by Susan Haught
God, he hoped he never proved to be that shallow.
Light spilled from the open garage, the familiar white Ram parked in the furthest stall. Della’s Mercedes wasn’t there. He couldn’t have timed his arrival any better, and allowed himself to breathe as he killed the engine and stepped from his car.
Chandler stepped from the house carrying an armload of books and ledgers and when he looked up, he stopped, balancing the pile on his knee.
Evan waved. “Hey, Dad.”
The sincerity of Chandler’s smile met the corners of his eyes as he raised a hand before he tossed the books through the Ram’s window with his other. At the sight, a sense of dread swallowed Evan’s elation. They slapped each other on the back and his father pulled him into a vigorous embrace.
Evan pushed himself away, hands on his hips. “What’s with the business ledgers?” Recognizing the scene from a year ago, he searched his father’s face for the answer he already knew.
Chandler adjusted his ball cap, the Diamondbacks logo obscured by the upward tilt of the bill. He cleared his throat. “I rented an apartment on Frontier.”
“You’re leaving her?” Resignation rendered the part of Evan’s brain that controlled movement useless. “She’s pregnant.”
“I see your mother told you about that.”
“First you dump Mom.” He shook his head. “Then you knock this woman up and now you’re turning your back on her?”
“I take full responsibility for the baby.”
“Your son or daughter,” Evan said, clenching his jaw, “and my half-brother or sister. This makes twice you’ve walked out on your family.”
Anger narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make insinuations you know nothing about.” Chandler released a long breath and Evan took a step back. “At least let me explain.”
“This is bullshit.” Evan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took several more steps backward. “It was a mistake coming here,” he said, eyes fixed on his father.
Chandler stepped toward his son. “Evan, wait.”
Evan matched his step with another backward. “Why should I?” He turned his back to his father.
“I’m still in love with your mother,” he said, his voice a faltered version of the usual deep, steady tone.
Evan froze and then turned abruptly. “You have an epiphany between yesterday and today?” He teetered between the urge to cry like a little boy with a skinned knee and standing up to his father like the man he was and punching him.
“You don’t understand.”
“What’s not to understand about divorce?”
“I had to file.”
“Or what, Dad? What catastrophe would have happened if you didn’t? Except maybe putting our family back together?”
Chandler raked a hand through his hair. “You don’t know Della.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but go ahead,” Evan said, raising his hands in frustration, “explain her to me.”
“I don’t need to explain her or myself to you. I’ll take care of this baby. That’s all you need to know.”
“How fucking sweet.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
“And I’ve taken care of your mother. She’ll understand when she reads the decree.” Chandler paused, searching the ground with his eyes. “I was a fool.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Evan yanked the car door open. “And by the way, Dad, you still are.”
The engine whined to life and he shoved the gearshift into reverse. Chandler motioned and then hollered after him to stop. Evan ignored the gesture and gunned it. Glancing in his rearview mirror, his father’s outline grew smaller as the distance grew wider. Hands in his pockets and head down, the silhouette of the man he had always looked up to seemed lost and somehow broken. Evan navigated the last curve in the subdivision with a twinge of regret.
Chapter Eight
RYLEIGH SLID INTO the Tahoe, her teeth chattering as she turned the key. As she waited for the car to warm, she tapped a message to Evan on her phone. Fairly adept at the simple technology of texting (a desperate lesson in keeping up with the times) she’d refused to master the art of butchering the English language and wrote the message in full. “Going to Nat’s. Don’t wait up.”
She had barely left the driveway when Evan answered. “take divorce papers to uncle mitch.”
She tapped her finger three times against the phone. The suggestion seemed a good one, and although Mitch wasn’t an attorney, he wore money and business like a second skin. She replied and then backed up to retrieve the envelope from inside.
A crescent moon severed its way through the lingering clouds as Ryleigh started down the street on the other side of town to Nat’s house. The house backed the Tonto National Forest and overlooked a trickle of water they loosely called a creek.
The house wasn’t expansive, but it had a den. A real one, not a converted bedroom decorated with misfits. With a bay window overlooking the almost creek and shelves and shelves of books, Nat’s den had everything Ryleigh dreamed of. The trickle of water gurgled over river rock in the summer and cool breezes sweetened with evergreen and jasmine blew through the open windows. Chandler had promised to build her one of her own someday—isn’t that what contractors were supposed to do? She stacked this promise on top of all the other broken ones.
Natalie met her at the front door with an embrace meant for a mother shielding her child.
“You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Get your butt in here. I’ll make us a latte.”
Ryleigh followed her to the kitchen and threw a leg over a barstool. “I brought the divorce papers.” She plopped the envelope on the counter. “Think Mitch would take a look at them for me?”
“Of course he will.”
“I didn’t read them,” Ryleigh said and tucked her misbehaving hair behind an ear.
Natalie glared at her over the top of the espresso machine. “What?”
“I’m not contesting anything.”
“You should know what’s in there.”
