by Fiona Barnes
"Guys," she breathed.
"What?!" They both stopped dead, unsure.
Cate took a minute to catch her breath from the run up the stairs and everything that had happened that day. She hadn't called from the city, the train, or the Jeep because she wanted to see their faces when she told them her news. Instead, she'd passed the time on the phone with Melissa, excitedly talking budgets, sets, and schedules. Now that the two most important people in her world were in front of her, expectant, Cate struggled to compose herself.
"Mom, what!" Alex, the petite miniature of Cate, expelled. She gently placed the sticks down on the tom before flying out of the booth and across the large room. Her bright skirt, covering yoga pants, flew around her dancer's legs. Over a cropped tank she wore a button-down that she'd probably stolen from Tom's closet long ago. It decorated her slim frame beautifully.
"You're okay?" Nic's serious blue eyes held concern, even as he guessed his mother's news. His waist-length blonde-streaked hair was in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. He was never without the Air Force hat he wore backwards while he worked. Jeans and a clean white t-shirt finished the ensemble. His feet were bare, like Cate's usually were.
"Melissa did it. We've−got−a−show!" She collapsed on the floor in a pile of giggles, her beautiful children pouncing on her in disbelief, the dog prancing and barking happily around them.
Chapter Three
“What's new, honey?” Bel asked casually, shaking Cate from her reverie. “You don't usually watch TV.”
“Hmm? Oh, I'm excited for Tom,” Cate grinned at her friend. She enjoyed Bel's exuberance. She felt it matched her looks: bright red, curly hair, dimples and a quick smile that always extended to wide, blue eyes. "Tom Schneider, not my−" here she cleared her throat, "um−"
"I know who you meant," Bel winked at Cate. "Clothes. March. Pronto."
Cate had already stepped into her ensemble: a crisp white linen blouse topping a light-colored tank with wide straps, statement jewelry, ironed black capris and sandals with a thick heel. She followed Bel out of the dressing room and through the halls to makeup, lost again in thought.
Her Tom, as she used to think of him, the man she'd been married to for twenty-seven years. Tom was a tall, broad-shouldered firefighter with soft brown hair, now turning silver, and blue eyes that used to twinkle at her.
When Cate first told Tom she and the children were moving, two full years after he'd left her, he was quiet. She believed he'd expected her to keep everything the same just in case he wanted the fantasy of living single to end. When she told him they were renovating, he expressed disbelief but tried to be supportive. Cate wrote that off as jealousy.
She firmly believed he was still in love with her, and certainly in love with their children. Tom had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a severe form of depression and anxiety stemming from a trauma. Long ago, Cate had given up trying to decipher his moods. She did understand he didn't consider himself worth the likes of herself and their children. No amount of therapy seemed to change that, and she was no longer sure anything ever would. When Tom felt over the initial shock of her announcement−PTSD doesn't like change−he grew more and more supportive.
He struggled to buy the adjoining property. It was an old, well-kept farmhouse on a large parcel of land. Then he could walk across the fields, open the iron gate or vault the stone wall to visit the children. Merry loved to run the distance between the two houses, over the fields and through the trees, to the man who would always be her daddy. Cate and Tom would wave, each on their own porches, content with their separate lives. When Cate went on book tours or stayed late in the city for work, Tom had even walked and fed Merry. Eventually, Cate had found Millie, her serious, young housekeeper, who doted on the loving dog.
Tom wasn't always outwardly supportive toward Cate's independence. The only thing his attitude accomplished was to spur her on toward more stardom. She kept each win to herself, sharing successes with her children and her closest friends only.
When Cate's and Melissa's show was picked up for additional seasons, they all went to dinner in Manhattan, taking a limo from the studio.
"Here's to our little idea, sold!" Melissa toasted. "May it do great things!"
"Here's to us!" Cate cried, holding her champagne flute aloft. They were on their way.
