Evergreen

by Susan May Warren

  Darek counted and they lifted the wall together, moving it into place. John held it as Darek tacked in the wall braces.

  “I just want to help her realize that there’s so much more ahead of us. Vacations and new hobbies, and maybe she’ll even get me to take dance lessons.”

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my stick-in-the-mud father?” Darek finished tacking the last board. He walked over to the framed-in windowsill and grabbed a Coke.

  John chuckled. “So maybe dance lessons are a little overboard. But that’s the point—if we want to take dance lessons, now we can. And your mom needs to see that.”

  “And you’re going to prove it to her.”

  “Just because we can’t go to Europe doesn’t mean we can’t—”

  “If you say ‘have Naked Tuesdays,’ I’m throwing my hammer at you.”

  “Have fun. Be young again. Do those carefree things we used to do before you came along.”

  “Blame it all on me, huh?”

  John sat down on the steps, staring out at the lake. “Once upon a time, we’d spend afternoons swimming in this lake or hiking up to Honeymoon Bluff or lying under the sky, debating cloud shapes. I miss that. It feels like it’s been a while since I heard her laugh.”

  Behind him, Darek said nothing. John finally turned, and Darek gave him a long, enigmatic look, then sighed.

  “What?”

  “Mom laughs, Dad. She laughs with Tiger and Ivy.”

  But she didn’t laugh with her husband—not anymore—and that realization stung as it filtered inside. Worse, he couldn’t pinpoint when she had stopped.

  The wind scattered leaves in the dirt yard and tumbled a Coke can from the steps. John ran after it, catching it. Somehow, he needed to figure out how to make his wife laugh again.

  “I gotta knock off. Ivy’s going to the doctor today, and I have to pick up Tiger from school.” Darek took off his tool belt. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning. However, I won’t stop by the house, since it’s Tuesday.”

  John grinned at him, and Darek winked, headed out to his truck. John watched his broad-shouldered son saunter away. I’m going to be a dad again.

  Yeah, those had been good years. But maybe he didn’t have to wait for a trip to Europe—or a special occasion—to reignite his marriage.

  Maybe he could do it today, right now. On a Monday afternoon.

  He put a cover over the table saw, tarped the other tools, then headed to the lodge.

  “Ingrid?”

  He heard her humming upstairs. Untying his boots, he left them in the entryway and found her in the boys’ bedroom, remaking Owen’s bed.

  He couldn’t deny the spark inside. “Is Owen coming home?”

  Ingrid wore a Deep Haven Huskies T-shirt and a pair of jeans, her blonde hair pulled back in a blue bandanna. She looked over her shoulder at him, then shook her head. She finished pulling up the quilt, turned to the bureau, and opened the top drawer. “He hasn’t lived here in three years, and still, he leaves his dirty socks in his drawers.” She scooped them out and dropped them into a clothes basket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making room.” She closed the bureau drawer.

  “For . . . ?”

  Ingrid sighed, then picked up the clothes basket, propping it on her hip, almost like a shield between them. “For Romeo.”

  He had nothing.

  “Romeo? My sister’s kid?”

  And it started to click. Romeo, the kid Kari had with the guy she left her husband for. Or something like that.

  He did, however, clearly remember the phone call when she’d asked to move to Deep Haven. To the resort. To hide and perhaps dump all her problems on them. He gave Ingrid a grim look. “Ingrid—”

  “She’s going into treatment, John, and Romeo needs a place to stay.”

  “How old is he—twelve?”

  “Sixteen. Wow.” She moved past him. Like . . . that was the end of the conversation?

  “So she’s not coming with him? Are you sure?”

  Ingrid rounded on him. “For a guy who had a crush on my sister, you sure have turned on her.”

  “She’s a mess, and she brings her mess with her. I just don’t want—”

  “Her mess? Her emotional issues?”

  “She’s a disaster, and we just got our lives back.”

  She frowned at him, and he realized that hadn’t come out right. As usual.

  “I didn’t realize they were taken from us.”

