Daphne spared him a quick nod and cranked the wheel.
“Not so much, not so much.”
The kids had it up to fifteen kilometers per hour now.
“Mel,” said Daphne. She glanced up at him, and Mel saw the same kind of determined panic or panicked determination that she’d had on her face when she’d kissed him not so long ago, and changed his life forever.
Now he’d return the favor. No more pushing vehicles that worked perfectly well. He ran behind the car, threw open the car door and jumped inside.
“Switch the car on.”
Daphne stayed frozen to the wheel. “You do it.”
“You do it,” Mel said right back.
“I can’t!”
“Do it or the engine will catch fire!”
She gasped and revved the car to life.
“Let go!”
“I can’t.”
“Smoke!” he said.
Her hand jerked off the starter.
“Now, drive.”
She did, through pure, clear air. He leaned out the window. “Thanks, guys.”
They dropped away from the vehicle and waved. Mel waved back.
“You tricked me, Mel Greene.”
“What’s that? You’re driving so well, you said?”
She would’ve glared at him, he knew, if she wasn’t so busy watching the lines on the asphalt, the carts, the moving kids, debris and cars that might move.
“Why,” Daphne said, “did you do that?”
“Because you believe when you’re behind the wheel an accident will happen. So I had to make one up.”
“That was mean.”
“If it’s any consolation, you could’ve blown the transmission, but I wasn’t sure if you even knew what that was.”
“So you opted for the dramatic. Fran is rubbing off on you.”
“At least I didn’t trick a kid into thinking I might have a heart attack at his feet. You probably scared him.”
“I didn’t consider that,” Daphne said, regret in her voice. “I just didn’t want you taking on more than you had to. Or getting hurt for me. He obviously knew you, and really, it worked out for the best.”
She felt responsible for him? “Does this have to do with me not wanting to drive Frederick to the coast? You’re worried that I can’t handle myself now?”
Daphne released a long, slow breath. She pressed down on the gas and the speedometer shot to twenty kilometers per hour. The kids cheered wildly. “I guess I realized that you’re mortal like the rest of us.”
“You didn’t realize that before?”
“Have you seen yourself push a car? The point is, I couldn’t help you, so I called upon someone who could.”
Her way of saying she liked him. “Help me? I was pushing for you.”
“True.”
There was a pause in which Mel reviewed the options for extending his time with Daphne. Apparently, she used the quiet to go down another rabbit hole. “Does your fear of mountain driving have to do with the accident when you were a kid?”
That and avoiding flashbacks and nightmares and places and people like his biological dad while operating a vehicle. It had to do with not taking unnecessary risks. “It’s about statistics.”
“You know,” she said softly, “after all my years of therapy, I found an unexpected friend who helped me with my fears. I’d recommend that technique.”
No way was he going to dump his past on her when their future consisted of maybe, maybe another two weeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Way, way back of mind. To dodge any more of her questions, he asked one of his own. “Want to drive over to Tim Hortons and celebrate?”
“Why does everything come down to food with you?” she said, easing the car to a full and complete stop.
Because if you had food, you weren’t hungry. A basic concept never understood by his biological dad, who fed off a diet of dreams and dead ends. “Food makes me happy,” he said. “And doughnuts make me happiest of all.”
Daphne gave him a smile, his favorite one, where her cheeks rounded into pink balls. “Fine. But you’re driving. The manager will be the one needing therapy if he sees me behind the wheel.”
* * *
CONNIE CLAIMED HER car on Saturday night, so Mel couldn’t take Daphne driving. He’d so far managed to dodge Connie’s questions about why he kept borrowing her car by sandwiching the lie between layers of truth. He said he was teaching Judy’s daughter’s friend how to drive—not true—and small cars were easier to maneuver—true. He’d convinced Judy to back him up should Connie ask.
To be honest, he didn’t care if Connie knew about him and Daphne. He wanted to tell everyone about her, especially his family during their weekly roundup at the farm. Technically he could, since Daphne had said she’d fake it with him in public. But he didn’t want to lie to his family, and he was pretty sure the careful watchers, Seth and Alexi—and Matt—would see right through the deceit.
Which brought him to a kind of sticky problem that he wanted to broach with Daphne. They were sitting on camp chairs at the lake, watching the sun sink and spread into deep colors of fire. She’d not brought her laptop—a good sign. But instead of a screen, she had now disappeared behind her sunglasses and a hat. “Otherwise, I will self-immolate,” she’d explained when he’d picked her up. Mel hadn’t ever heard that word spoken. It was one of those words, such as ameliorate and purportedly, that were only meant to be read.
He shifted in the sling of his chair but he still couldn’t work out the kinks in his body. “Not to sound too obvious,” he said, “but I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“I know what you mean,” Daphne said. “I used to be able to sit and read all day. Now I have to get up after an hour. I do miss reading in the park.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a park across from my condo with a bench tucked behind a maple tree, out of sight of the path. I’ve spent hours there. But last year I noticed that the bench had become harder and straighter.”
“Yep,” Mel said and crafted his next statement carefully. “I guess that’s why it’s important to celebrate the good things in life whenever they come along.”
