Nights at Seaside

by Addison Cole

  “Oh, no, thanks.” Amy waved her hand. “The girls and I can handle it. How’s Merlin enjoying the cottage?”

  “Merlin is in heaven. He loves sleeping in the corner of your couch. I hope that’s okay.”

  Amy smiled. “Honey, that cute little muffin can sleep anywhere he wants.”

  A postal truck pulled into the complex and stopped in front of Amy’s house.

  “Expecting a package?” Jenna asked.

  Amy shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  The postman, Carl, waved as he got out of the truck and flashed a bright smile that reached his sea-green eyes. “How’s it going, ladies?”

  “Better now,” Bella mumbled under her breath.

  “You definitely have a thing for guys in uniform,” Jenna teased. Bella’s husband was a police officer.

  Carl carried a pink box under one arm as he mounted the steps. He’d been the postman for the complex for the past several years and knew each of the residents by name. “What’s for breakfast?” He eyed the toast and jam. “Got any more of that Sweet Heat Jam, luscious Leanna?”

  Leanna’s cheeks pinked up. “No…But I have Moon-Shine Jelly.”

  She fixed him a slice, and they all gawked as he took a bite and closed his eyes, enjoying the deliciousness.

  “Mm-mm.” Carl savored the flavor. “You do know how to stir things up.”

  “You are such a flirt,” Bella said. “Who’s the package for?”

  “Well, first of all, not that I’m judging, but someone’s going to have a fun night. This lovely package is from Eve’s Adult Playhouse and it’s to T. Ottoline, but it has Amy and Tony’s address on it. So…” The side of his lips quirked up as he winked at Amy. “Either Amy and Tony are going incognito, or Theresa has mistakenly put the wrong address on the box.” Theresa Ottoline was the property manager for the community. She was about twenty years older than the girls, far more proper, and oversaw the community rules with an iron fist.

  “That is not mine!” Amy shook her head adamantly.

  Sky giggled. “You sure? Maybe Tony wanted to spice things up.”

  “Or maybe our sweet Amy wanted to do more than ride the longboard.” Jenna’s head fell back with a loud laugh.

  Sky caught Bella trying to stifle a laugh and had a feeling that this was one of Bella’s pranks. Every summer Bella pranked Theresa, and every year Theresa’s responses grew stronger. One year Bella put an old toilet on Theresa’s front lawn, and rather than complain, Theresa dropped her drawers and used the stupid thing, right in front of everyone. This situation reeked of a Bella prank.

  Carl held one hand up. “No judgments here, Amy. Do you want me to leave it on the table?”

  “No!” She pushed the box back into his hands. “March it over to Theresa’s house.”

  “Okay…” He descended the deck, and they all burst out laughing.

  “Theresa?” Leanna said in a hushed tone. “She’s going to be mortified that she put the wrong address on the order.”

  That only made them laugh harder.

  “Shh.” Bella pointed across the gravel road, where Theresa stood in front of her house in a polo shirt and pleated shorts, her short hair layered in a 1980s style. They couldn’t make out what she was saying, but her face was beet red, and she was shaking her head like she was arguing with Carl.

  Carl left the box with her, and all the girls turned around so he wouldn’t see that they were watching him.

  “Bella, did you—”

  “Shh.” Bella hushed Sky. “Another summer of scheming.”

  “Bella!” Amy covered her mouth. “She is going to find out and get you back.”

  “On that note, I think I’m going to run,” Sky said.

  “Aren’t you going to text Sawyer back before you leave?” Leanna asked as Sky stepped off the deck.

  “You girls have had enough entertainment for one morning. Besides, I need to think of a worthy response. I don’t think, Let me show you my dark and wild side, cuts it.” Although it’s exactly what I want to do.

  Chapter Seven

  SAWYER WIPED THE sweat from his brow and set the hammer down on the deck. He’d been trying to beat away his frustrations by working on the wheelchair ramp that would eventually run from the deck on the back of the house to the patio below, so his father could enjoy the views of the bay. But the more he pounded, the more he thought about Roach’s comment about his mother. He sank back on his heels and shielded his eyes from the blazing sun, battling the unanswerable questions.

  Was he doing the right thing?

  Would he be lucky enough not to get knocked out?

  Normally, Sawyer had unwavering confidence. He felt as invincible as he had his whole life—except now, when he looked at his father, he couldn’t deny the what-ifs. Heck, look at Muhammad Ali. He was the best, and even the best couldn’t escape the very real possibility that Sawyer denied existed every day of his life.

  He pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over them. Sweat dripped down his sides as he ran through a few boxing nightmares he kept locked away for his own sanity. He’d memorized them, because even though he’d never allowed himself to lose confidence over them, he had to know what he was up against. In order to win, he had to be aware of the risks. Duk-Koo Kim, died four days after a nineteen-round fight with Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini. Frankie Campbell died at the hands of Max Baer. Benny “Kid” Paret, welterweight champ, went into a coma after a twelve-round fight and died ten days later. Billy Collins Jr. lost his vision because of a cheating opponent who had removed padding from his gloves.

  Tragedies happened, but it wasn’t going to happen to him.

