Meet Cate

by Fiona Barnes

  "Cold?" Mike asked, his eyes on the road.

  She shook her head and continued watching landscapes fly by.

  The drive was intimate, the dark seamless. Blake Sheldon was quietly singing about being lonely on the car stereo. Heat slipped slowly around Cate, making her sleepy. She could smell the scent of strong coffee from Mike's travel mug−light with no sugar, she knew.

  He slowed, looking both ways quickly at an intersection, then making a precise right. She watched the diner slide smoothly into view, noting the few parked cars and the comforting lights. It crossed her mind to touch his arm.

  Let's just drive, she'd say. Keep going. Don't ever stop. He'd stare at her for a minute, wondering why, but he'd do it. Mike. Her Mike.

  He'd been her best friend since middle school, where they'd met in the large, open library. Cate was shelving books, feeling important, and Mike had come along to use the new computer system. He was a junior programmer, studious and intelligent. When he started showing up a couple days each week, as she did, Cate didn't think anything about it.

  When he asked her out, she hesitated.

  They'd dated for a few weeks at the end of that summer, the innocent, strong love only the young seem to find. Sitting on the beach, she'd leaned back against his shoulder and watched the sun set over gentle waves.

  "Do you think about the future?" Mike had asked her then.

  She shook her head. "Do you?"

  "Yeah."

  She turned to him then, a smile on her lips: "What about?"

  "You," he said, watching her face. "Us."

  Cate sat up carefully, staring. Her blue eyes were wide.

  "We'd get married." Mike leaned closer. His deepening voice was low and serious. "We'd have two kids: Jennifer and Bobby. There'd be a white picket fence and a swing out back."

  A horn beeped as Mike sat at the traffic light, knocking Cate back to the present. He glanced up at the rearview mirror, no expression on his face.

  "Whatever happened to Jennifer and Bobby?" she asked him now.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Mike rolled into the parking lot and eased to a stop. He shifted into neutral and pulled the parking brake, the lines settling with a satisfying chunk.

  He stared straight ahead at the diner for a second, then turned to face Cate with a slight smile. "What made you ask that?"

  "I don't know. I was just thinking."

  "About that summer?"

  "I guess."

  "Cate−"

  "Let's eat, okay?" She flashed a grin at Mike, opening her door and climbing up and out of the seat before he could answer.

  The pair were seated by the window in a tall booth. Other diner's conversation muddled around them, mixing with the newscast from a large-screen TV.

  "Cate−" Mike's eyes seemed to sum her up easily, a twinkle dancing through them.

  She was reading the menu as if it were The Bible and she was late for church. Her finger marked each word even as her eyes flew across the pages. Her other hand held the menu in place like a prisoner.

  "Cate," Mike said firmly. He placed his larger hands down over her smaller ones, effectively stopping her movement.

  "What?" She looked up at him, lost. Tears that hadn't been there a minute ago formed over the lump in her throat. Suddenly she wanted to run.

  Mike took all of this in with a patience she couldn't understand.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Mike had always known just how to handle her.

  Now he ordered plates of pancakes, sides of bacon and crispy home fries. He topped it off with orange juice and whole milk, handing the waitress their menus as he spoke.

  He smiled at the pretty girl, who then looked at Cate.

  "You're so lucky," she said. "My husband never gets it right."

  Cate smiled weakly and the waitress swept away.

  Mike knew better than to push. Cate would talk when−if−she was ready. Instead, he wrapped her up in talk of his day, all of his mundane work stories and funny little anecdotes. When the food was delivered, he watched her dig into the pancakes and nibble on the bacon. She sipped the milk, listening, leaning over the table as if to reach for him. Being Cate.

  Mike knew Tom was probably on her mind. He was the only subject that threw Cate. If something happened to one of her children or in her work, she dealt with it. If it was really bad, she'd talk about it.

  When it came to Tom, she was close-lipped. She thought she was being loyal, he supposed. He knew the disease was grating on her. He knew Tom's behavior was confusing. And he knew she worried about how much she was co-dependent on Tom after years of marriage.

