by Nicole Deese
I couldn’t stop staring at him, my jaw completely unhinged. How had I missed that Patrick was the baby of the family?
“It’s just a hobby,” he said, as if to dismiss my starstruck reaction.
I tried to swallow away the sudden throb in my throat, but then the significance of this moment would hit me all over again. Patrick had captured this sunset. Patrick. There was no possible way for me to explain to him what his picture had done for me over the last year. How many times it had kept me from the clutches of an oncoming anxiety attack. How many prayers I had prayed beneath it for my sick child. Patrick. The same man standing in my dining room right now, downplaying his talent as “just a hobby.”
“Honestly, learning how to take a decent picture seemed to be the easiest way I could share my life—my travels—with my family.” He was still speaking as if his art were the work of a second grader. “I had no idea how much of a sunset enthusiast my father had become until the first time I walked into the clinic. I was shocked to see how he’d turned my pictures into canvas prints.”
“Wait—so that picture, the one I bid on at the auction for you—you took that one? Of Lenox?”
“Yeah.” His gaze strayed from my face. “Like you said, my father needed something to fill that blank wall in his lobby.”
I had the strangest sensation to cry at his humble words. “You could have just given it to him . . .”
“It was a good cause.”
I opened my mouth, hoping something coherent would come out, when my phone buzzed again from my pocket.
Patrick cleared his throat. “I should probably go so you can return your calls.”
“Okay, right.”
“Here.” He pulled out his phone and opened to a new contact screen. “Why don’t I text you the aftercare instructions for Savannah’s knee; that way you don’t have to hunt for a piece of paper.” He winked as I took the device from him and entered my information.
I gave it back and he shot me a text, my pocket vibrating a second later.
“I skimmed through Rex’s journal again last night, after the auction.”
“Oh, yeah?” My voice sounded far from normal, but I hoped I was the only one to recognize that fact. “You figure out my next bravery lesson?”
A knock at my front door cut him off.
Patrick shot me a questioning look, but I had zero questions about who was behind that door.
“That would be my brother.”
Patrick swiped his keys off the counter and followed me to the door. “I’ll leave you to that, then.”
“Thanks. You know, this may not be the only house call you make tonight.” I rolled my eyes at Patrick. “My brother may be in need of your care after he leaves here.”
I yanked the door open.
Weston stood on my front porch, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Can I please see her?”
Patrick moved aside and allowed my brother to enter and then stepped onto the porch.
“You leaving?” Weston asked.
After slapping Weston on the back, he jogged down the porch steps. “I’ll see you on the court at six.”
“I’ll be there.”
Patrick offered me a simple wave. “My bet’s on you.”
I smiled down at the “secret hobbyist” and closed the door.
While Weston tucked his niece into bed, I waited for him in the living room. He was on the last stanza of the silly good-night song he’d made up for her years ago.
A minute later, he treaded down the hallway and stopped at the sofa.
He picked up a throw pillow and tossed it to the empty couch against the far wall. “Why do women always insist on filling their seating areas with these froufrou pillows? They aren’t even comfortable.”
“Weston.”
“Nan and Georgia have these things everywhere in that tiny cottage—on rocking chairs, beds, sofas—”
“Weston.” My patience was thinning.
With a forceful sigh, Weston sat and staked his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“For what?”
Weston never had a problem saying he was sorry, but I often wondered if the only reason he apologized was to avoid a fight. End a quarrel. Prevent an ongoing confrontation.
He lifted his head, his right dimple fully indented. “You don’t know? I thought it was pretty obvious.”
And this was how a serious discussion went with my brother: he says sorry, tells a stupid joke, makes me laugh, and then I forgive him.
Only this time I didn’t want it to be that easy for him. He pushed me whenever he wanted to. But tonight it was my turn to push back.
I said nothing, using the same approach I had as a teacher. Sometimes silence was the best solution.
He tugged at the back of his neck. “I don’t know who is more stubborn sometimes—you or Georgia.” He shook his head as if reconsidering. “Nah, it’s definitely Georgia.”
I stood up from the chair, my patience gone. “If you want to play games, then you can leave.”
“Willa.” This was Weston’s favorite tone—his younger-brother, you-can’t-possibly-be-mad-at-me-forever tone.
I crossed my arms and he slumped deeper into my sofa.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Then I’m going to bed.” I started down the hall.
“Fine.”
The change in his voice caused me to pivot.
There was no smile on his mouth, no humor left in his eyes. “I’m sorry for signing her up for soccer without asking you, and I’m sorry she fell and hurt her knee. But the real reason you’re mad at me is because I’m forcing you to keep a promise you had no intention of keeping. If not for me, Savannah would be walking around this town in Bubble Wrap.”
No. He wouldn’t turn this around on me. Not tonight. “How do you know what I’m doing or not doing? I don’t tell you every little thing that goes on in my life, and I shouldn’t have to. Maybe you need to start trusting me to—”
“Why do you think I push you so hard, Willa? You think I enjoy it? I don’t. I push you because I know you, and I know if I didn’t push, then you’d never step out of your comfort zone. I’m not the bad guy here.” The tremor in his voice cut me deep. “I came back to Lenox when you needed me most.” He pointed down the hallway. “And I stayed because of her.”
