[Chet]
Of course, Scotia stays for dinner and then hangs out afterward, helping Savannah clean up and reading Louie a final bedtime story. Once I do my rounds to say good night to all, I head down the stairs and find Scotia putting on her coat in the large front entryway. I’ve decided to stay the night in a guest room kept for me off the kitchen.
Savannah addresses Scotia as she stands near our guest. “Thank you for your help tonight.”
“It was my pleasure,” Scotia replies. As I hit the bottom step and land on the entryway’s tile flooring, Savannah looks up at me.
“I’m finished in the kitchen, so I’ll be heading out.”
“Sure. Have a good night.”
“I guess I’ll be going as well,” Scotia states.
“You’re still here?” I mock and instantly regret the words. I step closer to where she stands near the front door. Scotia reaches into her pocket for a pair of gloves. Watching her slide them on, I replay the night’s interactions.
Louie admires her more than I’m comfortable with. Malik is like a shadow to her. She asked Hugh and Campbell about the MMA classes. Dewey enjoyed conversation with her about some popular book I know nothing about, and Hunter teased her about her hair. She smiled at him—a genuine, reached-her-eyes smile—and those orbs sparkled like polished silver.
“Why are you here, Scotia? Why are you volunteering at this home?”
“I already told you. I was looking for volunteer work and—”
I raise two fingers and cover her lips, stopping her babble. “I want the real answer, Scotia. Be real here.” My voice softens as I slide my fingers down her chin. They twitch to continue the path along her neck and around to the nape, but I’m still raw from our sudden end the other day in her office, and she’s been distant with me all night.
She shrugs. “My husband was a pediatrician. He loved children.” She smiles weakly. “I thought this was a good way to continue his mission.”
Does she think of her late husband often? Her actions honor him, but I remember learning he had an affair. I also recall how she retains a box of his condoms. Can she not let him go even after he broke their marital vows?
“You really loved him, didn’t you?” It seems a silly question to ask. Of course, she loved her husband, but something in her eyes has me questioning her marriage all the same. “Do you miss him? Your late husband?”
“Karl was my best friend,” she says, her eyes avoiding mine. “But I hated him.” Her eyes close. “God forgive me.” Her hand lifts to cover her mouth and mine tips up her chin, forcing her to open her eyes and look at me in the dim light of the entryway. The sweet vulnerability has returned to them for a second.
“Being married to him was exhausting,” she says, and for a glimmer of a second, I see she’s being very real with me. “And I don’t know why I tell you these things,” she mumbles more to herself than me.
I nod, realizing I don’t need more details about him tonight. I still want to know why she chose Harper House for her volunteer work, though.
“Nathan told me you have one child.” It’s not a question, but I’m hoping she’ll tell me more. My fingers slip from her chin to her cheek, curling loose hairs around her ear. My eyes focus on the white strip.
“Yes. A daughter named Darlene. She’s a doctor like her daddy. He would have been so proud to know she follows in his footsteps.” She pauses until my eyes pull away from the pigment-less strip and meet hers. “He wanted a boy. Someone to carry on his family name. Simmons. They were lawyers and doctors and advanced education professionals. I never finished college. I got my M-R-S, instead.”
I don’t know the Simmons name, and it takes me a minute to realize M-R-S means she became a missus. I softly chuckle as my fingers absentmindedly continue stroking her hair.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, darlin’. I barely finished high school, and I’m still a success. So are you,” I remind her.
“When Karl passed, I . . . well, lots of things happened, and then I started my business in pickles.” She quietly laughs to herself as though she holds a bitter joke inside, and I want to know the secret. “When I was nominated for small-business entrepreneur of the year for a female-led company, the one thing holding me back from winning was the fact I didn’t have any community service.”
My fingers stroking her hair over her ear still, and my eyes meet hers again. My skin bristles. Is this why she’s here? To beef up her resume? Words climb my throat, ready to tell her once again to get out. Her eyes try to hold mine, and she interjects before I speak.
