U Is for Undertow

at least you’ll know more than you do now. If you’re like me, you’d rather deal with hard facts than speculation and fantasy.”
    “That’s been my claim,” I said, with a pained smile.
    “I’ll leave you to it then.” She turned and opened the handbag sitting on the seat beside her, looking for her wallet.
    “I’ll take care of it,” I said.
    She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
    “Of course. You brought me a gift.”
    “Let’s hope that’s what it is.”
    “If not, you owe me a dinner.”

21

    DEBORAH UNRUH

    May 1967

    Deborah picked up Rain at preschool and dropped her off at a friend’s house for a playdate. She had a couple of hours to kill and thought she’d give the kitchen and bathrooms a good scrub. This was midweek and she wanted to get meals planned for the next few days so she wouldn’t have to think about it once Patrick got home. He reserved the weekends for the family, the three of them going off on outings of one sort or another. Deborah liked to have all the work done, leaving the time free to play.
    She talked to Patrick three and four times a day, consulting about his business dealings and her household decisions, trading perspectives and advice. Rain stories charmed him, and Deborah tried to pass along the adorable moments as they occurred. Only another smitten parent would understand what constituted “cute” where a child was concerned. Rain was pretty and precocious, sweet-tempered, sunny. She wasn’t perfect only in their eyes. Everybody else agreed she was remarkable, especially after Deborah and Patrick browbeat them into it.
    As she turned from Via Juliana onto Alita Lane, she caught sight of a vehicle parked in the drive. It was Greg’s yellow school bus, the paint job embellished by crude red, blue, and green peace symbols and antiwar slogans. She pulled the station wagon over to the side of the road and sat for a moment, engine running, thinking, Shit!
    She tilted her forehead against the steering wheel, wondering if there was still time to escape. As long as they hadn’t spotted her, she could turn the car around, fetch Rain from her playdate, check into a motel, and then let Patrick know where they were. She and Annabelle had talked about this at length, the possibility that the three of them would make another appearance one day. She’d been a complete wuss where Shelly was concerned. Looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be so mistreated. How had Shelly managed to intimidate her? Shelly was a pipsqueak, a twerp. She was half Deborah’s age. Deborah knew a hell of a lot more about how the world worked than Shelly had ever dreamed. If Deborah didn’t face the girl now, she was only postponing the inevitable.
    She took a deep breath. She had to do this or she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. She certainly wouldn’t be able to face Annabelle, who’d given her strict instructions. Deborah put her foot on the accelerator and pulled away from the berm, then continued the few hundred feet to the house, where she eased into the garage. She entered the house through the door that opened into the kitchen. Of course, they’d let themselves in. Greg knew where the key was hidden, and even if she and Patrick had been clever enough to move it, he’d have found his way in.
    The house had been spotless when she left, less than an hour before, but Greg and Shelly had made themselves at home, unloading backpacks, sleeping bags, and duffels by the door to the dining room. This was territorial marking, like a dog pissing in each corner of the yard. She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t left their stuff in the bus . . . unless they anticipated being houseguests. Oh lord, she thought.
    She called, “Greg?”
    “Yo!”
    She crossed the kitchen and looked into the den where the three of them were sprawled, almost unrecognizable. They looked like ruffians, people who’d wandered in off the street. Greg had a scraggly beard and mustache. Patrick had never been able to grow convincing facial hair and usually ended up looking like someone on a Wanted poster. Greg had inherited the same sparse fuzz. He’d let his hair grow long, dark and frizzy and unkempt. She wondered if he knew how unattractive he looked. Or maybe that was the point.
    Shelly was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch with her bare feet out in front of her while she smoked a cigarette, using one of Deborah’s Limoges saucers for an ashtray. She wore the familiar