Kiss Me, Tate (Love in Rustic Woods)

by Karen Cantwell

  “Good thing I called her then, huh?”

  “Or you could have just called me.” To his own ears, Tate’s response sounded harsh, and he regretted it immediately.

  But Samuel didn’t flinch. “It wouldn’t have been a surprise then, would it? Where should I put it? This thing is still hot.”

  Tate pointed to the double bed that had been Willow’s, then relieved Samuel of the six-pack. He set it on the dresser, removed two of the bottles, and unscrewed the tops.

  He took a swig from one. Nice choice. Good, sharp flavor. His brother had good taste in beer.

  He handed Samuel the other bottle. “Have a seat. And thanks. I wasn’t really up for going out.”

  Samuel repositioned the desk chair and sat. “Me either.” He pulled a long and hard swig on his beer before setting it down on the desk and reaching for a slice of pizza. “So, what was his story about why I left?”

  Just ready to shove the corner of his pizza slice into his mouth, Tate stopped. The pizza, the beer. He got it now. They were the ice breaker for the talk.

  Tate proceeded to bite and chew, giving himself time to answer. He was hungry, and the pizza, despite the grease, looked and smelled delicious. He chased the spicy bite with a sip of beer. “He said you fought over money.”

  “I figured as much,” Samuel said around his own mouthful. “Nothing else?”

  “Just that you asked for a loan to pay for your last semester.” The story had seemed plausible. Even as a young child, Tate was aware that money was a sore spot between both May and Samuel and their dad. Mort had told them that his own parents hadn’t paid for his college education, and he wouldn’t pay for theirs. Never mind that he could well-afford to send six or seven kids to college.

  Working to pay your way through college builds character, he had said. Then, of course, when Tate was entering his college application phase of life, he lived through the same lectures himself. He already knew, seeing Samuel and May struggle, that Morton wasn’t going to fork over the bucks or the encouragement, but that didn’t stop Morton from diving into a twenty minute dissertation on how “kids today” have everything handed to them on a silver platter and nothing comes free—everything needs to be earned with blood, sweat, and tears. About the twentieth time he’d heard the speech, Tate wanted to draw some blood alright, but not his own.

  Because his father had more than sufficient income, Tate was forced to seek merit scholarships, which were hard to come by, and to take out high interest loans. On-campus jobs went to work-study students first, so he often had to find menial jobs off-campus.

  Did he learn to work hard? Absolutely. But he also learned indifference toward a man who, in his mind, was only a father by decree of a birth certificate.

  And that was why Tate never returned home after leaving for college. He had left Rustic Woods in body and spirit. Only he hadn’t left a six year-old brother behind the way Samuel had done. A brother who worshiped him.

  “I did ask for a loan,” Samuel nodded, “and we argued about it. But that’s not why I left.”

  Tate swallowed. “So, I suppose you left because you hated him. He has a way of putting people off, especially his kids.”

  “I found her journal.”

  The word “her” hit Tate like a one-two punch to the stomach, leaving him momentarily short of breath. He knew Samuel wasn’t talking about May.

  “Mom’s journal?”

  Samuel’s head dropped, his eyes staring at the floor. “She was always more important to him than we were, you know.”

  No, he didn’t know. How could he? He waited, knowing Samuel had far more to say.

  “At the dinner table, he’d say to her, ‘When we get these two money-suckers raised and out of the house, you and I can start living our life. I want to take you to Scotland.’” Samuel shook his head. “I don’t remember if he said Scotland exactly, but there was always a place he was going to take her when May and I were out of his way and not sucking up his money anymore.

  “She’d always yell at him, not angrily, but enough to let him know she didn’t like it when he said things like that in front of us. I went to boy scout camp one summer. May said he didn’t notice that I was gone for three days.”

  “An obvious nominee for Father of the Year,” Tate joked, trying to add some levity to the depressing conversation. Samuel’s account enlightening, though. May had never talked about this side of Morton.