Daphne smiled at the sunset. “Carpe diem. Seize the day.”
“That could’ve been my dad’s motto,” Mel said. “Maybe it is.”
“Aren’t you curious,” Daphne said, “to find out if he’s even alive?”
“I am curious. That’s why I check the obits from time to time.”
“I mean, find out how he’s doing. What he’s doing. Where he’s at. All that.”
Mel scrambled to get the conversation back on the track he’d stupidly veered off. “How about we carpe diem next Wednesday?”
Daphne shook her head. “That’s improper usage of carpe diem, even within the flux of the spoken word. Besides, aren’t Wednesdays your family night?”
Ah, good, back on track. “Well, that’s the thing. Daphne.” He turned in his chair to face her as formally as it was humanly possible in a camp chair. “I’d like to invite you to my birthday party next Wednesday with my family. As my special guest.”
Her mouth dropped into a perfect emoji O shape. “Oh. No. Thank you, but no.”
“I’ve already explained we’re friends and that you’re from Halifax. The party’s going to be on my brother’s farm, so it would look as if I’m showing you a bit of the country.”
“It would look,” she said, “as if you are introducing your new girlfriend to them. Do they even know about you and Linda?”
“Yes, they do.”
“And wouldn’t they give me the side-eye, arriving on the scene weeks later?”
Seth would, for sure. At least, he’d be the one to vocalize his objection. Daphne pounced on his hesitation. “Just as I suspected. They’re aware of your
settling habit, and will view me as one of your—your settlees.”
“That’s improper usage of settle, even within the flux—”
“Don’t you dare quote me, Mel Greene.”
The sunset was shaping up nicely. The earlier harsh color had softened into deep oranges, pinks and purples. The kind of sunset that ends up on calendars and postcards. But right now all Mel could see was the sun going down on his evening.
“It’s my birthday and I can invite whoever I like. That’s the family rule. And if I want to invite someone who won’t be here for any more of my birthdays, then that’s my decision. In fact, they just might understand. Wouldn’t you?”
He could tell by the bends and stretches of her mouth that he’d made an argument she couldn’t counter. “If I answer yes, I’ve ipso facto agreed to attend your birthday party, haven’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Have you invited anyone else?”
“Nope.”
“Family gatherings make my skin crawl. I’ve attended enough at Moshe’s to know that.”
“What’s wrong with a party? There are kids and food and people and presents.”
“And there are brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles who know that I’m just Fran’s goddaughter only. Not a real daughter or a real sister, not married into the family, either. I’m a sad, bitter story of an orphan who survived while one of their own—a girl much smarter and prettier and kinder—died.”
Daphne’s breath hitched. She pinched her mouth tight and turned away, displaying the wide straw brim of her hat to him.
Mel sat, stunned. He searched for the right words to speak his heart.
“Nice night,” a voice said near him. Tom Baxter stood there in an Hawaiian shirt and steel-toed boots, looking like either an uptight tourist or a lax construction worker. He and Mel had chatted a few times when Mel was seeing Linda. Tom had always seemed on edge. Why had he chosen now to strike up a conversation?
Grudgingly, Mel did what was expected of him. “Daphne, this is Tom Baxter. Tom, Daphne Merlotte. Tom is a friend of Linda’s.” Friend was the best word he could come up with to describe Linda’s dead husband’s best friend.
Tom dropped Daphne’s hand almost as soon as he touched it. “You the one who ran the RV into Tim Hortons?”
Now, that was just rude but Daphne answered easily, “My godmother, actually. She’s ill.”
Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets and said, “Linda told me. How’s she doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mel said. “How can I help you tonight, Tom?” Ten to one, it was about a roofing job. He picked up business all the time like this, and usually he didn’t mind.
“Well, I...uh... I heard from Linda that she decided to take what you had together and...um...maybe move it in a different direction, you know, from where... You know—”
Mel couldn’t take Tom’s discomfort any longer. “She dumped me.”
Tom looked genuinely surprised. “She did? I mean, that’s what she said. Only she doesn’t usually give up so easily. I thought...maybe you did something to...set her off.” He glanced at Daphne, making the implication clear.
Daphne shot to her feet. Sandal to work boot with Tom. “What a vile accusation. Mel Greene is of impeccable character, which you must well know if you’ve lived in this town for any length of time. He would never do such a thing. His defect, if it is a defect, is to love everybody.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Tom began, “but with Linda—”
“Well, you have offended me. And Mel. So how about you stick to being her friend, and I’ll be his, and you leave us to our sunset?”
Tom happily retreated.
“Well said,” Mel said when Daphne nestled back into her chair. “Even if you misquoted Austen there. I believe Mr. Darcy hated everybody.”
“I didn’t misquote. I modified.”
“All right, then.” With Tom out of the way, Mel could return to the problem at hand, and now the words flowed easily. “As far as my birthday party goes, there isn’t a person around that table who hasn’t lost a parent in some way. We’re pretty much all mismatched, and one of a kind, like out of a lost-and-found box.”
“Are you saying that I’ll fit as well as a lost mitten?”
“More like an old book with a worn spine because it was read over and over, and the owner wishes it hadn’t got away on him.”
