by Susan Wiggs
As she emerged from the woods to the dining hall, she spotted Connor Davis pulling his truck around to a storage shed, and nearly tripped over her own feet.
“You’re up early,” she remarked, trying not to pant too hard. She smiled pleasantly, but inwardly she was cringing. He had a habit of catching her at her worst—up a flagpole, clad in painter’s coveralls and now in her jogging bra, no shirt, neon-orange shorts. To complete the look, she was drenched in sweat, out of breath, her hair caught carelessly in a ponytail. Just once, she’d love for him to see her looking smart, in her favorite Marc Jacobs sheath and new Manolo flats.
He didn’t seem to be focusing on the sweat and unwashed hair, though. He was checking out her legs and her boobs and bare midriff. And yes, she saw the moment he noticed it—her pierced belly button. “So this is what I’ve been missing every morning?” he asked.
“Pretty much.”
“I ought to start setting my alarm earlier.”
She wasn’t sure if he was pulling her leg or flirting with her. Regardless, she wished it wasn’t so stupidly entertaining. Trying to seem nonchalant, she opened her water bottle, took a swig, then dabbed her mouth with the back of her hand. “How’s your brother doing?”
“He’s all right.”
Guyspeak drove Olivia nuts, and Connor was one of the worst offenders. “All right” could mean anything from “He still has a pulse” to “He just won the lottery.”
Maybe Connor’s very guyness was the reason she found him both infuriating and sexy. His truck was a perfect example. She suspected that the papers and invoices littering the cab were the closest thing he had to a filing system, yet his collection of CDs was perfectly organized so that he could access his favorite Rush album without even taking his eyes off the road.
When she looked into the bed of the truck, she was startled to see not the expected tools and equipment, but a load of birdhouses in every conceivable size and shape. Each one looked unique and handcrafted, with far more detail than the average bird needed. One had a little waterwheel on the side, another had a striped awning. A few had Victorian-style scrollwork, and several were perfect twig-and-timber replicas of Adirondack lodges.
“Did you make these?” she asked Connor.
“Right,” he said. “In all my spare time.” He shook his head. “They came from the hardware store in town.” He picked up four at a time and carried them into the shed.
“Can I ask what you’re doing with all these birdhouses?” She grabbed a couple and followed him.
“You can ask. If they’re in the way here—”
“Of course not. I just wondered if you had something in mind.”
“Nope.” He continued placing the birdhouses in neat rows inside the shed. “Maybe Dare can use them to decorate something.”
“You must really like birds.” Mystified, Olivia helped out, though she didn’t question him again. He appeared to be ignoring her. As she cooled down from her run, she felt the chill of the morning air. Immediately, Connor took off his jacket and held it out to her. Okay, so he wasn’t ignoring her.
“No way,” she protested. “I’m covered in sweat.”
“Like that’s going to bother me,” he said. “Hands in the sleeves.”
Olivia pulled the jacket around her like an embrace. It shouldn’t feel this good, she thought, inhaling as she sensed his body heat lingering in the fabric. He shouldn’t smell this good.
“So what’s it like,” she asked, trying to fill an awkward silence, “being back at Camp Kioga?”
“It’s not all that different from my Airstream.”
“How long have you lived there? Did you spend the winter there?” She immediately regretted asking. It sounded judgmental, somehow. “Sorry,” she said. “I never got over my nosiness.”
“I’ve had worse winters,” he said, and didn’t elaborate.
Shoot. She’d offended him or ticked him off. One of these days, she ought to figure out that sometimes it was best to keep her questions to herself. Accordingly, she took care not to bring up the topic of his father. Or was it weird that she didn’t ask about him? She didn’t know. Terry Davis had been a big factor in Connor’s life—a defining factor. And the shameful truth was, Olivia was a coward. She was afraid to hear his sad story—that his father had passed away. She didn’t want to hear that he’d finally drunk himself to death. She was afraid of Connor’s sadness because she knew she’d be helpless to comfort him.
“Well,” she said briskly. “I hope you and Julian had a good night.”
He shut the door to the shed. “I just hope I can keep him out of trouble this summer.”
“You did it before,” she reminded him. “That last summer we…” Poor choice of words. “He gave you a run for your money when he was a little kid, but you managed to stay ahead of him.”
“He can probably outrun me now, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Connor was a caretaker. She knew that about him. Growing up the way he had, his character had been forged in the crucible of his father’s drinking and his mother’s neglect. Sometimes Olivia wondered what sort of person he might have become if his parents had nurtured him instead of leaving him to raise himself. Then she thought of other people she knew, people who had been nurtured and given every advantage. Many of them blew the opportunities they had been granted and became the kind of trust-fund babies who were fodder for the tabloid press.
“How is it between you and Julian?” she asked.
“We hardly know each other. He’s not too keen on taking orders from me.”
“And how do you feel about him?”
“He doesn’t want to be here, and he’s acting like a little shit.”
She ducked her head, hiding a smile.
“What?” he asked, noticing her amusement.