  In truth, Cate wasn't dependent at all. She'd survived the disease and remained friends with Tom. She'd raised their children with a confidence he hadn't expected−but it hadn't surprised him, either. She'd followed her path to a successful career that completed her. She gave back, something that inspired him. And she was loving to him and her hordes of other close friends.

  She was well-rounded, with clear boundaries, because she knew herself well and knew what she wanted.

  And she was beautiful. There was a spark about her that inspired him to want to care for her, as much as she would allow. He did little things around the edges of her life, things he didn't think she knew about.

  He admired her strength. He loved her heart. He knew her smile.

  He always had, Mike supposed. Cate was just...Cate.

  And if she was hurting, it wasn't a dramatic plea for attention. There were some things she just didn't talk about, and Tom topped that list.

  Mike leaned forward, as if in confidence. "Hey−"

  Cate looked up at him, her blue eyes trusting.

  "You gonna eat that?" Mike fork-wrestled a piece of her bacon closer to his side of the plate.

  She pushed his fork away with her own, immediately at battle. "Gimme!"

  His heart smiled then. She was already feeling a little bit better. "Want to go have some fun?" he asked.

  "Yes." Cate knew he meant the bright, loud arcade that she loved so much. Mike was concerned about her, but she could use that. It meant he'd be more likely to let her win.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  After Mike slaughtered Cate in air hockey, he bought her ice cream. Wandering down the boardwalk, the pair embraced the comfortable silence that only good friends could share.

  "I−" Cate started quietly.

  Mike stopped, leaning against the steel railing, his back to the sea. His long legs were tossed out in front of him, inviting her closer. He pulled her toward him, lazily. "What?"

  A dozen sentences slid into her mouth at once. I think Tom is gone. I don't think he's coming back. He's set them free for the holidays, though. What will I tell them? Is it my fault? Did I pick him and set them up for lifetime of hurt? She only whispered the last one.

  Mike listened, his eyes sweeping over her face. "You're protecting them from the hurt PTSD has caused," he said finally. "You've taught them to be strong. You've modeled it. If you didn't pick him, you wouldn't have them."

  "I'd have had Jennifer and Bobby, maybe," she said, looking down at the fat, wooden planks of the boardwalk, gray from time.

  And now he understood.

  He lifted her chin with his fist, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Catie," he told her, "there are no mistakes."

  "Only lessons?" she whispered.

  "Al and Nic are not lessons," Mike said gently. He tugged on her sweatshirt, pulling her closer still. Cate leaned her cheek against the warmth of his sweater, hearing his heartbeat, borrowing his strength. His arms encompassed her, the leather of his open jacket creaking even as it hid her face from the gentle wind that kicked up.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Cate lifted her head, her eyes streaming.

  It was morning, and the sun shone brightly through her kitchen windows. Mike was settled in his favorite place, the tall bar stool. Cate was chopping through thick onions for her famous French onion soup. She dice
d and sliced, preferring to use a thick knife rather than the food processor. Next to her extra-large cutting board, she melted butter in an extra-large skillet. The scent of fresh garlic mingled with the sharp onion and the soft butter, filling the air.

  "Do you feel smaller in this kitchen?" Mike asked.

  "Why?"

  "You're not that big. All your stuff's really huge."

  "All your stuff's really huge," Cate sing-songed back.

  Mike grinned. Talking had done her a world of good. "You slept?" he asked, just to hear her voice.

  "Yep."

  "And now you're making onion soup why?"

  "I took the morning off. I'm perfecting the recipe."

  "Ah."

  "Yep." Cate set her timer for 25 minutes and rinsed the cutting board, leaving it in the deep farmer's sink. She measured flour and red wine, pouring beef broth into the Crockpot.

  "Cooking makes you−" Mike began their favorite game, amusing himself, watching Cate move efficiently behind the over-sized island. Every so often, she'd stop and stir the soft pile of vegetables sautéing on the cooktop.

  "Content. Inspired. Cross-country or downhill?"

