A New Shade of Summer

by Nicole Deese

  “Uh . . .” Think, brain. Think! “You know, like if I’m ever stalked by a mountain lion . . . or chased by a grizzly bear.”

  He chuckled and clamped a firm hand onto my hip, steadying me as he reached around my shoulder and scooted a box of instant oatmeal aside to reveal the AWOL raisin container.

  “Oh” was my brilliant and somewhat breathy response.

  And then, as if my feet were no longer under my control, I rotated to face him.

  “Your instincts will tell you to run.” My spine prickled as he slid his arm around the curve of my waist. “But that’s the opposite of what you should do.”

  Were we still talking about mountain lions and grizzlies?

  I watched his throat constrict as he swallowed, and my entire body flushed.

  “So I shouldn’t run, then.” Strangely, the raspy words felt more natural than they should for a woman who ran more than she stayed. Anywhere. With anyone.

  His gaze made a slow, deliberate trail from my eyes to my mouth. “No, you shouldn’t.”

  Our breath mingled for less than a heartbeat before I smoothed my hands over his chest and looped my arms around his neck. Leaning into his eager embrace, I found his lips and we settled into an unhurried exploration. A rhythm of testing and tasting. Starts and stops. Sighs and surrender. There were no thoughts of running as my elbow knocked a box of spaghetti noodles to the floor. No plans of escape as his fingers grazed the bare flesh at the waist of my jeans. No awareness of anything other than his hands and his lips and this kiss—oh, this kiss!

  “Aunt Callie?”

  The shock of Corrianna’s voice catapulted us apart, each of us staking claim to our own corners of the pantry like boxers in a too-small ring.

  So much for a secret romance with Davis Carter.

  I dipped my brush into a perfect blue and spread it swiftly across the canvas. First there was nothing, and then sky. Working with watercolors never failed to offer me the serenity and peace I craved. The scent of rain, mixed with the scent of my sister’s herb garden just outside my studio window, didn’t hurt either. I let my imagination soar over the field of white, swirling colors into something enchanting and unexpected.

  Much like this evening.

  And this summer.

  After Corrie’s giggly pronouncement to the boys of the indiscretion she’d witnessed a few hours ago—complete with dramatic smacking sounds against the back of her hand—I’d been certain my indoor picnic idea would be short-lived. But strangely enough, the only reactions from Collin and Brandon were a few awkward shrugs, followed by blatant avoidance of eye contact at any and all mentions of topics involving kisses and pantries.

  Still, I’d mouthed the words “maybe we should go” to Davis no less than ten times, to which he shook his head and told me he’d deal with it later. Whatever that meant in man terms, I couldn’t be sure, but eventually Corrie let the subject die and asked to play another board game.

  We gladly obliged her.

  Standing back now from my painting, I heaved a contented sigh, dropped my brush into the murky water for the last time, and untied my smock. If I didn’t make myself go to bed now, I wouldn’t be much good at Mabel’s tomorrow.

  I stepped out of my studio and secured the door behind me. But as I turned toward my little abode, my brother-in-law’s voice swept the span of darkness between his open screen door and my front porch steps. His rushed words and succinct footsteps down hardwood stairs froze me in my tracks.

  “Then at least let me be the one to take the couch tonight. I’ll wake up before the kids so they won’t see the blankets.”

  A light flicked on in the dining room, and I quickly latched onto the closest tree, pressing my spine into the bark while a slow panic seized my insides.

  “I’m fine sleeping on the couch. I’m comfortable down here.”

  Wait—has she been sleeping on the couch every night?

  “Clem . . . please.” The painful way he spoke her name caused me to clutch at my shirt. I knew I should leave, give them the privacy they deserved . . . yet I was unable to move away. “Can’t we stop all this polite tiptoeing around each other? The last thing I want is more space.”

  “Funny how the space didn’t seem to bother you much until now. Of course, those shiny company car keys probably helped with that, as did that huge signing bonus and the increased percentage on your commission checks.”

