by Remy Rose
“Yeah—we’ve got a ways to go, but things are definitely better.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. Callaway—”
My heart clutches, flutters, at this mention of my name. “Yes?”
“I want to wish you the best. You’re a great person—a really great person—and you deserve to be happy.”
These are things you say to someone you don’t plan on seeing again. I can’t listen anymore, don’t want to hear him say goodbye. I choke out thank you and end the call just before the flood of tears, thinking my sobs will frighten Murphy off my lap.
He stays.
Chapter 35 ~ Jack
November 1
Since I made my decision to move to Concord, things have fallen into place unbelievably well. Owen and Dayna were looking for a bigger place now that they’ve got a baby on the way, and they decided to rent my house—furnished, so I don’t need to go through the hassle of moving anything except me and my personal stuff. I’ll miss this place, and the lake, but I’ve got to suck it up and leave it behind.
Along with other things.
My father seems much more relaxed, now that he knows I’ll be heading up the company once he retires. We’ve been talking more—mostly about the business, with him asking me for input, but also doing some father and son type of things, like going to the Pats game at Foxborough last weekend, watching from the New England Home Supply box. James was there, too, and even though we’re not what I’d called friendly yet, things are better between us. He seems genuinely sorry and anxious for us to get along like we used to. He offered to help me move in to my new place—a two-bedroom condo with a vaulted ceiling and lots of glass overlooking the ninth hole of the golf course in Canterbury. Definitely want to work on my golf game this spring—be good for me to have something that requires a lot of concentration. And I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been: working out a lot, not eating much.
So like I said—everything’s falling into place, and I’m anticipating the hollow space in my gut will fill in once I get out of state. Other than finishing up with my last two clients, I haven’t done much except grab a beer with Owen, chat on the phone with Drew to catch him up on everything and visit Ed each week at his new place, which I’m on my way to do right now. He doesn’t know I’m coming—thought I’d surprise him and bring him some spicy lunch from this Thai place he mentioned when he was complaining about the food at the retirement home being bland—in his words, “totally lacking in imagination and flavor.” The aroma from the take-out bag smells good. I’m hoping that might jump start my appetite.
When I visited Ed last weekend, I told him about my plans. I thought he’d be pleased to hear I was mending fences with my father and brother, but he fixed those pale gray eyes on me and asked if there might be other fences that needed fixing. Before I could stop myself, I let it slip about my last phone call with Callaway.
What are you waiting for, Mr. Decker?
Sir?
Seems to me you’ve been squandering a lot of precious time. You may not be able to verbalize it, but the look on your face is telling the story. I’d hate to see you skip what could be one of the most important chapters in your life.
I’m afraid it’s a little late for that, Ed.
Better to realize something late than spend the rest of your life wishing you had the time back. If I could snap these arthritic fingers for emphasis, I would. Time is fleeting, Jack. If she’s worth it, act. Don’t wait.
I started to get antsy, and I wasn’t sure if it was me feeling like I should do something, or just the fact that Ed King was making me feel uncomfortable as hell, as he tends to do at times. Luckily, the activities director came in at that second to discuss an upcoming trip to the Blue Hill art gallery, so I was let off the hook.
I expect it’ll be more of the same from him today—little nudges, a poke here and there. I know he’s got my best interests at heart. I also know that one of two things will happen: I’ll eventually either become de-sensitized to his prodding, or I’ll get worked up to the point of spontaneous combustion. I’d be okay with that—anything to get rid of this gnawing in my gut.
The perky receptionist walks over to greet me when I come in. A couple of employees are working on a pumpkin and cornucopia display near the front desk. I always thought retirement homes would be depressing, but this place, the staff, is great—bright and warm. I feel good about Ed being here, even though I know he’d rather have lived out his remaining years in his Cape. With his wife.
“Good afternoon. You look like you know where you’re going.” The receptionist smiles.
“I do. Just here to see Ed King.” I lift up the take-out bag and gesture toward the hallway; his suite is on the first floor.
And just like that, her face changes. She doesn’t have to say a thing, because I know.
The ache in my gut climbs upward, digging into my heart and squeezing hard. My mouth drops open, I rake a hand through my hair and shake my head in a silent no. Because it can’t be. I don’t want it to be.
She reaches out a hand and lays it on my arm, her eyes large and anxious. “I’m so sorry that you’re finding out this way—we do our best to make sure this doesn’t happen, but since we only notify emergency contacts, we leave it up to them to get in touch with others. Are you a relative?”
“No. Not really. Close friend.” I don’t know what the fuck to do. I want to get out of here, or run down the hall to his suite and hope this is a mistake, that he’ll be sitting in his recliner reading the New York Times.
“Are you all right? Would you like to sit down? I can get you a glass of water.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Mr. King’s son is here, packing up some things. If you’d like to go to his suite, you could talk to him. He can give you more details, and seeing him might make you feel a bit better.”
Part of me just wants to leave, but I know that Ed would want me to meet his son.
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
My legs feel wooden, walking down the hall. The door to Ed’s suite is partly open. I knock before entering, and a man’s voice calls out, “come in.”