She shrugged. “I just want this over and the quicker the better.”
Natalie handed her a goblet, the espresso rich and dark with a thick layer of frothy milk, a sigh of caramel rising with the steam. “C’mon.” She waved and grabbed the envelope. “Let’s sit in the den. Mitch turned the lights on by the creek.”
The double doors invited them inside; nubuck the shade of a newborn fawn covered the window seat and overstuffed pillows lined the perimeter. Natalie set the envelope on Mitch’s desk, stepped to the window seat and removed two throws. Ryleigh curled up next to her and drew her knees and the blanket to her chest, the sweet spice of cedar lingering in the fleece.
A smile softened Natalie’s face. “It’s been a long time since we sat together like this.”
Ryleigh nodded, the echoes of forgotten memories surging to the forefront of her mind.
“You’d recite poems I didn’t understand. We’d plan the future. Not a care in the world.”
Ryleigh sank into the childlike whimsy—magical carefree times wrapped in the frayed ribbons of time. But little girls grow up and dandelion wishes and fairy tales rarely turn out the way of dreams.
“I’m glad you’re here, Riles. I’ve been worried, wondering when you were going to finally break.”
Ryleigh’s brow creased into a daring accusation.
“Get over it.” Natalie raised her index finger. “You have to let go of Chandler before you can begin to heal.”
“Don’t bring him into this.” Ryleigh sipped her latte.
“He left you. And though it was a different kind of separation, so did your mother.”
She took a deep breath. “I thought I buried the hurt. And doubt,” she said, lowering her eyes. Then she took another breath, raised her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “The self-pity pool is empty.” As she spoke, the heartache eased as if the air had filtered the pain. “Time to crawl out from under this n
ightmare.”
Mitch tiptoed across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet.
“We’re here for you, Riles,” Nat said and caught Mitch’s eye as he left the room with the envelope. He winked, an unspoken reply to her comment.
Ryleigh leaned into the cushions. “I know I can count on you.”
“Hey, we’ve been inseparable since we were five years old. You’re pretty much stuck with me.”
The grandfather clock chimed once, marking the half hour. Huddled like schoolgirls at a slumber party, the women talked until Mitch poked his head into the room.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ladies.” He held the envelope in front of him. “Ryleigh, we need to talk.”
Ryleigh straightened, a flush of warm dread pushing aside the thin veil of serenity.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Mitch scratched his temple. “In fact, it’s a little puzzling.”
Ryleigh pushed the blanket aside and dangled her legs over the seat. “What do you mean?”
“Chandler’s attorney drew these up and since you’ve already signed them, it means you own everything. Including the business.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know anything about building houses. What was he thinking?”
“In my opinion, it’s his way of creating a shelter from Della. I don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors, but I think he may have finally figured out what makes her tick.”
“Took him long enough,” she said, frowning. “But we—he—doesn’t have any money. It’s all tied up in investments, right? And the business is stable, but it’s never been overly profitable.”
“He’s good at what he does and the business has been more profitable than you think. And you’re right, a lot of money is tied up in investments. They’re worth a hefty chunk of change in spite of the economy and they’ll continue to grow. We aren’t going to let anything happen to the spa and that’s what Chandler invested in.” He held up the documents. “Everything is yours, including every penny of the investments.”
“You’re serious?” Confusion flooded her mind.
Mitch shrugged.
“We had enough to live on so I never asked. As long as he was happy, so was I.”
“Chandler must still care about you or he wouldn’t have done this.”
“Don’t go there. He was thinking of Evan’s future, that’s all.”
“Evan is written in as a contingent beneficiary.”
“Which means?”
Natalie’s head toggled between the two to keep up with the conversation.
“If something happens to you, everything will go to Evan. Chandler had his act together when he came up with this.”
“He had it together all right. Knew exactly when to unzip his pants and parade his junk when the circus came to town,” she said, her tone as sharp as the point of a lead pencil. She pressed a palm to her forehead. “I still don’t understand why he did this.”
Natalie caught Mitch’s eye and nodded. “I can’t say I don’t harbor resentment toward Chandler,” she said, “but I think I understand his motives even if you can’t see what’s happening here.”
“See what?”
“Della foolishly underestimated him, Riles.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“He’ll have to start over. He must still love you to give up everything.”
“This is ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.
Mitch raised a finger. “There’s one more thing.”
Ryleigh pressed a hand to her forehead. “Do I want to know?”
“Evan called earlier. Chandler’s leaving Della.”
The blood that had risen to angry cheeks drained in a cool rush. “Mitch, she’s pregnant. What the hell is wrong with him?”
“He still loves you.”
“Bullcrap.” Ryleigh frowned. “He just doesn’t want to face up to his responsibilities.”
Mitch held up the envelope. “He faced up to this.”
“That’s different.”
“I can’t speak for him, but I think I know what he wants.”
“He doesn’t know what he wants.”
“His motives are abundantly clear,” Natalie interrupted.
“Forget it.” Ryleigh glanced from one face to the other. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too late.”