“I wanted to help where I could. Help some child fulfill his dream because . . . well, I have my reasons,” she huffs, stiffening her shoulders. I wish there’d been someone who wanted to help me fulfill my dreams when I was a kid. No one read to me when I was little, brought me Halloween treats or gave me kind kisses on the head. All I got were slaps and insults until I started working for Frank Sepco. He’s the person who really turned my life around, but I was a late bloomer. I’d been twenty when that happened.
“What do you know about the boys?” Thinking of Davis and Harper, I swallow against a lump in my throat. Our voices have remained low despite the fact we are the only two standing in the entryway. The darkness here somberly surrounds us, keeping us cocooned close to one another.
“Enough. They all call you Uncle Chet, but you’re not related to any of them by blood. Hugh, Dewey, and Louie are siblings who lost their parents. Hunter was left on the doorstep and adopted by Maura while Campbell was a kinship placement, meaning the state asked Maura to take him in as she’s a distant relative to him.”
“You know enough,” I say. “I won’t let anything hurt them, blood or not. If you’re volunteering here to plump up your resume, you’ll need to quit. I won’t let you list this place somewhere to soothe your soul. You won’t get a reference from us.” Harper House is privately owned and operated. We follow strict guidelines. We exist for the boys. We will not be fluffing her feathers.
“I’d never expose them like that,” she defends, holding her head higher, and my hand slips to the side of her throat. “You’ve done so much for them. You really are a good man.”
My hand pulls back from her, feeling unsteady with the compliment.
“Why do you do it?” she questions, and I step back, unprepared to share all my secrets with her. She watches me retreat, eyes softening while she struggles to shut herself off. I’m not certain who needs to protect who here.
“Do you really think I’m an evil witch?”
“I don’t think you’re a witch, Scotia.” I sigh, struggling with my thoughts. “You’re an entitled woman who is easily bored with things, started a business to say fuck you to your late husband, and then took on this place to clear your conscience.”
She flinches, hurt stinging her cheeks, and I instantly feel guilty. What I said might have been too harsh, too real, but I don’t think I’m completely wrong. She’d grow bored with me after a while, using me as a phallic plaything. And she’ll get bored of these boys with their ruckus and roughhousing.
When she peers back at me, the shutters are shored up, and she’s shut down on me.
“I’m sorry. That might have been too much.”
“You wanted to be real,” she whispers. “I see where I stand.”
“Where do you want to stand?” I question before I consider what I might be asking. Could she stand by a man like me? Take on these boys and love them as I do?
“Seeing as you have me all figured out, Mr. Chesterfield, I don’t suppose it matters.”
Although I’ve stepped back from her, we’re still only inches apart. Her chest begins to heave in her winter jacket, and I feel her breath reaching me with her sharp exhale after her statement. I reach for the white strip in her hair, twirling the locks around one thick finger and spiraling down the length.
“I hate when you call me Mr. Chesterfield,” I say, feeling like it’s a derogative dig, or maybe she’s trying t
o remind me she thought I was someone else, and I’m standing here proving I’m not him. I’m not some rich dude with millions in oil, but just some guy doing the best he can. She’d be disappointed to learn the truth.
“I hate you like this,” she whispers. My eyes flick to hers. She told me she liked me the other day on her desk. She told me she liked me in a hotel bed. There’s disappointment in her voice tonight, and something pressed on my chest. I’m breaking the illusion she has of me. She liked my dick, but me? Not so much. Maybe it’s for the best. Why do I care how she feels about me?
My eyes remain on that swatch of hair. I start at the top again, wind it around my finger, and slide down to the ends.
“And I suppose I’ve kept you from enjoying your evening with someone.”
I stop my motions and stare at her. My nostrils flare. “Careful. You’re as green as your pickles.”
“I am not jealous,” she stammers, fighting words never so untrue from a woman.
