A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  “Rex again.”

  “Good.” He winked. “It’s easy to get overwhelmed when we can’t see the end . . . but this mountain is far more mental than it is physical. I don’t care if you ever take a step past this boulder.” He pressed a palm to the rock at the side of my head, his gloved fingers digging in like claws. “This chaos inside you—what you feel when you look out at that ledge, what you felt when Savannah was on the snowmobile with your brother . . . and maybe even the reason behind why you won’t teach full-time again. Figure out what the chaos is, Willa. You won’t be able to find peace until you do.”

  His words sunk to a place within me I couldn’t even name.

  “Make peace.” My lips trembled but I realized my heart rate was as calm as Patrick’s face.

  I’d grown so accustomed to the static in my ears, the choke hold around my throat, the barbed wire that cut through the lining of my stomach at the onset of an attack—so used to the chaos—that I’d stopped searching for peace long ago.

  I shivered and hugged my arms to my chest. “Your photographs . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “They capture that—peace, I mean. It’s why I love them so much.”

  His chest hitched in a breath two full seconds before he pushed away from the rock. “We should head back down. Your lips have turned purple.”

  For the briefest moment, his hand pressed to my lower back, ushering me toward the trail. And then, like a whisper lost on a winter breeze, it was gone.

  We walked in silence for several minutes.

  “You willing to try this again?” he asked.

  Three steps.

  That was all it took for me to answer.

  “I’m willing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I saw my brother—or at least, I saw his name on the open gym sign-in sheet. The same way I’d seen it every day for the past two weeks.

  Arrived at 6:03 a.m. Gone by 7:37 a.m.

  His signature was scrawled right under Patrick’s—messy and nearly illegible. He probably wrote it half asleep, his hooded sweatshirt tugged over his eyes, his fingers drumming against the counter.

  But I wouldn’t know for sure. Because our passing on the street, in the checkout line at Gigi’s Grocery, or in my parents’ driveway without either of us stopping to say hello didn’t lend well to patching up the holes between us.

  Nor did my inability to pick up the phone and call him.

  “Gross. Why are you drinking that? It smells like lawn clippings.”

  I tossed the Dixie cup into the trash can under my desk and shuddered. Alex was absolutely right. It didn’t just smell like lawn clippings, it tasted like them, too.

  “Sydney thinks these free samples might increase sales.”

  Alex scanned the green smoothie display table and scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, well, she also thinks it’s a good idea to order microwavable Tofurky off the Internet and call it a Thanksgiving meal, too.” She added air quotes and rolled her eyes. “Looks like I’ll be eating frozen pizza again this year.”

  It took me all of two seconds to realize she was serious. “No.” I shook my head. “You won’t. You can eat with us. Sydney’s invited, too.” Though her presence would make for a very interesting dynamic, I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone spending the holidays alone.

  “She won’t come.” She cranked her finger near her temple. “She invited her hoity-toity vegan book club over, which is like sitting in the middle of crazy town—”

  I pulled her arm down, hoping the folks wandering through the lobby hadn’t overheard. Naturally, this only made her volume increase.

  “It’s true.” She stood her ground as if I were questioning her accuracy and not her antics. Usually I was questioning both. “If I have to hear about how eating a spoonful of hemp a day can cure constipation, then—”

  “Okay, I get it. We usually eat around one. Come over to my parents’ house whenever you want—just make sure it’s alright with Sydney, okay?”

  Despite her new fondness for black-winged eyeliner, I could still see her eyes brighten. “Really? Okay. Thanks. I’ll bring . . . something.”

  “Just bring yourself. That will be plenty.” I could easily picture Alex sitting at my parents’ table—the energy she would bring to the family gathering and . . .

  And then I thought of someone else.

  What if things with Weston aren’t fixed by Thanksgiving?

  Alex snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Uh, hello? Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere. Have you done a locker room check yet?” It was supposed to be Alex’s first task when she arrived at the fitness center in the afternoons. Given that the school had agreed to community credit for her time here, my extra prodding was completely justified. “And don’t let me forget to look over your history quiz when you come over tonight.”

  “Sure thing, boss lady.” She turned away and moseyed down the hall, her boots squeaking against the polished lobby floors.

  The phone rang, followed by the flashing of its red light.

  I picked up the receiver and watched as two middle-aged men tried the smoothie samples. They sipped, frowned, and tossed the cups in the trash. Not fans apparently. “Parker Fitness Center, how may I help you?”

  “Is this Willa Hart?” The woman’s voice was young and familiar, yet I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Willa? It’s Megan Hudson.”

  Savannah’s teacher.

  I stood, knocking the chair back several feet. A cold fear swept down my spine. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Savannah’s just fine. I didn’t mean to bother you at work; it’s just that my class is out for recess and, well, I haven’t shared this publicly yet . . . but I’m expecting.”

  I blinked, trying to clear the haze from my brain. “A baby?”

  “Twins, actually.” Her laugh was airy and light. “I’m due sometime in late April.”

  “Twins? Wow, congratulations.” I’d known Megan since high school, but our interaction was limited to Savannah’s weekly progress reports and my volunteer mornings at her school on Tuesdays.

