by Alice Archer
“You should go and apologize.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Who raised you?” I teased.
“Duh. Mom and Dad.”
“Right. That explains it.” For all their opinions and argumentativeness, Mitch and Sonya were sticklers for manners and appearances. I wondered if Kai’s troubles had to do with the strain of appearing correct while feeling incorrect.
Kai took my hand and pulled to get me to stand, then pushed me to the door.
I gave a perfunctory knock, opened the door, and stuck my head inside. At first, I couldn’t locate Oliver amid the wall-to-wall mayhem. My gaze blew past enormous potted trees, overlapped rugs, three thousand pillows, and a driftwood floor lamp. The orange upholstery of the gigantic couch burned my retinas. Framed photos and artwork covered every inch of the walls. Built-in bookshelves in the far left corner held what looked like art supplies, stereo components, musical instruments, and… I tore my eyes away from a row of animal skulls.
The room only had four walls, but that one look around felt like an endless day at a craft fair with Laura. After the divorce.
French doors to my left led to a covered side porch. In the near left corner of the room, a stage extruded into the living room area. For Christ’s sake. I rolled my eyes, saw more crap hanging from the rafters, and called it quits. Instead of looking for Oliver in the melee, I closed my eyes to listen. When I heard a cabinet door shut, I opened them. The sound had come from straight in front of me.
Oliver crouched in the open kitchen area, in the aisle between two long counters ending at a back door.
My determined march across the living room to get my apology over with faltered when I noticed the wet spot on the carpet where I’d stood to talk with Mitch. I grabbed the folded towel I’d refused off the back of the couch and paused to pat it over the wet spot. A glance at Kai told me he was checking up on me.
“Hey again,” Oliver said. He sent over a wry grin from where he rummaged through a low cabinet jammed with pots and pans. “Change your mind about the ride?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you wait inside? I’m making hot chocolate.”
Kai appeared at my elbow. “Yes, please.”
“No,” I said again, then remembered my manners. “But… thank you for the offer. I only wanted to… er, apologize for being… a bit gruff before.”
“No problem,” Oliver said.
Kai scowled up at me. It made him look like a scary Mitch doll. That look meant my apology had been subpar. I shrugged him off. A moment later, when Kai spoke up on my behalf, I wished I’d done a better job.
“Uncle Grant is going through a rough patch,” Kai told Oliver, “because Aunt Laura refused to budge an inch.”
Oliver’s burst of laughter rattled the pots in his hands.
“Who told you that?” I asked Kai.
After a deeper reach into the cabinet and a final clatter, Oliver straightened with a stack of muffin tins and grinned at us.
“Dad said it to Mom,” Kai said.
“Christ.” I turned away toward the door. “Come on, Kai. We’re done here.” Not wanting to chance Kai running any more of the show, I lifted him into my arms and hastened out to the porch so I could close the door—firmly but quietly—on my embarrassment.
Oliver’s smile followed me, wreathed as it had been in hair and beard and eyes the color of sunlit pennies.
I spent the next ten minutes teasing Kai to get back in his good graces.
Kai spent those same ten minutes with his nose against the window. According to his reports, Oliver made the hot chocolate—“He dropped a whole bar of chocolate right in the pot!”—and moved on to doing stuff with flour and butter and “more muffin tins than even Mom has.”
By the time Mitch pulled up, the peace I’d found in my days alone on Vashon had degraded to a memory of a vacation in a previous lifetime.
Kai turned away from the window. His smile as he took my hand and looked up at me brought me a small relief. Adding Kai to the list of people disappointed in me was not an option.
Chapter 8
Oliver
When I heard a car splash along the driveway and stop, then voices, I crossed the room to crouch behind Matilde, matriarch of the ficus trees, and watch the show outside. Maybe Grant would display more of his entertaining defensiveness. He’d wanted me to see tough and badass, but I only saw hurt and desperate. Defeat percolated through the man’s every word and gesture.
Kai’s dad left the fancy car’s motor running and didn’t get out. I shifted my focus to Grant and Kai on the porch. Neither of them made a move to go down the steps.
Kai looked up at Grant and took his hand, as if to offer reassurance.
After another minute of stasis, the car went quiet. My first reaction to the man who emerged was that I didn’t like him. He opened the rear door of the car and pulled out a green-and-white golf umbrella. It was obvious he was Kai’s dad, because Kai was dressed like a carbon copy of him. Maybe a child’s set of golf clubs lay in the trunk alongside Dad’s. Though I’d only talked with Kai a few minutes, I suspected a disconnect between Dad’s view of Kai and Kai’s view of Kai.
Through the inch of open window at my nose, I heard Dad say, “Let’s go.” He waved a hand at the car and frowned to let us all know how serious he was. “Come on. We missed one ferry. If we hustle, we can make the next one. I need to stop at the office before dinner.”
No movement from the porch.
Dad didn’t seem angry. More like concerned, with a side helping of impatience. A man with a plan, and no fan of deviations. He finally got the message that compliance would not be automatic.
“What’s going on?” Dad’s gaze lowered, perhaps to Grant and Kai’s joined hands.
