“Cheers,” I say and take a sip. I almost spit my wine out when Reilly brings his cup to his mouth, drinking with his pinky finger sticking out. “Oh, stop!” I say, nearly choking. “That’s too much.”
Reilly tries not to smile as he looks over at me. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked fancy guys.”
“I don’t,” I say, laughing as I pull off a piece of chicken.
“No?” He feigns offense. “Damn. I thought this would turn you on.”
“It doesn’t, besides,” I say, “that’s too fancy for me.”
Reilly chuckles and sets his plastic cup on the edge of the truck bed. He picks up the container of beans and sticks a spoonful in his mouth. “So I take it we’re sharing?” He holds up the spoon.
I nod, my mouth full of macaroni salad. “That’s how fancy I am.”
We banter back and forth as we eat, me filling him in about my day of mostly appointments and paperwork and how hectic it is with Alison staying at her sister’s, and him filling me in about the floor that he chose for the bathroom and the latest semi-offer he got on the house. I try not to think too much about the latter.
“Sorry it’s been a few days since I could stop by,” I say. “I’ve been so exhausted, but hopefully things will calm down soon. I want to come see everything that you’ve done.”
Reilly looks at me, but not with mirth or affection. Concern lines his face and the atmosphere changes around us. “Nick told me about the fight,” he says.
I level a curious gaze on him. “I told you about the fight.”
“But Nick told me why she left.”
I lean back, picking at my chicken thigh. The last thing I want to do is talk about Alison right now. “And?” Trying to be more open is all part of my new self-prescribed, direct-communication regimen I’ve put myself on since trying to “deal” properly.
“I didn’t realize she slapped you, or that she knows.” The concern in his voice is obvious, and I get it, but I haven’t decided what to do about my situation with Alison yet. Maybe her staying with her sister is a good thing right now. Although I’m not so appreciative of her telling everyone my business. If Nick knows, then his family probably does, too.
I shrug, uncertain what Reilly wants me to say. “Well, she did and she does. I deserved it, though. Mostly. I didn’t ask her to leave, she decided that on her own. She didn’t even say anything to me before she left.” And surprisingly, that hurt more than the slap. I had no idea how long she would be gone, what she planned to do, or if she was ever even coming back.
“And now you’re left with double duty. That’s not cool, Sam.”
“Josh, what do you want me to do about it? Beg her to come back? I won’t.”
“No,” he says, taking another bite of beans. “I don’t think you should beg her. But I think you guys should talk.”
I snort. “Yeah, talking goes over really well between the two of us.” I drop my picked-at chicken thigh back in the container, no longer hungry.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says with a sigh. “I was just surprised when Nick told me.”
I take a sip of my wine and stare up at the darkening sky. “I just didn’t want you to worry about me.” I look at him, making sure he sees how serious I am. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m doing better.”
“I believe you.” He smiles, and the truth is clear and gleaming in his eyes. No concern or apprehension, no distrust or judgement. It’s something I’m not used to, and it overshadows everything else.
“You do?”
He nods. “Yes. I do.”
Without thought, I lean forward and kiss him. “Thank you,” I say. I kiss him again, another silent thank-you. He kisses me back, and when I pull away, I lick my lips. “Yum. Brown sugar. I’m an excellent cook, aren’t I?”
“Not full of ourselves at all, are we?” he jokes.
I laugh and wonder how I’ve gone so long without him.
Thirty-Two
Reilly
“Hey, Reilly.” I glance over at the Char-Griller Cal Carmichael’s standing behind. His big, burly biker look is enhanced by a red checkered apron with white lace on the ties.
“Yes, sir?”
“Grab me a brew, would ya?” He lifts his hands, barbecue tongs in one and a brush covered in sauce in the other.
“Coming right up.” I push off the side of their home, my leaning spot in the shade, next to Nick.
“Oh damn, he singled you out. Someone’s already in trouble,” Nick taunts and he lets out a puff of smoke. “And we just got here.”
I shake my head, ignoring him, and walk over to the cooler stocked full of drinks under the picnic table. While the Carmichael’s backyard is large, there’s not much shade, and what little there is keeps moving. I pull out a cold beer, pop the cap off, and head over to the grill.
“Here you go,” I say, and hand Cal his beer.
“Thank you, son.” He clinks the neck of my bottle with his. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” We both take a swig, and when I smell the mesquite tri-tip, I start to salivate. “That looks delicious. You need any help?”
“Nah, it’s alright. Bobby’s supposed to be out here doing this, but I’m not sure where he’s gone off to.” He glances around the yard, his gaze landing on Nick. Cal shakes his head, I’m assuming because Nick is smoking, and takes in the balloons and birthday decorations around the yard. “I’ve never been much for birthdays,” he says. “When you have kids, you don’t get a lot of choice in the matter, though.”
I chuckle. Though Cal acts cross, I know he loves his kids more than anything. Besides Nick’s family, the Carmichaels are the most close-knit family I know.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Cal says, surprising me. He’s not one for sentiment or bullshit.
“Thank you, sir, but I think we all know he was never much of a father,” I say.