When she completed her first cookbook and John asked for another, citing The Show's popularity, Cate celebrated with five of her closest friends. She flew them in, meeting them at T.F. Green airport with open arms and shrieks. Cate and her girls celebrated late into the night. Joan, Calli, Tomi, Traci and Cindy dumped their suitcases in Cate's guest suite, then ventured back to the large, warm kitchen. Cate was loading thick steaks, marinaded in Worcestershire and garlic, on the indoor grill. The six life-long friends sat sprawled around the fireplace, laughing until they couldn't talk and singing along to the music playing in the background. Later, they'd moved the party upstairs to the balcony outside Cate's room, where they'd sat in candlelight, each wrapped in blankets, and talked until dawn.
And when Sylvia had mentioned the word restaurant, Cate had sighed, blissful. She was on vacation with her children in Ireland, walking in Connemara National Park, when she got the message. Vacation was a technical break for Cate, but she'd wanted to take a photo and she'd forgotten her camera in the hotel.
Feeling invigorated, Cate was dreaming of a fat salad with bacon, turkey and bleu cheese, and soon. When Sylvia texted talks were coming along nicely, Cate stood stunned. She was a silhouette against the blue sky, the hills at her back. They were in one of the most beautiful places on earth and she could feel her dream come full into view.
Forget the salad, she thought, I'm about to order the special. She told the children, who shrieked with joy. The trio then retraced their steps to the small car they'd rented and found the nearest pub to celebrate.
"Cate," Bel snapped her fingers in front of Cate's nose, bouncing Cate from her daydream, "where'd you go now?"
Chapter Four
The show went beautifully. Cate had grown up watching Tom Schneider play a country cousin on a television show in the seventies. She was thrilled to meet him and introduce him to her audience.
“Want me to have the chair bronzed?” Melissa asked as she flew past, winking.
“He's already agreed to sign it. It'll go in my dressing room,” Cate replied.
Melissa laughed and swept out of the room.
Cate took a minute to savor a satisfying show. Tom had been an absolute gentleman; he felt like family already. He'd oohed and aahed over her cooking, which was one quick way into her heart. Cate was all about manners and appreciation, considering each a sign of good breeding. Paula Ray, Cate's idol, would understand.
Chapter Five
Cate often ate late, but tonight she felt revitalized. After driving in from the train, she had walked Merry, hit the gym, then returned home, ready to eat.
After pouring angel hair into a tall pot on the cooktop, Cate began chopping onions and garlic to sauté. She added lemon, shrimp, Frank's Hot Sauce and white wine to the mix, then sat back contentedly. Delicious smells filled the already warm kitchen. Cate kept the lights low overhead, preferring the room lit by firelight. She moved her head to Make Me Wanna, the song currently playing on the stereo. Cate felt music was simply neccessary to live.
Leaving the sauce to gently simmer, she pulled salad makings out of the fridge: spinach, leftover bacon, crumpled bleu cheese, carrots, red pepper, cucumber and purple onion. Cate reached for butter to melt and Parmesan to sprinkle. Closing the fridge, she located tiny, expensive containers of garlic and onion. She was clipping fresh parsley when the doorbell rang.
Chapter Six
She walked to the front door, barefoot. Cate had already kicked off the clogs she'd worn home from work. On her tiptoes, she stretched her thin frame up and peered through the peephole. Stepping back, Cate tugged her red Coca-Cola shirt down self-consciously. Sh
e ran a hand over her wavy hair, messily piled on her head again because she'd been making dinner. Curls danced by her cheeks and long neck, playfully threatening to escape.
Opening the door, she smiled. "Hi."
Cate turned, walking back toward the kitchen. Hearing the door shut quietly behind her, she allowed herself a small half-smile.
Cate prepped dressing with spicy brown mustard, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Mike sank onto a barstool at the counter. His long legs stretched casually out over the hardwood floor with nowhere to go, while typically poised for any sudden action. He'd grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the fridge. Now he unscrewed the top gently, his eyes on her.