  “I hoped the promotion would do something great for our family, Clem. For our future.”

  “And look where we are, Chris.” Hurt squeaked from Clem’s throat. “Look what that future has cost us. We’re practically strangers.”

  “Don’t say that,” Chris choked out. “You and I will never be strangers.”

  I peered around the tree trunk, their dark silhouettes like figurines in a dollhouse.

  “You were the one who chose to leave.” Resentment simmered in my sister’s voice.

  “And yet never once did you ask me to stay.”

  “Because I refuse to be my mother! I shouldn’t have to beg for you to want me!”

  I stopped breathing, stunned at what I’d just heard. That was it—what my sister had been hiding from me. All this time, all these years, I’d believed I was the only one who struggled with our parents’ divorce. Who feared their dysfunction. Hot tears teetered on the edge of my lash line as an image of our mother surfaced without permission. Her bloodshot eyes as she begged my dad to choose her.

  The slam of a door on the opposite end of the house rattled my teeth, and for a moment, I could almost taste the exhaust from my father’s Buick as he sputtered down the road, leaving me sobbing in our driveway—

  Another hard thud from the front of the house had me turning again. Chris was back, striding through the front door with something in his hand, something he must have gone to retrieve from his car. I squinted to make it out through the window. A wallet, maybe? He unfolded it and took out a piece of paper. Handed it to her.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  Unmoving, Clem stared at whatever he’d placed in her palm.

  “Open it. Please.” His voice shook with emotion.

  “Are these . . . our vows? You kept them?”

  “I’ve transferred them from wallet to wallet since our wedding rehearsal. Because I wanted the reminder. The visual of how our vastly different handwritings had scripted out the same promise to one another. A promise to love and respect you, but most importantly”—he tapped his finger to the paper—“a promise to always put your desires above my own.”

  Slowly, he bridged the space between them and reached for her face. It was the first intimate touch I’d seen from them since he’d been home. She didn’t pull away.

  “I want you, Clementine Quinn Taylor. More than I did when I asked you to marry me. More than I did on our wedding day. And more than I did on the days you made me a father for the first and second time. So if you ever feel like you have to beg to be seen or heard by me . . . then I need to be reminded of these vows. Because you, Clem, are the best gift I have in this life. Not my job. Or my paycheck. Or anything else. Forgive me, please, for losing sight of us.”

  My sister dropped her face to his chest . . . and wept. “I prayed . . . for this . . .”

  He wrapped her tighter, rocking her gently side to side and kissing her temple.

  Emotionally spent, I crept across the damp grass and up my porch steps, rehashing their words again and again in my mind. For so many years, I’d thought they were immune to marital problems, but they hadn’t been immune at all. They’d simply been committed to seeing them through.

  After shedding my clothes and snuggling under the covers of my bed, I blinked up at the stars and wondered about a life unlike the one I’d chosen.

  A life lived in one place. And a love promised to one man.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  DAVIS

  I waited in the Jeep to drive Brandon to the mural site, my mind sorting through a list of appro
priate vocabulary for our impending man-to-man discussion.

  Right on time, he barreled out of the house, backpack slung over one shoulder and a piece of half-eaten toast pinched between his lips. His hair could have doubled as a science experiment for static electricity. When he veered toward his bike parked near our rain gutter, I tapped my horn and waved him over.

  “I’m taking you, bud,” I called through my open window.

  “You are? I’m fine to ride my bike to the bakery.”

  “Nah, hop in. We’ll stop by Java Express on our way.” And have a nice little chat while we’re at it.

  He shot me a knowing glance. This tried-and-true parenting technique wasn’t a new one.

  As if he were boneless, he dropped into the seat, his body slumping in every direction while his feet tucked up under the dash. When had that happened? He clicked his seat belt latch into place, and I reversed down the driveway, making small talk about Kosher’s new rollover trick while mentally rehearsing for a far more pressing conversation.