Ed’s son is standing behind the kitchen table. There’s a stack of newspapers in front of him—New York Times—next to an open plastic bin. He’s wrapping up a coffee mug in a sheet of paper and tucks it in the bin, looking up at me expectantly. He’s a junior version of Ed, with the same hooked nose and light gray eyes, only he’s wearing a dark V-neck sweater and jeans instead of a button-down shirt and Chinos.
He looks pale, tired. I feel almost like I’m intruding, since his dad just died. Somehow, I feel like mine did, too.
“I’m Jack Decker...I did some work on your dad’s house, and we got to be good friends. I came to visit him today and was shocked to hear the news. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Garrett King.” He holds out his hand and grips mine firmly. “I’m sorry you had to hear this way. You were on my list of people to call, and I apologize for not getting to you sooner. He just passed away last night, so it was a bit of a shock.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened? The last time I saw him, he seemed fine.” The second I say that last word, I’m reminded of how you can say it and act it but not be it.
“They’re not exactly sure. He died in his sleep. They said he looked very peaceful, so I’m taking comfort in that. This may sound harsh, but honestly, it’s somewhat of a relief that he doesn’t have to face the holidays without my mom. I guess I kind of like the idea of them being together again, even though I’m going to miss him more than I can put into words.”
I know the feeling.
Garrett wipes at his eyes, and I feel my own eyes stinging like hell. I can’t stay much longer. “Your dad was an amazing man. I learned a lot from him in the past few months.”
He laughs softly, his face brightening with affection. “Always the teacher.”
“That was definitely Ed. I wish I’d m
et him sooner.”
“Better late than never.”
Better to realize something late...Ed’s words, the last time I saw him. This might sound crazy, but I swear I feel Ed in Garrett’s gaze.
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, so I’m going to head out. I’d picked up some Thai food...” My voice breaks off a little. My throat feels thick and I clear it. “I’ll just leave it with you, if you feel like eating anything. Could I give you my number so you can let me know about your dad’s service? I’d really like to be there.”
“Absolutely.” Garrett pulls his phone from his pocket and adds me as a contact. His eyes snap back to mine, his pupils widening. “Hey, I’m just remembering your name. Dad left something for you.” He turns away to go to one of the kitchen cupboards and comes back to the table with a small box, my name and address written in shaky black script.
I take it, the package surprisingly heavy. “Thank you.” I’m feeling awkward, like maybe I should open it now, although I don’t really want to in case I lose it emotionally. It turns out that Ed’s son must have inherited his dad’s perceptive gene.
“It’s totally up to you, but it would probably be easier to open it in private.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Thanks. And again, my deepest condolences.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll be in touch.”
We shake hands. The receptionist gives me a quick smile as I leave, and I nod at her to let her know I’ll be okay—even though I have my doubts.
I walk out to the parking lot, the reality of Ed’s passing hovering over me like it’s not quite sure when to land. Not yet, I tell it. Not yet.
I get a sharp pang in my heart when I open my truck door and the smell of the Thai food is still there. Jesus Christ, how things can change in a blink.
It’s chilly, so I start up the truck and flick the heater on high. I’m curious to see what’s in the box and slide my finger under one of the flaps, grinning a little, because Ed taped the hell out of it.
The first thing I see is bubble wrap, and more bubble wrap. I lift out the object—it’s small, but heavy—and carefully peel off the wrap to reveal what Ed King left me.
It’s the butterfly.
Aw, fuck. Aw, Ed…
Marian’s butterfly.
His words come fluttering back to me, dancing around in the slowly-warming cab of my truck, mixing and swirling with the smell of steamed dumplings and mango chicken and the floaty truth I don’t want to face, that a wise and wonderful old man is gone.
Life is a blink. I needed to focus on what was most important.
Don’t be a fool like I was and take for granted what’s most precious in life.
I lose it, then, the tears falling out of my eyes and onto the crystal wings, and I hope Ed won’t mind that I’m getting this thing all wet. Something tells me he’d be very happy with my reaction.
Gently, I wipe off the butterfly with the edge of my shirt, glad that the truck’s windows are tinted so no one can see me sitting here bawling like a baby. The ache inside me that’s been there ever since I said goodbye to Callaway is so strong, it almost has a sound. People always say, listen to your gut.
Between that, and this “crystal-clear” sign from Ed that I’m holding in my hands, there’s no doubt what I have to do.
And I’m going to go do it.
Chapter 36 ~ Madeline
November 2
November, I’ve decided as I’m driving home from work, is a cold-hearted bitch. She is my least favorite month for a few reasons: the early darkness, the damp, chilly air, and the colors—or more accurately, the lack thereof. If I had to pick a palette for November, I’d choose hard yellow and mud brown. The only thing good about this month is that it’s thirty days instead of thirty-one. I can’t even count Thanksgiving as a bonus because Thanksgiving means family, and since my parents are planning to stay in Sedona until Christmas, I’ll be spending Turkey Day alone, unless I want to fly across the country by myself on one of the busiest travel days of the year. Hours at the airport and sitting in an aluminum tube 30,000 feet in the air with a couple hundred strangers who may or may not be harboring contagious viruses...no thanks. I’ll pass.