Cal nods. “He was a troubled man, that’s for sure. But then I guess war does that to you. When your mother died, leaving him with a newborn . . . well, I think it sent him over the edge.”
I pale. “I hadn’t realized you knew anything about that.” I knew my mom died, but he would never talk to me about the rest.
Cal takes a sip of his beer. “The night Katherine left me was the first and last time I passed out at Lick’s. John happened to be there that night. Put two drunk men with broken hearts together and you’ve got yourself a wallowing-fest, son.”
I rock back on my heels, wondering what else Cal knows that I don’t.
“I’m not sure why your father never shared any of this with you, but since he’s gone, well, I can tell you what I know, if you’d like. It’s the least I can do.”
“Please,” I say quietly but without hesitation.
“He was overseas when he got a letter from a social worker over here, telling him you’d been born and your mother didn’t make it. He left wherever he was to come back, and . . . I guess the rest is history.”
“That’s why he’s always hated me,” I think aloud.
After a moment, Cal sighs. “We all have our vices, Joshua. John’s was drinking, mine is work. I think when your mother died, leaving him with a child I’m not even sure he was expecting, it was just too much for him.”
I take another drink as certain holes in my childhood begin to fill and I see my life—no, mostly my father—a little differently.
“There’s still no excuse for the way he treated you, son.” Cal shakes his head. “He chose not to tell you any of this, he chose to keep you in the dark, and he chose to treat you the way he did. There’s nothing you could’ve done. Don’t regret anything.” He gives me a stern, serious look. “You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He turns his attention back to the meat. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the truck. How’s she running for you these days?” Cal of all people knows the pride and time I put into that truck after I bought it from him, so I appreciate that he asks.
; “Great. No issues. Granted, before last month I hadn’t driven it in a while, being gone and all, but she still sounds mean, still looks beautiful.”
Cal smiles. “Good, good. Every man needs something he can take pride in.”
“How about you? Any projects in the works?”
Cal takes another swig of beer and shakes his head. “I’m so damn busy with work, I can barely keep up. I have no time for projects right now. I got a ’67 Shelby in the shop I’ve been meaning to get running for the past three years, but it’s still sitting there, collecting dust.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, trying to get the old house finished, but I’d be happy to help out if you need it. It would give me something to do until I figure things out.”
Cal looks at me, studies me, actually, and I’m not sure why. “Machaela told me about you and Samantha. With Robert gone, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that if you do anything to hurt that girl, you and me’ll have problems. I like ya, kid, but . . .” He shakes his head as if picturing the worst.
“I understand, sir. And you have my word, I won’t hurt her, not intentionally.”
“That’s all I can ask for.” Cal flips the meat, grumbling something about Bobby and closes the lid of the grill. “Machaela!” He glances toward the back door, then squints at me. “You planning on having kids someday, Joshua?”
I lift a shoulder. “Someday, maybe—”
“Well don’t, they’ll turn ya gray and run ya ragged.”
“Duly noted,” I say and hold out my beer. “You think you got one more year left in ya?” I ask him, amused by the dynamic of his family. He’s so different from the way my old man was. It’s fascinating to hear him talk about his own children, with love and feigned irritation.
Cal smiles, the full-face smile I remember from years ago. “Are you kidding? I’ve got a daughter who’s more trouble than both the boys combined. Until she’s married, old, and ugly, I’ve got my work cut out for me. Unfortunately, it looks like a long line of this crap is in my future.”
“Well, then, here’s to another year, sir. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, son. I still can’t believe Machaela insisted we have a party.”
“Of course I did,” she says and stops beside us. She’s as dolled-up as ever and eyeing her father and me suspiciously. “Fifty-five is a big year, Dad. You don’t get to pretend you forget every year. That’s no fun for me. Plus, I like to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t I know it.” He looks down at his frilly apron.
“Doesn’t he look pretty?” she asks, playfully. “It’s mine.”
I chuckle. “I sort of got that with the lacy strings.”
“I think it looks better on you than it does on me, Dad.”
Cal shakes his head, ignoring her, and takes a swig of his beer. “I need about fifteen more minutes for the meat. How are you doing in there?” He nods toward the house. Sam’s standing in front of the kitchen window, staring out at me with a warm, shy smile on her face. I wink at her and she walks away from the window.
“Sam’s just pulling the cornbread out of the oven, and the green beans are ready. I’m tossing the salad together now. We should be ready when the meat is.”
“Alright. We’re not doing cake and shit, are we? You know how much I hate cake.”
“Of course we are.” She leans forward and kisses Cal’s cheek. “With ice cream. And I even got a unicorn piñata.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “The piñata’s for me.” She winks at me and turns toward the house. “We’ll be out in just a minute.”
“Where’s your brother? I thought he was supposed to be doing this. This was you kids’ idea.”
“He’ll be right out. I made him go take a shower, he was filthy.”
“I just got off work. Geez,” Bobby says, passing Mac as he jogs down the steps. He runs his hands down the front of his button-up shirt and tugs at the hem. “Hey, Reilly!” he grins. “Long time no see.”
