Coming Home to You

by M. K. Stelmack

  It was on the tip of her tongue to offer him a drink but she wasn’t sure she wanted him here as it was, much less encouraging him to stay longer.

  “Thought we’d get some real rain tonight,” he said, easing into a matching deck chair.

  “Blew around and amounted to nothing,” she agreed. She nudged the mosquito coil on the coffee table closer to him, a casual move based on thirty-odd years of acquaintance with her dead husband’s best friend. She assumed he’d stop coming by after Craig died but she’d seen more of him in the past year than in the previous ten.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I sprayed myself before I went out to Seth’s.”

  Right. A month or so ago, Mel had told her that his brother wanted to start an elk ranch and was seeking investors. She’d suggested Seth get in touch with Tom. “How did it go?”

  Tom tucked in the bottom cushion that hung like a fat lip over the chair. “Good. Nice setup. I might invest in a few head. What do you think?”

  Tom Baxter asking her opinion? The man hadn’t made one wrong move all his life. His seven-year marriage had ended amicably, and then he’d glided on to other equally harmonious relationships, though he’d never remarried.

  “I don’t know much about elk,” Linda said, “but Seth is honest. So is Alexi.” Wives were integral to the success of farming. That much she remembered from growing up on one herself. “You know best, Tom.”

  “Don’t risk more than I can afford to lose, that’s my policy.”

  “Good policy for most any matter.”

  Tom shifted in his chair, the bottom cushion sliding back out. “You don’t seem yourself, Linda.”

  She heard a mosquito buzz close by. It must’ve sneaked inside the netting when Tom entered. She pulled the coil back toward her. “And how exactly do you think I should be?”

  Tom bowed his head and stilled. His default posture when things had got testy between her and Craig. Tom had kept his head down and waited it out. This time, though, the question was directed at him. “Trouble with Mel, I take it.”

  He said it flatly, as if where she and a man were involved, trouble was inevitable.

  “I broke up with him, if you must know,” she said.

  “What did he do?”

  Tom had assumed Mel had cheated on her. Because that was what men did to her, right?

  “He did nothing. Nothing. He was good to me. I was the one who ended it.”

  “But he didn’t accept it.”

  Another flat assumption. “No, he did. He’s a good man, all right?”

  “You regret it, then.”

  Linda growled in frustration. “Would you quit that? I broke up with him, he agreed and I don’t regret it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s moved on. Already.” she said. That was it. A forgivable truth that hurt, anyway. “I was with Abby and Lydia at The Big Scoop. He was there with another woman.”

  Tom snorted. “Another woman? That fast?” Implying that he couldn’t have moved on so soon unless he already had a woman lined up.

  “No!” she snapped. “This was one of the women from the motor home. You know, the one that hit Tim Hortons. He couldn’t have met her before that. I admit, I’m a little sore he’s rebounding with a...a tourist, but he did not cheat on me. Why do you automatically think that every man is Craig?”

  Again, Tom stilled and bowed his head. They’d never spoken of Craig’s infidelity, not when her husband was alive or afterward. She’d always wondered if Tom had known, if he and Craig had slung stories back and forth like the best buddies they were. He’d been aware of the last woman, of course.

  Since they were on the topic and she was already in a bad mood... “Did you know about the others?”

  He lowered his head even more. So. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. “Did he ever tell you why he did it?”

  “He told me a lot of things,” Tom said quietly. “I didn’t pay much attention to his excuses. They were all pretty poor.”

  Excuses? “You mean... You mean you weren’t on Craig’s side?”

  Tom’s head shot up. “His side? Why would I be? He had no right, no business, no need, no excuse. He knew it, too, and still did it. I never understood, Linda. Still don’t.”

  “Then why...” She was about to ask why he’d stayed friends with Craig, but what would it matter?

  “It probably doesn’t help, but he did none of it sober,” Tom said. “I can’t say the number of times I dragged him off before he did something stupid.”

  The number of times...? “There were...more than two?”

  “I... He told me he’d confessed it all. That you’d forgiven him. I guess I believed him. You’d forgiven him the two big ones.” He sagged. “I’m sorry, Linda.”

  He raised his eyes to her. It was too dark to see their color but the light in them reached her. The same light that had made her fall deeply and madly for him the way that only a girl can ever do. Craig had cured her of that wild abandon, but Tom was a good choice of the kind of man to love first. The feelings she’d had for him were the same she’d want to have in her next relationship. “You deserved better. Still do.”

  Linda felt a stab of guilt. She’d assumed that Tom was complicit in Craig’s affairs. In his alcoholism. But Tom had fought Craig and lost.

  “You’re not responsible for other people’s choices,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I chose to be Craig’s friend. So I had to be one.”

  “He had the best friend a man could have,” she said. “I don’t know why you stayed with him.”

  “And I don’t know why you stayed with him.”

  “Yes, you do.” She’d given Craig one strike because the kids were still at home and she’d hoped that her forgiveness would inspire him to honor her. After his second affair in seven years—well, the second she’d uncovered—she’d faced facts and asked for a divorce. Not three weeks later, he’d told her that he had cancer.

