Coming Home to You

by M. K. Stelmack

  “You’re the one she doesn’t want to be with, not me. So unless she tells me directly to stay here, we’re going with my plan.”

  “I can’t book you a room,” she said. “She left with all my ID and cards.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it myself,” he said, meaning that his assistant would do it. “Can you be reached at this number?”

  “You could leave a message at it,” she said and glanced for confirmation at Mel, who was already nodding, apparently having overheard. Even as a kid, Moshe had projected his voice as if he was in a courtroom 24/7. “It’s a friend’s number. I’m staying at his place.”

  “Mel Greene? Is this the guy Mom said you’re moving to Alberta for?”

  Mel was watching her carefully. “I—I don’t know where she got that idea from.”

  “She said you wanted to stay in Spirit River to be with him.”

  “Spirit Lake,” she said automatically. “Please keep that straight since the province does have a Spirit River, too.”

  “Spirit Lake. If you’re not serious about this guy, why are you at his place?”

  “Because I would have no place to go otherwise.”

  Mel abruptly left.

  “You’re there because you’re desperate?”

  “Because Mel is a good person.” Why couldn’t he have stayed to hear her say that, too?

  “I’ll book two rooms.”

  Mel was one step ahead of Moshe. He was already sitting at the kitchen table, tucking into a plate of hash browns and bacon. As soon as she joined him in front of a second heaping plate, he said, “I’ll take you to a hotel.”

  “Our relationship is none of Moshe’s business. If you’ve gleaned anything from our conversation, it’s that Moshe is as black-and-white as print on paper, and what’s between us is anything but that. I—I care for you.” Too much for her to handle. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I do.”

  “I know you appreciate what I’m doing. I just don’t want you to feel obligated to behave a certain way because of it.”

  “I— What?”

  Mel gestured to the couch, where the pillows and blankets from his made-up bed were stacked, but his eyes never left his hash browns. “Last night, I—I carried on there a bit.”

  “That was fine, Mel. I understand.”

  He set down his own knife and fork. “You didn’t feel in any way obligated?”

  “I— No! Maybe at first it was a bit unusual for me, but I didn’t mind.”

  Mel’s mouth pulled down and she rushed on. “It’s just that Moshe—he’s like his mom. A verbal agreement is law. You have to watch everything you say around him, otherwise he’ll hold you to it.”

  “Then,” Mel said, “the less said the better. I will take you to a hotel for tonight.”

  For someone who makes a living with words, she had certainly made a mess of them.

  * * *

  THE NEXT EVENING, Mel sat alone on his couch and wished he hadn’t done the right thing.

  He had unfairly put Daphne on the spot about her feelings for him, and he didn’t blame her for ducking the question. Just because he was in a headlong rush to commit to her after a month didn’t mean she felt the same way.

  He’d dragged out her drop-off at the hotel the previous night. He’d lingered with her over dinner, snagged Connie’s car and, at Daphne’s bold suggestion, had circumnavigated the town at sixty kilometers per hour, including an exhilarating left turn and lane change. She’d pulled up outside her hotel instead of his apartment.

  She’d spent the night by herself there. Moshe had flown in the night before and, after an early-morning interrogation of the police, had powered west in a rental to launch his own investigation.

  Her alone in a hotel, and him alone here, thanks to his senseless integrity.

  How to be together right now, much less for the rest of their lives?

  Patterned knocks on the door had him on his feet, except it wasn’t whom he wanted. He opened the door to Cal.

  He was dressed as well as when they’d gone out for drinks, and from the vapors rising off him, he’d come from the same place. “I don’t know if you got my messages earlier today, so I thought I’d take a chance and pop on by.”

  He should’ve guessed he could only ignore Cal-the-Relentless-Salesman for so long. Mel was tempted to slam the door on him, but he didn’t want his neighbors to overhear. He happened to know them all—above, below and to the sides. Good people. Besides which, Cal being Cal would knock again.