The asphalt glistened in the wake of the streetlights as she turned onto her street. One storm had passed with a few raindrops and a dusting of snow, but another bubbled hot and liquid. Pain (or was it resentment?) settled in her mind safely locked away—a place she’d vowed not to disturb, afraid to arouse its slumber.
Mitch’s news disturbed her, more than she cared to admit. She’d been on the side of rejection and took no pleasure knowing what Della was going through. Though she couldn’t bring to mind one good reason Della should be a mother, the woman was bringing a child into this twisted picture. Chandler’s child. Her heart ached for the unborn baby. She once loved Chandler with everything in her and knew firsthand what that love meant in creating and raising a child. Her insides whirled. Did Della love him? Could anyone love Chandler the way she had? Did she still?
Stars littered a clear sky, a sheet of black velvet scattered with tiny diamonds. Turning into the drive at the end of Pinecrest Circle at a little past two in the morning, she guessed it was a moot point.
Chapter Nine
GETTING BACK TO her weekly column and writing a major feature story about the return of a local Marine for the Hidden Falls Sentinel flickered through her fog of semi-consciousness. With everything else in her life upside down, at least she still had a job. Though the post-recession population had steadied, newspaper circulation hadn’t, and many of her coworkers had been forced to find other employment.
Sunday morning dawned over the mountains and spilled through the closed blinds, growing brighter on the inside of eyelids still heavy with sleep. Ryleigh stretched and stirred fully awake, tossed the comforter away from her and crawled out of bed. A low growl and look of complete indignation crossed Kingsley’s face as he emerged, the heavy comforter flattening his ears. He sauntered to the edge of the bed and shook himself, tossed her a smug look, flicked his tail and jumped.
“Sorry,” she said, wrapping herself in a white terry robe. She shook her head at the captious ways of the haughty cat.
Ryleigh finished rolling tortillas with egg, sausage, veggies, and was topping them with shredded cheese and salsa when Evan wandered into the kitchen in rumpled shorts and T-shirt, hair askew and not fully awake. He poured a mug of coffee, yawned, and vigorously ruffled his hair in a useless effort to tame the errant bedhead.
“Breakfast burros,” he mumbled through a sleepy yawn.
She smiled, followed him to the table, and sat with a fresh mug of her own. Entirely of his own accord, Evan chose his father’s place at the table. Fingers laced and mug halfway to her mouth, she paused at the sight. It was pleasant—Evan sitting in his father’s place—yet mixed with a heavy dose of longing. Baby powder. Stale milk. His pudgy hand, fingers dimpled in their youth. But at some point, whiskers had sprouted on his baby cheeks. And Chandler hadn’t come home. Steam rose in lazy swirls from her mug and in the still of the moment, she wondered if her life would ever feel normal again.
Evan took a deep gulp of coffee. “You going back to work tomorrow?”
“I should,” Ryleigh said, “but I’m not anxious to hear my new boss bitch at me for leaving the paper without a column. Bernadette is about as much fun to be around as Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.
Evan chuckled. “She that bad?”
“She’s younger, but I can only wonder how much more cantankerous she’ll become with a little more practice. A confrontation is inevitable.”
“Confrontation?” he asked, shoving a mouthful of burro into his mouth.
“I need more time off,” she said, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The decision hadn’t com
e easy. She’d wrestled with an ever-multiplying list of contradictory reasons, but every time a perfectly legitimate reason against pursuing answers ended her plans, two perfectly good ones popped up to complicate things. Her decision had been confirmed after a storm had cleared up more than the skies.
“Why?” The word stumbled over pulverized food.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Evan swallowed. “Why more time off?” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and a mischievous smile flickered across his face.
A loud knock interrupted their conversation. Evan jumped up, downed the last of his coffee, and sprinted to the front door. Ryleigh followed.
The door opened to a lanky young man, his hair rumpled as if he’d just crawled out of bed. “Hey, Evan. What’s up? Hi, Mrs. C.”
“Nice to see you, Hunter.”
The two young men exchanged handshakes—the kind that entwined thumbs—and slapped each other on the back.
“I rang the doorbell, Mrs. C,” Hunter said, pointing to the doorbell, “but I don’t think it works.”
Ryleigh nodded and lowered her voice. “It’s dead, Jim.”
The boys chuckled at the Star Trek reference, and then Evan glanced at his watch. “You must’ve been up early to be here by nine with the desk.”
“Need to get back to Tempe early to see Molly.” Hunter wiggled his eyebrows. His smile was warm, and a bit mischievous—one Ryleigh made a mental note not to ask Evan about. These two boys grew up together, and what mischief they got into as youngsters was far different than what they landed themselves into as young men. Frogs and ladybugs versus a young man’s hormone-fueled instinct could prove to be rather embarrassing if pressed for details. Some things were better left unknown.
The boys made short order of heaving the desk into place in the den. They moved quickly and without being told, removed the makeshift desk from the study and positioned the oak rolltop in its place.