  "Downhill," he answered without thinking. "You?"

  "Cross-country. Beach or mountains?"

  "Depends on where the girls are," he smirked. "Italy or Greece?"

  "Oh−" Cate tapped the short, worn wooden spoon on the side of the shiny pan. "I have to think about that−both."

  "Which one first?"

  "Italy."

  "Why?"

  "No. Greece. I'll vacation at the beach then gorge on all the food."

  "Your turn." Mike smiled at her reasoning.

  "Hmm?" Cate was dreaming of blue waters. "Oh. Comedy or drama?"

  "Action."

  "Chick flick. Your turn."

  "Movie or dinner?"

  "Both. You?" Cate grinned.

  "Movie."

  "Why?"

  "Uh, get the girl alone in the dark−"

  "What's on your mind, funny boy?"

  "Do I have to eat this?"

  Cate threw a nearby dishtowel at Mike, who hid his grin by ducking quickly. "Farm or city?"

  "Farm." Mike knew country and farm were synonymous in Cate's world.

  "Yeah, me too."

  "I know," he drawled.

  "Oh, you know everything about me, do you?"

  "I do."

  "Name one thing."

  "You're famous."

  Cate laughed.

  "You're organized, you're a business owner and you're a slave−" Cate raised her eyebrows. Her eyes slid across Mike's face as he spoke, "to Jeeps."

  Cate laughed again.

  Mike continued, "That's three things. There."

  "You could find those out reading trashy magazines," Cate retorted.

  "You're a dog owner, but you love all animals. You've been cooking since you were three, and in middle school you met the love of your life." He ducked again as Cate burst out laughing, reaching for her mug of lemon tea.

  "Done yet?"

  "Don't throw that at me!"

  "I'm non-violent."

  "You're non-violent. Seven. Seven facts."

  "Okay, okay." Cate choked back a smile. "You−"

  "What?" Mike leaned forward, his hands on the counter in front of him.

  "You're a hard worker, you're very intelligent and you're a little bit of a typical guy." Mike made a face and Cate stuck her tongue out. She stirred the caramelizing onions, resisting the urge to flick the spoon at him. "You're also not very neat."

  "Neatness is overrated." Mike gestured around her organized kitchen. "People who are neat are control freaks."

  "Control−" Now she was going to throw something. Cate looked around the spacious room, calculating.

  "See? You can't find anything to throw."

  Chapter Twenty Six

  In truth, Cate was cooking to occupy her left brain. That way her right brain could focus on industrious thoughts before her children came home for a long weekend. One of Nic's favorites was onion soup. She was making pasta for Al, and she'd add sauce with fresh garlic for Nic, too. Both would devour loaves of her garlic bread and healthy salad with fresh dressing. Al would appreciate a large vat of Cate's creamy mac & cheese. Maybe Cate would make linguine carbonara. Yes, she decided.

  Bleu cheese dressing, she thought, inspecting the shelves of her fridge. What about creamy Italian? Maybe a spicy balsamic vinaigrette.

  "When do they get here?"

  "Al is driving in late Friday night. Nic's flies in Saturday."

  "You won't sleep," Mike predicted.

  "Nope." Cate popped her head around the door of the stainless steel refrigerator, grinning at him. Then she busied herself back inside the fridge, finishing a shopping list only she understood: mlk, h cream, cof beans, Gr yog.

  Mike stared at the door, stunned. Appreciation for Cate slammed into him, filling his throat.

  "You're beautiful," he heard himself say.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Cate smiled widely, her face still inside the door. She waited a few beats to let the moment pass, then closed the heavy door gently. She tossed her shopping list and the pencil she used on the counter.

  "You're very pretty, too." Cate's eyes laughed at Mike, while her heart struggled through the moment.

  Mike sat, his eyes on Cate's, before he broke out into laughter. The sound of Mike's laugh always made Cate happy. She loved him. She really did, she thought.

  Now Mike studied her, "You're extra happy today."

  "I am."

  "You deserve that. All the time."

