A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  “Right. The whole church will know.” She redirects her fury on Lance without pausing for a breath. “And I suppose we have you to thank for all of it. Do you get off on preying on vulnerable women?”

  “Abigail!”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard this particular tone of voice come out of my own mouth. Abigail stops with her mouth open, eyes wide. Apparently she hasn’t heard it, either.

  “That will be enough.”

  A moment’s hesitation, and then my strong-willed, infuriated daughter actually turns and stalks up the driveway and into the house.

  Lance’s eyes follow her. “Rather a fierce guardian you have there.”

  “Yes. She’s moving back home to take care of me.”

  “God have mercy.”

  “She was rude. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. See you at rehearsal?”

  I can’t help noticing that all talk of beer, coffee, or taillights has evaporated. I don’t want to go inside and face my daughter. I’d rather stay right here. But if I’m going to rescue her, if I’m going to stop being a damsel in distress, I’d better start facing up to my challenges.

  “Good night, Darcy.”

  “Good night, Lacey. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  Chapter Twelve

  April 9, 2019

  Dear Inner Liz,

  Now what? It all seemed so clear for a minute the other night. Stop being a victim. Get a life. Rescue Abigail. But how am I supposed to do that? She’s lived, slept, and breathed the Church of Thomas doctrine since she was a baby. Her belief is enmeshed in her love for him and her disdain for me, and I don’t know that it’s even possible to change that. All I can think to do is build a life for myself, but I don’t even know where to start. So many years of burying myself under what was expected of me that I don’t even know what I want.

  Small things, I guess. I passed off my church responsibilities to Felicity. Her husband has temporarily taken the pulpit, so I figure she can temporarily be me. Poor girl. Earlene and the others will eat her alive. Yes, I feel guilty. But I did it anyway.

  Just Say Yes got me thinking about how frequently I say no, and I’m trying to shift that. Of course, I’m not taking it as far as Lacey does, but every time I catch myself saying, “I can’t do that,” I ask myself why. Why can’t I? Maybe I’ll get a bracelet or go way over the top and get a tattoo. WWLD. What would Lacey do? That would keep the gossips busy for a while, don’t you think?

  “That’s a wrap!” Bill says, clapping enthusiastically. A hubbub of voices fills the theater until he waves for silence.

  “Not bad at all. Thursday night we’ll be working on blocking out scenes in the first act. Not everybody will be onstage, but you still need to be here if at all possible. You can always get with a partner and go over lines; in fact, you’re encouraged to do that. Then, Saturday, we’ll be working on the music. Good night, drive safe.”

  Another round of applause, and everybody starts to drift toward the door, breaking up into little clumps of two and three. Val had to work an evening shift and isn’t here tonight, so I walk between diminutive Tara and amazon Bernie.

  “What’s up with the DUI?” Tara asks.

  I glance over my shoulder at Lance, walking right behind us. My toe catches and I stumble, but Bernie’s hand steadies me.

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “Well, you know. Word travels.”

  “You’ve got, like, zero alcohol metabolism,” Bernie says. “Probably you need to drink more. Want to come out tonight?”

  Their easy acceptance eases my shame, but only a little. “Thanks, but I may never drink again.”

  “Oh, don’t be that way about it,” Tara says. “Everybody knows Ackerman is a dick. Good thing Lance lives up your way.”

  “Knight in shining armor to the rescue,” Bernie says.

  Heat rises to my cheeks, and I’m grateful for my new hairstyle and the way I can let it screen my face.

  When Tara, and then Bernie, peel off to go to their own vehicles, Lance moves up beside me. I’m overly conscious of his presence, can feel every movement he makes as if there’s some sort of weird echolocation between us. I feel like I suddenly have three hands and three feet and don’t know how to manage any of them. Can’t think of what I should say.

  Do I apologize to him again for Abigail’s rudeness? Thank him again for rescuing me? Talk about the weather?