  Samuel laughed and took another pull on his beer. “When she was sick, before we knew it was cancer, he’d yell at us and blame us for stressing her out. She didn’t seem sick, just tired. All of the time. I can’t remember which we learned first—that she was pregnant or that she had cancer. It was a bad time. They fought a lot, and we didn’t really understand what was happening until Mom finally sat us down to talk. You probably know all of this from May.”

  “Bits and pieces only. She’s a talker, but not about that.” Tate still wanted to hear about the journal, but he tried to be patient and let Samuel tell his side of the story in his own way.

  “Did she talk about Mom at all?”

  “Sure. Lots of stories. Funny stories. May said she was a funny lady.”

  Samuel’s smile was unrestrained. “She was.”

  “Morton—not so funny. I guess opposites really do attract.” Tate decided to press Samuel a bit. “So why did you leave? I mean, if you want to get that off your chest.” He stared at the bottle in his hand. “I resented you for leaving, I’ll admit. But then again I got out of there as soon as I could, too.”

  “The journal. I read it. Then I confronted him and told him he was a sick bastard. In return, he told me he never wanted to see my ugly face again as long as he lived.”

  “But you don’t want to tell me what was in it.”

  Samuel examined his beer bottle. A corner of the label had started to come up, and he worked it with his thumbnail while he spoke. “He begged her to have an abortion so she could do chemo. She wouldn’t do it. She wanted you.”

  Tate didn’t blink. His father had never wanted him. That wasn’t a surprise. He didn’t need a journal entry to tell him that. He leaned forward. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how that was bad for you. Don’t get me wrong, I...am glad I’m alive. But if she’d had an abortion, she might have survived, and you’d still have a mother. Didn’t some part of you wish she had?” He marveled at his own ability to say those words so calmly.

  Samuel finally took his eyes off the bottle and looked at Tate. “The old man told her if she didn’t do it, then she obviously didn’t love him at all, and that he’d hate her for the ‘rest of her miserable life on earth.’” Samuel visibly choked back emotion. “Those were the words she wrote. And it all made sense looking back. I never saw him show her a single bit of affection toward the end of the pregnancy.

  “He wasn’t around when you were born. He wouldn’t go near her when she died five months later. At the time, I thought it was just how he coped. Coping badly, but it wasn’t out of character. But he wasn’t coping. He was punishing. Punishing her. To the very bitter end, that asshole punished her for loving her kids.”

  “Then you’re wrong on one point,” Tate said.

  Samuel shook his head, not understanding.

  “You said he always cared more about her than his kids. If what you’re saying is true, he didn’t care about her at all. It was always about him.”

  They sat silently, but eventually, Tate had to speak up. “You didn’t answer my question. Didn’t you wish that she had ended the pregnancy and taken the chemotherapy?”

  Samuel’s gaze swiveled to the ceiling. His thumb tapped the beer bottle. He seemed to take forever in answering. “Yes, brother,” he said finally. “I’m sorry to say that I wished it more than anything.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BUNNY’S EVENING WAS INTERESTING, TO say the least.

  It had started out wonderfully. She brought Daddy and his two friends, Harry and Jim, back to the house where
they met a group of kids and volunteer parents.

  The plan was to work on the set building in her garage. Daddy had paid for the sandwiches that she had ordered from the deli.

  Everyone dug into the work, laughing and building. She put the radio on her favorite oldies station, and the kids danced while they painted. It looked like a scene from The Big Chill. Well, sort of. Oldies now included many of her favorite songs from the eighties. Talk about feeling old.

  The phone rang somewhere between “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Love Shack.” Bunny had to swallow a bite of tuna sandwich before answering. “Hello.”

  “Am I speaking with Mrs. Bergen?” a woman asked. The icy voice was familiar.

  “This is Bunny.”

  “Regina Steffler.”

  “Oh,” Bunny swallowed again. “Hi. How are you Ms. Steffler?” She cringed at the sound of her own quavering voice.

  “I am concerned about Mr. Kilbourn’s father and about our sets. I will be by shortly to see what sort of progress, if any, is being made. I do wish Mr. Kilbourn had taken a few moments to contact Mrs. Page rather than turning things over willy-nilly.”