  For their daughter and for the weak part in her that couldn’t let anyone suffer, even when she wasn’t responsible for their illness, she’d not filed for divorce. She’d nursed him instead and, a year later, he’d made a complete recovery.

  He’d told her his battle with cancer had taught him what was important in life. She’d believed him and planted two rosebushes along the backyard fence. A reminder of his deceptions, yes, but also of the renewing power of love. For the sake of accuracy, she should’ve planted an entire rose garden.

  Three months later, he died when his truck flipped and crashed. An investigation revealed an open beer and that he was placing a call home.

  Everyone had thought it sad that after his victory over a life-threatening disease, he should die this way. Such a waste.

  Would they still think it a waste if they knew he’d died after spending the weekend with the woman he’d been having an affair with when he’d received his diagnosis?

  “You want to know why I didn’t ditch him?” Tom asked now. “Because you didn’t. I figured that you stayed with him because you loved him, despite everything. So I tried to give you a reason for your choice, to keep him on the straight and narrow. I tried to be a friend to you both. I failed. I failed you, at least.”

  Tom fail her? For the better part of thirty-six years, he’d done the best he could to keep her and Craig together because he thought that was what she wanted. What else had they got wrong about each other?

  “Tom,” she said, “can I get you something to drink?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOR THE NEXT two days, Mel contemplated how he could set up another nondate with Daphne without her thinking he was “settling.”

  It was a word he’d come to loathe, and the more he loathed it, the more he realized how much he was thinking like his father, the only man Mel could truly say he’d ever hated. His biologica
l father had never settled, either. He was always on the hunt for the next best deal.

  Maybe Mel and his old man were more similar than he wanted to believe. Cal had always been searching for the next big payout; Mel had always been searching for the next big love. Both hoped that right around the corner was The One.

  Except his father wanted The One Big Break. Quick and painless and effortless. No work, all profit. Mel was willing to work at love because it was real. Except with Daphne. With her, Mel had made the sort of deal his father would’ve approved of—a short-term, commitment-free, friendly arrangement, with an emphasis on friendly.

  Mel was also beginning to dislike the word friend. For one thing, it was entirely too vague to describe his unsettling emotions for the geek-cute, colorful, flowery-talking bookworm.

  On Sunday morning, a friend of a friend texted him to say that an RV spot had opened up at the quiet, treed campground on the outskirts of town, and Mel leaped at the opportunity to text Daphne, reminding himself that she would never be The One. She texted back.

  Thank you so much for advising me of the opening. However, I am afraid that if I agree to allow Fran to drive even a short distance, she may continue straight through to the coast.

  The solution seemed so obvious that Mel felt awkward even broaching it to Daphne. Her fancy reply indicated that she, too, was feeling the same way.

  Unfortunately, I am not, nor ever have been, in the possession of a driver’s license. While I have always maintained a valid learner’s license, I do not possess the necessary skills to operate a car in an empty field, much less an RV in a populated town.

  Huh. He didn’t know of any able-bodied, able-minded adult without a driver’s license. So he offered to do it himself.

  She replied.

  Thank you for your offer to lend us your driving services. Frankly, though, I am quite content to remain in this central location, where I can easily walk to the library and local eateries. Once again, thank you for thinking of us.

  Nothing more for him to say except wish her a good morning and carry on. Only he didn’t want to. He wanted to be with her, not as a friend, but as Mel and all that he had to offer her.

  He quickly sent her another suggestion before his rational side overpowered him.

  She texted him back again.

  I wish it were so simple. I have repeatedly attempted driving lessons with any number of specialized instructors over the years to no avail. I appreciate your offer but I am convinced that it would be an exercise in frustration for us both.

  Mel thumbed her a two-word message: Prove it.

  Prove it? I suppose you will not relent until I do. When shall we commence with this brief demonstration of my ineptitude?

  He took some time to compose his reply. He read it aloud before hitting Send.

  We won’t be together for too much longer. I’d like to think that when you hit the road years from now, you will remember me as the one who made it happen. We can start our engines anytime.

  Her answer took a while coming.

  This I have to see. I await your arrival.

  And then, not at all like Daphne, an emoji. The wide-eyed, openmouthed “Wow” one.

  He’d rattled her, but good.

  * * *

  MEL PRETENDED NOT to see Daphne’s hands shake or her breath come in little fretful pants. Pretended that it was perfectly normal to be squeezed into Connie’s used subcompact sedan in the far, empty corner of the Walmart parking lot on a hot, clammy Sunday afternoon. “Try again to move your hand from the wheel to the ignition,” he said.

  She nodded and edged her hand to the key and twisted it, and the car revved to life. Lights, numbers, music and rushing air animated the dashboard. She didn’t release her hold and the engine ground on.

  “Let go.”

  She didn’t.

  “Let go.”

  Her hand trembled but didn’t budge.

  He set his hand over hers and switched the car off, the dashboard also silenced. They both leaned back in their seats. Mel eyed the gap between where they were and the parking space directly opposite, a distance of roughly ten feet. It might as well be from here to Halifax for all the progress they’d made in the past half hour.

