by Nicole Deese
“Shep?” I called, kicking my way through the war zone, broken shards of tile crunching underfoot.
“Howdy, partner!” hollered a voice from beyond the kitchen. “I’m in back. Be right out.”
Partner.
A year ago, I might have been tempted to turn Shep’s investment opportunity down on account of the less-than-stellar risk/reward ratios of the restaurant industry. But cosigning on a business loan for a longtime friend was only one of the ways I’d decided to take life by the horns again.
I lunged over a box of circa 1974 salt and pepper shakers, and the heel of my shoe snagged on a protruding baseboard nail. I hadn’t been wrong to keep Brandon away from here. This place had “OSHA violation” written all over it. “I thought we agreed to hire a flooring professional?”
“Yeah, about that.” A faucet turned off and on in the back room. “I decided I could save us some money if I did most of the demo work myself. Oh, hey! Help yourself to the cold Cokes in the fridge. I finally got that beast up and running this morning. See? Another big savings for us thanks to yours truly. Maybe I should write in to that big financial guy on TV—Ramsey something or other—tell him what a money-saving genius you have for a business partner.”
“Pretty sure the lack of dining room furniture and every other kitchen appliance would disqualify us from a restaurant success story at the present.” I gauged the hulking prep table pushed against the far wall and wondered at the weight Shep must be benching these days at the gym. “But thanks anyway on the Cokes. I have a cooler packed and ready in the Jeep.”
“So.” Shep’s voice grew louder, closer. “Things must be better then, between you and B, if you’re taking him out of town for a weekend.”
If better meant Brandon had been overall less moody and biking to and from camp without a fight every morning for the past three weeks? Then yes. Despite the initial pushback Brandon put up during registration, he now seemed to be enjoying his time at Sunshine Day Camp. I’d even found a few paint smears on his jeans in the dirty clothes basket. The “day care,” as Brandon sarcastically called it, couldn’t be nearly as bad as he thought if he was participating in some of the activities.
“He’s still not very communicative, but I think we’re on the right track again.” At least, I hoped we would be soon.
A cupboard door slammed. “And what did you decide about him going to California?”
“Nothing yet. If Brandon can keep things going in the right direction for a bit longer, then I’d like to let him go.” Because it would devastate him to miss his annual visit.
“That’s a tough call.”
“I’m just hoping this weekend will make the decision clear. Blackrock always seems to bring out the best in him.” In both of us.
“So he knows you’re taking him there this weekend?” The question rose above a cacophony of shuffling noises. What was he doing back there?
“Not yet. He’ll find out when he gets here.” After Julie agreed to take the clinic’s emergency calls, I knew exactly where to schedule some time away. Perhaps the parenting book Mrs. Bernard had recommended would actually pay off now.
I checked my watch. A quarter after four.
Finally, Shep rounded the corner, a bloodstained dishrag pressed to his meaty forearm. “You’re lucky. The weather is going to be perfect for kayaking and—”
“What did you do to your arm?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Right.”
Shep’s definition of not a big deal when it came to anything medical was certainly not the same as mine. “Just like the time you nearly lost your thumb to a boning knife? Or the time you fell from the top of an extension ladder?”
“Neither of those instances were entirely my fault.” With a sharp hiss, Shep removed the rag. “See? I don’t even need stitches. Although I will need a new office window.”
I examined the angry flesh around the wound. It looked clean enough, the blood clotting as it should. For once he hadn’t grossly underplayed reality. “Just keep it covered. And make sure you get a receipt for the window.”
“I will. Nice thing is, a big fat bandage should earn me some good sympathy points with my date tonight,” he added.
I didn’t bother commenting. Shep went through girlfriends the way I went through disposable gloves at the clinic.
I glanced at my watch again. Had Brandon stayed late at camp? Had he ridden his bike home instead of coming to Shep’s? As I walked over the debris in the lobby, I fished my phone from my pocket and dialed him. Scanning the street beyond the parking lot, I pressed the phone to my ear.
Brandon didn’t answer.
I tried him a second time. Same result.
I scrolled through my phone’s contact list until I found the school’s number.
“Hello. You have reached Lenox Elementary School. We’re currently closed for the summer. To leave a message for the district, please press one, or to reach the Sunshine Day Camp, please press two—”
I should have known. The pay-by-the-hour teenage staff wasn’t likely to stick around past the end of their shift. So where was he?
I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “I’m gonna take off, Shep.”
“Wait—you’re leaving? I thought you said Brandon was meeting you here.”
“He was supposed to. He must have been delayed at the school.” Too bad my gut wasn’t so sure. “I’ll just pick him up on the way out of town.”
“Okay, I’ll call if he shows up here.”
I pushed through the front door and started across the parking lot.
“Hey—Davis. I forgot.” Shep jogged through the lot. “Tanya has a single roommate she was telling me about. Sounds like someone you could be interested in—she’s a bank teller . . . or maybe it was a postman. Whatever the female version of that is, anyway. But you should come out with us sometime. You know, for fun. Never know, she might be the one to break your no-dating streak.”
“It’s not a streak.” It was a choice.
