by Jane Kindred
Well, this was just sounding better and better. The rest of what he’d been saying suddenly registered. “You were going to have him institutionalized?” I whispered.
“It might be the best thing for him—”
“That is never the best thing for anyone,” I hissed under my breath. He knew my history with institutions. Playing with fire had not only landed me in YGC, but in the “special” ward on more than one occasion as case workers tried to ascribe mental illness to my perfectly reasonable need to burn shit down. “Except for families who don’t have the resources to take care of their own children,” I added, “or the emotional depth. And from the sound of ‘the Strand jet’, I’m guessing resources isn’t your problem.”
Lukas took a step toward me. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be part of this fucked-up family.”
“That’s the same bullshit you threw in my face eight years ago, right before you disappeared. How bloody hard it was to have family, and how I just couldn’t ‘get’ it because I’d never had any.” He’d claimed to envy my lack of ties to anyone. I could go anywhere or do anything I wanted. Not that I ever had.
“That wasn’t what I meant.” The anger had gone out of his eyes, and now he was looking at me with pity. My absolute favorite emotion.
“You know what, Lukas? I don’t care. I don’t care what you meant and I don’t care what problems you had connecting with your own father. Konstantin is a sweet kid and he doesn’t deserve to be the battleground for your dysfunctional marriage. So if Aravella is off screwing the entire city of Thessaloniki instead of taking care of her own son, get over it and start paying some attention to him that doesn’t have to do with how much you hate his mother.”
I was pretty sure I’d gone too far. Way too far. I had a tendency to blurt out what I was thinking and only belatedly realize I’d said out loud what normal, sane people kept to themselves.
But Lukas’s expression wasn’t angry or indignant. He looked surprised and a little embarrassed. He glanced toward the door. “I was the same age he is now when my father died.” We’d had that in common—or at least Lukas had felt we did. His mother had died shortly after he was born, and his father, who’d always blamed him for his mother’s death, had died when he was just seven years old. He’d considered himself an orphan, but it hadn’t exactly been the same situation. “That’s what I was talking about back then, that families just screw each other up. I don’t want to do that to him.”
I was afraid he’d already done it, but for once I managed to keep my mouth shut on my internal dialogue.
Lukas pulled his phone from his pocket. “I have to get back to work, but let me text you my number so you can reach me if you need to without having to call the house.”
As I gave him my number, I remembered I’d turned my phone off—and once more remembered the dream it had interrupted. Lukas was oblivious to my sudden rise in temperature as he texted his number to me one-handed, his thumb moving over the keypad with the same smooth strokes that, unbeknownst to him, had undone me just an hour ago in my sleep. Between my thighs, I was instantly, unwillingly wet at the memory.
Lukas regarded me as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He raised an eyebrow at my defensive tone. “You look a little flushed.” He shrugged and opened the door to say good-bye to Konstantin.
I busied myself with making sandwiches, willing my idiotic hormones to get a grip while I waited for him to leave, but after a few minutes, Lukas stuck his head back into the kitchen. “Konstantin just invited me to a sleepover with you.”
“He what?” My head popped up, but I looked down again quickly before he could see me blush.
“He says you and Aravella had a slumber party last night.”
“Oh. Right.” I nodded, cutting the sandwiches in half. “He was feeling a little anxious being alone with a stranger. Aravella slept on the couch with him.”
When I glanced up, he was looking at me thoughtfully. “Well, I told him two slumber parties in a row was probably a little too much fun.” That was for sure. “And judging by the smell in the kitchen, I’m guessing Aravella brought plenty of fun with her.” I bit my lip, certain an angry lecture was coming, but Lukas actually winked as he headed for the door. “Give me a call if you need anything, Millie.”
* * * * *
The rest of the day was much less eventful. Konstantin managed to take a few more steps with the crutches and did his stationary exercises without much complaint, and as the sun was going down, a mouthwatering dinner of stuffed pork, honey biscuits and petite peas with herb butter arrived.
It was cool enough for a fire, and the cottage was well stocked with wood, so Konstantin and I enjoyed our dinner in front of the crackling flames. Tuckered out from our sessions, he was asleep by eight o’clock in the downstairs bedroom I’d set up for him instead of the couch. So far, I’d seen no evidence of fugue states or emotional outbursts. He seemed liked a perfectly normal seven-year-old child.
I picked up my phone to set my alarm for the next morning and remembered I’d left it off all day. There were no new messages from my mysterious friend when I turned it on, just the text with Lukas’s number, but another voice mail was waiting from Cole. Shit. I’d forgotten to call him back.
I dialed without bothering to listen to the new message, and Cole picked up immediately.
“Dammit, Millie! Where the hell are you?”
“Sorry, I forgot to call you back. I’m fine. Stop freaking out.”
There was silence for a second. “This is the worst connection ever. It’s like you’re talking to me through a bubbler.”
“I said stop freaking out.”
“I got that part. Where are you? What’s going on?”
