A New Shade of Summer

by Nicole Deese

  Collin shrugged, and I planted a smooch on his pale cheek.

  “Ugh,” he said with an eye roll. “Why do you keep doing that?”

  “It’s in my job description. Deal with it.”

  I’d taken two steps away from them when something cold and wet swiped across my cheekbone.

  “Then you can deal with this,” Collin said, laughing.

  I touched the spot, my fingertips slick with dark-purple paint. “Oh no you didn’t.”

  Without missing a beat, I grabbed his paintbrush and brushed a streak across his forehead. Corrianna bent at the waist, gasping for air between high-pitched giggles. An opportunity I couldn’t let go to waste.

  I marked her forehead as well.

  She squealed and darted toward the palette of colors. Collin dipped his fingers in the red and green, Corrie in the yellow and blue. All too soon I found myself calling for backup, but Brandon did not come to my rescue. He was, however, cheering them on as they pinned me against the wall and wiped my face with all the colors of the rainbow.

  “Mercy! Mercy!” I cried between swipes.

  Cackling, the two finally stepped back to examine their handiwork. My face. They high-fived each other. Apparently, torturing their beloved aunt was the key to getting them to work together.

  “Okay, okay. So now that you’ve had your fun”—I blinked hard, my eyelashes caked and sticky—“you both better go clean yourselves up at my place before your mom gets back from the store. I don’t even want to think about what she’d do to me if she saw you like this.”

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I heard a car door slam in the distance. Clem was home. Without a hint of hesitation, the two hightailed it out of the warehouse. Like the warning on a box of matches, we all knew my sister’s wrath wasn’t something to mess around with.

  Sure, I probably resembled a Goosebumps character, but at least Clem’s kids would be out of Dodge.

  From somewhere beyond my makeshift studio, Collin’s voice carried on the summer breeze. My ears perked at his unusual tone.

  He was talking to someone.

  Someone not his mother.

  And then he was skidding to a stop inside the warehouse, his skin still paint-splattered and his eyes wide with panic.

  “Dude . . . your dad’s here!”

  Brandon’s head snapped up from his sketch work, his stool clattering to the cement floor as a man with storm-gray eyes passed over the threshold. The man’s tense, towering frame relaxed slightly the instant his gaze landed on—

  “Brandon.” A word teetering on the edge of authority and . . . relief?

  “Dad? What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” The man crossed his arms over his chest, the short sleeves of his navy polo exposing the tan line above his biceps. “Wrong question, Son.”

  Tension crackled in the air as something unspoken passed between them. For a heartbeat, Brandon’s usual steel-trap expression fell away and guilt shrouded his features. “I can explain.”

  But the man—Brandon’s father—shook his head. He seemed about as interested in his son’s explanation as I was in Clem’s meal-planning tips. “The camp director already did.”

  He rubbed a closed fist to his forehead as if trying to gather his thoughts. He turned slowly, his keen eyes skimming the contents of my recently unpacked work space.

  And then his gaze stilled. On me. I could almost see the logical part of his brain whirling as he worked to process my mosaic face mask.

  I stepped toward him, smiling brightly, hand outstretched. “Hello there. I’m Callie Quinn, Collin and Corrianna’s aunt. You must be Brandon’s father?”

  “Davis Carter,” he said dryly. He eyed my offering, and I pulled my hand back to wipe the glistening mess onto my smock.

  “I’m afraid you caught us after a family bonding moment. But as you can see, your son was smart enough to stay out of the war zone.”

  Not even the teeniest hint of a smile registered in his ashy eyes. I understood now who Brandon inherited his sense of humor from.

  Davis continued to study me as if I were an abstract painting at an art gallery, his expression firm and contemplative. And perhaps more than a touch confused. Without a word, he rounded my workstation and planted his palms on the end of the table opposite his son.

  No wedding band encircled his ring finger. And I had zero question as to why. The man’s dazzling personality didn’t exactly scream emotionally available.