  "I do." She was moving around the kitchen, organizing her thoughts. Ch chips Nestle, Cate added to her list, d b sug.

  Mike's piercing eyesight, when it came to Cate, seemed to be even more thorough and sturdy today. "Why don't you date?" he asked suddenly.

  Cate looked at Mike kindly. "I'm not interested."

  "I know, I know. But why? You've been divorced forever."

  "Mike, I'm not getting involved with another man−ever." She used his name to punctuate the sentiment.

  "Because of Tom?"

  "Maybe." Cate was thoughtful. "But mostly because of me."

  "You don't trust it could be different."

  "I don't. You're right."

  "But you're beautiful," he crooned now, satisfied to tease her.

  "Why don't you date?" she changed the subject.

  "I do. I just don't tell you." Mike hadn't dated anyone seriously in months.

  "Ah."

  "Yep."

  "And this all started because I'm beautiful." Cate smiled. She wasn't going to forget those words quickly. Or the wistful way they'd been spoken.

  "Go back to your list." Mike twisted his head to see upside down. "What's a Gr yog anyway?"

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Nic, Alex and Cate were gathered around the fireplace. Steaming plates piled high with curly pasta, crunchy garlic bread and fresh salad sat in front of them. They had their choice of seating at the island, the kitchen nook (by the window) or the more formal dining room, but somehow, they always gathered before the fire.

  "I see it in my head like a great big graph," Nic was saying.

  Of course you do, Cate thought, of her engineer-trained son.

  Nic was talking about his self-worth, based on Tom's opinion. Alex was nodding, agreeing, her mouth full of pasta.

  "Here's this big, strong man. And this happens. If I−I can see the words in my head," he continued, struggling.

  "If you thought he was your big strong daddy and you discovered he was human−" Cate tried her best to fill in his thought line. "What else are you wrong about?"

  "Yes."

  "And it goes as deep as all of our core beliefs," Al supplied, looking at Nic for approval. He only nodded.

  "So you doubt yourselves?" Cate asked.

  "At times." Nic paused between bites. "It's harder to be vulnerable."

 
"Why?"

  "If he doesn't want us−" Alex held a tall, clear glass of milk.

  Oh, God. Don't say it. Don't, Cate thought.

  "No one will," Nic finished for her, nodding. "My lyrics are my vulnerability."

  "Your fans don't show you how beautiful your words are?" Cate had her legs tucked up in front of her, criss-cross-applesauce. She leaned forward, placing her plate down softly on the glass-topped coffee table and patting a hopeful Merry on her soft head.

  "Yeah, they do, Ma." He smiled at her gently. "But it's not the same."

  "Because he's your dad."

  "Yeah."

  The damage this disease has done. "But you know he loves you?"

  "Oh, yeah−"

  "Oh, sure−"

  Cate stared at the fire.

  "Ma, we know it's the disease," Nic told her.

  "We know he loves us," Al assured.

  "And you know your worth?"

  "How could we not?" Nic asked gently, looking his mother in the eye.

  Alex just nodded.

  "Let's talk about the holidays," Cate thought out loud.

  "Is there cake?" Nic wanted to know.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  There was cake. There were chocolate chip cookies. And there were peach and strawberry-rhubarb pies. Cate had planned for the weekend and for extra to send home with her cherubs when they left her again.

  Now she sat back, relaxed and contented, with her children and the pup surrounding her. The sound of Nic's acoustic guitar filled the open space, lifting and rolling over the banister to the second story. It rang out gently, breaking on the ceiling three stories above.

  In the kitchen, Alex loaded the dishwasher. Merry sat patiently at her feet, hoping for any scrap. Al's pretty blonde hair danced about her shoulders as she worked, effortlessly moving to the beat she'd grown up with.

  The sound was soft and intoxicating, unlike Nic's usually haunting melodies. This piece, he told them, was a movie soundtrack he was working on. Cate had to agree it fit. The rhythm and harmony rose and fell with her breath. She felt relaxed, leaning back against the plump couch cushions, warm inside the music.