  When we reach my car, it’s even worse. I have to look at him now because I have no excuse not to. His eyes are intent, his lips . . .

  Do not think about his lips, Liz. Do not.

  His lips are not too full, not too thin. One of his hands rests on the roof of my car, his body poised right at the edge of my personal space boundary.

  Almost as if he wants to kiss me.

  My breath gets tangled in my pulse, as if both my lungs and my heart have forgotten their business. Heat travels through my body, not just my face but other parts low in my belly, stirring a long-dormant desire.

  I turn my back, open my car door, afraid of what he might read in my face. “Well, I guess I’ll see you on Thursday?”

  “Unless . . . ,” he says as I settle into my seat.

  My heart, my body, are out of control. I put the key in the ignition, turn it.

  He leans down to look at me. “I’m assuming you fixed your taillight on your own, but we could still grab that coffee.”

  “Now?” My voice sounds high, breathless.

  “Right. It’s late for coffee. Okay, how about dessert? We could run our lines.”

  “I can’t. I don’t . . .”

  I see the wall go up. He’s still smiling. He’s still looking at me. He hasn’t moved. But there’s an infinitesimal thinning of his lips, a shift in his body tension, a distance in his eyes. He straightens. Slaps the roof lightly with the palm of his hand. “Of course. I understand.”

  But he doesn’t understand anything. How could he?

  What would Lacey do?

  Lacey would probably get out of the car and kiss him. I’m not going to take it that far, but I say, carefully, “Lacey, on the other hand, would be delighted to meet Darcy somewhere for dessert.”

  For a held breath, I think it’s too late, that he’s already withdrawn his offer.

  But then he says, in the voice he uses for Darcy, “Where, my lady?”

  “Anywhere but Rancho Chico.”

  He laughs out loud, not a Darcy laugh, more of a Lance guffaw. “Not much open at this hour. How about that South Main place?”

  Dessert sounds decadent.

  Dessert sounds like a date.

  But running lines is more like homework, and I find a consensus between myself and Lacey. If anybody sees us, the explanation is right there. We’re in a play together. We’re practicing our lines. South Main is a sports bar but also a grill. Which is both safe and not safe. Church people go there. We could be seen.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  “Gossip.”

  “You mean like Tara knowing about your traffic incident? I swear on the grave of my mother that I didn’t say anything.”

  “Is your mother even dead?”

  His lips quirk up on the right side. “No. But her grave will be sacred to me. You can count on that. She’d haunt me.”

  “Church gossip runs even faster than theater gossip. And it’s . . . harsher.”

  “If you’d rather just go home, I understand. I’m sure your daughter is expecting you.”

  Mention of Abigail turns on my rebellion switch. The smile that curves my lips is part Lacey, part Liz, and there’s nothing of Elizabeth in it anywhere.

  “My daughter has temporarily gone back to Spokane. And I’m sort of all primed for dessert now. Unless you don’t want to be seen consorting with an almost felon.”

  “Oh, I’d love nothing better than to be seen consorting.” The emphasis he puts on “consorting” amps up the heat in my body, both wonderful and alarming. I
love the way that look alters the expression on his face. His pupils darken, his lips soften. “It just occurred to me that you might think I’m taking advantage of the situation. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I think I like being taken advantage of, in this case,” Lacey says on my behalf.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I follow him, parking beside his truck in the parking lot.

  We take seats across from each other in the brightly lit restaurant. The TVs are on, and a large and noisy group monopolizes the space. It’s far from a romantic environment, and I relax, neglecting my script to linger over the menu. I opt for chocolate cake. Lance orders an ice-cream sundae. When the waitress walks away with our menus, Lance reaches across the table and covers my hand with his.

  It’s a big hand, strong. There are calluses on the palm. It makes my own hand feel small, protected. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, I’m sure he can hear it. I don’t know what to do, can’t think of what to say. Dates with Thomas revolved around the youth group. Did he ever take me out to a restaurant? Did anybody?