“It’s okay, darlin’. It’s a good color on you.” Her mouth pops open, but I don’t let her have the last word. My mouth covers hers. She stills a second, surprised perhaps, but then she gives in to me. She falls against the front door, and I press my large body against hers. I brace my forearm against the closure near her head, while my other hand wraps around the back of her neck. This isn’t meant to build, to tumble us down to the entry room floor. This is only a kiss to tell her where she stands with me.
Against a front door.
In Harper House.
With my body over hers.
And my lips attached to her.
Not anyone else. There’s only Scotia, and I can’t explain why she’s under my skin and often in my thoughts.
“Again, I’m sorry I kicked you out,” I whisper against her lips, hoping this time she doesn’t consider my apology weak.
“I’m glad to be back. I missed the boys.” She smiles slowly, her mouth still against mine.
“Is that all you missed?”
Her smile grows, and she kisses me back one more time before leaning away from me, head lightly tapping the door at her back.
I struggle to fight a smile mirroring hers.
“I kind of like you like this,” I tease, and then I reach around her for the doorknob. If she doesn’t leave, we might end up on this entryway floor after all.
Since I spent the night at the house, I wake early to have breakfast with the boys before they start their day.
“Uncle Chet, you ask any girls out lately?” Hugh asks, and I choke on my cereal, thinking he saw me kissing Scotia last night in the front hall.
“Ask who out?”
“Anyone,” he states.
“I think you should ask out Mrs. Pickle,” Louie interjects, and my head lifts. “Whatever ‘ask out’ means?”
“He means make out. He should kiss her,” Campbell explains, and I almost drop my spoon. He’s ten. How does he know these things?
“Kissing? Ewww,” Louie moans.
“He means date. As in, Uncle Chet should ask Mrs. Pickle out on a date. Take her to dinner. Maybe a movie.” Dewey’s been the one offering an explanation, and I stare at him. When did he get date-wise? I pause that question and move to a different one.
“Why would I date Mrs. Pickle?”
“Yeah, she looks like a skunk,” Hunter says.
“She does not,” Louie defends.
“Boys,” I interject.
“Because then you could marry her, and we could be a family.” Dewey’s words stun me. They also make me feel a little sick to my stomach. Does he not feel like we’re a family? He has me, although I’m no prize. He has Maura. Does he miss his parents? Of course, he misses them. Davis and Harper were amazing together and amazing with their children. They were a perfect family.
As Dewey’s eyes lower to the table, I don’t have time to address my concern when Campbell speaks again.
“She doesn’t smell like pickles,” Campbell adds, shifting the conversation away from the sad head dive it was about to take. “She smells pretty.”
She does smell nice—fresh, expensive, fruity even but understated.
“She does too smell like pickles,” Hunter insists, then giggles.
“Does not,” Louie argues next, but I can’t take my eyes off Dewey.
“Of course, you probably shouldn’t ask her to marry you unless you love her and make sure she loves you back. It’s hard when you love someone when they don’t love you in return.” My spoon clatters to the bowl as I stare at the middle Maverik boy. What does he know of unrequited love? Who has hurt him already?
“Who said anything about love?” Campbell questions. “We’re talking about kissing.”
“We aren’t talking about kissing,” I stammer, sensing that one day I am going to have to have a talk with each and every one of them about kissing, and women, and protection—for both their peckers and their hearts.
“You’re talking about love because you’re all in luu-uve with Clementine,” Hugh teases of the middle brother.
“Am not,” Dewey defends, his face heating to fire-engine red.
“Are too,” Hugh teases back.
“Who’s Clementine?” I interject, picking up my spoon, but no one listens to me.
“You’re just jealous,” Dewey retorts.
“Oh, right. Like I’d be jealous over a mini-Professor McGonagall.” Hugh snorts.
“It’s Professor Trelawney, and she does not look like her,” Dewey stammers in defense, the red of his cheeks turning purple in anger.
“Okay, what’s this?” I hold up my spoon, tipping it toward Dewey. “You like a girl at school?” I can’t handle a second boy becoming girl-obsessed like Hugh.