  It sounded to Bunny like she was concerned about the sets and not so much about Tate’s father. “That would be fine, Ms. Steffler.” She motioned to her father to turn the music down. “I think you’ll be pleased. Do you have the address?”

  “I will see you soon, Mrs. Bergen.”

  Bunny heard the dial tone in her ear. “Ms. Bergen,” she grumbled under her breath. “Ms.”

  She set the walkabout handset down and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay people, we have an inspection! Ms. Steffler is stopping by to see how things are coming along.”

  The workers barely paused long enough to listen to what Bunny had to say. As soon as she finished her announcement, they delved right back into sawing and hammering and painting.

  Even with the cool air coming in from the open garage door, sweat dripped from her father’s shiny head. He didn’t seem worried. Bunny wished she could be as calm.

  She thought about calling Tate for moral support, but reconsidered. He didn’t need any more worries on his plate. She took a deep breath. It would all be fine. Daddy and the crew had done a beautiful job, and Steffler would be thrilled. Well, maybe not thrilled. The woman didn’t look like she ever registered above vaguely content on any emotional scale.

  If Bunny got a grunt of acceptance out of her, she’d consider it a victory.

  Not ten minutes later, Bunny watched a black car pull into her driveway. It had to be Steffler. Given that the woman dressed entirely in black, of course her car would be black as well.

  The arrival of a second car took her by surprise. From where she stood near the back of her garage, she couldn’t see who was getting out.

  Scooting around people and sawhorses, she made her way toward the visitors. She concentrated on her breathing and thinking happy thoughts, but when her gaze fell on Hildie Page, teetering on high heels next to a sullen Steffler, those happy thoughts flew out the window.

  But Bunny refused to let her smile slip.

  Outside on the driveway, Bunny shivered against the dark chilly night, and she could see her breath when she greeted the two women. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Steffler. You too, Hild—” she stopped herself short, realizing she should be more formal. “Mrs. Page.”

  Right away, Hildie Page was all smiles and seemingly genuine pleasantness. “Nice to see you too, Bunny. And really, call me Hildie.” She rested a thin, cold hand on Bunny’s arm. “We’re all friends here. I can’t tell you how thankful we are that you were able to take over in this capacity, what with Mr. Kilbourn’s family issues. You’re a show saver, I must say.”

  “Where are the plans?” Steffler inquired. “I don’t see the plans.” Her squinty eyes darted all over the place.

  “Oh, they’re right here,” Bunny said, guiding them to a part of the garage wall covered in the designs Tate had drawn up. “My daddy took over right where Tate...um, Mr. Kilbourn, left off.” She waved a hand in the air to catch her father’s attention. “Daddy. Harry. Could you come over here for a minute?”

  “Daddy?” Steffler sniffed.

  Bunny’s first reaction was to apologize. Then she decided doing so was silly. Apologize for what? “I never stopped calling him Daddy. Term of endearment and all that.”

  Hildie smiled broadly, and Ms. Steffler remained thin-lipped. They both inspected the plans while the new team leaders made their way from one corner.

  “Someone wants to inspect my work?” Daddy grumped, wiping sweat from his brow with an old handkerchief. “Who would that be?”

  “Daddy,” Bunny said, working hard to keep the conversation upbeat, “this is Ms. Steffler, the director of the play.”

  He didn’t offer a hand, but he nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my friend Harry. He was a contractor before he retired. His son still owns the business. He knows his stuff.”

  “Is there something I can call you other than Daddy? A real name, perchance?”

  “My wife used to call me, ‘Hey You,’ but you can call me Doug.” Bunny had to fight against rolling her eyes when her father delivered his standard quip. The problem was, she knew he wasn’t done.

  “I’ll answer to just about anything,” he continued, “so long as it’s nice.”

  Neither Hildie nor Ms. Steffler seemed to have a quick comeback so Daddy kept rolling. “We’ve done a good job here. We’re on schedule, and we’ll deliver a dandy set for you, and while I’m sure you’re very thankful, I want to thank you.”

  Steffler blinked. “You want to thank me? For what?”

  “Giving a few old men something to do. And these kids are great. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. How about you, Harry?”