  “Ingrid, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just . . . with the kids gone, we have a chance to really have fun, you know? Take vacations—”

  “I don’t want to go to Europe.”

  “Okay, so maybe Florida or California.”

  She shook her head and left the room.

  Sorry, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. “Or maybe we start doing something fun like . . . like . . . dance lessons!”

  Even to his own ears, he sounded desperate, but it stopped her and she turned, staring at him. “Seriously? Dance lessons? That’s what you want?”

  No. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . He couldn’t put it into words maybe, but he wanted what he’d always thought they had but couldn’t exactly enjoy because, well, life took over. Kids and mortgage and running the resort.

  He wanted to hear her laugh and to know he’d made that happen.

  “Romeo needs a place to stay. It’s only until Thanksgiving. And then don’t worry; it’ll just be you and me and this big empty house. All your dreams come true.”

  John swallowed hard, feeling her words in his chest.

  And Butter. He wasn’t sure where that came from, and he knew it would only make it worse to say it, but, “Don’t forget; we still have Butter.”

  She sighed, her face softening. “Yes. We still have Butter.”

  The words hung between them, a quiet epitaph on their lives.

  The sound of the doorbell shook them free. Ingrid met his eyes. “Try to remember that the sins of his mother are not his. He just needs a little love.”

  John bit back the words, but he had to wonder if Romeo was perhaps coming to the wrong house.

  ROMEO SHOVED spoonfuls of macaroni and cheese into his mouth like a starving man.

  “Would you like more?” Ingrid said, reaching for his nearly empty plate.

  He glanced at her, nodded. “Thanks, Aunt Ingrid.”

  That sounded weird. But what else was he supposed to call her? Mom? He did remind her, in a way, of her sons. Although taller than her boys, he had their athletic build. Wide shoulders; lean, strong frame. He wore a thin black Nike sweatshirt over loose-fitting jeans, and she recognized in his face traces of her beautiful sister—the high cheekbones, the dark-blond hair, the green eyes. The look of nonchalance. Like nothing mattered—he could shrug off the world or own it with a smile.

  She doubted she’d see any hint of a smile soon, however. He’d arrived glum and uncaring as the social worker showed them where to sign the legal custody papers, then notarized them. “It’s just a short-term guardianship,” she’d explained. “You can transfer it when Matthew gets back from his deployment.”

  “Or I turn seventeen and join the military,” Romeo said as he dumped his backpack and floppy green duffel bag in the hallway. Ingrid had frowned at the social worker.

  “He wants to be an emancipated minor,” the woman said. “But he needs a guardian’s signature.” She handed Ingrid a sheaf of papers. “His school transcripts, medical records, and other pertinent information. His mother will be at a treatment center just north of Duluth. She has no visitation until Thanksgiving, so I’ll be in touch.”

  Ingrid nodded, and the woman pressed a card into her hand. Then she said good-bye to Romeo, who’d already found a place on a stool at the counter, thumbing his iPhone. Unaffected.

  Until Ingrid put a plate of homemade macaroni and cheese in front of him.

  He looked up. “Not out of a box?”

  “Nothing out of a
box here, kiddo,” she had said and then wondered if that might be too friendly. But maybe that’s what her nephew—that felt weird to call this stranger—needed.

  Now she refilled his plate, then turned to pull a sheet of fresh-baked cookies from the oven. Across the room, John turned a page in his newspaper. He’d lit a fire, and it crackled in the hearth. Butter lay on the floor, still lethargic from surgery, but improving every day. Soon she’d be well enough to go for a walk.

  We still have Butter.

  She wasn’t sure what John had meant by that . . . but the words hung in her mind.

  She scooped the cookies off the tray and set them on a wooden sheet to cool. Putting three on a plate, she brought them to John.

  A peace offering.

  He took the plate, smiled at her. “Thanks, honey.”

  She nodded and returned to the kitchen. “Cookies?” she asked Romeo.

  “Thank you.” He reached for them and then the glass of milk she poured. As he bent over the cup, dunking the cookies, it stirred up a memory of Darek or perhaps Casper doing the same—hair falling over his eyes, milk dripping from his chin.