It was true. He’d given up an architecture scholarship in Boston to return to Oregon after Chad died. Because of his love for his family.
The rigidity in my shoulders relaxed. “I know you did, and I couldn’t have made it through these last few years without you. But Weston . . . you have to let me be her mom.”
He pushed a hand through his hair and stared at the floor for several seconds. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Silence, and then, “Yeah, okay, just as long as you never replace my best-uncle status.”
His laugh was light as he pulled me into a hug, but my heart was not. Weston committing to let me play mom without interference was like me committing to conquer my fear of heights.
Great in theory yet far from reality.
Chapter Fourteen
One by one, I gathered the three opened—and very expensive—protein bars on my desk and held them up. “Um, Alex? Are these yours?”
This earned a single nod and a glance up from her paper clip art. “They’re all gross, in case you were wondering—especially that brownie nut one. Whoever decided on that flavor has obviously never eaten dessert before.”
I breathed through my nose and thought carefully about my next words. Alex was seventeen, but sometimes she seemed closer to seven. Other times closer to seventy. I still hadn’t figured out why she wasn’t enrolled at the high school like all the other kids her age. Every time I wanted to ask Sydney a question regarding Alex, she either avoided me or gave me the old “I have a meeting” line.
“You do know these cost money, right?”
“Yep. And so do groceries. But my halfie won’t go shopping. S
he told me to just shop online.” She shrugged. “Who does that—I mean, who buys their cereal online?”
Alex had made a similar comment last week. And it wasn’t the first time, or even the fourth time, I’d seen her wearing the same pair of gray cargo pants since we’d met a week and a half ago. “Alex . . . do you need me to take you to the store? I have some time after work today if you don’t mind my daughter tagging along.”
Her large ebony eyes shifted to focus on something behind me—or someone. A throat cleared behind me.
Sydney.
“Did you get my e-mail regarding Saturday?”
The four-page e-mail with instructions on how to run the Fitness Day? Yes. I certainly had.
“Yes, and I was hoping we could discuss a few things? In private,” I suggested as kindly as possible.
Sydney’s granitelike stare chilled me. “I have five minutes before I have to be on a conference call. So if you need to ask a question, ask it now.”
She knew I couldn’t ask what I wanted to ask. Not in front of Alex.
My mind skipped ahead. “When do you leave?”
“Early Saturday morning.”
Three days from now.
I glanced back at Alex, who was suddenly very occupied with a stack of my Post-it Notes.
“And which employees will be here that day?”
She didn’t blink. “Toby and all three of the personal trainers.”
“And me,” Alex added, her tone so sharp it could cut glass.
Sydney frowned. “Alex.”
“I won’t go.” She glared at Sydney. Apparently Sydney’s cold stare was hereditary. In my opinion, she used it even better than Sydney.
“We aren’t discussing this here.”
“Well, you don’t discuss anything with me anywhere else.”
“We can talk at home.”
“But you said your house was not my home, remember?”
Sydney tugged at the hem of her blazer as if to straighten an invisible wrinkle. “The appointment is set. It’s the best thing for you.”
The four-inch heels Sydney wore drilled into the floor as she marched away.
Slowly, I turned back to Alex whose face was as red as a vine-picked tomato. I waited. For what, I wasn’t exactly sure.
“How would you know what’s best for me? You don’t even know me.” Alex said to her back, her voice half the volume—and half the fury.
I waited for two older women wearing skirted bathing suits to pass us before speaking again.
“Where won’t you go?”
“To some kind of boarding school up north. But I don’t need that. I can homeschool myself if Syd would just give me a chance . . .” She stomped her boot on the ground and cursed.
There were so many unknowns, so many things I didn’t understand about the complicated girl sitting in front of me, but I could read pain, the same way I could read grief.
I touched her shoulder. “What’s the story with your parents, Alex?”
“I never met my dad, and my mom—our mom”—she glanced to the top of the stairs—“won’t be up for parole for another three years. The court appointed Sydney as my guardian, but apparently she doesn’t want the job.”
The thought of such a young girl walking through life without the guidance of a stable parent . . . I clutched the edge of the desk to anchor the throb in my heart. Alex’s idiosyncrasies were many, but shipping her off couldn’t be the only solution.
“Can you come over for dinner tonight?” I said without thinking about the ramifications of my invitation—or about how Alex might behave in front of my seven-year old. But I knew this girl needed someone. I’d simply have to deal with her colorful vocabulary one word at a time.
Alex swallowed. “I know how to make lasagna.”
I smiled at her offer. “Lasagna it is, then.”
“You have blue hair,” Savannah said as I helped her into the car at school pickup.
“And you have a busted-up knee,” Alex pointed out.
“Savannah.” I looked between the two of them. “This is my friend from work, Alex Reyes. She’s gonna run some errands with us and then come over for dinner tonight.”