My thoughts flip back to last night and the kiss in the entryway with Scotia. She turns me upside down and all around, and I feel like I’m chasing my tail with her. One minute sweet. One minute bitter. Yet, I might have a crush on her like my boy Dewey has on some girl.
“She’s just a friend,” Dewey says, but the heat in his cheeks tells me there is more in his heart toward this girl.
“They’re Harry Potter nerds,” Hugh drones.
“We are not,” Dewey whines, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and reminding me of the fictional character.
“Hugh, don’t pick on your brother like that,” I warn. One day your brother might be all you have, I want to add. Davis was that brother to me, and then he was gone.
“Even you call him that,” Hugh retorts, nodding at me, and I swallow back the scolding as he isn’t wrong. I don’t understand Dewey and his mind. I marvel at his smarts, but I don’t try to comprehend his intelligence because I just can’t. Sometimes, his nerdiness befuddles me.
Dewey’s wide, soft eyes look up at me. Minus the glasses, he’s Davis in miniature. He doesn’t ask me if it’s true. His eyes give away his hurt. Suddenly, I’m helpless, wishing to defend myself, but I can’t. My heart rips in two.
Dewey lowers his spoon to the table. “May I be excused?” he asks, keeping up his manners while probably wanting to disappear under the table. I know I want to.
“Dew,” I say softly, but he slips from the seat, running up to his room.
Dammit. This is why I can’t be in charge of children.
Chapter 11
Costumes Start A Custom
[Scotia]
As Halloween nears, I acquiesce to both my sisters’ decisions on costumes. I’m still wondering why we need to coordinate, but I bite my tongue, which is difficult some days. I’m working on it.
My sister Naomi being a Wiccan means all kinds of things I don’t understand, like tree-hugging and celestial loving under moon cycles and inner-goddess stuff. I’m still the church-going Christian our religious parents raised us to be. Beverly is sort-of hit or miss with church attendance. As sisters, we’ve agreed to respectfully disagree on religious matters.
For Naomi, her autumn traditions revolve around Samhain, a Gaelic celebration on the American
Halloween. Her practice includes a bonfire to honor the dead, which Beverly has decided to host on her property this year. To my surprise, my once reclusive sister wants to throw a party, and I’m thinking Jedd has everything to do with it.
“I’m not dancing around some gigantic firepit, prancing barefoot and praying to the moon,” I state as the three of us meet at Daisy’s Nut House, a favorite local eatery specializing in donuts. We’re here for a final discussion of the upcoming holiday.
“You don’t have to dance. I just thought it would be a nice way for the three of us to celebrate Jebediah,” Naomi says. She was closest to our brother when we were younger. I do not want to discuss him—may he rest in peace—and Lord knows I mean it as he was reckless and wild as a child.
“I can’t dance around a fire anyway,” Beverly says, her voice soft as she references her permanent limp and use of arm-cuff crutches to support her weight. Physically, she’s come a long way in a year with the help of her fiancé, Jedd Flemming, but Beverly isn’t going to whip around a roaring tower of flames any more than me.
“Fine, I’ll just dance later,” Naomi admits, saddened we aren’t more willing participants in her fiery jig.
“Why are you hosting this bonfire again?” I question Beverly.
“Jedd and I thought it would be fun for adults after the community center party.”
The community center is the focal point of Green Valley society with a year-round farmers’ market, the annual Halloween party, and the Friday night jam sessions where one of our own had her start before she became a famous country singer.
“Well, I’m not wearing a mouse costume to the community party,” I say. Naomi’s last vote in the costume debate was to dress like the “Three Blind Mice,” wearing all black with mouse ears and sunglasses. Then Beverly found us official costumes. The concept is simple enough, but I don’t like the symbolism of the getups—we were three women blinded by love. My sisters are both missing the fact that they are no longer blind but all-seeing. I’m the only one who is still a visually impaired fool in matters of the heart and body.
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 9