"When do we eat?" Mike's lop-sided grin always made Cate happy. His floppy blonde hair and strong chin looked no different in tonight's softer light. The fire crackled. The moon's shadows shifted across the room, making the night appear dangerous one minute and friendly the next.
"Five minutes. Salad?" Cate chopped spinach and thought about a sprinkling of walnuts, cranberries, and fat red onion slices. She glanced at Mike in time to see him nod.
"Good day at work?" Mike asked. They'd been best friends for years, almost as long as they'd known one another, since junior high. Mike had seen Tom come and go, he knew Cate's children, as well as her victories and dreams.
Cate sighed blissfully and Mike raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, today was him day," he teased now. "I forgot."
"Oh please," Cate answered, at a loss. "Tom Schneider was kind. I bet he pays for his dinner, too." Her arm shot out, smacking at the hand that tried to nab a cucumber for Merry.
"I see how it is."
"You are here all the time. You eat my food, you feed my dog−"
Mike was pulling his wallet out, trying to hide the grin that threatened to cover his face. Cate pursed her lips at him, stirring the sauce.
"Ice cream later?" he asked.
"I have work," she answered, swinging around to reach for two plates. He watched her slim frame stretch up. Cate rarely used the library ladder she'd installed in her tall kitchen, unless it was for a photo shoot. Best Home & Better Decks had most recently shot a piece on her beautifully designed home. The magazine had highlighted the kitchen's cathedral ceilings, the great room's large, river rock fireplace, and the elegant balcony that led to Nic's studio on the second floor.
"Aw−shot down," Mike answered lazily, watching Cate dish out scampi for each of them. When her phone rang, he reached it first. "'Lo?" The smile disappeared from his eyes as he listened to Nic. His expression was serious as he turned on the speaker for Cate.
Chapter Seven
"What is it, honey?" Cate asked Nic, forgetting dinner.
"I just got off the phone with Dad," Nic started.
"Yes? Are you okay?" Cate had long ago grown used to her ex-husband's PTSD affecting their children. Cate had given up arguing the fact that Tom's disease didn't damage everyone around him.
"Mom, we talked about Thanksgiving..."
"Uh-huh," she knew her sensitive boy didn't want to share whatever he was trying to say, for fear of hurting her. "What is it, Nic? Is he not coming?" Her children always adored including their beloved father in celebrations, and holidays were no exception. Halloween would come quickly and then the Christmas season would be upon them.
"No."
"No, he's not, or no, I'm incorrect?" Mike was watching her, gauging the conversation, the scampi forgotten.
"No, he's not coming, Mom. I'm sorry. He says he can't be around you." The words came out painfully.
Since this was something that happened a couple times a year, Cate wasn't hurt or even concerned, except for Nic. "Nic, are you coming home?"
"Now?"
If Nic wasn't understanding her questions clearly, she recognized automatically, he was showing signs of stress since the last time they'd spoken. He'd been fine yesterday, so Tom's call would be the difference, Cate guessed. "No, sweetie, for the holidays."
"My last concert is the week before Thanksgiving. I have a couple appearances, then I'll be home."
"For how long?"
"'Til the New Year."
Cate pumped the air with her fist. She knew he'd be in the studio ninety-nine percent of the time, once he caught up on sleep. That was one reason they'd chosen French doors on the balcony above the kitchen, so she could hear her beautiful son's magical guitar.
Her chicks, at home, for a whole month or more. She wasn't going to let Tom spoil it...Tom! Zoning back into the conversation, she cleared her throat. "What can I do to help, honey?"
"You're okay?"
She smiled, "I am."
She heard Nic sigh. "Okay. Cool."
"We'll make it work, sweetheart. We always do."
"Cool. Thanks. I've gotta go−my opening act has a sound check."
"Do you know how amazing that is?" Cate asked. "I love you. Play well."
"Thanks. Love you!" And he was gone.
Chapter Eight
"Cate−Tom?" Mike prompted, ending the call for Cate.
"What? Oh. Yes. Tom. But they're coming home!" Years ago, Cate had learned the trick so many women used to fight PTSD. Now it was her habit to focus on the positive.
