Part 7 (2/2)

Mara had her head turned to the right, concentrating on not cras.h.i.+ng into the pylons. Once she cleared them, she saw a flash of silver fencing, then a rusty beam reaching up above her.

Then she saw the Clackamas River.

Mara froze, but her bicycle hurdled forward, banked into the security fencing that blocked the sides of the bridge. As she spun, she saw a flash of neon blue and red, a kayak on the water. She heard paddles splas.h.i.+ng in the current. Children laughed along the far banks. More splas.h.i.+ng. She could see through the walkway into the river, water flowing below her. Whitecaps licking up at her. Then just spinning and darkness.

Mara could still hear water rus.h.i.+ng by when she awoke with a start. ”I can't, I can't-”

”Shush, you're alright now. Calm down,” Abby said, sitting on the park bench next to her.

”I can't cross the bridge.”

”You don't have to.”

”We can go a different way home.”

”We don't have to do that either.”

”Why?”

”I had Bruce carry you across while you were out.”

CHAPTER 12.

MARA PARALLEL PARKED her Subaru Outback in front of the Mason Fix-It Shop on Woodstock Boulevard in southeast Portland. She normally hated Monday mornings, hustling to the shop on time, but today she looked forward to getting back into a routine. She stepped out of the car and smiled up at the simulated wood-grain sign with fake burned-in letters, thinking as she always did that the Gadget Repair and Bicycle Maintenance subt.i.tle was not big enough.

Not that it mattered. The sign only competed for attention with a barber pole next door and the white backlit plastic letters spelling out Tattoos another door down. The other half of the block featured only Mr. Ping's anonymous Ceramics in what looked like old 1970s lettering from Broadway. It all looked frozen in time, as if the world had kept going forward everywhere except here at this brown strip of shops with the display window of antique radios, grandfather clocks and a neon Texaco star at its center. Across the street, the modern bank branch, coffee shop and sub sandwich franchise-with their prefab, premolded plastic-and-gla.s.s exteriors-emphasized the point.

A clatter in front of the ceramics store drew her attention from the ancient lock she always struggled with when opening the fix-it shop. She looked up the walk and saw Mr. Ping's ample backside, standing next to a ladder, his head turned upward. Mara stepped back from the building to get a better view and saw the Going Out of Business banner hanging askew across the front of the building.

”Pull it a little tighter on that side to even it up,” Ping directed from the sidewalk. He faced away from Mara and did not acknowledge her. Since all she could see was the bald spot on the top of his head, she wasn't sure if he intentionally ignored her or simply did not see her arrive. He was generally antagonistic toward Mara and her employer; they rarely spoke. She wanted to ask about the sign but decided against it. She turned again to the uncooperative lock.

”h.e.l.lo, Mara! Good to see you are up and about.” Ping smiled and walked over to her. ”I heard you were in the hospital. Are you all right?”

”Yes, thank you,” she said, unsure of what to make of his uncharacteristic neighborliness. ”I see you made it through the experience intact. Were you hurt?”

”Not in the least. Doing great, great.” He smiled. His positivity was off-putting. He held up a finger to get her attention as she opened the shop's front door. ”We were wondering if you would have a few minutes to talk this afternoon after you close up.”

”We?”

Ping pointed up the ladder. There stood Sam, the transparent red-headed kid from the doomed flight, solid as the sidewalk they stood on. He waved and said, ”Like we need to make an appointment. Huh, Mar?”

Mara froze, gaped upward.

”Mara? Are you okay?” Ping touched her elbow.

”Huh? Yeah, we can talk. I'm closing up around four. Why don't you stop by?” She shook the doork.n.o.b, and then remembered she had already opened the door. Closing it behind her, she leaned against it and took a deep breath. Something felt wrong, not just the oddly friendly Ping, nor the kid from the plane on the ladder. Something felt out of whack, like an old engine getting ready to throw a rod.

Outside Sam stepped off the ladder. Ping walked over to help him fold it up and carry it into the former ceramics store.

”Looks a little unhinged,” Sam said. ”She didn't seem to think it was odd that I was here working with you.”

”She's probably just distracted, trying to understand what happened on the airplane. Don't forget, while you and I have some context, she's completely in the dark.”

”She won't help us.” Sam stopped just inside the shop and turned to lock eyes with Ping. ”We probably shouldn't be asking. How do we know we can trust her? What if she turns on us?”

”I know this is confusing, but you need to keep a couple things in mind. First, we don't know if she can help. And second, you need to stop a.s.suming you know her. It's very likely she's different than you expect.”

”She would have to be way different for me to be comfortable.”

”Try to be open-minded, open to new things. Look at us, not exactly what we expected when we met two days ago, right? She may not be either.” Ping smiled. ”Let's adjust to new circ.u.mstances and make the best of it.”

”Just because you're opening a bakery doesn't mean everything is going to be cupcakes and suns.h.i.+ne around here. The crash was only the beginning.”

Mara looked around the little shop of shelves and she began to relax, slowly pus.h.i.+ng the past week into an unattended part of her mind. Old lamps, reel-to-reel tape recorders, typewriters, a.s.sorted kitchen appliances and other gadgets filled the shelves and covered every wall of the store. Antique alarm clocks sporting huge ringers, pocket watches, locket watches, just plain wrist.w.a.tches and electronics such as calculators the size of bricks were neatly displayed in a lighted gla.s.s counter to the left of the door.

At the end of the display case, a wooden counter, Mara's work s.p.a.ce, featured an antique bronze cash register and an old black rotary-dial telephone off to one side. Hanging above was a rectangular green-and-yellow stained-gla.s.s light fixture suspended on gold chains emblazoned with the word Billiards in baroque script. Behind the counter, a collection of lit neon signs advertised c.o.ke, Harley-Davidson, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Kool cigarettes among cuckoo clocks and wall-mounted telephones.

She felt tension flow out of her.

She flipped the Open sign on the front door to face outward, reached to the right, flipped on the overhead lights and headed into the back of the shop to the small office next to the bicycle workshop where Bruce worked. He called it the garage. Clients with bicycles brought them to a small dock and bay door at the back of the building. The roomy work area featured a long workbench, a.s.sorted tools hanging on a wall, and some freestanding shelves that held parts and inventory.

”Hey, Mara,” Bruce said, bending over a frame, tightening brakes. ”How are you doing?”

”I'm doing fine,” she said. Her cheeks reddened. ”Thanks again for your help Sat.u.r.day. I feel like a total idiot putting you through that. I probably should have warned you about my...” She looked away.

”It's no big deal. It all worked out, right? Other than the bridge, did you guys have a good time on the ride?”

”Yes, it was great. I especially enjoyed Powell b.u.t.te. That was a lot of fun.”

”We should go again. We probably will have to wait until late spring though. It's going to be muddy up there for the next few months.”

”I'm game. We may have to convince Abby, but I think she enjoyed it more than she let on. That's sort of how she is.” Mara turned to go into the office.

”There's an eight-track tape player under the register a guy wants to you look at. Says downloaded Zeppelin sucks.”

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