“Huh,” she said. “Huh.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAPHNE STOOD BEFORE the four adults and four kids seated at the birthday table on the deck, feeling much like an Austenian debutante attending her first ball. Their good opinion didn’t matter to her, since she would never see them again after this evening. But Mel’s association with her would be forever planted into the Greene collective memory, and so she’d worn her daffodil earrings with her daylily dress and styled every curl on her head.
“Everyone, this is my special friend, Daphne,” Mel said. “Daphne, this is my family.” He broke each member down into their individual names and allegiances. Luckily, he’d already briefed her on the short drive to the farm, so she easily matched names to faces. She certainly had them at a disadvantage, because from the circumspect exchange of glances and the scramble to lay an extra table setting and shuffling of bodies to accommodate her, she was not expected.
Knowing Mel, he’d ambushed them to render any objections moot.
She set her present with the others on an adjoining table, a huge bag that overshadowed all the others. Nope, no compensating here, none at all. She certainly hadn’t trailed around town for hours, second-guessing her decisions about what to buy.
As a special guest of the birthday boy, she was seated right next to him, square in the middle of the family, like a queen at a royal dinner. Everybody watching, ready for the dropped fork or lettuce stuck between her teeth.
Not that much eating happened. Connie lobbed questions through the meal like a nosy matron until her fiancé, Ben, finally reminded her that Daphne was a guest, not an applicant for a classified security job.
“I was just asking which movie version of Mr. Darcy she preferred. It’s related to her romantic work.”
“Romanticism,” Daphne corrected automatically. “The period. It celebrated the imagination and the emotion in the arts and culture. But the emotions weren’t really about fantasies but more along the lines of horror and awe. Gothic literature arose then.”
Connie pointed at Ariel. “Did you hear that? Gothic is very romantic.”
Ariel, with her pale face and black lips with the steel hoop, addressed Daphne. “Do you think that steampunk literature is the modern appearance of Gothic literature or is it something different?”
Daphne righted a chunk of pineapple slipping off her pizza. “I couldn’t say. I...haven’t read from that genre.”
The whites of Ariel’s eyes widened. “Really? You have to. I’d start with...” She unrolled a list of books and authors. Daphne wouldn’t have guessed the girl was so well-read in such a small genre; a book couldn’t be judged by its facial makeup, apparently.
“Ariel,” Connie interrupted, “it’s Uncle Mel’s birthday. You can’t dominate the conversation with your stuff.”
Only the youngest, Callie, who gazed upon Auntie Connie with open adoration, didn’t laugh or declare the irony. Even Ben, his eyes soft with affection, shook his head.
“Okay, okay, all right, I get it,” Connie said. “Here, I’ll focus on the birthday boy. What’s it like to be fifty-one?”
Mel flicked three pineapple chunks off his pizza, onto Daphne’s plate. “Pretty good. I got family, friends, vehicles, a business, money, pizza.” He swallowed. “And Daphne.”
Daphne wasn’t certain how she felt being lumped in just after pizza, but she also knew that Mel was delivering a message to his family. She was part
of what made his life at fifty-one good. She, the English literature professor, couldn’t speak. She popped a pineapple chunk into her mouth. Smiled at Mel, smiled at everyone, like a queen acknowledging a toast.
“And cake and presents,” one of the boys said. Bryn, that was it.
“True,” Mel said, “and Timbits.”
“And peanut butter and potato chips and—”
“All right,” Alexi cut in. “We are not launching into a list of junk food. Mel, what would you like first, cake or presents?”
The question was apparently traditional, because immediately the kids and Connie lobbied Mel on which choice to make based on their own special interests.
“Cake, then presents,” Mel said. “Then more cake.”
Only Mel could arrive at a solution where both options came first at some point. Why had not one single woman in all of Spirit Lake seen what a treasure he was?
If she weren’t soon leaving forever, if she weren’t devoted to caring for Fran, if she didn’t have work she loved elsewhere, if she wasn’t writing a book that... Well, okay, she could write the book anywhere, but if she didn’t have a condo, which, yes, she could sell, if it wasn’t so sudden and weird and she wasn’t who she was, she might have wanted him to settle for her.
* * *
MEL OPENED DAPHNE’S present last. She’d looked so nervous every time he seemed to be reaching for it that he’d put it off to the end. Out of the enormous gift bag, stuffed to overflowing with tissue paper of every color—she’d probably spent upward of ten bucks just on that—he pulled a tote bag emblazoned with the Spirit Lake logo.
“I never thought of getting one for myself,” Mel said to Daphne at the table beside him, “and I live here.”
Inside was more Spirit Lake swag—a T-shirt, sweatpants, hoodie, baseball cap, six pens, at least a dozen key chains, a pack of postcards and two Spirit Lake mermaid stuffies.
“I would never have thought of getting any of this for myself,” Mel repeated his sentiment because he didn’t know what else to say. He appreciated the gift, sure, considering he’d told her not to get him anything, but he couldn’t see when he’d use any of it. At least the stuff was all in a handy bag for transport to one of his storage sheds.
Coming Home to You Page 9