“Humboldt County. I took a job up here temporarily. I wasn’t going to stay, but I’ve changed my mind.” He’d gone silent again and I waited, thinking he was trying to make out what I’d said. “Cole?” There was no one on the line. I sighed and hung up. This was ridiculous. I’d have to email him.
I sent him a quick note with the address of the Strand and the particulars of the position I’d taken, this time without mentioning Lukas. Don’t worry. I’m fine, I added. I’ll try to call you from Jerusalem later this week.
As I set the phone down and picked up the remote for the television, the reflection of the trees outside the window caught my eye in the glossy thirty-two-inch screen. I turned, certain I’d seen someone standing in front of the trees, but there was no one there. The feeling was so compelling I had to go out and look closer. I reminded myself that I knew kung fu. Sort of.
I took a flashlight and stepped down from the porch, pointing it across the drive. A pair of young redwoods stood before the rocky edge of the bluff behind them. If someone had been hiding there, I’d have seen him from here. I aimed the beam up the drive and saw no sign of anyone there either, but something in my peripheral vision caught my eye.
“Lukas?” I turned my head, sure I’d seen his face among the redwoods, but as I brought the beam around, the image simply vanished into the pattern of the bark like a negative imprint superimposed upon my vision.
What the hell? I walked over to the tree, staring at it. I had to be losing my mind. Was I so obsessed with Lukas that I not only dreamt of him, now I was imagining his face in a tree? There was nothing at all there now.
“I am not,” I said out loud. “I am not remotely interested in Lukas Strand.” I glared at the tree as a surrogate for him. “You left me, you arrogant son of a bitch. So just stay out of my head. I can do batshit crazy just fine without you.” Obviously. I was arguing with a tree. I placed my palm against the trunk as if to convince myself it was nothing more and remembered the scraped flesh with a twinge as it brushed the bark. I lifted my hand and stared at it.
The stain on Lukas’s shirt last night had matched the shape of this abrasion.
Now I was really losing it. That hadn’t been blood on his shirt. It was balsamic vinegar. I put my hand carefully back on the trunk, waiting for something. I wasn’t sure what. After a moment, I imagined the trunk…breathed.
I snatched my hand away and turned toward the cottage, running once more as if my life depended on it. Inside, I slammed the door and locked it, leaning back against the wood and breathing heavily as if I’d run the entire length of the drive and not just a few feet. Jesus. One day in Lukas’s proximity, and I’d gone completely mental.
I made myself go back to the couch and sit down and turn on the TV like a rational human being—but not before I’d yanked the curtains shut behind me.
Chapter Five
My dreams that night weren’t nearly as satisfying. Vague images of Beverly blended with dark paths through forests of trees, winding endlessly and going nowhere. I woke exhausted and on edge to find the weather miserable. An early winter storm warning was in effect according to my weather app, which meant buckets of rain on the coast and snow in the higher elevations. The rain hadn’t yet started coming down, but the sky was gray and wind was howling through the trees around the cottage.
Konstantin managed to get to the bathroom almost on his own from his room eight feet away, and he was pleased with himself, but wasn’t so pleased when I sat him down with his schoolwork that had been delivered with breakfast. I managed to bargain with game time that I allotted in equal amounts for time spent on schoolwork. With Konstantin busy for a few hours, I explored the cottage, though there was only the second floor I hadn’t seen.
There were three bedrooms upstairs and a second bathroom that looked more modern than the one below as if it had been added later, probably converted from a large, walk-in closet, judging by the built-ins that remained.
In the first two bedrooms, ancient paper covered the walls where paintings of seascapes hung above antique brass beds and heavy bureaus that had seen better days. But in the unfurnished master bedroom in the back of the house, the room closest to the lighthouse tower, the walls were unfinished. Streaks of smoke damage lined drywall laid bare in several places to the planks, in contrast to a new layer of plaster on the exterior-facing side around a window that was obviously more modern than the sash windows in the rest of the house.
The message I’d received the first night while sitting in my ruined convertible replayed in my head. Your mother’s name was Beverly Petty. You were rescued from the fire she died in. My mother had died here. After twenty-nine years, it still seemed to smell vaguely of smoke, though that was surely my imagination. No one had tried to restore it in all that time.
And I was born here. It was a strange feeling to imagine myself here—or anywhere—as an infant. The foster homes where I’d been placed in those early years were merely brief interludes between the more memorable stints at institutions and hospitals for therapy and reconstructive surgery.
“Millie?”
I turned with a start at the sound of Lukas’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Lukas?” I came out to the landing and looked down to see him holding a box of Karolina’s latest culinary genius—otherwise known as lunch.
“I thought I’d drop this by and see how Konstantin was doing.” He wore an expression of slight discomfort, as if he were forcing himself to do something out of a sense of duty.
I descended the stairs. “So? How is he doing?”
Lukas went a little red. “I haven’t checked in on him yet. I was looking for you.” The door to the kitchen was open, and Konstantin was in easy view at the table from where Lukas stood. “Shouldn’t you be down here keeping an eye on him?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m just a call away, as you’ve discovered.” Taking the box from him, I examined the contents. “Oh my God. Is that grilled cheese on croissants?”