  Harry nodded his bald head in agreement. “Glad to be here helping out.”

  “More fun than we have killing aliens,” Daddy added. “So you know it has to be good.”

  Bunny thought she saw the beginning of a smile on Steffler’s stiff lip.

  “Um,” Bunny stepped in, “they play video games. They’re, you know, not real aliens.” That didn’t sound as smart as it did in her head.

  “So, Doug and Harry,” Steffler said, pulling black leather gloves off her hands one finger at a time. “Show me what you’ve done, would you? I have high standards for my musicals.” Her words were tough, but Bunny could see that Steffler was warming up to the men.

  She followed the two, leaving Bunny and Hildie alone.

  “Bunny,” Hildie started in, “I want you to know that we are so grateful for you stepping up like this—”

  “I know,” Bunny interrupted her, “you already told me.”

  “But this really isn’t your...you know...your thing. When I heard about Tate’s problems, in my job as the volunteer coordinator, I quickly found someone else better suited to complete the job.”

  “What do you mean, this isn’t my thing?”

  “Your responsibility, I mean. It isn’t your responsibility.” Hildie did that thing again where she laid her hand on Bunny’s arm, and Bunny knew she was being patronized. “But never fear, I have rescued you, and tomorrow this will no longer be your problem.”

  “It’s not a problem, Hildie, and I’m managing fine. I like the responsibility. I don’t see a reason to move the whole operation when it’s working very well here.”

  “Well, is it? Really though?”

  “Yes. Really.” Bunny could feel her hands start to shake.

  “You have enough problems, what with being out of work and everything.”

  “I’m not out of work.”

  “Oh.” Hildie was obviously caught off-guard. “But my husband—I mean, he told me he had to let you go.”

  Bunny kept her voice low enough so that only Hildie could hear. “And you know what? Thank goodness for small miracles. If he hadn’t had to...let me go...” She let the words sink in while Hildie’s eye
s batted a million times a minute. “If he hadn’t had to let me go, I wouldn’t have found my new job at the Nature Center. Better pay, better benefits. Really nice people. And I get to work with Tate Kilbourn.”

  Bunny thought Hildie might pop a few blood vessels, trying to keep her fake smile plastered on her face.

  “Well...” Hildie didn’t seem able to complete her thought.

  So Bunny completed it for her. “You—I mean, your husband—actually did me a favor. Please thank him for me tonight, would you?” Then she leaned in more closely and whispered, “And by the way, my definition of a skank is a married woman who throws herself at single men.”

  Bunny had never, in her entire life, ever managed to deliver a deserving zinger at someone like Hildie Page. If she could have, she would have jumped for joy and shouted to the heavens, but the moment demanded decorum. And maybe a shot of whiskey afterwards to calm herself. Because, while she may have looked as placid as a calm summer lake on the outside, she was a bundle of jumpy nerves on the inside.

  Daddy, Harry, and Regina Steffler returned, and all three of them were laughing. Bunny couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “You two are the best grandparent volunteers I’ve ever had,” Ms. Steffler said to the two men. “Thank you. And do keep up the good work. So we’re agreed, you can have the sets delivered and set up in time for our rehearsal on April ninth?”

  “Your wish is our command,” Daddy said.

  “But, Regina,” Hildie whined, “I thought we agreed we would—”

  “This is my show, Hildie, and these men are doing a magnificent job. They’re ahead of schedule. Why on earth would I mess with that? I need you worrying more about costumes.” She turned to Bunny. “You don’t have a grandmother who sews, do you?” Then she laughed.

  Bunny wasn’t sure if she should join in the merriment. Hildie looked like she might explode. “Uh, no.”

  “I’m just kidding,” Ms. Steffler said. “But not kidding when I ask: do you need anything from me?”

  Bunny shook her head. “Not that I can think of at the moment, anyway.”

  “Well, call me anytime if you do.” She slipped her black leather gloves back on and looked out to the driveway. “Hildie, you’re blocking my car. Would you let me out? I need to get back to the school and speak to the cast before Mr. Phelps releases them from tonight’s singing rehearsal.”