  “Thank you. I’m not sure what your plans are, Willa, but I know how hard it is to break into the system for Lenox Elementary and I just thought . . . well, with the news of Savannah’s good health and all, you might like me to put your name in as my maternity sub. I’ve already checked with Principal Schultz and there’s no policy against teaching in the same classroom as your child. I’m planning to go on early leave in February and need to give the district thirty days’ notice . . .”

  She went on but I was only able to comprehend every other word. I turned my back to the front door, trying to create a privacy bubble. In a lobby twice the size of my house, it wasn’t easy.

  My pulse thundered in my ears.

  “And if all goes as planned, I’d love to job-share my classroom next year. Maybe teach just a couple days a week. You’d be a top candidate for the position if you took the sub job, and of course we could lesson plan together—that is, if you’re even interested.” She laughed again. “Sorry, I’m just excited.”

  “No, no . . . I understand why you would be.” I bit my bottom lip. “When . . . uh . . . when would you need to give the district my name?”

  “I’d need to put your name in before the start of Christmas break, and then you’d just need to make sure your teaching license is current before next year.”

  It wasn’t, but I could take the test at any time. A scramble of dates filled my head. Three weeks. She’d need to give them my name in three weeks.

  Why was I even asking her for a date?

  Of course I couldn’t take it. Teaching would take too much of my focus—too much time away from Savannah. But then again, subbing the remainder of this school year would put me in her classroom, and job-sharing next year would mean I’d see her in the halls and . . .

  “Well, I need to think on it,” I sa
id, my voice wavering with indecision.

  “Sure, sure, of course. I figured you’d need time to sort out your schedule.”

  And my head.

  The scooting of chairs and chattering of children swirled in the background.

  “Oh! My class is back. We’ll catch up soon, then?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Megan.” I set the receiver down.

  A melodious Oooh sounded behind me.

  I whirled around to see Alex wagging her eyebrows. “Did you just get propositioned for a job? While you’re at work? Scandalous.”

  This was bad. No, this was worse than bad.

  The nape of my neck grew hot and sticky.

  “Who’s Megan?” she asked.

  “No one.”

  She rolled the empty mop bucket in front of her and pointed the long wooden mop handle at her mouth. “Willa has a secret.” She sang the words, actually sang them.

  The girl was losing her mind.

  “Stop.” I waved my hand in the air, knowing full well that she would do no such thing without some kind of incentive—or in this case, without information. “I need a minute to think, Alex.”

  A head tilt, followed by batting eyelashes. “I’m a very, very good keeper of secrets.”

  I slapped a hand to my forehead and slowly slid it down my face. The only person in the world who would be worse to tell about this than Alex was my brother.

  Regret sloshed in the pit of my belly at the thought of him.

  “It’s . . . an opportunity. That’s all. And I don’t think I’m interested.”

  Her eyebrows dipped. “What kind of opportunity?”

  No. I would absolutely not discuss this with her. “I’m not really at liberty to say.”

  “So, it really is a job opportunity, then?” If I didn’t know what I knew about Alex’s less-than-ideal history, I would scold her for prying. But something about the way she asked—the openness in her face—made me want to reassure her that I had no intention of leaving. Not the fitness center, and not her.

  “Yeah. But don’t worry. I don’t have plans to go anywhere.”

  The light in her eyes dimmed, which was the exact opposite of what I’d expected. “Worry? Why would I worry about you leaving? You don’t belong here.” She shot a look over her shoulder and glanced up the stairs to her half sister’s office. “Why do you think Syd lets you work your weird hours—or trusts you to run this joint when she’s out of town? Because she knows what everyone else knows . . . you’re better than this place. If you have a better opportunity, you should take it.”

  Though her words were harsh and, well, Alex-like, the rare vote of confidence felt like a gift.

  “Don’t get all teary-eyed over it. I’m just being real.”

  “Exactly. You’re just being real. A quality I hope you never lose.”

  A blush crept into her cheeks and she shrugged.

  “Just . . . please don’t say anything to anyone about this. Okay?” I needed her to understand that keeping this quiet was important to me, even if I couldn’t explain why.

  “About what?” She smiled over her shoulder and steered her mop bucket back down the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For the second time in three weeks, I flipped to the last page of Rex’s journal. There was no date, no pictures, no knickknacks taped to the inside. Just a final scripture verse: We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps. Proverbs 16:9.

  I pressed a pink Post-it Note to this final page and copied the verse down for reference. The way I’d done countless times before.

  Since my first pass through its weathered pages, something about the journal weighed heavy on my conscience. Like a bone-deep bruise that had faded on the surface, Rex’s words seemed to ache from somewhere within me. His adventures, his stories, his Solomon-like wisdom were all beautifully strung and woven; they magnified a life lived to the fullest. So why then did I feel so unsettled?

  Thoughts of Rex’s journal stayed with me as I helped my mother prep for tomorrow’s big feast. Sweet potato soufflé, green bean casserole, homemade rolls—Mom knew how to plan for Thanksgiving.