I wished I could see Kai and Grant’s faces.
Dad gestured at the car. “I packed up your stuff, Grant. We can drive straight to the ferry.”
Grant shook his head.
“Let’s discuss it in the car,” Dad said. “I’ll help you with a job plan.”
Fuck. Grant’s life sucked. No wife, no home, no job. I sprang up and made my way to the door, unwilling to let them go before I got some answers.
With a bright, “Hey there,” I stepped onto the porch and put my hands on my hips. “You must be Kai’s dad. I’m Oliver Rossi.” Instead of going down the porch steps to offer my hand to shake, I stayed put. I wanted to maintain the high ground as the drama played out.
Dad nodded but didn’t offer his own name. Quick thinker. I needed a name so I could find out where his property was on Vashon. I hoped it wasn’t far. I liked Kai. I knew some kids his age he might enjoy being friends with—kids interested in things like art and theater. Kids who dressed like kids.
“Do you live on Vashon?” I asked Dad.
He gave me a look of disapproval, like I’d asked him for access to his trust fund.
I smiled and held his gaze.
For the first time, Dad seemed to really see me. His scrutiny paused on my arms, moved up to my long hair and beard with palpable dismissal. It made me feel perversely happy.
Perceptive Kai spoke into the cold void, in a rush of words, maybe because he knew his Dad would shut him down. “My dad’s name is Mitch Martensen. Our Vashon property is on Southwest Huckleberry Lane. Mom’s building us a house there this sum—”
“Kai,” Dad interrupted. “We do not share our personal business with strangers.”
I folded my arms to put my drawings front and center for Dad and waggled my eyebrows at Kai. “And I’m more strange than the average stranger, right?”
A laugh burst out of Kai’s mouth. He let go of Grant’s hand and came to me with his right hand held out. “Mr. Oliver, thank you very much for rescuing us and for letting me see your house and your stage. I’m really sorry I didn’t get to have any chocolat
e-bar hot chocolate, but it’s been a pleasure anyway.”
Sheesh. This kid. I shook Kai’s hand, but he lunged in for a hug. When I leaned to wrap him up for a moment, Dad’s worried frown turned stony with disapproval. I let go of Kai and took a step toward the stairs down to the driveway so I could get a look at Grant’s face.
So much going on there.
I resisted the urge to dash inside for a sketchbook.
With defeat in his eyes, Grant met Kai with a hug and a whispered, “I hope I’ll see you again soon, buddy.”
“But you’re coming with us.” Kai removed Grant’s cap and coat and handed them to him. “Didn’t you hear Dad?”
“Get in the car now, Kai. I won’t ask again.” Dad used a tone that made Kai scoot out of Grant’s embrace, shoot past me, and run through the rain to the car. Dad held a palm out sideways for Kai to slap on his way past. No hint of anything amiss in their interaction. No sense there would be a beating later if Kai didn’t comply. Only the firm rule of a respected father.
“I’m not going with you,” Grant said. He squeezed the knit cap in his hands and then yanked it down over his head.
Mitch shrugged and turned back to the car. He held the umbrella over the trunk and started hauling stuff out one-handed. First out was a backpack. Fuck, it was big. Grant rushed off the porch to fetch it and bring it back to the porch. Meanwhile, Mitch pulled out plastic bags of what looked like cans of food and set them on the driveway. Next out were cloth shopping bags with what looked like clothing sticking out of them. Grant hustled to take the cloth bags before they hit the wet gravel.
Mitch closed the trunk, got in the car, and drove away.
Kai waved through the back window.
And I was alone with Grant and his mountain of belongings.
Chapter 9
Grant
Relieved I didn’t have to leave Vashon yet, I began to pull things out of my backpack to repack so I’d be able to carry everything.
On the walk from the ferry, I’d passed a motel with a for-sale sign tacked onto the vacancy sign. Maybe they needed me as much as I needed them. If I’d asked Mitch to drop me there, he would have blown past it, intent on doing what he thought best for me.
I glanced up and saw Oliver studying me. “What?” I snapped.
“Nothing.”
“Liar. You’re looking at me like you want to scold me.”
“Am not.” Oliver’s glower deepened. He folded his arms.
“You look at me like I’m a bad man, which I may be, but you’re a baby,” I sneered up at him. “You live in a beautiful house your parents probably gave you. Believe me, my life bears no resemblance to yours, so don’t think you can relate.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes. His eyebrows were the exact color of his eyes. Russet. Like dried leaves. “You’re wrong,” he said. “And you’re rude.”
I didn’t need arguments. I needed peace. Before Mitch kicked me off his property, I’d walked every day through the trees and felt so much better. Nature doesn’t judge.
“I haven’t figured out my life,” I told Oliver, “but I don’t care enough about your opinion to have a conversation with you about it.”
Oliver didn’t like that. I could tell by the way he shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down the driveway. “Where will you go?”
“I have a date with a tree.”
“Well. That sounds… kinky.”
I folded and rolled the clothing Mitch had stuffed into his fancy cloth shopping bags, then stuffed the clothes and the bags into the pack. “Go inside and leave me alone.”
“But… you need help.”