"Happy?"
"Yes." Cate's smile was luminous. She'd already begun to dream of late nights talking. The house would be filled with laughing friends and happy noise, as well as the soulful, and sometimes bright, music that would flow to the high ceilings.
"Can I still eat?"
Cate laughed and slid his plate across the spacious island. "Then ice cream?"
Mike plowed his fork into the pasta, nodding.
Cate forgot all about her day, any work to be done, the note, and even dinner as she dreamt about her children coming home for the holidays. Usually when Mike showed up or called, Cate would spill all her news and he would tell her his. Checking in with her friend every few days relaxed and revived Cate. It helped that she'd known him for so many years; she trusted him. Mike was comfortable now, deciding Cate was peaceful. He pushed Tom to the back of his mind.
"You gonna eat that?" he asked. He looked a little bit lost, if only because his plate was empty.
"What? Oh." Cate looked down at her own plate, remembering she'd meant to eat, then pushed it over to Mike.
He studied it, then shrugged and dug in. He'd fill her up on ice cream later. That had dairy in it. At least she was happy.
Chapter Nine
It was rare for Cate to be mobbed in her sleepy seaside town. Just in case, Mike drove her in his classic jet-black Camaro. He believed in her, knowing she'd gotten as far as she had from sheer hard work, and knowing she'd go as far as she dreamed, he thought as he drove, but that didn't mean she had to work every minute of her life away.
The back roads into Putnam Beach were quiet as evening fell. Mike found a parking spot on Beach River Road and pulled in neatly. He got out, walking around and opening Cate's door for her.
"Thank you," she said, swinging her legs out onto the ground.
Mike nodded. "What do you feel like? Chocolate sundae? Hamburger?"
"You're so slick," Cate drawled.
"You didn't eat," he pointed out.
"I'll live."
"You might not. You're a stick now."
Cate looked down at herself. "Am not."
They walked toward the drawbridge companionably, Mike shaking his head. "Not a stick, she says," he told no one in particular. "I'm so slick."
Cate smiled and walked through the door Mike held open. They ordered a sundae to share and sat, watching the drawbridge over the river and the people. It was peaceful and relaxing and reminded Cate of Tom.
Sometimes she was hit with a memory and all the love she felt for her family slammed into her, fresh. She'd been alone for several years and still found the holidays haunting sometimes. Cate was extra-vigilant, telling men that she wasn't available, didn't date, she'd even lied and said she was still married. If they assumed Mike was her husband, she ign
ored them. Mike would only laugh.
"You wouldn't last a day, princess," he'd tell her. "What's up?" he asked now, noticing her mood turn.
"I guess I'm just sleepy," Cate lied. Something kept her from telling him about the note. He'd be protective, which wasn't a bad thing, but she hadn't figured it out yet herself. Maybe it wasn't even Tom−although tonight's call from Nic made more sense now. What she wanted was to think, and maybe get some rest. She knew Mike would understand. He knew the mark Tom had left plus he got her need to understand the disease.
Mike nodded, standing to escort her home.
Chapter Ten
Cate often walked from Grand Central Station to the studio. No matter the weather, Cate liked to stroll amid the busy, well-dressed people in Midtown, taking a right on East 34th Street at the New York Public Library. Four blocks down, after Macy's, Cate took a left on 7th Avenue and headed toward Chelsea, the atmosphere changing seamlessly. Her tall building stood near the Fashion Institute of Technology, its classic Roman architecture and clean lines delighting Cate. Rich and elegant, especially by New York standards, she called this building home most days of the week.
At the studio entrance, she pulled out her ear buds in deference to the guard who worked her door.
“Ms. James.” He politely tapped his hat. His other hand held the door. The younger man was serious, with jet black hair and a crisp uniform.
She searched her brain for his name. “Ralph, how are you?”
“Can't complain, and yourself?”
“I'm well, thank you. Did your wife have her baby yet?”