  Or maybe the memory she conjured resembled John, during those early days of their newlywed year when he’d arrive home to fresh-baked cookies.

  Ingrid glanced at John. He’d finished off the cookies. She should have brought him milk.

  Next time.

  She leaned against the counter. “So tomorrow we’ll enroll you at the high school. You’re a junior, right?”

  Romeo nodded, dunking his cookie, letting the milk stream off it. “I think so. I missed a little school when we moved to Chicago, but I made it up in summer school, in Memphis, so I think I’m caught up.”

  Chicago? Memphis? “How many places have you lived, Romeo?” She scooted two more cookies onto his plate. He didn’t hesitate.

  He had strong hands and forearms, like he lifted weights. Maybe he played a sport. She could imagine him in hockey pads, his blond hair curling out from under a helmet.

  “Um . . . I dunno. A lot.” He lifted a shoulder.

  His answer felt awkward, as if it should be something she knew. “I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Again the shoulder shrug, but his mouth tightened around the edges.

  “Do you talk to your brother much?”

  He shook his head. “I have his e-mail address, though.”

  John glanced at her, then back at the paper and turned the page.

  “We’ll e-mail him, let him know you’re all right.”

  Romeo said nothing.

  “I put you up in the boys’ room, first door on the left. You can unpack your clothes into the empty dresser in the window alcove.”

  He got up, brought his plates to the sink, and rinsed them.

  Huh.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “No problem. If you tell me what you like to eat, I can try to make it for you.”

  He frowned at her. “I’ll eat anything.”

  Oh.

  He headed to the entry to retrieve his duffel bag and backpack, so she opened a can of dog food and filled Butter’s dish. Setting it on the floor, she called the dog.

  Butter got off the floor and plodded to the bowl, groaning softly as she walked.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Romeo stood with his duffel over his shoulder.

  “She had surgery a few days ago. She’s still recovering. She just needs a little TLC.”

  He stood there a moment, something in his eyes. “I had a dog once. It was a rescue dog that my da—that Eddie had. He was a hound dog, I think. Loved to chase cars.”

  He hitched the strap up on his shoulder and turned to take the stairs.

  “What happened to him?”

  He stopped on the first step. Shrugged again. “He got sick and died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ingrid said. “It’s so horrible to lose a pet.”

  Romeo gave a small grunt. “Yeah, I guess. I was talking about Eddie. The dog ran away.”

  He trudged up the stairs, disappearing at the top.

  Only then did Ingrid realize she’d caught her breath and couldn’t move.

  She heard John, behind her, close the paper. “I know what you’re thinking, Ingrid. You can’t fix this kid. He’s as much of a mess as his mother.”

  She didn’t look at him as she headed for the stairs. “That’s where you’re wrong, John. He just needs a little TLC.”

  “In two short weeks, we’ve reverted back to the high school years.” John kept up with Nate, breathing hard, the crisp air cooling his body as they ran Pincushion Trail, overlooking Deep Haven. “Every day, she picks up Romeo from school, comes home, and serves us dinner, like he’s our kid or something. She even prints out his homework assignments from the school and checks his papers.”

  “It’s in her blood, John. Ingrid can’t help but be a mom.” Nate slowed as they reached the overlook. The array of full-on autumn could steal John’s breath if he looked at it with a fresh eye. Gold, crimson, pine green, and browns patchworked the hillside that cascaded toward town.

  “She’s bonding with this kid, and when his brother shows up to take him, she’ll be brokenhearted.” He leaned over, gripped his knees.

  “And what do you think of him?” Nate leaned against a sign, beginning to stretch out his calves. A wind snaked through the trees, tugging at John’s sweatshirt, tossing leaves across the path, the smell of winter on the traces.

  “He’s okay. Quiet. I don’t know. Maybe not as much trouble as I thought he’d be. Polite, even.” John straightened and scanned the blue of the lake, spotting a tanker miles offshore.

  “He sounds like a good kid.”