  Once inside, his dad whistled. “Nice.” He rapped his knuckles on the granite countertops and took in the crown moldings. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the rent on a place like this?”

  And here started the fishing.

  “I own.”

  Another whistle. “Good for you, son. Good for you.” He shrugged. “Makes sense. Mortgages are less than rent these days.”

  He didn’t need to answer that, but ever since he’d paid off the loan on the company truck eighteen years ago, a truck he and Seth had replaced three years ago with cash on the table, it was a source of pride for Mel to say that he didn’t owe anyone a single penny. “I wouldn’t know. Like I said, I own.”

  Cal shook his head in slow wonder, as if Mel had performed a magic trick. He went into the hallway where the bedrooms were. “Nice and roomy. You have your own office, I see.”

  Cal stepped inside and took in the precise arrangement of desk, chair and filing cabinet. Probably on the hunt for the vault. His focus came to rest on baby Isaac’s box, now resting on Mel’s desk until he could figure out a better place for it. Cal eyed it speculatively. Did he honestly think Mel would keep money in a box?

  There was no way he’d divulge its actual contents. He didn’t trust himself not to break down again—or not to punch his seventy-two-year-old dad in the face.

  Let his father ask or beg. Like his mom had every night when Cal had left the house to gamble away the grocery money, or the money for the utility bill or to fix the car. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring back twice as much,” he’d always promised.

  Only, he never did.

  Ask me for money, Cal, so I can tell you what you told Mom on your way out the door. “It’s my money and I’ll do whatever I want with it.” And his mother six months pregnant.

  Except Cal didn’t ask outright. He came at it from a different angle. After a long look at the box, he said, “Remember how you kept your money in a matchbox?”

  He did.

  “You used to roll up the money so tightly, back when dollars were bills instead of coins.” Cal said. “So tight no one could unroll it. I know, I tried. Don’t get in a huff. I didn’t steal it. I was just...curious. More than seventy one-dollar bills rolled into something no bigger than my hand. You always liked to hold on to stuff. Clothes that were too small, broken toys. A grocery bag of old shoelaces and plastic straws. What was that all about? Keeping useless crap. I caught you once erasing the writing in my notebook so you could reuse it. What kid does that?”

  “A kid whose dad can’t afford to buy him a new one.”

  “I’ll be the first to say it,” Cal said and sat in the office chair, took a spin in it. “I wasn’t the greatest dad. I made unbelievably stupid decisions. But I wasn’t all bad, was I?”

  “Nope,” Mel said. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

  “Twice? I was good more than twice.” And before Mel could clarify that was twice a day, Cal said, “How about that time I got you a brand-new bike? You weren’t expecting that.”

  “It isn’t saying much when a boy is surprised that his father got him a birthday gift.”

  “How about all those times I took you into town for an ice cream?”

  He had done that. Mel remembered being only five or six, the cold of the ice cream in one hand and the warm
th of his dad’s hand in the other.

  “I never saw a kid eat a cone faster.”

  “Because,” Mel said, hating himself for admitting it, “to eat it slower, I would have had to take my other hand out of yours.”

  Cal didn’t hoot or smirk. He quieted in his chair and softly said, “Remember the day the three of us went to the rodeo?”

  “I remember a rider got trampled by a bull.”

  Cal picked up a company pen and rolled it between his fingers, the Greene-on-Top logo spinning away and back again. “What I remember is winning the fifty-fifty draw and my bet on the champion bareback rider. Two wins in one day. There you go. Twice in one day.”

  “Do you also remember losing twice in one day?”

  Cal tossed down the pen. “Did that so often, how could I not? But on that day, that day, the three of us drove down to Kelowna after the win and went shopping. Your mom picked out a couple of nice dresses, some shoes and a necklace. And you, your mom got you shoes and a couple pairs of jeans, but all you really wanted was to go to the grocery store and buy food. Buns. You loaded up on dinner buns, hamburger buns and, for a treat, cinnamon buns. I asked if you wanted candy. No, you just wanted regular food. Like you’d never had that before.”