I guess November isn’t the only cold-hearted bitch.
I’ve been staying at the office a little later, just so the night at home will seem shorter. Murphy is going to be hungry, and if he were the type of cat to hold grudges, I’d be in for it. I’ll make it up to him with real tuna, not cat food, and we’ll snuggle on the couch with a fleece blanket and a little Netflix. Maybe a little Barefoot Moscato.
So not only is it November, but it’s dark and misting, thirty-four degrees according to my car thermometer, and I also realize, coming up on my house, that it’s only Monday.
But all of those gloomy thoughts shrink into wisps of irrelevance, because there is a black Ford Super Duty in my driveway, gleaming under the security spotlight.
That truck is supposed to be in Concord, New Hampshire. But somehow, it is not.
It is here.
I pull in behind the truck, turn off the ignition and climb out of my car. My legs are shaking, and it’s not because of the cold. I walk quickly to the door, my coat flapping and my skirt swishing at my knees, jabbing at the security keypad with fingers that don’t seem to want to work. I am vaguely aware of the warmth of my house rushing around me, vaguely aware of Murphy winding in and out of my legs. Automatically, I go to the pantry and throw a handful of dry Purina on the kitchen floor, my promise of tuna shoved to the back of my mind, because Jack.
Where is he?
“Jack?” I call out cautiously, like there’s some enchantment at work here, and I don’t want to break the spell. And then, when there’s no answer, a little more loudly. “Jack?”
Nothing. I walk a loop around the first floor, checking every room as uneasiness climbs up into my throat. Did I imagine seeing his truck? Is the bitch that is November messing with my mind?
The bedroom. Could he be waiting for me? My God. Yes—my unspoken fantasy, replayed hundreds of times, coming to life. I climb the stairs as fast as I can.
Only, no. Just my neatly-made bed, an indent on the comforter where Murphy likes to sleep, and the dark en suite bathroom.
So where is…
I swing my gaze to the bedroom windows overlooking the backyard. Lights, down near the water.
Clutching my coat in front of me, I clatter back down the stairs, out the side door, the damp breath of November coating my face. I’m wobbling in my heels as I cross the bumpy, frozen ground, praying that I won’t twist an ankle or fall on my face. Praying that everything is okay with Jack.
Past the now-dormant bushes of beach roses, there is light. Lights, plural—two sets of work lights on metal tripod stands, hooked up to what looks like a motor on wheels that’s humming steadily.
I walk along beside the orange extension cord on my way to the sea. And I see.
Jack is a blurry silhouette in the ocean mist, standing on the flat black picnic rock. His image sharpens and brightens as I get closer. He is not alone.
Surrounding him are neatly-constructed stacks of rocks of varying heights: fifteen or so, dwarfed even more by their creator’s size.
He made cairns.
I draw in my breath and hold it, like you do when you want to believe something so much, yet you don’t quite dare.
He steps into the glare of the work light, about ten feet away from me. I don’t dare to move. He’s wearing a thick, navy blue coat with a brown suede collar, jeans and work boots. His hair is wind-tossed and damp, a few pieces clinging to his forehead so he looks impossibly charming and boyish as well as insanely gorgeous. His blue eyes are bright and clear, with such depth and intensity I want to fall inside them and never come out.
I am trying like hell not to dissolve into the big hot mess that’s bubbling within me.
He starts the conversation. This is a good thing, because I can’t.
“I
didn’t want to mess up your lawn by driving my truck down, even though the ground feels solid. So I wheeled down my generator, set up my work lights. Turned out to be a pretty sweet set-up, to get the job done.”
“You’ve been busy,” I say, finally.
“It’s like therapy, making them. I’ve learned a lot.”
I can see him shiver, beneath his coat. “You should have a hat on.”
“How do you know I don’t?” His grin is devilish, devastating.
My entire lower half bursts into flames. I raise my index finger, give him a point in the air. “It’s good to know that some things haven’t changed.”
“Agreed. But other things have. I have, Callaway.”
His expression turns so serious that I get scared—like really, really scared. Like maybe I’ve misinterpreted this whole thing. “Jack...if you’re here to say goodbye again...”
“Hear me out.” He takes a step closer. “I finally researched cairns, and how people use them as markers. One of the coolest things I read was that they let you know you’re on the path, but they don’t necessarily direct you. They just show you the way.” He pauses, takes a breath. I can see his frosty exhale on the air. “I needed to find direction on my own. And the path led back to you.”
I cannot move. Cannot speak.
“I learned that cairns are a way to communicate. And that they symbolize connection. And I know you really like them. So I thought I’d use these to communicate my connections to you. Come here.” He reaches out a gloved hand. I take it, my body buzzing with anticipation and curiosity. And fiery arousal, even with this minor physical contact.
Some things never change.
He leads me, gently, to the cairns and points as he explains each one. “This one represents my connection to your humor. I tried to make it look twisted, because that’s how our humor can be. And that one next to it is supposed to look like it has a roof, with the pyramid-shaped rock on top. That’s your house, which was our first connection.” He squeezes my hand. “Couldn’t figure out how to make it look like a bathroom, but you get the idea.”