  “Who’s going to break Ingrid’s heart. And frankly she’s had enough of that with Casper and Owen.”

  “No word from Owen?”

  John shook his head. But he refused to worry. Leave that to Ingrid.

  They turned and started down the path to their cars. “So how’s the live Nativity coming along?” Nate said.

  “Ingrid has boxes of broken wings and ratty costumes all over the living room. The manger looks as if a horde of kids stomped on it, and we’re still trying to find the stable. Apparently the Congregational Church lost track of it last year.”

  “I know that they got a few bunnies last year from the Bergstroms for the petting zoo. And you might check with the Westerlinds for goats.”

  “I’ll tell Ingrid.” He followed Nate into the parking lot, where his truck sat in the late-afternoon sunshine.

  Nate stretched out against the hood of his sedan. “You know, it sounds like this kid has had a rough go of it. You might consider that you’re one of the few father figures he’s ever had.”

  John pulled off his sweatshirt, tossed it into the cab. “I’m not his father. And I don’t want to be. I did that, and I’m done.”

  Nate nodded. “Yeah. I get that. See you at church.” He got into his car, waving as he pulled away.

  John picked up his phone as he slid onto the bench seat. A text message from Ingrid was displayed on the screen. Please pick up Romeo from the school.

  He checked his watch. The kid would be outside, getting into who knows what kind of trouble by now. He backed out and headed to the school, pulling up in the parking lot.

  He spied a couple of kids sitting on a picnic table near the door, but no Romeo. He hoped the kid wasn’t somewhere living up to his name. John had no doubt that with his new-kid reputation and his golden locks, Romeo had a flock of girls following him through the halls.

  He sat for a moment, then shoved the truck into park and got out, heading inside.

  Although locked during the day, the school opened after hours for parents picking up kids. He heard voices from the weight room and ducked his head in, the smells of sweaty athletic gear rousing old memories. He half expected to see Darek or Casper grinning at him from the bench press. Or even Nate at the squatting bar, back in the days when
they ran the school.

  “Anyone seen Romeo?” He felt strange just asking that. Who named their child Romeo? Poor guy. For a second, John considered that such a name might brand the kid. Force a chip on his shoulder.

  Maybe he needed to give Romeo kudos if he didn’t find him wrapped up like a pretzel in some girl’s arms.

  He walked through the school, checked the gym, a few of the rooms, and finally found himself out back. The football team was scrimmaging on the practice field and the shrill of the whistle stirred up the past. John could see the crowd rising to their feet as he ran onto the field, a fleeting thrill before he sank into the game. He could smell the excitement in the air, taste the fear of the other team, feel the adrenaline as he leveled someone.

  Football had helped him understand what it meant to be a man. Hard work, focus. He’d tried not to let it bother him that none of his boys played, that he spent Sundays alone in his recliner, watching the Vikings.

  Maybe Benjamin would have been the football player in the family. He’d never considered that.

  In fact, he hadn’t spent much time at all thinking of the son they’d lost. Life simply drove over him then, with the responsibilities of taking care of six kids, running the resort, trying to figure out what to do with his relief.

  He’d never spoken the words aloud, but in truth, he’d feared adding another mouth to the family. Had tried to drum up enthusiasm for this surprise baby and failed.

  He’d betrayed Ingrid in that; he knew it.

  The sounds of practice drew him onto the field. He watched a few sets and, despite himself, made some mental notes. The defensive end had to close that gap or the running back would drive a semi through it.

  “John, are you here to check out our new recruit? It’s about time we saw a Christiansen kid on the field.” Seb Brewster, mayor and assistant coach, came over to him. A big man who’d played college ball, Seb still looked like he could dodge defenders and land the pigskin between the yellow markers. He wore a Deep Haven Huskies T-shirt, his biceps stretching the fabric. Out on the field, Caleb Knight, head coach, brought the team in with a whistle.

  John met Seb’s outstretched hand. “What are you talking about?”

  Seb frowned, turned toward the field. Pointed. “Number 63. He’s yours, right? Romeo?”