by Nicole Deese
I debated the two options—bringing Callie to dinner and subjecting her to heaven only knows what, or leaving her behind, which meant not having her with me all night.
But the ever-present peacemaker of the bunch had already made up her own mind. Callie returned to my side and hooked my satchel over my shoulder. “Unfortunately, I have a full evening of work ahead of me tonight, so I should probably get going.”
I trapped her hand in mine, not the least bit intimidated by Viv’s prying eyes. “You don’t have to leave. Really.” But even as I said it, I knew she wouldn’t stay. The same way I knew I had no right to ask her to.
“Actually, I do.” She smiled at Stephanie’s parents as if they were old friends. “I hope your stay in Lenox is a good one. Enjoy your dinner tonight.”
Callie squeezed my hand before letting it drop. I watched her meander down the lonely street while Viv pushed her way inside my house in search of my son.
Charles clapped me on the shoulder. “Hope you still have that bourbon I sent you last Christmas, Son. I could use a stiff drink.”
That made two of us.
The conversational dance at the Italian Rose was a delicate waltz of starts and stops. The timely interruptions of the waitstaff kept us stepping gingerly around any potential land mines while Vivian guided Brandon through a series of questions: school, friends, academics, and, of course, his art. He answered in brief but full sentences between bites of beef ravioli. To my surprise, he mentioned Callie several times—the mural, the studio at Collin’s house, even the picnic we’d shared on our living room rug two weeks ago. I, too, answered my fair share of surface-level queries. How was the clinic? How had the new business partner been working out? How was my mother and John, and when did I think they would tie the knot?
But when the candle in the middle of the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth sputtered, Viv’s gaze met her husband’s. I wasn’t sure of her takeaway, but I was certain I’d hear all about it as soon as Brandon was tucked into bed for the night.
I wasn’t wrong.
Brandon hadn’t been tucked away in his room for more than five minutes when Vivian asked to speak to me in the living room.
With a practiced jiggle of his hand, Charles clinked the ice in his tumbler before he upended the remaining liquor down his throat. Viv slid in next to him on the sofa, her legs stiffly crossed and her fingers knit together on her lap.
“He looks so much older than he did four months ago,” she said. “He’s becoming a young man—hard to believe he’s just a few months away from being a teenager.”
Her words reminded me of Callie’s comments about parents reflecting on days gone by, only her revelation felt all the more sobering when applied to Stephanie’s parents. All they had were days gone by. A recounting of memories—the good and the bad.
Viv tugged at the afghan behind her and draped it over her lap. “His hair looks just like Stephanie’s did at that age, except for the darker shade, of course. But it has the same healthy sheen.” Her gaze drifted to the bookshelves, and I wondered at the memories she was reliving now. “The texture dulled so much after her pregnancy, though.” She shook her head. “After all those experimental treatments and prescription drugs, promising to buy her more time.”
“Steph was beautiful in every season of her life.” There was no need to force empathy into my tone. I felt it. Each and every time I was with them, that familiar blade twisted further into my gut, as if I were the one who had chosen the baby over Stephanie’s health.
“Callie’s quite pretty, too.” Her words sounded polite enough, a coat of sugar to mask the underlying bitterness, but I could see the bait at the end of the fishing rod. And I wasn’t a fish to be lured.
“Callie had nothing to do with my choice to keep Brandon from traveling to California.”
“Really?” she asked, straightening and then smoothing out her blanket. “Because the way he talks about her, well, it sounds as if those two have grown quite attached over the summer. Strange how two months ago I’d never even heard of the woman, and now? Well . . .” She raised her chin, her eyes full of accusation. “If you’re making plans to . . . to start a more permanent type of relationship with her, then I feel we have the right to know.”
“Now, buttercup,” Charles said, squeezing her kneecap and lowering his tumbler to the sofa arm. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Davis is a grown man. He can date whomever he chooses.” A slight lift to his shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned, Callie seems like a sweet enough gal. Not the marrying type, of course, but a nice girl for the meantime.” Charles gave me his standard this-is-how-it’s-going-to-be stare, and I flexed my fists.
Viv intercepted. “We agreed—Stephanie included—that Brandon would grow up near his maternal grandparents. If not for your father’s sudden passing, you’d still be in California. Do you have any idea how hard that was for us to watch you pack up our only grandson and move him five hundred miles away? We could have fought that decision, Davis, but we did not. We instead gave you our blessing to take care of your widowed mother with the understanding that you would send Brandon to us no less than three times a year—at our expense, I might add.” She pursed her lips. “You also agreed to keep us apprised of any and all significant life changes that would impact him.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your dating someone certainly qualifies as such a change in my book.”
I exhaled for a full five seconds, anchoring my gaze on the coffee table that Stephanie had picked out during our engagement. Years ago, I had vowed to love and cherish their daughter. I had pledged my life to her happiness and well-being. And I had made a promise to honor and respect everything—and everyone—she held dear. And for that reason alone, I would tolerate more boundary pushing from her parents than I would from anyone else.
But Callie was off-limits.