  Mel bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying a whole lot of things that couldn’t be fixed anyhow. Neither did he want to prolong Cal’s stay in the same room as Isaac’s ashes.

  “Why did you change your name, Mel?”

  Mel hadn’t expected that question. “Because I wanted to have the same name as my family.”

  If Cal felt the insult, he didn’t let on. “Not that it matters. You’re not going to have a kid to carry the Grant name on, if you marry that little lady of yours.”

  “We’re not talking about Daphne.”

  “Fine by me.” Cal picked up the pen again, clicked it. “Can I have this?”

  Mel was well versed in Cal’s methods. Ask for small things before building up to something big. “Sure.”

  Cal clipped it to his shirtfront. “Thanks.”

  “Yep.”

  “The business. You’ve done well with it.”

  “Not bad. Seth helped out until last year. Ben, Connie’s fiancé, too,” he clarified.

  “I know all that.”

  Mel must’ve betrayed his surprise, because Cal continued, “I know when your mother married your stepdad. I know when Seth was born, and Constance, too. I know when your stepdad died. And your mom.” He adjusted his thick glasses with both hands. “Nearly came out here for her service. The newspaper,” Cal said before Mel could ask. “When your mother asked me for a divorce, the lawyer gave me the name of the man she was marrying. From there, I found out where you were living, that he had a roofing business. And I subscribed to the paper. Read the birth announcements. The roofing ads. Watched for mentions of you, or your brother and sister.” He paused. “Saw Connie had some trouble. Seth, too.”

  Of course, Cal would point out the bad history. “She’s good now. Seth was always good and there’s more to it than was reported.”

  “There always is, always is.” Cal touched the pen. “Your name came up now and again. Your picture a few times. For one volunteer thing or another. The company sponsoring an event or award. I’m glad you worked that stinginess out of your system. Happy to see you’ve turned into a generous person.”

  Cal slid a look at the box. Yep, his old man was fishing for money. “Just in case you’re wondering,” Mel said, “there’s no cash in there.”

  “Why would you think I’d assume that?”

  “Because you’re short on cash and you’re here to hit me up. Why don’t you just ask me, Cal?”

  Cal pushed back the chair and set his hands on his knees, as if about to rise but he stopped. “Why don’t you, just for once, call me Dad?”

  “Because my dad died more than twenty years ago. You know that. You read his obituary.”

  “I’m your dad.”

  “You gave up all parental rights.”

  “That’s legal mumbo jumbo. You know I’m your dad,” he thumped his chest, “in here.”

  Yeah, the heart. The part that dreamed impossible things. Like Daphne giving up her life in Halifax for him. Like him giving up his family here for her in Halifax.

  “Why didn’t you ever come see me, then, Cal? Maybe not when I was a kid and things were still raw between you and Mom, but later, when I was an adult?”

  “Because you were an adult. You could’ve just as easily come see me. I always kept your mom informed of my current address and phone number. But you never came. You never called.”

  He couldn’t tell Cal about his fear of driving in the mountains. Cal would easily make the link between his fear and baby Isaac. And with the ashes right there, Mel didn’t trust himself not to dissolve into another sobbing mess. And Daphne was no longer here to get him through it. She was on the other side of town, and he missed her. What would he do when she was on the other side of the country?

  “Never mind,” Cal said. “I got my answer.” He stood, and Mel stepped aside for him to leave.

  At the front door, Cal turned to Mel. “You won’t appreciate me saying this but when it comes to Daphne, don’t get your hopes up. You’re more like me than you want to believe. Always chasing the dream. I made my worst mistakes when I refused to see that I couldn’t have what I wanted.”

  He sauntered off, whistling.