  Brandon hadn’t moved. He stood ruler-straight, clutching his sketchpad while his gaze darted between his friend and his father. All the while, Collin remained uncharacteristically quiet. Whatever was going on here, the boys were obviously in cahoots.

  Davis’s clean-shaven jaw ticked like a frenzied pulse beat. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about this?”

  Brandon said nothing.

  “I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Again. And still, you managed to find another way to deceive me.” Hurt underlined the anger in his tone, and something inside me ached to know what had happened.

  With each passing second, the stale studio air seemed to thicken, making the silence even more unbearable. I couldn’t stand back and observe this train wreck for one more heartbeat.

  I moved toward them. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

  Davis’s razor-sharp focus sliced me open. “I would hope not—although I am curious why his presence here day after day didn’t raise any red flags for you.”

  Wait a minute. Was he putting me on trial now? “Red flags? He’s a school friend of Collin’s. And it’s summertime. His hanging out here seems like a much better alternative to him sitting at home playing video games while his parents are at work.”

  “Parent,” Davis corrected harshly. “And he wasn’t supposed to be at home playing video games. He was supposed to be at day camp. Nine to four. Monday through Friday.”

  Collin and Brandon shared another one of their suspicious glances—a look I’d seen since my arrival in town. Their secretive conversations, their obsession with time, and their tight-lipped responses to personal questions finally made sense. Collin had aided and abetted his friend’s escape like a seasoned criminal.

  “Collin.” I lowered my voice to mimic my older sister—a.k.a. Master Parent, Clementine Taylor. She’d perfected the tone of disappointment sometime between my middle and high school years. It was easy enough to recall.

  “It’s not his fault.” Brandon’s first spoken words. “Collin was just trying to help me.”

  If possible, the man’s jaw clenched tighter. “Encouraging you to lie to your father is not a help.”

  “Hey now.” I lifted my palms. “I don’t think we know who was encouraging whom to do what here—but obviously, Collin owes you a huge apology.” I shot Collin my best attempt at a mom glare.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carter,” Collin said, his voice wobbly. “And I’m sorry, Aunt Callie.”

  I acknowledged him with a nod. “Head inside, Collin. We’ll need to talk to your mom when she gets home.”

  My nephew glanced back at Brandon again, torn between obedience and loyalty. Head hung low, he exited.

  After several long exhales, Davis simply said, “Get to the car, Brandon.” The defeated sigh that escaped him roused a long-repressed instinct. I wanted to reach out and crush the guarded stranger into a bear hug and recite one of my sister’s never-give-up pep talks. Yet I was pretty sure those could only be given and received by one parent to another . . . and I couldn’t even keep a cactus alive, much less offer advice on child-rearing.

  Brandon looked from me to his father. “Dad, I—”

  “Get to the car. Now.”

  “Fine. It’s not like you ever listen to me anyway.” Brandon swiped his sketchbook off the table and rushed toward the doorway, slowing only when he neared me. “Sorry, Callie.”

  Those two words hit my chest dead center.

  I watched the boy shuffle acros
s the yard until I heard Davis make his way to the door.

  “Uh, Davis?” I said, uncertain of what my next words should be.

  His eyes wandered my face again.

  “I probably shouldn’t interfere, and I realize I haven’t known Brandon very long, but he’s been a huge help around here. All those empty boxes over there”—I pointed to the corner—“he unpacked them and helped me set up. Also, and I’m sure you must know this, of course, but he’s incredibly talented. Today he sketched with my charcoal for close to two hours without breaking concentration. Maybe art could be a—”

  “You’re right,” he said with such coldness the hairs on my arms stiffened. “You probably shouldn’t interfere.”

  Chapter Five

  DAVIS

  The familiar aroma of tuna casserole and salted brussels sprouts transported me back in time. Only I wasn’t a gangly teenage boy entering my mother’s kitchen. I was a thirty-two-year-old man. And it was my kitchen she was cooking in.