“Eighteen months is definitely a streak.”
Ignoring him, I pulled the Jeep door open and climbed inside. “I’ll be here to help you unload the tile boxes Sunday night after we get back from Blackrock.”
With a kayak casting a pointed shadow onto the hood of my Jeep, I rolled down the streets of Lenox, searching for my son’s bike. The town pulsed with summer activity. Tourists migrated along the main drag, entering and exiting shops with bags hanging loosely from their arms. A few food trucks had parked along the corner near the community park—ice-cream cones and custom crepes—with lines twenty people deep. Quite a change from the fall and winter months when there was hardly a soul on these sidewalks.
A bicyclist approached the four-way stop ahead.
Not Brandon.
For the next six blocks, I scanned every face until I arrived at Lenox Elementary. The parking lot was deserted—save for a woman shuffling a stack of boxes into the back of her metallic SUV. Midway through my U-turn, she twisted around and reached up to close the hatchback door.
The instant our eyes met, my stomach lurched.
Willa.
A very married, very pregnant Willa.
Neither of us moved—not me in my Jeep, nor her on the pavement.
The man I was a year ago would have gunned the accelerator and fled the awkward encounter. But avoiding Willa forever, in a town of six thousand people, was as impossible as it was foolish. And hadn’t I played the part of a fool for too long when it came to her?
After forcing the gearshift into park, I got out of the Jeep. Brandon better have the world’s worthiest excuse for being late, or he and I were going to have a run-in far more uncomfortable than the one I found myself in now.
Willa’s hesitant smile grew bolder as I approached, as if she’d been anticipating this moment for some time.
“Hello, Davis.”
I nodded, refusing to register the familiarity of her greeting. “Can I give you an extra hand with
all that?” I pointed to the cardboard jungle in the back of her sporty Yukon and the stacks of file boxes still on the curb.
“Oh—um, sure. That’s very nice, thank you,” she said.
I made quick work of the task, rearranging the boxes in an orderly fashion so they’d be easiest to unload. But of course, her husband would do that for her.
She glanced inside her open trunk. “Wow, you did that much faster than I could have.” She faced me again and touched her rounding belly. “I just found out I’ll be switching classrooms when I come back from maternity leave next fall, so I figured I’d better collect the last of my things to make it easier come September.” Every part of her seemed to pause—her voice, her face, the movement of her ponytail in the breeze. “It’s really good to see you. It’s been too long, Davis.”
Obviously, not long enough, since I still had no clue what to say to her. “Seems like things are going well for you.” I dipped my gaze briefly to the hand cradling her abdomen. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she said through the same sweet smile she’d worn since our high school days. “Things are going well, yes. But there’s been quite a lot of life adjustments over the last year and a half for sure.” She angled her head, her eyes searching mine. “Patrick told me he met your new partner at the clinic—Dr. Julie, is it? I was so happy to hear you expanded your practice—just like you always wanted to. And Brandon, gosh, it’s crazy to think he’s in middle school already. How’s that transition been? I’ve heard it can be tricky to navigate. Thankfully, we’re still two years away from that with Savannah.”
Tricky wasn’t exactly the word I’d use. “Brandon’s doing fine in school.” I cleared my throat. “You haven’t seen him today, have you? We’re headed out of town on a trip downriver. Just trying to track him down.”
“Oh?” Concern crimped her delicate features. “Was he meeting you here?”
“No, he was supposed to meet me at Shep’s Place, but I figured he lost track of time after camp ended.”
“Brandon’s enrolled in Sunshine Day Camp?”
I wasn’t certain what I heard in her voice, but I was certain I didn’t like it. “Yes. He attends during my clinic hours. Keeps him active.” Not that I needed to justify my parenting plan to Willa Hart—or rather, to Willa McCade.
Again, her face revealed there was something more she wanted to ask—something she was trying to piece together. But instead she turned and plucked her phone from the front pocket of her purse. “Ya know, I have Sharon’s number. Why don’t I give her a call since everybody’s gone home for the day.” She tapped her screen.
“No. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just—”
She pressed the phone to her ear, and within half a second, she was speaking to Sharon Nichols, Sunshine Day Camp’s director. Willa relayed a quick explanation of my dilemma, but her notable silence during Sharon’s reply fed into the worst of my doubts.
With little more than a polite “Okay, thank you, Sharon,” she ended the call, her face slipping into a piteous expression I knew all too well. The same expression she’d used for the infamous Let’s Just Be Friends talk that came two years too late.
“What’s wrong?” A question void of niceties.
“She said . . . um, she said Brandon wasn’t here today—”
“That’s impossible. He texted me this morning after check-in.”
Her gaze swept back to me. “I’m sorry, Davis. Sharon said he came with a signed note that released him from camp nearly three weeks ago.”
Fire ignited in my chest at the revelation. My tongue suddenly felt too heavy for words.
“I can help you look for him.” She spun around and closed the hatchback door.
“No, that’s fine.”
“I’m done here for the day anyway, so it would be easy for me to—”
“I can handle my son on my own, Willa.” Unwilling to show her a second more of my humiliation, I started for my Jeep.