  He picked up his tools and headed inside to shower.

  Half an hour later Sawyer drove to his parents’ house in Hyannis with the radio blaring and the windows down. Anything to block out his thoughts. The workout, the renovation work, the cold shower…Nothing pushed him past what Roach had said, which was why he needed to go see his parents—to remind himself of exactly why he needed to train harder and remain focused.

  He gritted his teeth against the stupid word. Focus. Not only was he trying to erase what Roach had said, but he’d had a heck of a time keeping thoughts of Sky from permeating his mind when he was in the ring—and that was dangerous.

  He glanced at his cell on the passenger seat. The text from Sky about waking up together tomorrow had him thrumming with the anticipation of seeing her again. He’d never met anyone like her. She was a bright, welcome light to his intense days and as ethereal as she was real, but he couldn’t shake the worry about getting close to her with the fight looming over his head. He couldn’t afford to be sidetracked during training or during the fight. It was all dangerous territory—but no way had he been able to stop thinking about her.

  He tried again to push away thoughts of Sky as he pulled up in front of his childhood home. When Sawyer was growing up, the cedar-sided Cape-style home had been the most welcoming place on earth. With scents of his mother’s cooking lingering and his father’s books lining the walls, there was no place he’d rather be. Now, each time he pulled up to the house, his gut tightened, and he wondered how much his father’s health had declined in the days since he’d last seen him. Returning after traveling for fights was the worst. While Sawyer was away, he could pretend his father was the resilient man he remembered from his youth. And it wasn’t until he’d drive down the street, bracing himself for the truth after being away, that reality would puncture the bubble he’d lived in in order to keep his focus. Each time he saw his father, the pain of his declining health hit him anew.

  After this many years, he should be used to the fact that his father could no longer smile, that his voice—once so filled with life he could read a passage of the most boring book and make it come alive—was now monotone, cold and emotionless.

  He parked in the driveway and waved to Mrs. Petzhold, the same neighbor he’d been caught mouthing off to as a kid. She smiled and waved. Her hair had tu
rned snow-white over the years, and her waist had thickened. After spending time with Roach and learning more about respecting others than he’d ever thought possible, he’d sought out Mrs. Petzhold and apologized—profusely.

  Sawyer had been thankful for her forgiveness, and now he was glad that the neighbors his parents knew and trusted had remained on the street. His mother, Lisa Bass, was not the type to complain, but Sawyer knew that watching the man she’d loved since she was eighteen stricken with a disease that would one day render him unable to so much as embrace her was taking a toll on her. His father was a solemn man, who’d preferred his privacy to the camaraderie of friends and neighbors even when he’d been healthy, but he knew that his mother needed their emotional support.

  He was happy to find his parents on the back patio, enjoying the beautiful, sunny day. Although his father was still able to handle most of his daily functions on his own, Sawyer had noticed that his gait had not only slowed but had become even more unsteady. He walked with a cane now but refused to use a walker no matter how many times Sawyer and his mother pleaded with him. Tad Bass was a stubborn man. Sawyer knew from talking with his father’s doctor and researching the illness online that the progression of the disease could happen quickly and the risk of falls would increase twofold. As his father’s automatic reflexes continued to slow, his ability to perform simple daily tasks would one day diminish altogether, and he’d need full-time care.

  He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, and she reached up and embraced him.

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “What a lovely surprise.” Lisa was in her late fifties, almost ten years younger than his father, although with his father’s deteriorating health, they looked even further apart in age.

  “Hi, Mom.” He turned to hug his father, and the familiar pang of longing for the smiles his father had once shared so readily stabbed through him. Facial masking was what his father’s doctor had called his father’s inability to control his facial muscles. An infliction brought on by Parkinson’s. His father’s expression didn’t change when he opened his arms to his son, but when Sawyer embraced the man who had raised him, who had preached about the importance of loyalty and keeping strong morals and ethics, the man who had taught him to throw a baseball, he felt love radiating around him. His father had responded fairly well to the medications. The tremors that had been exacerbated while his father was resting were now favorably controlled and barely noticeable, but when he embraced his father, he often felt the underlying, minimized movements.

  “How’s it going, Dad?”

  “Fine…son,” his father said. To an onlooker his father’s blank expression would appear as disinterest, his quiet, raspy speech as dissonance. But it was all part of the disease his father endured for having had the courage to fight for their country. His father was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, which seemed to magnify how much his musculature had diminished.

  “You mentioned the other day that you had some errands to run this week, Mom,” Sawyer said with a smile. “You can take off while I’m here, and I’ll hang out with Dad.”

  “Oh, how lovely. You’re sure you don’t mind?” His mother touched her shoulder-length dark hair. “I should freshen up before I go out.”

  “Take your time, Mom. I have a few hours. I don’t have plans until this evening.”

  Curiosity lit up her hazel eyes. “You have plans this evening? A date, perhaps?”