“It’s good that you’re being honest. I was a little worried that you’re too saintly.”
“I’ve never had that problem. Julian is family, though. I was eleven years old when he was born, and he was the best thing that ever happened to me. For six months, I got to be a brother. Then he went to live with his dad, and it was all over, just like that. Nobody warned me, God knows nobody consulted me. I just came home from school one day, and he was gone. I didn’t speak to my mother for days afterward, maybe weeks.” He looked down at his hands, callused and nicked with hard work, and flexed his fingers. “I’ve never told anybody that.”
It was then that Olivia recognized the hurt he was masking. “Maybe I could talk to Julian. I mean, if you don’t mind—”
He shook his head. “Why would I mind?”
“I like talking to him.” She had stayed up late last night, and when Julian and Daisy came in, she’d had a long talk with him. “Did you know he took the SAT last spring and scored a fifteen hundred fifty? Eight hundred in math, seven-fifty verbal.” She watched surprise trace across Connor’s face.
“A sixteen hundred is a perfect score, right?” he said.
“Yep.”
“He failed half his classes,” Connor pointed out.
“Sounds to me like the school’s failing him.” It felt curiously adult, discussing his teenage brother. This was new—relating to Connor Davis as an adult, with some experience under her belt. Suddenly their relationship felt much more complicated. When she’d first encountered him, she’d been interested only in flaunting her new self in front of him, making him regret letting her out of his life all those years ago. Now that attitude seemed childish and superficial—and blessedly simple. It hadn’t lasted, of course. Her heart had no defenses when it came to Connor Davis. Almost against her will, their relationship was changing and deepening every time she was with him.
They went into the kitchen together. As she measured coffee into the basket of the coffeemaker, she felt his eyes on her but pretended not to notice. “Remember the year we did a midnight raid and found those institutional-size buckets of peanut butter?” she asked.
“Falk St. John is probably st
ill trying to get the stuff out of his hair.” He picked up the tarnished tennis cup she’d brought from her father’s old footlocker. “What’s this?”
Olivia bit her lip. She’d left the thing out in plain sight, and every day, she half hoped someone would ask her about it. Correction. Every day, she hoped Connor would ask her about it. Unanswered questions were burning a hole in her. “An old trophy of my dad’s. I keep meaning to get some silver polish for it.”
He found the photograph and cuff link that had been stuck inside. He put the cuff link away but studied the snapshot with a bemused expression on his face.
“That picture,” she said, trying to sound casual, “that’s the reason I asked you about Jenny Majesky that day.”
“Looks like her. A younger version of her,” he agreed. “It’s probably her mother.”
“It is. The same picture is on display at the bakery, only the guy in the shot has been cropped out. Recognize him?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she said, “It’s my father. Back in 1977. I’m dying to know the story behind it.”
“So ask him about this woman,” Connor suggested reasonably.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? You’re close to your dad. He probably wouldn’t mind.”
Connor was right, but still, Olivia just couldn’t. A parent’s personal life was a tricky thing. Sometimes she asked her dad if he was seeing anyone, if he thought he might remarry one day. He always looked at her with a sad-sweet smile and shook his head, declaring that he’d never had much luck in the romance department. Olivia was starting to think the trait ran in the family.
“I’d feel awkward doing that,” she told Connor. “And don’t tell me to show it to Jenny. I’d feel awkward doing that, too.”
“I know someone we can ask.”
Eighteen
Connor hoped he was doing the right thing, helping Olivia pry into old business. It was too late to back down, though. A few days later, they drove down to Avalon together, with Julian in the backseat. He wanted to be dropped off at the library, though he offered no explanation as he shrugged his arm through the strap of his backpack and got out at the curb.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” Connor said, then turned to Olivia, who sat in nervous silence in the passenger seat beside him. “I guess he can’t get into too much trouble there.”
“The library doesn’t seem too hazardous. He’s probably desperate for an Internet connection,” she said. “Has he told you much about the friends he left back home?”
“Not really. You think I should be asking him?”
“No,” she said quickly. “If you start to pry, he’ll clam right up.”
He studied her for a moment. She’d taken an interest in Julian, and he wasn’t sure why. It felt surreal, sitting with her beside him again. Since she’d been back, he’d thought a lot about the past, about how close they’d been, how much they’d shared. And how much they had hurt each other.
Now they had to face different questions, such as whether or not to get involved in each other’s lives again.
Don’t, he cautioned himself, trying not to remember the way she used to feel in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest as she listened to the beating of his heart. He thought he barely remembered her, but with every moment he spent with her, more memories came back, and now all he had to do was close his eyes and drift a little and he was back there, in the days of Camp Kioga, when life seemed so simple and anything seemed possible.
“Does he play a sport in school?” Olivia asked.
“He’s on the dive team, I think.”
“That makes sense, since he loves heights so much. He’s an interesting kid. I’m glad he’s here for the summer.” She smiled, still looking a little nervous.
“You’re glad?”