  I risk a glance up at Lance, only to find him looking at me. “I thought we were going to run lines.”

  “Mmmm,” he says, studying my face. “What if I brought you here under false pretenses?”

  “As in, this is a date?”

  “And if it is?”

  “I guess then I suddenly get all kinds of nervous and try to remember my date questions.” I only half know what I’m saying, completely flustered by how much I like the feeling of his hand over mine, the discovery of an almost dimple at the intersection of his left cheek and chin, those gold flecks in his blue eyes.

  “You have date questions?” The almost dimple deepens with his grin.

  Inner Liz, long repressed, rises to my rescue with a flash of mischief. “I do. Starting with: ‘Can you believe Mrs. J is grading us on the curve?’ And ending with: ‘Can I borrow your notes from chemistry?’”

  Lance laughs, and it turns out I love his laugh as much as his eyes and his smile.

  The waitress shows up just then with a tray, and Lance withdraws his hand and leans back in his chair. I miss the warmth of his touch, even as I’m relieved and can’t help glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody has seen us.

  “You need to update your questions.” Lance plunges his spoon right into the middle of his sundae. “It’s been that long, huh?”

  With his eyes averted and his attention on ice cream, I summon the courage to ask, “So what do you do when you’re not seducing hapless women in community theater?”

  “I’m a farmer.” He spoons ice cream into his mouth and makes a sound of pleasure that brings heat to my cheeks and drops my eyes to the slab of chocolate cake before me.

  “How much weight do you want to gain?” Thomas says in my head. “Empty calories, Elizabeth. And fat. Think of your arteries.”

  “You’re the one who had the coronary,” I retort.

  “What’s that?” Lance stares, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth, a drip of caramel and melting ice cream curving dangerously over the edge and about to succumb to gravity.

  I press both hands to my cheeks, embarrassed. “Bad habit of living alone. Talking to myself.”

  “Sounds like you were talking to somebody else.” His spoon resumes motion just in the nick of time, reaching his mouth before that treacherous drip can escape.

  “Honestly? I was having an internal argument with my husband. Thomas. The dead one.”

  “I assumed you only had the one,” Lance replies gravely, but his eyes are laughing.

  “He would have objected to the foolish extravagance of this dessert.”

  “He’s not here. You are.”

  “Exactly. That’s more or less what I was pointing out.” I dig my fork into the cake, choosing a piece that has plenty of frosting and ice cream. My taste buds explode with sensation. Warm, cold, creamy, chocolatey goodness.

  “I’d say you enjoyed that,” Lance says around a mouthful of ice cream.

  “I haven’t had dessert like this in about as long as I haven’t been on a date.”

  “Is this a date?”

  A thrill of shame jolts through me before I see that he’s teasing, and I scramble for the dropped conversation thread.

  “So you’re a farmer and an EMT both?”

  “Farming is full-time, EMT is volunteer.” His voice is clipped, as if I’ve asked him something he doesn’t want to answer. He swallows a bite of ice cream and opens his script. “Better at least spend a few minutes on this so you don’t have to lie about your presence here.”

  “Okay.” Reading lines is safe, but my relief mixes with anxiety. I feel like I must have said something wrong, but asking about careers is supposed to be the safe question. His shift of mood confuses me, and as I scan the first scene, I realize I can’t possibly say these lines here, to this man. Not over dessert in a scenario that is definitely more date than business. Flirtation and innuendo all seemed perfectly lighthearted and fine when I was reading the script alone. But this . . . this is different.

  “What’s the matter?” Lance asks.

  I keep my head bent to hide my face and tell him part of the truth. “It occurs to me how it’ll look if we’re heard saying some of these things to each other out of context.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Good point.” But he doesn’t let me off the hook. “Is it all a matter of location and listening ears? Or something else going on?”

  I glance up at him. His face is quiet, listening, and I gain the courage to tell him.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the role. It’s too . . .”

  “Close to home?” he asks when I don’t finish the thought.

