Spencer waited on the deck to see the boy come up the path from the barn. When no one appeared, he clanged the triangle a third time, then he went back into the house. Sidonie was taking chicken kebabs out from the broiler. She spooned a sticky orange Chinese-influenced sauce over them.
The boy still didn’t show up.
‘Let’s eat,’ Spencer said. ‘It’s going to get cold otherwise.’
Sidonie’s brow furrowed. ‘Don’t you think we should see where he is first?’
‘You really shouldn’t do that, Sidonie,’ Spencer replied and gestured at her face. ‘Frown like that. You’re what? Twenty-six?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘You’re already getting lines on your forehead from doing that and you’re young. You want to stop. It’s just a mannerism.’
‘About Tennesee …’
‘Botox would sort it out. Dr Margolis. I’ve really liked what he’s done for me. Right up here, see? Just a little Botox right here’ – Spencer pointed alongside his eye – ‘and it’s completely removed any hint of crows’ feet. Make an appointment next time we’re in LA.’
Sidonie looked at him.
Spencer looked back.
‘About Tennesee?’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we should find him before we eat?’
‘No,’ Spencer said with finality and sat down at the table. ‘He knows how to tell time. It’ll serve him right, because he’s just doing it to be annoying. Besides, it won’t hurt the little porker to miss a meal anyhow.’
By seven o’clock Spencer was irritated. He knew what was going on. Under his laconic exterior, Guff was a marshmallow, particularly when it came to stray animals. How many damned cats did he have living down there with him now? The boy would have shown up with his sob story: Oh poor me, having to be here where I don’t want to, having nothing to do, and Guff would have gone all gooey and grandpa-ish.
‘Go down to the bunkhouse and tell Guff we can’t have this,’ he said to Sidonie. ‘If the kid thinks he can move in down there, he’s got another think coming.’
Half an hour later, Sidonie was back. ‘Guff says he hasn’t seen Tennesee at all today,’ she said, still slightly out of breath from the climb up the path from the barn.
A small, frozen moment followed when, caught off guard by that information, Spencer had no idea what to think next. ‘Fuck him,’ he finally said with weary irritation. ‘He’s hiding.’
When he went in to search the boy’s bedroom, Spencer found the note. I’m going back to LA. Don’t come after me becose you can’t make me come back. I hate it here. I hate you. Good by.
‘Oh fuck,’ Spencer muttered and stormed out into the hall. ‘Look at this.’
Sidonie came over.
‘He’s fucking run away,’ Spencer said. ‘The goddamned little turd has fucking picked up and fucking taken off. Just like his motherfucking cunt of a mother would do.’
Spencer wanted to scream with frustration. Here he was in the only place in the whole world where he could have any peace and all he wanted was to be left alone to enjoy the mountains. Was that asking too much of life? Phoebe obviously thought it was. Why had she had to send her fucking little bastard here? Why was she so hell-bent on destroying him? He wadded up the damned note and threw it to the floor.
‘I think we better call the police,’ Sidonie said.
‘Shit, no.’
She frowned again, as if she wanted to wreck her looks on purpose by doing that all the time. ‘Come on. We have to, Spence.’
‘The police here?’ he said crossly. ‘Think for two seconds with that pea-sized brain of yours, would you? What kind of police are we going to find in Abundance, Montana, for god’s sake? Some fucking little two-bit country copper who doesn’t know his gun from his asshole.’
‘Yes, but—?’
‘If the little turd wants to run away, fucking let him. I don’t want him here anyway.’
‘Spencer, we can’t do that. He’s only nine.’
‘Yeah, nine going on thirty-nine. And it would fucking well serve Phoebe right to have him turn up on her doorstep, that’s what. See how she likes it.’
‘Phoebe’s in the Virgin Islands, Spencer.’
‘Yeah, well, what the fuck do I care?’
‘Spencer.’
‘What the fuck do I care, Sidonie? He can stay with the maid when he gets to LA. I never asked that kid to come up here. I never wanted anything to do with him. I don’t care what the courts say. He’s not my responsibility. Even he knows that, because he doesn’t want to be here any more than I want him.’
Sidonie furrowed her brow more deeply.
‘Stop doing that with your damned forehead, Sidonie! You look like fucking Mr Toad. I’ve told you to stop a hundred times now, so stop it. Or you can just go yourself. If you don’t respect how I do things, you can get out of here too.’
She clapped a hand over her forehead, as if to smooth it out physically. Tears filled her eyes.