“Bobby,” I say, extending my hand. “Good to see you.”
He comes in for a hug and stiff pat on the back. At about six-one, the youngest of the Carmichael brood still stands two inches shorter than Cal, though more muscular and with fewer tattoos. The oldest brother, David, isn’t around anymore, far as I can tell, and I know he’s been in trouble off and on, so I don’t ask about him in case it’s a sore subject.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, man. How’s the Army treating you?” Bobby widens his stance and crosses his arms over his stomach.
“Good. I mean, it’s not like it’s gravy or anything, but it’s what I know.”
“You home on leave or what? When I heard you were here, I was surprised. I thought you were career.”
“My contract’s up, so I thought I’d come back and work on my dad’s place, sell it, and figure out what I want to do from there.”
“Right on.” He leans down and grabs a beer from the ice chest. “You thinking about going back after the house sells?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure things out.”
“Yeah, I get it. I get it.” He takes a swig of his beer. “You miss it?”
“Oh yeah,” I say easily. “Like I said, it’s what I know. It’s strange being back. It’s hard to get used to.”
“Oh, look at this glorious display of deliciousness,” Nick says, walking up behind us. I peer over my shoulder at the table and find Sam standing there, her gaze darting between Bobby and me. There’s a distant look on her face that makes me feel uneasy, but she quickly recovers and smiles. I know what she’s thinking.
“There’s my girl!” Bobby says. He takes the plate of cornbread from Sam and places it on the picnic table before he pulls her up into his arms. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“Yeah,” Sam says shyly. “I’ve been busy.”
When Bobby lets go, Sam excuses herself to get the rest of dinner.
“Here, let me help,” Nick says. He shoves his pack of cigarettes in his back pocket as he follows her inside.
“Still smoking, Nicholas? You know those things can kill you,” Cal calls to him and winks at me.
Nick keeps walking. “I know it, sir.”
“You quittin’ any time soon?”
“Yes, sir. It was my New Year’s resolution last year.”
Nick flashes Cal a smile and disappears into the house.
Cal only shakes his head. “Like I said, these kids . . .”
Thirty-Three
Sam
When I get to Reilly’s house, I’m not surprised to find the door unlocked or Reilly in the shower.
I walk into the master bedroom and head straight for the bathroom. The door is open a crack, so I peek inside. “I’m here,” I sing, happy to eye his blurred form through the glass.
“Hey, beautiful.” He turns to face me, and water droplets are all that distort his naked body. God, I love the improvements he’s made to this place. I clear my throat.
“Staring’s impolite,” he says and flashes me a sexy grin. I nearly melt. “Care to join me?”
“If I didn’t just get out of the shower, I would consider it,” I say, only partially joking. “Plus we only have thirty-five minutes to make it down the hill before our movie starts.”
“You’re no fun.” Reilly chuckles.
“I know.” I decide that waiting in the living room away from temptation is probably best. “I’ll be out here.”
Walking into the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and peruse the new oak table set in the adjoining dining room. I grab the magazine I’d left last time I was here and sit down on the daybed. It suddenly hits me that not only did Reilly put in the daybed, upholstering it with my favorite colors, but he also painted the shutters the rusty red I’d recommended, and I saw a stack of railroad ties for what might possibly be a raised flowerbed or vegetable garden in the back. The thought makes me happy, for
a moment.
I’m getting too comfortable. This isn’t my house. Soon it won’t even be his house anymore. I have to keep reminding myself of that. It’s going to be sold; he already has people interested in it and it’s not even on the market yet.
The one thing we haven’t really talked about yet is what he plans to do next. What happens when he sells this place? Where will he go? What happens between us? I haven’t wanted to push him, haven’t wanted to add tension to what we have, because it feels so right, so good to me just how it is now. But it’s dawning on me that not having this conversation is dangerous. And after his comment to Bobby yesterday, knowing how much he misses his old life and how hard it is for him to be here . . .
We have to talk—I have to know, and soon.
I jump when the house phone rings. The professional side of me wants to answer it, but I quickly decide it isn’t my home or my business to answer, so I let it go to the old machine, the same one Mr. Reilly had from before.
“You’ve reached Josh Reilly at 243 Cowell Mountain Drive.”
I smile at the sound of his voice on the machine, so stern and unwelcoming. I wonder what people must think when they hear him, not knowing the man.
“If you’re interested in the property, please contact my realtor, Nancy Cottington, at Saratoga Real Estate. Thanks.”
Then the machine beeps. “Corporal, it’s Mad Dog. I left you a message on your cell last week but never heard back from you. I figured I’d try the landline. I expected to get your reenlistment application last week. Anyway, call me back. We can at least grab a beer. You owe me.” He pauses. “You have my number.”
Reenlistment? I’m not sure why it comes as a shock.
I sit in silence a moment, deciding whether I have the right to be angry that I had no idea he’d decided to reenlist. Or maybe he hadn’t, and that’s why he never called the guy back. But the fact that he didn’t tell me makes whatever’s going on feel more like a secret or worse, a decision he’s struggling to make. Again.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 30