  I checked the time, wiped my hands on a lace-trimmed dishrag, and then kissed the top of Savannah’s head. Darting out the front door the second Patrick’s car pulled into the shared driveway was pretty much the only way to avoid awkward small talk between my parents and my . . . friend.

  I squeezed my mother’s shoulder. “I’ll come grab Savannah when we get back from the mountain. I promised she could help me bake a pie tonight.”

  “You two have been doing a lot of hiking lately.” My mother’s tone was forcibly light, a measurement of curiosity and concern.

  I slipped on my coat and then pushed back the curtain on the living room window. No Patrick yet. “Yes.” Eight trips to the same boulder on Cougar Mountain, to be exact. “And I really appreciate you watching Savannah.”

  “Of course.” She tightened the straps on her apron. “I just never realized you enjoyed the outdoors so much.”

  I peeked again at the empty driveway. “Well, you know what they say about the benefits of fresh air.” Although fresh air is hardly the only benefit . . .

  The uncharacteristic pause in conversation had me glancing back over my shoulder. Everything about my mother’s probing gaze led me to suspect that a safety lecture was near, only she said nothing more.

  Patrick’s car rolled into the driveway. With a quick good-bye, I let the curtain swoosh from my hand and then reached for the doorknob.

  When I was three steps into the cold, she called my name.

  I turned, fully expecting a talking-to on the dangers of hiking at dusk. Yet once again, my mother surprised me.

  “Just . . . be careful, Willa.”

  It wasn’t until I slipped into the passenger seat of Patrick’s car that I realized her warning had nothing to do with hiking at all.

  The sun was on its last blink, a showgirl’s lash line of explosive colors: pinks, violets, and shimmery golds. It dipped under the tree line as we tromped our beaten path to the fork in the trail. The boulder marked not only a physical blockage but a mental one, too.

  “We need to pick up the pace.” It was the second time Patrick had mentioned our speed since we started the hike. Of course, he couldn’t exactly re-create the sunset if he missed his chance at a shot tonight. His camera equipment was tucked safely inside his backpack—gear I’d organized and labeled for him just last night.

  I pushed myself harder, lengthening my stride. “I never thanked you for what you did for Alex last night.” Patrick had been so patient with her, showing her camera settings and allowing her to take a few practice shots so she could play with focus and aperture.

  “I didn’t know she was interested in photography until she started asking questions.”

  I stepped over a half-buried rock. “Alex will take an interest in anything or anyone who is willing to take an interest in her.”

  “Like you have.”

  I smiled. “And now you, too.”

  Patrick fell quiet again, much the way he’d started tonight’s hike. The crunch of snow beneath our boots was the only sound to be heard. I didn’t like it.

  “How many sunsets have you photographed?” It seemed like an obvious question, one I should have asked him weeks ago, but the gear on his back made me curious about every sky he’d ever seen, every shot he’d ever taken.

  “Not sure. Hundreds probably.”

  “And you really don’t have a favorite?”

  “Any sunset from the top of a mountain is . . .” He glanced down at me. “Special.”

  As we curved along the rock face, our arms swung in tandem. They found this rhythm often, though there hadn’t been an accidental arm brushing since our first hike. Somehow he’d mastered the perfect calculation of distance: close enough to be of assistance, yet far enough away not to be touched.

  His gaze swiped across my profile again. “You’re too comfortable.”
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  “What?” We stepped over a fallen tree limb that marked the last bend in the trail before the boulder.

  “With this trail.”

  I twisted my mouth to the side. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not happy about that?”

  “My happiness isn’t why we do this.”

  “I know that.”

  He turned so quickly at the boulder I was forced to take a step back. I knew what was coming. What’s the chaos, Willa? Can you name the chaos, Willa? How long will you let the chaos live inside you, Willa? No matter how he spun it, that elusive question remained unanswered.

  “Do you?” he challenged.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the path I’d never once stepped foot onto. At the skyline I’d never seen up close.

  He was losing the light—losing his shot.

  “Just go, Patrick. I’ll wait here.”

  The disappointment in his eyes stilled my breath. “Is that really what you want? To stay right here—you’re satisfied with close enough?”

  He’d gone off script, strayed from our normal routine at the boulder.

  “I—”

  “Ten steps,” he said.

  “What?”

  He pointed to the path. “You are standing ten steps away from a front-row seat of one of God’s most awesome wonders. Are you really gonna miss it?”

  His words shook me like a snow globe.

  “Patrick—”

  “If I could take these last steps for you, I would. But I can’t, Willa.” He moved toward me and clamped his hands onto my shoulders. “Every day can be as different as every sunset.” His voice was as strained as the expression on his face. “You told me that. You. And it’s time you believed it. Not for Savannah or for your family or even for me. For yourself.”

  He waited three heartbeats, and then he turned away from the boulder to start up the unknown path.

  Patrick was halfway around the curve when I took my first step forward.

  “One!” I shouted after him.

  When he spun around, I wished I could have been the one with the camera. I wished I could have captured the awe on his face. But even without a photograph, I knew I would never, ever forget it.