“At our house?” Savannah asked, sitting up a little straighter. She waved at Alex from the backseat.
“Yes. At our house.”
“But no one ever comes to our house for fancy dinners, Mommy. Not like at Nan’s or Grandma’s.”
I slipped back into the driver’s seat, then pulled out of the parking lot. “I can cook fancy dinners; I just haven’t cooked one in a while.”
Alex kicked her foot up on the dash. “So, what you’re saying is that without my special lasagna recipe you two would starve tonight.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “Yes, Alex. We need you to survive.”
“Thought so.”
Savannah took up most of the space in the grocery cart, her knee propped on her backpack while she played a game on my phone. Together, the three of us entered the megastore, which would not only supply our grocery needs but some of Alex’s personal needs as well.
“Let’s start here.” We stood under the banner of Personal Care.
Alex shot me a look.
“Are you stocked up on shampoo, deodorant, makeup?” Hair color?
Savannah looked up from her game. “I have some makeup. You can borrow it.”
Alex patted her on the head. “Thanks, Busted Knee.”
Alex touched the end cap of herbal hair products. “I could probably use a couple of those things.”
“And maybe then you could help me in the clothing section, before we shop for tonight’s dinner ingredients.” I had no intention of buying new clothes, not for myself anyway. But Alex wasn’t the type who would respond well to pity.
Two pairs of jeans and a pile of girly products later—all smell-tested and Savannah-approved—we left the valley of personal care and entered the land of produce.
Alex had grabbed several onions, a green pepper, and a handful of garlic and was on her way back to the cart when Savannah popped her hand up, my phone clutched in her grasp. “Mommy—you have a text.”
PATRICK: I mopped the court with your brother this morning. You’re welcome.
I laughed out loud and replied quickly.
ME: Ha. And my debt to you just keeps growing . . .
PATRICK: Consider it my act of community service for the week. Savannah’s knee looking better?
I pushed the cart slowly, texting him as I steered.
ME: Yes, thanks to you.
Alex slammed into my side. “Texting in a grocery store is considered hazardous. Bad example for Miss Know-it-all here.”
Savannah laughed. “Just because I knew avocados were a fruit and you didn’t.”
Alex studied me for all of two seconds before her face broke into an electric grin. “Oooh. Who’s texting you? A man? Maybe even . . . your mystery man?”
I stuffed the phone into my pocket and shook my head, trying to kill the smile on my mouth. “No one.” My pocket buzzed twice in a row.
“Who’s a mystery man?” Savannah asked.
“Thanks, Alex,” I chided.
She shrugged. “Your mommy has an admirer.”
“That’s enough.”
I turned down the pasta aisle, allowing Alex her pick of lasagna noodles, and slipped my phone back out to sneak a peek.
PATRICK: Want your next Rex challenge?
PATRICK: Or maybe you’ve given up? Maybe the auction was too emotionally draining and you’ve lost all confidence in me.
I laughed and Alex whipped around, a box of noodles in her hand.
“Ya know, the Warden—my old guidance counselor—would confiscate our phones if we got caught laughing at a text. Or she would make us read them aloud.”
“Neither of which are happening here.” I rolled my eyes at her. “Let’s head up to the registers. I’m getting hungry.”
“Me, too!” Savannah piped in.
Alex s
hook her head and chuckled.
I shot back a text.
ME: Hardly. Send it over.
PATRICK: “The best way to kick your comfort is to invite diversity into your life.”
I stopped the cart and looked over my shoulder. Could he see my little blue-haired friend? How could he know that tonight was the first time I’d invited someone to dinner since before Savannah’s diagnosis?
ME: Are you stalking me?
PATRICK: ?
I paused to help Alex unload our groceries onto the conveyor belt and waited for my total to appear on the tiny screen. I texted Patrick back.
ME: I’m hosting a little dinner party at my house tonight. One very interesting teenager and one cute little blonde. Pretty diverse for me. I think it should count.
PATRICK: Hmmm . . . in order to get full credit, I will need to verify.
I put my phone down and looked at Alex.
“What?” she asked.
“How would you feel if I invited a friend over tonight, too?”
“Who—mystery man?”
Bad idea. “Never mind.”
The cashier hit a button on the keyboard and then said the total. I swiped my card as Alex’s face paled at the sight.
“Wait, I have Syd’s credit card. You didn’t have to pay—”
I shook my head. “I’m happy to pay, Alex.”
She squished her mouth to one side and then looked down at Savannah. “Yes, invite him.” She gave a firm nod. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”
“No, really. We can just keep it to the three of us tonight. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Willa, my middle name is uncomfortable. Invite him.”
She tucked the grocery bags around Savannah’s propped knee and grabbed the handle of the cart. Savannah laughed as Alex pretended to steer them into a tower of Diet Coke.
I lifted my phone again, finger suspended over the text box for a full five seconds. Here goes another big leap in the span of just a few hours . . .
ME: If you’re feeling brave you can come join us for a night of lasagna and makeovers.