I propped my elbows on my knees and clasped my hands together. “I did agree to that, Vivian. But let’s be honest with one another. You didn’t take a two-day trip to Oregon to discuss my dating life.” I raised my hand to block Viv’s next wordplay. I was done with all the beating around the bush. “Why don’t we discuss why you really showed up here after I explicitly told you there would be no visit this summer?”
“We know he’s having trouble adjusting to middle school,” Charles stated loudly.
Viv glanced at her husband as if to pass off the confrontation baton while I pressed my back flush with the recliner. How could they possibly know anything? I hadn’t told them about Brandon’s report card or his detention for tagging school property. I’d kept that information quiet, even from my own mother. And there was no way Brandon had told them anything. The last thing he’d want was two more adults hovering over his every move.
“Do you deny it? That your lack of communication with us is because he’s been struggling?”
I tried to sort out what they could possibly know . . . the look on my face obviously giving her the answer she wanted in order to continue her rant.
“Obviously, honesty is not what you really want, Davis. Not when you’ve been working so hard to keep us in the dark. Brandon is our only grandson. Our only bloodline. We deserve to know the truth about what’s going on in his life—all of it.” She lifted her chin, and for a moment I wondered if she might cry. But in typical Vivian Lockwood style, she simply cleared her throat and regained composure. “After all we’ve been through together, do you really think that’s too much for us to ask of you?”
I took a minute to formulate my response. She knew good and well that it had never been my intention to keep Brandon away from them. It still wasn’t. But Brandon was no longer a child in need of coddling. He had given them a reason to keep going in those early years of his life, and they’d spared no expense when it came to his comfort—custom tricycles, fortress-style bunk beds, a wardrobe chosen from expensive catalogues and import boutiques.
But after burying my father and returning back home to the Lockwoods, I saw everything so clearly:
my son had become their living grief therapy.
And we were suffocating at the hands of overindulgence.
I couldn’t allow it to continue.
I hadn’t planned on moving us back to Oregon. Truth was, my mother had ample amounts of support from friends and a church family she adored, but a move to Lenox was the only way I could guarantee any kind of normalcy for my son—a sense of autonomy and purpose.
He was his own person. Not their replacement child.
Separating Stephanie’s parents from Brandon was the single hardest decision I’d ever made as a parent. One I didn’t take lightly.
I shifted forward in my chair. “I could not have parented Brandon without your help in those early years, and if I’ve failed to express my gratitude, then please hear it now. Thank you. For everything you did for him—for us. Caring for a young child while in veterinary school would be a challenge for anyone, but after losing Stephanie, the task felt nothing short of impossible.”
I pushed on, my adrenaline whooshing hard in my ears. “But life has changed a lot for us since those days. Brandon isn’t a child anymore, and he isn’t a man yet either. And while I admit this in-between stage has been difficult on us both, we will get through it. He’s a strong kid, with a strong mind and an even stronger heart. It’s uncomfortable for all of us to watch him struggle, but it’s my job, as his father, to guide him.” I leveled my gaze on them both. “I’ve never been opposed to you being involved grandparents, but I need you to allow me to be his parent.”
Vivian stiffened at my bluntness. “If you’re implying we’ve been anything but supportive, then—”
“You’re not hearing me, Vivian. I recognize your support. Just like I recognize your and Charles’s role in Brandon’s life as an important one—vital, even—but if you choose to stay here, at my home, for any length of time, then we need to set some hard boundaries. Tonight.”
My bold statement was met by a prickly stare-down, and I fully expected another entitled rant from Vivian. But no matter what she threw at me, I wouldn’t back down.
Ever the practiced businessman, Charles momentarily stepped aside to let me take the lead and set the terms. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CALLIE
Using my heels, I pushed my sister’s porch swing back and stole another peek at the velvety horizon spotted with stars and a round, buttery full moon. It was the presence of the peaceful night sky that had encouraged me to tackle the infamous green tote in the back of my trunk. And somehow, I’d managed to drag that beast of a box all the way down the dirt path and up three concrete steps to where it sat now. Under my feet. Because if I was going to do this—sort through these pictures once and for all—I needed a comfort my Tiny House couldn’t offer: a sense of home. And Clem’s house was the homiest home I knew.
My sister’s family had been asleep for hours, hence the reason I’d been using an old camping lantern to illuminate my project. Not the best lighting. But it worked well enough.
The metal chains grated against the swing hooks, a rhythmic sound that calmed my nerves as I set another stack on the bench beside me. Rocking back and forth, I took a mental breather from all the images and memories. It would be worth it in the end, salvaging one childhood album from this mess of history so that I could finally toss out the rest once and for all. Or at least, that was what I’d told myself for the last two hours.
I wondered again how Davis had faired in the showdown with his in-laws. I didn’t need to understand all the history between them to feel the tension. Heck, anyone within a hundred miles of his house could feel the tension.
My thoughts drifted back to the scene in his driveway. Davis had been so composed, spoken so respectfully, even though the strain and stress in his jaw had revealed a different story. But in that moment, when I’d stretched my hand out to shake the Lockwoods’, I would have been anybody Davis needed me to be. A casual bystander, a dog walker, a neighborhood nanny . . . but then he’d gone and pressed his hand to the small of my back and introduced me to his dead wife’s parents as if . . . as if I were someone of significance to him. Someone who belonged with him.