  I pulled into Java Express to buy Callie an iced coffee and Brandon his favorite energy drink, and Darlene Chamberlin slid the window open and took our order, swaying to the country music blaring in the background.

  “It’ll be right out,” she assured us with a thumbs-up. If not for the lineup of cars behind us, I would have told her to take her time.

  I rapped the steering wheel with my thumbs. “So we should probably talk about what happened at the house yesterday. Between me and Callie.”

  Brandon scrubbed a hand down the thigh of his jeans with enough friction to start a campfire. “It’s fine.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.”

  “You like her. Obviously.”

  “Yes, I do like her. But I’d like to know how you feel about her?”

  In his side mirror, he studied the cars lined up behind us. “She’s cool.”

  “I guess I figured with as much time as you’ve spent with her, and how well you two seem to get along, that you might offer something a little more profound than she’s cool.” I mimicked his irritatingly dull tone of voice.

  The half window to the coffee stand banged open again. “Here you are, Dr. Carter.” I took each drink from Darlene, a girl whose fingernails followed the calendar year, displaying every holiday imaginable. In this case, little American flags, complete with metallic stars and stripes, flashed in the sunlight when I dropped an extra few dollar bills into the plastic tip jar. Her wave of thanks could have blinded an unsuspecting driver.

  Brandon twisted to smash his body into the space between the door and seat before popping the tab on his energy drink. “Is she, like, your girlfriend now or something?”

  Nothing like ripping the Band-Aid off.

  “I’m not sure we’ve labeled it yet, but . . .” Why did this feel reminiscent of the Puberty Talk two summers ago? The steering wheel slipped against my palms. “But I am interested in pursuing a relationship with her. If that’s what she wants.” Out of the corner of my eye, I peered at him. “What do you think about that—about me dating her?”

  “It’s fine.” He lifted his shoulder lazily. “Whatever.”

  But something about the word choice, about the way he said it, felt more like a conversational cliff-hanger than an ending. But trying to coax Brandon into sharing his feelings on anything was next to impossible.

  “Just don’t expect me to get too attached to the idea,” Brandon said. “Especially if you’re not even calling her your girlfriend yet.”

  I stopped at the four-way intersection at Baker and Morris. “These things take time, Brandon.”

  “You said the same thing about Willa. And look where that ended up.” The briskness of his tone was an indictment.

  I forced my heart rate to steady, willed myself not to be defensive.

  “Me dating Callie is an entirely different situation than what happened with Willa. She was focused on her daughter’s health and settling back into Lenox and—”

  “And then she married somebody else.”

  “A decision that was hers to make.”

  “Because you let her.”

  I gripped the wheel tighter as I yielded to oncoming traffic. “Nobody can force a relationship to work, Brandon. It takes two willing people.”

  I’d been so careful to preserve his faultless image of Willa Hart—now Willa McCade—since we’d gone our separate ways. She’d been a trusted family friend who’d known Brandon since kindergarten, and I hadn’t wanted to burden him with my heartache. But the sharp edge in his tone made me wonder if he’d been more hurt by her marriage to Patrick McCade than he’d led me to believe.

  “Then how do you know it will be different with Callie?”

  “Because . . .” Because nothing about being with Callie felt one-sided. “Because I’m different now.”

  He practically snorted.

  I made a hard left and pulled into the alley. “Listen, I’m choosing to ask for your input on this—something I don’t have to do, but something I want to do.” I forced the gearshift into park and rotated in my seat. “Because, believe it or not, I actually value what you think.”

  He took a long sip from his canned caffeine and then casually threw me a bone. “Well, I already told you, I think she’s cool.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” he echoed, his fingers sliding to the lock button on the door. I expected him to bolt, to mutter something sarcastic under his breath, and then stalk off.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he sat a few seconds longer, staring silently at the brick wall ahead of us.