  Mel ached to kick the door shut so hard that everyone in the building would jump. But he closed it quietly, as he always did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “HAVE YOU COME here to tell me what a fool I am?” Fran said when Daphne entered the hospital room early the next afternoon.

  Fran had been located late last night at a campsite designated for quad users. According to Moshe, the police had notified him, and he was at her side forty-seven minutes later. He’d driven her straight to the Red Deer Hospital, a full hour away, even though there was a perfectly good hospital in the smaller Rocky Mountain House.

  Moshe always believed bigger was better.

  Daphne studied her godmother. Even in four short days, Fran had become so much paler, so much a...shadow of herself. It was clear Fran’s life was now numbered in weeks. And soon Daphne would lose another parent. She would grieve alone in her Halifax apartment. She could call Mel, of course. It wouldn’t be the same as being with him, being held by him. But what choice did she have?

  Without thinking, Daphne kissed Fran on the forehead. She hadn’t kissed her godmother since—well, since she could remember. She forced her voice to be as light and mild as her sugared lemonade. “I trust you learned your lesson well enough.”

  “And have you learned yours?”

  Daphne busied herself by checking the IV insertion point on the back of Fran’s hand. With her habitual hand gestures, Fran tended to dislodge the needle or twist the tube.

  “You mean have I learned to impose upon others? Yes, I have. For instance, I was obliged to ask Mel if he would retrieve the motor home. Even as we speak, he and Moshe are driving it back to Spirit Lake.” Thankfully, Fran had not fully reached the mountains; otherwise, Mel would’ve flatly refused to help.

  “How did you get here, then?”

  “Tom.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Fran should remember Tom. Daphne had introduced them when he’d come to the motor home on Sunday. But her confusion looked genuine. “He’s Mel’s friend.”

  “Mel showed you a good time while I was gone?”

  She’d agreed to become Mrs. Claus, met his estranged father and viewed the remains of his baby brother. And she’d discovered that she had no idea what to do with her feelings for a man she had no future with. “I’ll never forget our time together.”

  Fran raised her eyebrows. Unpainted, they were two fa
int lines. “You still plan to leave him, then?”

  “I don’t want to. But I don’t see a way around it. My work, my apartment, my book...”

  “You have a doctorate. You’re writing a book about economics and emotion, but you can’t figure out how to balance those things in real life. Surely you can put your imagination to better use.”

  “My imagination isn’t the problem.” Daphne adjusted the pillow under Fran’s hand with the injection site. “I don’t have your courage, Fran.”

  Fran lifted her fingers, the remnants of her former extravagant wave. “You have your own brand of courage, Daphne Merlotte. But I can’t drive off into the sunset again for you to find it. Moshe has already bought my plane ticket home. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  She might not be able to wave dramatically, but Fran could still deliver a bombshell. “Moshe never said a word to me. Are you well enough to travel?”

  “I’m well enough to be a passenger, considering yesterday I drove a motor home.”

  “Into a creek, according to Moshe.”

  Daphne expected Fran to give a pithy retort. Instead, she plucked at her hospital gown, a faded pink gown. “My driving days are over,” she whispered.

  Daphne reached to smooth the sheet. Their hands touched and Fran took Daphne’s. “Small and quick,” she said. “Your hands. Like butterflies.”

  Daphne gently placed her other hand on top of Fran’s, the one free of the tube. “And yours are long and graceful,” she said. “Like a bird in flight.”

  The bird jostled the butterfly. “Our poetry is abhorrent.”

  “Maudlin and indulgent,” Daphne affirmed.

  Fran tapped her forefinger against Daphne’s knuckles. “The Stagecoach is yours. And all the contents.”

  Your voice is all sugary and mild and light. “Half the contents are mine, anyway.”

  “Mine include jewelry.”

  “Ebay, here I come.”

  “You wouldn’t dare. The sapphire brooch alone has ten diamonds. Mel has nieces, doesn’t he? Share with them.”

  “Shouldn’t your grandchildren get your jewels?”