  “It’s always the same,” Daphne whispered. “I go to try and I freeze. Like now.”

  “I see.” He switched the ignition to Battery and lowered his window, had Daphne do the same to hers and then turned off the car again. Daphne stroked the wheel, her short, delicate fingers skimming the bumpy finger grips.

  Connie, being Connie, had pinked up the old car. Pink headrests, pink gearshift grips, pink visor clips and a pink steering wheel.

  “I feel like I’m inside a tub of strawberry ice cream,” Daphne said.

  “Makes sense,” Mel said. “I’m melting like ice cream.”

  “We could get out,” Daphne said. “Go for a walk, cool down, come back and try again.”

  Mel pointed to the parking spot opposite. “Not until we cross the gap.”

  Daphne sighed. “I’ve shown you all I’ve got. I can sit in the driver’s seat. I can look out the windshield. I can hold on to the wheel. Oh, look, I can also twist it. Yay.”

  Her bitterness saddened him. There had to be a way for her to make a breakthrough. He’d hoped to skirt around the whys of her driving phobia, but he needed some kind of insight. “You always been, uh...this nervous?”

  She gripped the steering wheel so tight that the vinyl squeaked. “I— My—”

  “It’s okay,” Mel said, sorry he’d brought it up. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Daphne held up her palm. “In consideration of all your efforts, the least I can do is explain.” She gave the vinyl another punishing twist. “When I was sixteen, I was in a car accident that killed my parents and my best friend. I was the one driving.”

  Mel really wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “The police said it wasn’t my fault. An oncoming truck veered into our lane. I’d no choice but to go into the ditch, but it was more like a cliff. The police figured the car rolled over four times. Seat belts weren’t law then. I just remember hanging on to the wheel for all it was worth.”

  Like she was doing now.

  “Fran and her husband—Frederick—took me in. It couldn’t have been easy for them.” Her grip on the wheel was so hard, Mel could see the cording of her shoulder muscles. “Their daughter was my best friend.”

  “Oh.” Mel never felt so claustrophobic.

  “Yes. Oh. I was the one behind the wheel in the accident that killed their only daughter.”

  “I doubt they blamed you,” Mel said, even though he knew how lame the words were. No one had blamed him, either, but he’d always feel responsible.

  “Still doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard for them to take care of me like a daughter when they had to bury their own. Point is, I’ve done it all. Behavioral therapy, hypnosis, role-playing, and I can’t get beyond holding the wheel in a stationary vehicle. I’m sorry.”

  Mel had an urge to burst from the vehicle. He felt her trauma as if it were his own. It had been his own. Maybe if he told her a bit about his experience, she would loosen up enough to drive. Except Mel hadn’t spoken about his accident in more than thirty years, even with his mother. There were times he even wondered if it had happened. He had no proof. Nothing except his nightmares, and if they started to torment him again just because he saw a newborn like baby Emma, what would happen if he were to speak of the details?

  But if Daphne had the courage to tell him about her horrors, then he could, too.

  “I’ve got a secret, too,” he said. “I was in an accident with my mother. I was twelve and I drove us into the ditch.”

  “Oh. Your mother. She died?”

  “No. She was okay. Only I... It was snowing and...we couldn’t get the car m
oving. And my dad wasn’t around. So, I...I had to walk five miles to the nearest gas station for help.”

  Mel stared out the windshield and felt Daphne’s puzzled gaze. His story sounded pathetic next to the grinding horror of hers. But he couldn’t seem to spit out the rest.

  “You had to walk,” she said. “Not your mother?”

  “She couldn’t. She was...bleeding.”

  “I thought you said she was okay.”

  Forget it. No matter how much it might help Daphne to finally drive, he couldn’t physically push out the words. “She was okay. After I got help. I know it was nothing like what you went through, of course. But I didn’t much want to drive after that.”

  “So, how did you get over your fear?”

  Mel had no trouble telling that story. “My stepdad started by having me putter around the side streets. Once, a small kid jumped right out in front of me and... Well, I stopped in time. The kid carried on and so did I.”

  That still sounded, if not pathetic, very ordinary. “I guess my point is that driving is like life. You don’t know what’ll happen, the good or the bad.”

  Daphne stared. “Did you just Forrest Gump me?”

  That wasn’t his intention but... He shrugged.

  “Mel,” she said. “Even if you don’t get me to drive, I will remember you for the rest of my life.”

  Later, he thought. After I get her driving, I will deal with how good her saying that makes me feel. “If driving didn’t matter to you, you wouldn’t have kept up your learner’s. You haven’t given up. Neither will I. There’s got to be a way from here to there,” he said.

  “We could walk there.”

  “That’s not the—” Her face was bunched into a cute emoji smile. “Huh,” he said. “Huh.”

  At least, he’d made her smile. One tiny break. He sounded like his dad. “All I need is a break, son,” he’d say, buying a lottery ticket with the change in his pocket and the gas tank on empty. “One break and everything changes.”

  That was what he wanted for Daphne.