“Sure. I like kids. I especially like teenagers, even their angst and traumas.” She sighed and looked out the window. “Maybe it’s because I remember it so well, how raw every emotion feels, how big and crucial things seem at every crossroads. And how nobody in the world understands you.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“Whatever happened to you wanting to be a high-school teacher?” he asked.
Olivia shrugged. “I changed a lot, those four years of college. At first, I really did want to teach high school. I wanted to come back and do it right. It was my chance to turn high school into a happy experience, to be popular.” She smiled softly. “Then during college, I stopped needing that. I stopped needing the do-over.”
As she spoke, he watched her lips. When her mouth formed the words do-over, it was like she was getting ready to kiss him.
Wishful thinking, he thought. She’d said it herself. She didn’t need a do-over.
“And you wanted to be a coach,” she reminded him.
“You have a good memory.” His rationale differed wildly from Lolly’s, though. School—and sports teams in particular—had been the one place where he felt successful, accepted and safe. Being a coach would make him part of that world forever. He knew why he had abandoned his dream, but he wasn’t ready to explain it to Olivia.
He pulled away from the curb and headed toward Indian Wells, a few miles north of town, where his father lived in the seniors community. Terry Davis wasn’t sick, and he wasn’t even that old, but he seemed to enjoy life there, liked the meddlesome women who dominated the place, and, as a recovering alcoholic, he liked the 12-step meetings that took place on the premises daily.
Olivia had lapsed into silence again. “You all right with going to visit my dad?” Connor asked.
“Sure. Of course. When you first told me he was still…around, I was startled. You never mentioned him.”
“You never asked about him.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I mean, I’m glad…” She was flustered. “I didn’t ask about your father because I was afraid something bad had happened to him, and I didn’t want to make you sad by asking.” She paused. “I’m such a chicken. I’ve never done well with other people’s sadness.”
Maybe, Connor thought, that factored into her three broken engagements. He didn’t want all the gory details, but he figured if you couldn’t handle someone else’s troubles, you weren’t going to get too far in a relationship. He turned into the parking lot. “FYI, he’s doing fine,” Connor added, feeling more than a touch of pride and relief. Connor wished his dad’s recovery hadn’t been so long in coming, but there was no point driving himself crazy over it. The fact was, his parents’ problems had virtually stolen his childhood from him, but brooding over that was pointless. His father was in recovery. His mother was in denial. Things could be worse.
“He’s really good these days,” Connor said. “He stays busy and goes to meetings and wishes he had grandkids, but I guess I’ve disappointed him in that department so far.”
Oops, thought Connor. Too much information.
Olivia got out of the car. “Let me guess,” she said, scanning the row of town-house units, each with a small patio. “Your father’s place is the one with all the birdhouses. You sneaky thing. He builds them for the hardware store, and you buy them.”
Busted, thought Connor. “Do me a favor and don’t let on,” he said.
“Of course not.” Her gaze softened, and his heart sped up. She used to look at him like that, long ago. And that look had meant the world to him.
His father greeted them at the door. “Hey, son. Good to see you.” He held out a hand to Olivia. “Terry Davis, ma’am.”
“Olivia Bellamy.”
“Miss Bellamy. How are you, ma’am?” It always made Connor uncomfortable, the way his father tended to bow and scrape. When Connor pointed it out, his father always offered the same explanation. “It’s the way I was raised,” he said. “You have to be polite to your betters.”
“How the hell do you know they’re better than you?” Connor used to ask.
“It’s just an expression. When somebo
dy comes from money, when they’re maybe in a position to offer you something, they’re your betters.”
“That’s nuts, Dad.”
“It’s the way the world works, son.”
And now when Terry Davis greeted Olivia, he automatically put her in the group of “betters.” She did have that polished, neat-as-a-pin look. It was there in the details—the small gold earrings, the sleek hair, the crisp white shirt with the collar turned up just so, the khaki shorts.
Connor expected her to feel ill at ease, here in the small, spare apartment. Yet when she greeted his father, there was nothing but warmth in her smile. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all.” He led the way to the kitchen and hastened to turn off the radio. “Glad for the company.” He bustled around, clearing piles of mail and clipped coupons off the table.
As she watched him, her expression turned thoughtful and, Connor suspected, relieved. He didn’t blame her. The Terry Davis of the past had been, in the eyes of the world, a hopeless drunk. Except to Connor. Even as a kid, Connor had refused to give up hope. He had gotten his heart broken countless times because of it, but he was his father’s only kin. Out of foolish loyalty or desperation or maybe unwavering filial love, he persisted in believing his father could recover. He had believed it so fiercely that when it came to making a choice between his father and Lolly, he had chosen his dad without hesitation, on a summer night nine years ago, a night that was burned forever into Connor’s memory.
“I’m happy to see you again,” Olivia said politely. “You probably don’t remember me. Everyone used to call me Lolly.”
“Now, there’s a name I remember,” Terry assured her. “You were that cute, chubby one Connor used to run around with.”
Connor stifled a groan. Drunk or sober, his father had never balked at saying exactly what was on his mind. “Dad—”