“Grilled gouda,” Lukas corrected with a grin. “With rosemary garlic sweet potato fries.”
I brought it to the kitchen, and he followed. “This is insane. Do you eat like this every day?”
Lukas laughed. “Sadly yes. I suspect Karolina is trying to kill us all with deliciousness.” He patted his stomach as if to imply he was putting on weight, which might have been more effective without the thump of the tight muscles beneath as he slapped them.
“Look, Pappa, I’m doing fractions.” Konstantin held up his paper, and Lukas took it for a second and nodded before handing it back.
“Wow, look how many you’ve done,” I said, glaring at Lukas over his son’s head. “You’re getting really good at that.” I set the sandwiches down and pulled out some plates. “Why don’t we take a break and eat lunch with Pappa?”
Lukas shook his head at me in warning but wiped the frown off his face as Konstantin looked up at him. “I need to get back.”
“Please, Pappa? There’s three sandwiches. You have to eat one.”
I shrugged as Lukas glanced at me. “There are three sandwiches.” He sat reluctantly as I set out the plates and took some sparkling water from the refrigerator. I wondered why Lukas almost seemed afraid of his own son. It couldn’t just be his shitty relationship with Aravella. Or if it was, and he was actually the sort of person who would take out his contempt for his wife on his child, I’d seriously dodged a bullet.
“It’s nice to see Konstantin eating at the table instead of in bed,” Lukas commented as he picked up his sandwich. It wasn’t biting or sarcastic the way he’d talked about Konstantin to Aravella at dinner, but it was still a bit of a backhanded compliment, and it was notable that he spoke about his son, not to him. And then he made it worse. “Did you carry him in here?”
I set down my sandwich. “Why don’t you ask him, Lukas? He’s sitting right next to you.” He had the nerve to look surprised by my tone.
“I walked part of the way,” said Konstantin, concentrating on his grilled cheese.
“You walked all the way,” I corrected. “You just had to stop a few times to rest.”
“That’s impressive,” Lukas conceded, and Konstantin beamed. I found it appalling that two barely complimentary words from his father could make the kid beam.
We finished our lunch in an awkward series of silences and abortive attempts by one or the other to engage in a conversation of more than two words—most often prompted by me—and I found myself wishing Lukas would hurry up and finish so he could make his obviously longed-for departure. When he wiped his hands on his napkin and stood at last, the tension I’d been holding in my body eased for an instant until he spoke.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He looked just as reluctant at the prospect as I felt.
“One hour of gaming,” I said to Konstantin as I rose. “As soon as you finish your math assignment.”
Lukas raised an eyebrow at me when we left the kitchen. “You’re bribing him with video games?”
“Damn right, I am.” He looked sideways at me, and I grinned. “I’m using every tool at my disposal. The sooner we get him back on his feet, the sooner he can get back to school, where his teachers can undo all the damage I’m doing.”
“We’re homeschooling him,” said Lukas. He glanced at the kitchen door. “He was having problems…staying put.”
“We?” I repeated. “I’m finding it kind of hard to picture you helping him with schoolwork.”
Lukas’s eyes darkened. “Let’s talk.” Taking a set of keys from his pocket, he turned on his heel and headed for the lighthouse tower door.
“Up there?” I balked as he unlocked the door and held it open.
He tilted his head. “What’s wrong? Afraid of heights?”
“Aravella said the stairs collapsed. That’s how Koste hurt himself.”
“We fixed them,” said Lukas and climbed up into the spiraling staircase to prove it.
; I glanced back at the kitchen. Probably best not to worry Koste by telling him we were going up into the tower. I followed reluctantly, thinking of my dream but no longer feeling the slightest bit of lingering arousal. I didn’t know Lukas anymore, had probably never known him at all. The physical attraction I still felt toward him couldn’t overcome the hurt and betrayal of our past association—or how unattractive he’d turned out to be as a husband and father. Bullet dodged.
I sighed, still wondering what had happened to the guy I’d met in kung fu class. He’d been charming and funny, and somehow self-assured and self-effacing at the same time. This Lukas resembled him only physically.
It was the day he’d shown me the portrait he’d done of me for his class that I’d begun to see him in a new light. Or perhaps it was the day he’d seen me in one. After class, we’d gone for coffee and pumpkin empanadas at the expensive vegetarian restaurant in one of the other converted warehouses at the fort. To this day, I remembered they were pumpkin.
I remembered every moment and detail of that afternoon—how he’d tilted his head and watched me while I talked, as if he’d never really seen me before, how he ate the biggest bite of the empanada we were sharing and then bought me another to take home, how he kept saying my name as if he liked it on his tongue—Millie, Millieee—how he’d softly pulled a stray hair away from my mouth when it swung from the hat in the way of my bite of the pastry.
He’d called me that night with some silly excuse about not remembering what we were supposed to be practicing for the next class. We’d talked all night about nothing and everything, neither of us wanting to hang up. At one point, he accused me of eating that second empanada while I was talking to him. I was. I laughed and nearly choked on it. He said I sounded adorable while I was dying.
