“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against the house, and it fell with a great crash.”
Matthew 7:24–27

Chapter One

“Suz.” Static crackles over Dad’s voice. “I need your help, sugar beet.”

Phone in hand, I turn toward a bank of windows in my kitchen. Yellow sunshine pours through as I look out at the shades of blue undulating with the waves of the Pacific Ocean. “What can I do, Dad?”

“Your mother . . . she’s gone off the deep end this time. Maybe you can talk some—” His voice cuts out. The distance between California and Texas seems further with every second I wait.

“Dad?” I pull the phone away from my ear, check the electronic window to see if we still have a connection. It seems so. “Are you there?”

“—can’t blame—” His voice returns then is gone again, giving my heart whiplash like when my son, Oliver, who is learning to drive steps on the gas then in quick succession the brake.

I try to piece Dad’s words together to make sense of what is happening and find myself mentally stretching out a hand in an effort to brace myself. Maybe that’s what prayer is. My gaze shifts to a framed picture of a sandcastle my son once built on the beach near our house. The empty silence on the phone makes my stomach tighten. “Dad? You’re breaking up. I can’t –”

“—drag you—this, but—”

Static once again takes over then fades into nothing. Silence throbs in my ear. As if I could reach out and touch my father, I straighten the corner of the white wooden frame holding the picture of Oliver grinning in front of a spectacular, if not lopsided, castle. The towers behind him lean and sag. His footprints crisscross the scooped out mote. A hole carved by the waves tilts one wall. But still, the castle stands. Barely. I straighten the framed picture, remember those simple, uncomplicated days of sun and surf.

“Dad?” I try again, my voice peaking in desperation.

“What’s wrong?”

I turn as my husband, Mike, walks into the kitchen, his feet slapping the ceramic tile floor. His tan, lean chest is bare, his hair damp from his shower. He carries an empty coffee mug in his hand for a refill.

“Dad called.” The receiver now shows the call has been disconnected. I click the off button but hold onto the phone in case Dad calls back. “I lost him.”

Mike’s arm is warm, comforting as it wraps around me, strong and secure, but I feel a trembling begin deep inside as he kisses my neck. “Something wrong?”

I nod, distracted by Dad’s distress call, lost in a memory of my own. When I was in high school, I sat on the back porch of my parents’ home with my father and patted his shoulder. “She didn’t mean it, Daddy.”

His head bowed low and his hands pressed together between his knees. The lines in his face looked deep and cragged. His shoulders were rounded.

“I know,” he said, his voice fracturing. “She means well. But . . .”

That’s all he ever said. But. The word, heavy and bulky, sat there between us. He always stopped with but.

“What’s going on?” Oliver plops down at the kitchen table and pours Toasted Oats into a bowl. “Has Grandma called the sheriff again?”

“I don’t know exactly.” I pour more coffee into Mike’s mug.

“Think her neighbor is after those flies again?” Humor lines Mike’s words as if a punch line is forthcoming. Whenever I get exasperated with Mother, Mike seems to have the tolerance of a saint or a comedian looking for new material.

I begin to fill the coffeemaker, scooping ground beans, pouring water. A little Gevalia and I’ll be smiling again soon. “It was more than Mr. Ned swatting flies, Mike.” Mother always has good, solid reasons for whatever she does. “He was naked.”

My husband’s mouth pulls sideways into a wry grin. He likes hearing the goings on of a small Texas town, says it’s more interesting than L.A. where he grew up. Family dynamics are fascinating to him since he grew up without one. “So, what would you have done?” He nudges me playfully in the side. It’s the subtle question I’ve often asked myself, wondered if I’d react like Mother. “Gotten binoculars?”

That makes me laugh. “Mr. Ned is ninety-two. And no teeth.”

“Not your type, eh?” He kisses me quick like lightning and heat shimmers along my nerves.

“Why couldn’t Britney Spears live next to Grandma and Grandpa?” Oliver opens the fridge and pulls out the milk carton.

Smiling, I reach for the plug on the coffeemaker, but it’s already in the wall socket, so I flip the switch. Immediately it belches, and wet, goopy grounds pour out over the carafe. A tiny gasp escapes me, and Mike reaches over to shut off the machine.

“I wondered what you were doing. You’d already made coffee.”

“I knew that.” But some part of my brain must have fractured. I’m not sure what I was doing, why I was making another pot of coffee when the carafe was half full already.

“You dad’s call must have upset you more than you realize. Here, let me fix it.” He pulls the machine across the granite counter toward the sink and starts dumping grounds down the disposal while I mop up the mess left behind on the counter with paper towels.

Then the phone rings again. I leap for the receiver. But this time it’s not my father. Instantly though I know it’s about the situation back home because of the area code and the Texas accent on the other end of the line. “Something’s not right with a woman who can’t shed a tear over her dead husband.”

Linda Lou Hoover, known as the woman who sucks up information better than any vacuum cleaner, pauses for emphasis. When I realize the widow she’s discussing is my mother, my heart gives a jolt. I get off the phone as fast as I can and punch in the number for my parents’ home, my fingers trembling.

“Mother?” I say when she answers, trying to push down the panic that threatens to detonate inside me. “Mrs. Hoover just called.”

“Oh, you should know better than to listen to her.”

“So what’s going on?”

She sighs heavily into the phone as if the question is as exhausting as lifting one of the fifty pound feedbags Daddy sells to local feed stores.

“Has something happened? To Daddy?”

“Not yet.”

Her words feel like a hard slap. Heat burns my cheeks. Behind me, I hear Mike turn the water off in the sink. I can sense him watching, waiting. “What do you mean?”

“Your father . . . well, he . . .” There’s another long, drawn out sigh. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

My heart begins a labored beating. “Is Daddy . . .” I hesitate, scared to even voice my fear, “. . . dead?”

“Depends on who you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you, Mother!”

“To me, he is dead. But don’t let that trouble you. He’s alive and well enough to be a nuisance.”

I probably should let the conversation go as small town gossip and another argument between Mother and Daddy. It’s not the first and most probably won’t be the last. I weathered a few squalls of hurricane proportions when I grew up. Once Mother threw all of Daddy’s clothes out on the lawn. She had, what she thought, good reason. Another time, she cordoned off part of the house, designated each side his and hers. It was to make a point. But I stood on the line, not knowing which side to lean toward, tugged one way by Mother’s demand for loyalty, tugged the other by my father’s soft heart. Another time, Mother was convinced Daddy had a lady friend out of town and tracked her down. Of course, what wife wouldn’t? Only Mother learned Ida Mae was a prize-winning hunting dog Daddy had purchased without Mother’s consent and was keeping her in Marble Falls till he could figure out how to break the news to Mother.

Mother always has a good reason for the things she says and does. Daddy doesn’t mean to be thoughtless or irresponsible. Daddy is just Dad. Mom is just Mom. Which amounts to oil and water some days. Peas and carrots others.

Maybe that’s all this is. Some misunderstanding. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe Linda Lou Hoover has lost some of her suction on gossip, letting bits and pieces slip away. But I can’t forget my father’s call for help. So I call the airlines for a ticket home to Luckenbach.

It’s been ten years but feels like a lifetime since I breathed Texas air. We’ve offered to fly home for holidays, but Mother and Dad (mostly Mother) always insist on coming to California. Frankly, it’s easier that way. Less hassle with presents, especially when Oliver was little and Santa brought bulky toys like a train table or cardboard rocket ship. Besides there are more activities to keep us occupied in southern California. Mike thinks my folks have a penchant for Mickey Mouse. Sometimes I get the feeling they just don’t want me to come home.