A part of me had wanted to say yes to their dinner invitation tonight, to hold Davis’s hand in a restaurant booth and support him however I could. But that wasn’t the part of me who won the proverbial coin toss.
I reached for my phone, flipped it over in my hand, and scrolled through my contacts.
I typed a text to Davis, adding and deleting as if I were writing an article for the town newspaper, until finally, I ended up with the bare-bones truth:
Just in case you’re wondering, I think you’re pretty incredible.
Lifting the lid to the box under my feet once again, I grabbed another large grouping of photographs. Though I wanted to believe otherwise, my attempts at organizing the giant mass of pictures wasn’t going well. The majority of them remained lumped in one mountainous maybe pile. Clem’s DIY scrapbooking magazines made this process look so much easier.
The front door creaked open, and I shielded the stack of photographs in my lap.
“Callie? What are you doing out here in the dark?” Clem’s sleep rasp pricked at my conscience.
“I’m sorry—did I wake you?”
She waved me off and yawned. “No, I couldn’t sleep. Chris has a big call with his boss tomorrow. I figured I’d get up and do some laundry . . . but then I heard the swing. Uh, we do have a porch light, you know.”
“I didn’t want the light to shine through your blinds and keep you awake.”
She flicked on the light and illuminated my piles—or pile.
“Are those . . . ?” Clem tightened the belt on her robe, her slippered feet shushing over the wide plank boards. “Is that the photo box Mom gave us after her wedding?”
“Yeah.”
“You never sorted through it?”
“I’m not the one who’s gifted in the organization department, remember?”
She slumped onto the swing beside me, tilting her head back with a sigh. “I probably should have taken that on, but the week of Mom’s wedding was so crazy. Corrie had just had her tonsils removed, and Chris was having visa issues overseas. I didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with the past, too.” She twirled her finger, indicating the box at my feet. “I guess you didn’t either, huh?”
I’m not sure I ever will. “Afraid not.”
She peered at the pile in my hand. “Here, hand me some of those. I’ll help.”
“You don’t want to do this any more than I do. It’s fine. Go tackle your laundry and then go back to bed.”
“Nope. Hand them over. We can get this done together.”
I slapped a heaping stack in her open palm, and she went to work. Enviously, I watched her sort. She didn’t seem to have the same level of agonizing guilt—or any guilt—as she made her piles. Her strategy appeared simple enough: any picture containing Leo Quinn was placed in the exile category. Apparently, he was her only filter criteria.
“I’m sorry we haven’t spent much time together, Callie. Feels like my kids have seen you about five times more than I have this summer.” The genuine quality of her words warmed me.
“I’m glad I was here when you needed me.”
A simple smile graced her lips. “Me, too.”
Clem zipped through several more handfuls of memories before pulling her legs up on the bench and tucking a bobbed piece of hair behind her ear. Her favorite imported perfume, rich with lilac and hints of vanilla, danced in the breeze. And this time when she sighed, the sound was contented and peaceful, a quiet call for an intermission.
I dropped the remaining photos back in the box. “I can feel the difference, you know? Every time I’m in the house. The tension between you two is lifting.”
“Yes, it is.” A profoundly beautiful answer.
She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She smiled softly. And in that moment, Cle
m was eighteen all over again, giggling about a list she’d written while away at church camp. A list she’d titled “Clem’s Top Forty-One.” How anybody could come up with forty-one bullet points to define the perfect life partner remained a mystery to me. But of course, by that time, I’d already dismissed the idea of marriage and children from my future.
“I hope that smile means Chris is back to scoring forty-one out of forty-one,” I said.
Clem laughed. “Gosh, I’d completely forgotten about that. I suppose it says something about his character that he didn’t run at the first mention of that ridiculous list.”
“Uh, I was the one who had to listen to it first, remember? You woke me up from a dead sleep.”
She clamped her hands to her cheeks and dragged them down her face—a very un-Clem-like gesture. “Tell me I didn’t really do that.”
“You did.” My laugh fizzled out as I recalled the moment she bounced on the edge of my bed and flipped on my bedside lamp, unable to contain her twitterpation for one more minute. “I think I remember it so well because, just the night before, I’d butchered my hair when Mom was at work. You found me in the bathroom, remember? I told you I wanted to be my own person, that I didn’t want to have long hair like you anymore.”
With a half chuckle, half groan, she nodded. “Oh yes, now that moment I do remember. Quite well. Mom and I refer to that night as the beginning of the Callie Revolution. After that, no one could give you advice on fashion or makeup or, heaven forbid, your hairstyle. It was like you’d become Miss Independent overnight, and all of us, well, we just got in your way.”
An owl hooted from somewhere above, merging with the noise of rustling leaves. I shivered from the nip in the late-night air. Was that really how she’d seen me? And how she thought I saw her? That couldn’t have been any less true.
“When you came in my room and took out your crazy-long list, assuring me of how perfectly Chris met every single item, I just remember wishing . . .” Unexpectedly, my throat tightened as a tender truth pushed to the surface.