  “Maybe we could look into some hiking trails later,” he said. “Ya know, something to do with your time off.”

  My blood pressure slowly decreased back to normal. “I could use a hike.”

  “And maybe a trip to Blackrock.”

  At the mention of our favorite lake, a place we hadn’t visited together in far too long, I looked at him. “Yes, definitely a trip to Blackrock.”

  Without another word, Brandon pried open his door and stepped out. I lifted Callie’s drink from the cup holder and followed him into the narrow alley.

  “Morning!” Callie called from the third step of a ladder, a dripping rag in her hand. Brandon stopped near her and bent over a stack of graph paper.

  Callie hopped down and practically skipped toward me. “Ooh . . . did you bring me a present?”

  I laughed. “I did, although I’m not sure you need it. You don’t seem to be lacking energy this morning.”

  She beamed and took the drink from my hand. “I had a lot to look forward to today.”

  Amazing how just a few words from her could take the edge off my parenting stress.

  She ticked her head to where Brandon stood studying her design. “Looks like he’s made himself at home already.”

  Hands on my hips, I released a telling breath. “Yeah.”

  “Did, uh, did you talk to him about what happened yesterday at the house?” She shook her head and loosed a giggle. “I honestly didn’t think it was possible to feel like a teenager sneaking around at my age, but . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Corrie talked about it the whole way home. And then happily announced us as a cute couple to my sister.”

  “Maybe her cheerleading can rub off on Brandon.”

  A question lit her eyes as I touched a stray curl trailing down the nape of her neck. There was always one ringlet that fought against the conformity of her ponytail.

  “You sure this arrangement is still okay?” I gestured to Brandon, who was currently sorting through a box of her art supplies, picking them up one by one and examining them.

  She tilted her head and gave me that please-tell-me-we’re-not-doing-this-again look. “The two of us will be just fine, Davis. I have an entire week of activities planned for today alone. And later this afternoon, Collin and Corrie will join in on the fun. But first,” she said with a hard pat to my chest, “I was hoping to put your mus
cles to good use.”

  “Were you?”

  She waggled her eyebrows and took a sip of her coffee. “Whoa, you weren’t wrong! This stuff tastes magical.”

  “Glad you think so. Now, what can I muscle for you?”

  “A few plastic totes in the back of my Subaru. Can you bring the blue one out, pretty please? I think it’s on the left behind the paint buckets.”

  I headed to her old car, noting the lack of tread on her tires and the rust creeping up from the underbelly. I popped the handle on the hatchback and opened it to reveal a hodgepodge of totes and buckets, each filled with various supplies, rags, and artist paraphernalia. “Out of curiosity, when was the last time you took this in for an oil change, Callie?”

  “What?” she called over her shoulder, already engaged in a conversation with Brandon.

  “Your car. When was your last tune-up?”

  “Uh . . .” She puckered her lips and kicked out her leg, rocking the heel of her sandal distractingly as the airy fabric of her pants shifted on her hips. “Couldn’t tell ya. Chris usually does something to it when I visit, but . . . hmm. I don’t think he got around to it last summer with all his traveling.”

  My eyebrows spiked. “Wait—you haven’t had an oil change in two years?” How was that even possible?

  “I’m pretty sure yes isn’t the answer you’re looking for, but yes.”

  Brandon snickered, and she crossed her eyes, making him bust out a full laugh.

  I sighed at her lackadaisical approach to vehicle maintenance and scanned the totes before reaching for the one behind the paint buckets. Hauling it up and out of the hatchback, I balanced it on the bumper before closing the trunk door. “It’s a wonder you haven’t blown this engine up the way you’ve traveled all over the . . .”

  But when I turned back to them, she was busy talking with her hands, showing Brandon something I was sure only a fellow creative could envision.

  She slashed her finger through the air. “Right about here. That’s what I’m thinking now, anyway.”