“And Cal was on board?”
“He treated it as a joke at first, but it stirred something in him. The thought of helping people made him more like himself. When we worked on the rules, he started joking around and coming up with ideas. So I went ahead and posted an ad, and when Sunday afternoon rolled around, I just said we were expecting some guests and left it at that. He got fired up when he realized what I’d done, but talking to people, realizing we weren’t the only ones who’d been dealt the rotten side of the coin, that helped him too. So he decided to roll with it.”
“Was Augusta there from the beginning?” I ask.
“No,” he says with a small smile. “But she was the first one Cal brought on. That first meeting was just Dee and Nicole.”
“How’d he and Augusta meet?”
“She rear-ended him,” he says with a laugh. “Started in on a big story of how her luck had been rotten from the day she was born, and he invited her over to the Cluster for a cup of coffee. Didn’t take long for him to invite her to a meeting. He regretted it pretty quickly, because some people want to change their luck but don’t have the slightest desire to change their behavior. Auggie’s one of those.”
“And Harry tells me she got kicked out of the club,” I press.
“She did. Wouldn’t do any of her challenges. Cal gave her more passes than he probably should have, but she was his first sponsee. He didn’t want her to fall through the cracks.”
But my nose for a story tells me it’s more than that. It’s that dedication, maybe: To Cal. You know why.
I think again of the rules. Sponsors are supposed to share their stories with their sponsees, and Augusta was Cal’s first sponsee.
Did he tell her something he doesn’t want everyone to know?
“Bear,” I say. “Harry is under the impression that Cal’s on his way out with the club. He says he’s the only sponsee Cal has left.”
Bear’s mouth scrunches to one side. “He’s always helped out a lot, beyond that role, but that’s true. He hasn’t brought on many sponsees. I guess…huh. I never really thought of it like that, but I guess he’s only brought on Augusta and Harry.”
“Who came first, Augusta or Harry?”
“Augusta,” he says quickly, not having to think about it. “She was one of the first, period.”
More lightbulbs flash on. Because here’s the thing: based on the club’s rules, Harry and Augusta should both know Cal’s secret, but I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t tell Harry, who was his second sponsee. If Harry were holding something back, I would have known. He’s not much of a liar. Which means that Cal told Augusta and regretted it so much he skipped telling Harry and then never took another sponsee.
What could he have told her, though? My mind flits to Alice, Cal’s beautiful wife. Mrs. Dahl might have said she’s a sour, but she seems to be alone in that assessment. Cal gave up woodworking, something he truly loved, after losing her. He stopped feeling.
His heart must have been torn out.
But why would he be embarrassed of his grief?
Grief is a funny thing, though, and I know better than most that it can get tied up with dozens of different emotions.
“Molly?” Bear asks, and I realize I’ve been silent too long.
“I heard Augusta didn’t take it well when she was told to leave.”
Another small smile. “You heard right. She tried to start a fire at our flip house, wrote twenty one-star reviews for Cal’s woodworking business under pseudonyms, and poisoned our bushes.” The smile slips a little. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I think she did it all over heartbreak. I’m not saying she was in love with Cal, although I guess Harry could be right about that. She was hoping the club would do something for her that we couldn’t do, so she reimagined it. Created a new history. I don’t wish her ill, but it’s wrong to let a lie stand for this long. It’s not serving anyone. It’s hurting people.”
His last words make an impression on me for reasons he couldn’t imagine, and I know I’ll be thinking of it late into the night. Late into many nights.
“You’re right,” I say softly. “The club you imagined is quite different from the one in her book.” I pause, thinking, my mind drifting back to Cal, like it’s formed an unfortunate habit of doing. “Why don’t you think the club helped Cal with his grief?”
For a second, I think he’s going to tell me to get lost, to say I’ve gone too personal this time. Because, really, I have. My mind’s going places it has no business going. And yet, I feel the need to help Cal up out of his muck, because I think he’s worthy of it. Because I want him to start making beautiful things again—not just because he’s talented, but because there was a look of pure happiness in his eyes in that photo of him with this chair.
“I think there’s only one person he shared his full story with,” Bear says with a grim smile. “And that person is Augusta.”
It’s then I hear the door opening at the front of the house—Cal’s making a big production of his entrance, presumably so we can shut the hell up about all the things he doesn’t want to talk about—but I’ve made a mental list already, and Alice and the Bad Luck Club are at the top of it. I pick up my phone and turn off the recording, giving Bear a smile. “I guess our time is up.”
“Oh, no,” he says, giving me an inscrutable look. “I suspect it’s just beginning, Strawberry.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cal
Some people get depressed and get themselves a dog. I wouldn’t recommend it. Nothing will make you more depressed than picking up someone else’s shit.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
After a long walk, Ruby and I finally head home, and she practically surges toward the door in her excitement to get back. She’s a smart dog, so she probably remembers that we had company when we left. Yeah, me too, Ruby.
I make as much noise as possible to alert Dad and Molly to our presence, taking an extra few seconds on the porch to give them time to wrap up.
When I go inside, Dad is beaming, so the conversation must have gone the way he’d hoped it would, whatever that means. Molly’s tapping on her phone, probably turning off her recording app, but she glances up at me and offers a warm smile. “Have a good walk?”
“Ruby enjoyed it.” I was anxious the entire time, wondering what Dad was saying to her. Wondering what she thought about it. I knew I was taking the chickenshit way out by leaving, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay.
Dad hops up from his chair with more energy than most men his age have. “Who’s hungry? Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m starving,” Molly says, dropping her phone into her bag and standing. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble for me to stay?”
“The more the merrier,” Dad says, bustling into the kitchen. “I’d be offended if you left.”
“And if I take you to your car now, I’d have to wait an hour to eat,” I say, trying to sound gruff. The truth is, the thought of her leaving puts an ache in my chest.