  “That and, well, my husband was a pastor. He would have disapproved of this play and my role in it wholeheartedly. As does my daughter.”

  “Are you so very religious, then?” Lance leans back a little in his chair, getting comfortable, not distancing himself.

  My free hand adjusts my fork so that it’s perfectly aligned next to my plate. “Not so much. I married the faith, so to speak. You?”

  “I believe in God, but I’m not big on organized religion. I figure whatever He and I have to say to each other is between the two of us. Don’t like the idea of a go-between.” He leans forward, touches my wrist with his fingertips. “Liz, your feelings about the script are a good thing.”

  “They are?”

  “Of course. It means you’re getting into character. We are getting into character, and the Lacey-Darcy relationship is becoming a real thing. That’s all how it’s supposed to be.”

  “You think?” In high school productions, I got into character and I had crushes on some of the boys I acted with. Maybe Lance is right and this is normal and all part of the gig.

  “You’ve already said yes to the play,” Lance says. “You’re already in. Sounds to me like doubt talking. The creative person’s demon, right?”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  His eyes are intent on mine, and I can tell he’s thinking about saying something else, but right then the waitress shows up with our bill in hand. “Anything else I can get you two?”

  “Liz? A drink for the road?” Lance’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, and I can see that he’s not laughing at me, just sharing a joke.

  I stick my tongue out at him, a ridiculous act, as if I’m five instead of almost fifty. “I’ll take a rain check on that one.”

  He puts cash on the table, and we walk to the door in silence.

  Outside, it’s begun to rain.

  For a moment I hesitate, shrinking back into the warmth of the restaurant, and then Inner Liz takes over and I dance out into the dark, free and unfettered, stretching my arms wide and lifting my face to the sky.

  Thomas would be scandalized, but Lance only laughs. I slow my steps as I near my car, clicking open the locks, then turn to look at him.

  “Thank you. For the cake. And for . . . the practice.”
<
br />   “A huge sacrifice in service of the play, remember?”

  He’s standing very close, not just on the edge of my personal space this time, but inside it. Not quite touching, but if either one of us leaned forward, even an inch . . .

  His eyes are looking into mine. He’s going to kiss me. Right here. Right now. My heart beats wildly, in panic or anticipation or both.

  “Your script is getting wet,” he says, breaking the moment. “Mine, too. Good night, Liz.”

  And there’s nothing for it but to get in the car. He closes the door for me, waves, and ducks into his pickup truck.

  My body is all want, every nerve ending I possess trying to reach through my car door, through the rain, to touch his hand, his arm, his lips. Lacey wouldn’t wait to be kissed. Lacey would do the kissing.

  Slam of door. Start of engine.

  What is wrong with me? I start my own engine and manage to stop myself from glancing over at him to see if he’s looking back at me, but I can’t help watching for his headlights in my rearview mirror.

  Halfway home, my phone starts buzzing with texts. I ignore it. The last thing I need is to get pulled over again, this time for distracted driving. But as soon as I pull into my driveway and park, I take a look.

  Val: I heard you went out with Lance???

  Liz: Running lines. No big deal

  I wait. Little dots form, then vanish. Silence. I’m rain damp and cold and dash into the house. Still no response from Val.

  An ugly little thought niggles its way into my consciousness. Does Val have a thing for Lance? Could she be jealous? I take off my shoes and hang up my coat before my phone buzzes again.

  Val: Just—be careful, ok?

  Liz: What is that supposed to mean?

  The phone rings.

  “Listen, I only have a minute,” Val says when I pick up, “but I don’t want you to take this wrong. This is not a texting conversation.”

  “What’s wrong with Lance?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s a great guy. Just . . .”

  “Just what? If you like him, you should go for him. We were just running lines. Nothing happened.”

  “Me? God no. I am not in the market for a man right now. Look. I’m glad the two of you have connected. But you’re vulnerable, and he’s . . . emotionally unavailable. Or at least that’s the gossip.”