  “Davis? Oh, you’re home sooner than I anticipated!” She spun away from the chef-grade stovetop I’d purchased last winter, wiped her fingers on a dish towel, and gripped my forearm to kiss my cheek. “The gals at the clinic said you had an emergency surgery—a dog with a twisted intestine?”

  “I did.” I dropped my satchel on the barstool, thankful my commute home was only a few strides on foot and not a drive across town. “He didn’t make it.” It would have taken a miracle for Booker to pull through the anesthesia. He was too far gone by the time Stan Yinger brought him in. But after six years of owning my own practice, I’d learned that some procedures were more about the owner’s peace of mind—that they’d done everything they could for their beloved pet—than about saving the animal.

  She clucked her tongue. “That’s a pity.”

  To my mother, the death of a nine-year-old boxer was a pity. But to Stan Yinger, losing his most faithful companion of nearly a decade was nothing short of a tragedy.

  “I appreciate you cooking dinner. You didn’t have to do that.” I went to the sink and flipped on the faucet, soaping my hands for what was likely the eightieth time since breakfast. “So how was he today?”

  The look she gave me said it was the same as yesterday. And the day before that. Finding Brandon with Collin and his aunt last week had pushed our rocky relationship over the cliff.

  I stretched my neck side to side and suppressed my irritation. “He didn’t come out of his room?”

  “Only to grab a snack or two.” She shrugged. “Hence the casserole.”

  And hence my mother’s favorite life-coping mechanism.

  Didn’t make the cut for the church choir? Tuna casserole. Came in second at the annual Bake-Off? Tuna casserole. Preteen grandson acting out? Tuna casserole.

  At least before my father’s health failed, she’d listened to his request for anything but her signature dish, and she’d had the decency to oblige him. Unfortunately for us, she’d reverted back to her old ways in recent years.

  She pressed a hand to the center of my back. “This will pass, Davis. All boys his age go through a rough patch. Doesn’t mean he’s not a good kid.”

  I’d be inclined to agree with her if Brandon’s “rough patch” hadn’t felt like an eternity already. His detention for vandalism was only one of several offenses my mother knew nothing about. For good reason. I loved the woman dearly, but the concept of a personal life wasn’t one she understood. Information of any kind was to be shared, processed, and regurgitated within her social network of friends. And I was not the kind of man who wanted his son raised by a village.

  “I’ll figure something else out for him soon. I know you have other things to do with your time besides babysit.” Guilt pressed against my conscience as I thought of all she was giving up to spend her days keeping an eye on him.

  She shook her head. “Nonsense. It’s fine. He can come with me on some odd jobs, and I can take him to the garden club if it comes to that, although I don’t understand why he doesn’t just go to the clinic with you like he’s always done. He adores animals.”

  It’s not the animals he’s rejecting. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry. I just need a few more days.”

  She reached for her carry-on-size purse at the edge of the counter. “You know I’m here whenever you need me. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Always have been, always will be.” And then her eyes misted. “Stephanie would be proud of you, too—of how you’ve carried on, built a thriving practice, and loved her child despite her absence.” She blinked rapidly to fan away her tears. “There’s somebody out there for you, Son. I can sense it. I’ve been praying for her—and so have the ladies in my Bible study group ever since . . . well, ever since Willa, you know.”

  Every cell in my body flinched at her statement. “There are far more pressing needs in our world than my dating life.”

  “Not to this mother.” She smiled and patted my cheek. “Now, about that casserole. Make sure you check it in six or seven minutes, tops. Your oven is fancier than mine, so it cooks hotter.”

  “Thank you.” I walked her to the door. “Tell John I’ll take him up on a round of golf soon.”