“Davis—really, let me help you. It’s not a problem.”
I halted my steps and looked back. “It is for me.”
And there it was. Laid out flat. I was done easing her guilty conscience for all the years she’d kept me on the hook of her indecision. I wasn’t to blame for the awkwardness between us now. Not when I’d done exactly what she’d asked of me—and waited for her.
When in the end she’d chosen somebody else.
“Oh . . . okay. Well, then, um . . .” Hurt pinched her voice. “Maybe you could try Collin’s house? Savannah says she sees them together a lot.”
I muttered a curt goodbye and went in search of my twelve-year-old renegade.
Chapter Four
CALLIE
My father used to say, “The evidence of a true artist isn’t found on their newest canvas but on their smock.” And if that were true, then the three kids who’d taken over my studio were on the same trajectory as Picasso.
I suppressed a grin as Collin unknowingly smeared a dab of orange paint across his eyebrow with the back of his hand. He’d never been too interested in playing with my art supplies in summers past, not the way Corrianna had been, but his friend’s thoughtful remarks and increased curiosity seemed to be contagious. Brandon was a good creative influence. Who said peer pressure couldn’t be positive?
Surprisingly, Brandon had broken away from the pack today—riveted by the variety of widths and textures he’d found in my charcoal collection. I shot a secretive glance in his direction. Hunched on a stool, with dark, ashy smudges running the length of his fingers like gloves, the boy hadn’t lifted his head in over an hour—not even when Collin and Corrianna fought over whose landscape looked more lifelike. Brandon’s focus remained honed on the brisk strokes of his private creation. There was something different about him—something atypical. He was part of a category of people I understood well.
For the last week and a half, the boy I’d first considered to be surly and sullen had actually helped me unload box after box as we prepped my studio for summer. There’d been no shortage of questions as we worked either. But as quickly as he’d arrive each morning, he’d disappear in the afternoon. By 3:42 sharp.
The lively spark illuminating his dark eyes while he sketched captivated me so completely that I found myself encroaching on his space and peering over his shoulder.
An artsy robot with a rectangular torso and accordion hoses for each appendage balanced a stack of metal funnels atop his head. But while the expression of movement appeared comical, the robot’s bolted eyebrows translated annoyance and frustration. The satire was genius. “Wow, he’s fantastic, Brandon.”
The boy jolted at the sound of my voice near his ear.
“Sorry—I wasn’t trying to snoop.” Or maybe I was. “But I’m seriously impressed.” I touched the edge of his paper. “Your dude here is so expressive and animated. Have you taken art lessons before?”
Timidly, Brandon shook his head. “I’ve taken a few classes at my oma’s house in California, but mostly I just play around.”
Nah, my niece and nephew play around. What Brandon had created here was something else entirely.
“Are you talking about his robot?” Collin asked from the easel corner, brushing color onto a canvas. “He has a whole book of them. They’re awesome.”
“You do?” My gaze dropped to the sketchbook under his elbow. “Ah.” So that’s what he’d been hiding in there.
I could almost feel the heat rising off Brandon’s neck as his color deepened. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not,” Collin said matter-of-factly. “Our art teacher, Mrs. Mardel, told him he ought to enter a contest or something.”
“I would definitely agree with Mrs. Mardel.” Wholeheartedly. If this was what he came up with on the spur of the moment, I could only imagine what he’d created on his own timeline.
Brandon swept his hair off his forehead and seemed to take my measure. “Do . . . you want to see them?”
No part of me took his inv
itation lightly. The kid had been guarding his sketchbook like pirate treasure since I’d met him. “I’d be honored.”
A single nod, and then he shoved the book in my direction, giving me direct access into his most private of worlds.
The instant I cracked the spine open, I had to bite back the impulse to gush. Honestly, though, this kid!
Page after page, I fell more in love with his Mr. Robot—the entertaining antics and steely expression of his masculine features were beyond charming. A courageous blend of rigidity and charisma. Many of the sketches were in full color—while a few remained shaded in pencil.
“Aunt Callie, can you please tell my brother that clouds aren’t purple.” Corrianna’s self-righteous complaint turned my attention back to the easels at the far side of the room.
Regretfully, I returned Brandon’s sketchbook and thanked him again for allowing me to thumb through it. And then I addressed the two crazies. “And why can’t clouds be purple? That’s the thing about art, Cor. We all see and interpret the world differently. Your job as an aspiring artist is to paint the world you see, or maybe the world you wish you could see.” I moved the plans for my upcoming mural project aside and planted my bum atop the desk.
“Told you so,” Collin spat. “Looks like I’m a better visionary than you are.”
But when Corrianna stuck her tongue out, I slid down from my perch, ready to intervene before either of them started flinging paint or breaking easels.
“Hey now.” I slung my arms around their necks and pulled them close. “What’s my only rule while in the studio?”
Collin mashed his lips together while Corrianna’s guilty conscious played out on her face.
Finally, she sighed. “Not to make art into a competition.”
“That’s right,” I said. “So why don’t you both focus a bit more on your own work and less on each other’s, okay?”