  His mother was always trying to fix him up with her friends’ daughters, granddaughters, friends, or relatives. He’d let her set him up twice, and both times were disasters. The girls were less than interesting, and they’d wanted to talk about his career more than anything else. He loved his career, but he didn’t necessarily want to talk about it 24-7 or pretend that he was flattered by their attention. As much as Sky’s reluctance to accept his career worried him, it was also one of the things that he admired about her. She didn’t fawn over him because of what he represented or the titles he’d won. She actually had her own ideas of right and wrong, and she stuck to them, and it was that independence, and so much more, that set her apart from others.

  “Actually, yes, a date.”

  “A…date,” his father said. Sawyer read past his expressionless eyes to the smirk he knew his father would inflict if he could. “Good…for…you.”

  “Someone special?” his mother asked with hopeful eyes.

  “It’s only our second date, but I really like her.”

  “Well, that’s more than you’ve said about any of your other dates for a long time,” his mother said. “I think I’ll hang on to that shred of hope for a while.”

  “Mom, it’s not like we’re getting married and giving you grandchildren.”

  She leaned down and kissed his father’s cheek. “A mother can hope.”

  “Re…lent…less,” his father said.

  Before going inside, his mother stood with her hand on Sawyer’s shoulder for a long moment.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “Hm? Just…please stay with him if he has to go inside. Your father’s been a little shakier lately.”

  The look on his father’s face might not have changed, but the energy rolling off of him sure had—it was dark and annoyed, making Sawyer’s gut twist.

  Sawyer watched his mother walk inside. Then he sank down to the chair beside his father, feeling his father’s eyes on him.

  “Why did you send your mother out?” His father’s speaking abilities might have slowed, but his cognition was still very much intact.

  “You picked up on that, huh?”

  His father nodded.

  Sawyer hated that seeing his father today brought bigger concerns—and for the first time, it wasn’t just concerns over how he was going to afford his father’s health care. Today it was like looking in a mirror and seeing his own future reflected back.

  With Roach’s comment pinging around his mind like a silver ball in a pinball machine, keeping hold of his invincibility cloak was proving harder than usual. He had thought about sharing the doctor’s concerns with his father, but there was no way he’d lay that on his father’s shoulders.

  “Dad, you know I have that title fight coming up, and the purse is a big one. Seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  Over the years he’d grown so accustomed to his father giving his two cents, whether he was asked for it or not, that his silence was unsettling, leaving too many unanswered questions for Sawyer to mull over. He wondered if his father wanted to say more but had grown frustrated with his own slowed speech and had simply stopped trying.

  “Son.” The word came out flat, though Sawyer knew it was a question.

  He was still hung up on how much he missed hearing his father’s advice. He’d give anything to go back in time and…What? He didn’t know. He’d always spent a lot of time with his family, but was a lot ever enough? Would any amount of time ever be enough? He’d come here today to strengthen his resolve, to push away shadows of doubt put in place by his doctor, and even more doubt seemed to be mounting with the weight of lead on his shoulders. Sawyer looked away, lifted his chin, and drew back his shoulders, inhaling strength from the world around him and exhaling weakness. Practicing yoga had paid off over the years in many ways—and right now it helped him slip out of doubt and into determination.

  He tightened his jaw and forced himself to speak. “If I win the fight, the winnings will cover your medical expenses, Dad. In-home care, as you wanted.”

  His father nodded, his expression remaining stoic, and Sawyer felt sadness seeping in. As he’d done so many times before, he forced himself to bury it away, below the worry about whether he’d win the fight or lose his father’s chance for home health care, beneath the worry about the toll it would take on his mother either way and beneath his own wretched devastation over losing his father. He fisted his hands, flexed the muscles in his legs, and readied himself for a fight to the death, if need be.

  “I just
wanted you to know I’m training hard, Dad.” He forced a smile, and his father slowly shifted his eyes away at the same time as he reached for his son’s hand.

  Usually Sawyer spent time reading to his father, but today he didn’t have it in him to think straight. They sat like that for a long time, and sometime later—an hour, maybe longer—his father said, “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “Tell you what, Dad?”

  “What you came for.”

  He heard his mother’s car door shut out front, and as he mulled over his answer, holding his father’s deadpan gaze, his mother came through the living room door and joined them on the deck.

  “How are my two favorite men?” She kissed his father’s cheek and touched the top of Sawyer’s head, as she’d done when he was a boy. Her eyes moved between them.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Of course.” Sawyer rose to his feet, feeling like a kid caught in a lie, and pulled out his wallet. “I wrote this for you last week.”

  His mother read the song he’d written and, as she always did, she clutched it to her chest and then pulled him into a warm hug. “Honey, you are every bit as poetic as your father. I know you love boxing, but you should seriously consider putting your songs together and publishing them.”

  “Thanks, Mom, but you’re my mom. You’d love anything I wrote.”

  “Maybe so, but your father refuses to give me any more poems. We both know his brain still works fine, and I can certainly write them down for him. But I’ve begged him, and still he refuses me.” She squeezed his father’s shoulder in a loving fashion. “I miss that, and maybe if you wrote with publication in mind, the competitive side of your father would come out and I’d get a few more lovely lines.”

  His father covered her hand with his and patted it.

  Sawyer hugged her again. “I’m going to head out.” He bent down to hug his father.