  “Will do.” She kissed me again on the cheek and then barked out a sudden laugh. “Oh—speaking of John, do you remember that antique potter’s wheel in front of Valerie’s gift shop down on Sixth Street? It’s sat on the sidewalk for ages.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “You know the one, Davis. She always decorates it so cute with those huge white-and-yellow fake daisies? Anyway”—she waved her hand through the air—“the thing’s sat there since before your father passed away. And I used to beg him to buy it for me every single time we drove by it, and—”

  “What on earth would you want with an old potter’s wheel, Mother?”

  “It’s not for me to use, silly. It would be for my garden—a creative display piece. You know, something to plant flowers in and around. A conversation starter. Diane Gibbons has two nineteen-fifties tricycles in front of her water feature, and just last week I repurposed an old farmhouse-style sink in a client’s garden.”

  A potter’s wheel? Antique tricycles? A sink? I hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was talking about. “And what does this have to do with John again?”

  “I’ll get to that.” I opened my front door, and she stepped onto the porch, not pausing for breath. “So anyway, Valerie called and told me someone actually bought that crusty old potter’s wheel this afternoon! I couldn’t believe it! Apparently, there’s this young artsy gal staying on the south end of town. Loading the thing was quite the ordeal, too. Took three men. Val said traffic all but stopped as they worked to secure it into her trunk. Can’t you just imagine if that had been your father and me out there like that? I’m pretty sure he would have left me and my purchase on the sidewalk to hitch a ride home.”

  A young artsy gal staying on the south side of town? The image of a wild-haired woman with a half-painted face and a lack of personal boundaries formed in my mind. What were the chances Collin’s aunt was behind that ridiculous purchase? Something told me they were high.

  I focused again on my chuckling mother. “Dad always did have a fairly low tolerance for drama.”

  She eyed me before heading to her car. “Like father like son, I’m afraid. Anyway, when I called John to share my good laugh with him, his voice went all serious before he said, ‘You should have told me you wanted that, Marti. I would have bought it for you ages ago.’ I told him that wasn’t the point of my story—that I just thought it would have been a funny scene to witness in our little town. He’s silly.”

  At her attempt to appear coy, a smile inched across my mouth. “John’s a good man, Mom.”

  As far as I was concerned, John Draper was single-handedly responsible for replacing the spark in my mother’s eyes. And while she pretended to see him as only my late father’s best friend and old golfing buddy, she failed to convert anybody else to her delusions. For now, he was
her road trip companion and her routine dinner guest. But I had no doubt she loved him.

  “Your father was a good man, too.”

  I nodded. “No argument there.”

  Who would have thought that my sixty-year-old mother would be navigating the dating maze better than her son?

  “And so are you.”

  If only I were half the dad my father had been to me.

  I waved goodbye and went back inside to attend to the beeping of the oven timer. I pulled out the steaming casserole and tossed the oven mitts onto the counter. Brandon still hadn’t emerged from his bat cave. I made my way to his door and knocked twice.

  “Yeah?”

  “Dinnertime.”

  Silence.

  “Brandon, come out and eat dinner with me. It’s not an option.”

  Options were dead as far as I was concerned. He’d killed that parenting plan the second he forged my name and lied about his whereabouts for nearly three weeks.

  Less than a minute later, he joined me at the dinner table, his too-long hair swooped to one side of his forehead, covering his left eye almost completely. I dished up my plate and reached for his, piling it high with tuna casserole and brussels sprouts. He murmured a thank-you under his breath when I handed it back to him.

  And then it began: the bitter silence that seasoned our every meal together. Our every moment together.

  Gone were the dinners where I’d begged him to take a breath between run-on sentences or a bite between imaginary stories. I could hardly remember the animated kid who used to tuck a flyswatter into his pants pocket and call it his sword. The little boy who shadowed my every movement and cried when he couldn’t follow me into the exam room at the clinic was no more. Where had he gone? And more importantly, how could I get him back?

  I set my fork down and cleared my throat, preparing to ask that very question, when Brandon opened his mouth.

  “Oma called me today.”

  My eyes snapped to his. “Why?” But I knew perfectly well why she’d called him. I just didn’t want to believe she’d go behind my back. Again.