Shame threatened to overspill the careful banks I’d constructed to keep it from flooding my life. I stood and took a few steps to get into Oliver’s space. “We met a few minutes ago. Remember?”
Oliver swallowed and looked down. “I remember.”
I leaned in and waited, noted the subtle freckles scattered across the sharp ridge of his nose.
When Oliver looked up at me again, I said, “Leave. Me. Alone.”
The curiosity and concern on Oliver’s face shifted to hurt. He nodded, lips tight within the glint of facial hair. He turned away and went inside.
By the time I’d emptied all the bags, the backpack bulged at maximum capacity. I stood to take the measure of the weather. The rain had picked up to a steady drum of white noise.
Late afternoon’s dull light under the thick clouds weighed on me as I watched from the top of the porch steps. I wanted to leave, to be alone, to hike to a paved road and hitch to town, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the motel was miles away, and I was so damn tired.
I sat on the top step with my knees in the rain. The longer I sat, the heavier I felt, and the more energy I wasted trying to deny the obvious.
I needed Oliver’s help after all.
Chapter 10
Oliver
He called me a liar.
I didn’t know Grant, but he didn’t know me either.
When I went inside, I locked the front door. The doors hadn’t been locked in years. It made me feel like a prisoner. I went back and unlocked it.
I vowed to have forgotten Grant by the time I put my afternoon snack on the table. Forget the way his anger veiled a mystery. Forget his fumbling navigation through a world that, I guessed, had rejected him for a long time. Forget the way he hid in plain sight and expected so little. I wanted to forget him. I could do it. I didn’t even know his last name.
Grant and his life were none of my business.
After long minutes hunched over the kitchen sink staring at blueberries in the colander, sifting them through my fingers, watching light from the window play over the water and the dusky blues, I figured we were all—the berries and I—clean enough.
I decided to set the table with grandeur.
A grand table for one, please.
Chapter 11
Grant
Oliver blinked a few times when he opened the door. “What now?” he asked in a tight voice. He nodded at my backpack. “You’re probably an okay person beneath all the grouch, but we haven’t known each other long enough to move in together.”
I ignored his comment and downed the bitter pill of asking for help. “I’ll take you up on that offer of a ride now.”
“No, thanks,” Oliver said, and closed the door in my face.
I blanked for a few seconds, then lowered my pack to the porch and opened the door to follow him inside. My request hadn’t been wreathed in pretty bows, but his brusque response still surprised me. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.”
I tromped around the edge of the carpet to get to the kitchen area where Oliver stood at the counter.
He dumped a bowl of blueberries into a bigger bowl with goop already in it. Distracted by wondering how many people he planned to feed, I didn’t say anything. I got distracted again when he dumped an obscene amount of what looked like white candy on top of the blueberries and started to stir everything together with slow strokes. When he was done with that, he set paper bowls into the cups of eight muffin tins lined up beside the mixing bowl and started to scoop the glop into them.
He acted like I wasn’t even there.
My mouth watered.
Jesus. I needed to immediately dig out my can opener and a can of beans from my pack and eat. “Why won’t you give me a ride? You offered.”
I could tell by the tight set of Oliver’s shoulders that I’d strained his hospitality.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Again. For being rude. I’m not having a very good day.”
“I’ll give you a ride after we eat.”
I wasn’t up for making stilted conversation with someone who had the leisure time to spend an afternoon baking candy cupcakes, but the warmth of the room tempted me. I took off my
cap and peered out the window over the sink. Murky light seeped through the rain and thick cloud cover. “Is this a late lunch or an early dinner?” Whatever it was, I decided I was going to take it. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Oliver shrugged and continued to use a measuring cup to transfer batter into the muffin tins. He was patient and neat about it. I calmed as I followed his careful movements. Neither of us said anything until he’d used a spatula to scrape the last of the batter into the last paper cup.
Four tins went into the oven. I expected Oliver to start washing up, but he picked up another muffin tin and walked it to… another oven.
“You have two ovens?”
“Nope.”
My interlude of calm ended with a spike of irritation. “For Christ’s sake. I know you don’t want me here, but you don’t have to be a dick about it.”
“I don’t have two ovens, I have three,” Oliver said in a steady voice. He pointed toward the far end of the kitchen counter.
The fire-engine red of the oven hurt my eyes. “How did I miss that?” For retinal relief, I glanced up and saw a dartboard on the back door, past the end of the kitchen area. “That’s really unsafe. What if someone walked in after you’d already thrown the dart?”
“Like who?” Oliver asked.
I walked over to get a better look at the paper pinned to dartboard. It was a crude drawing of a hairy spider. “What’s this about?”
“Beast of the month,” Oliver said.
“Man, you have got too much time on your hands if you… What in the everloving hell is that?” In the corner by the back door, a wire cage higher than me kept a pile of junk in check. “Why not go ahead and take out your trash?”
Oliver’s bark of laughter came from right behind me. I turned to see him set a handful of cutlery on a small table beneath the window at the end of the kitchen counter.
“It’s not garbage.” Oliver bent to straighten the placemats. The mass of his hair in its bun glittered gold in the dull light coming through the window.
