Always Florence

by Muriel Jensen

  “You’ll have to use a Swiffer. In reality, we’re stuck with this century.”

  They looked at each other, all the complications of their nonrelationship and the kisses that kept happening anyway as visible in her eyes as he was sure they were in his. While he might pretend to accept that there was no possibility they could sail off to Europe together as their turn-of-the-century counterparts might have done, he refused to give up hope. In the past or in the present, he just wanted to be near her. He found himself ignoring the cost of caring about a woman who didn’t have forever because now seemed to stop time in its tracks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NATE HAD TUCKED in the boys, and sat down with a glass of brandy to read the Daily Astorian. He found a Black Friday sale insert and put it aside for Stella, who was planning to shop with Bobbie and Sandy. She was out to dinner with Dennis tonight.

  The pair had spent the afternoon cleaning and preparing vegetables and making dressing. There was an interesting looking corn concoction in a bowl in the refrigerator and a cranberry-and-orange mixture Nate presumed was a fancier take on cranberry jelly. She’d mashed carrots and rutabagas together—a dish Dennis always made, apparently—and there was a plastic bag of brussels sprouts that were Nate’s particular favorite.

  So preparations for Thanksgiving were under control, and the boys were excited that Bobbie and Dennis would be here to celebrate with them. Nate had had trouble getting them to go to bed.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. He’d brought up the card table from the basement and washed it as he’d promised Stella.

  He was happy to have time to read the paper. He didn’t want to sit in the dark and think about the turn-of-the-century captain and the suffragist, who might have had different options than he and Bobbie had. He didn’t want to remember the sadness in her eyes when she’d looked at him in the captain’s clothes, and he didn’t want to recall her sweetness with Sheamus when he’d dropped the rolls.

  Nate did, however, like remembering the way she’d grabbed him and kissed him. He let himself dwell on it for a moment, then groaned and forced himself back to reality.

  Finding the sports section, he folded the paper back to study the stats. The brandy glass had almost reached his lips when he heard a sharp “Pssst!”

  He looked up to see Dylan hanging over the railing. Nate opened his mouth to warn him of the danger of falling when the boy straightened and made an urgent beckoning gesture, then put his fingertip to his lips for silence.

  A little concerned, Nate started quickly up the stairs, and Dylan turned to shush him. At least he was smiling.

  Nate followed him to the half-open door of Sheamus’s room. Dylan pointed through the opening to his brother, who sat on the floor in front of the closet door, his back to them.

  The little boy was looking up at the poster of Bill the Monster, one arm around Arnold, who sat beside him.

  Sheamus seemed to be speaking to the door, or, rather, the monster on the other side of it.

  “...not afraid of you anymore,” he was saying. “I used to feel all alone, and that was scary. But I feel better now. And Bobbie says I’m more important to her than the biscuit dough. Biscuits aren’t very important, but not getting mad when somebody’s messy is. And I’m more important than that.”

  Sheamus got up on his knees. Arnold rose to his feet, tail swishing, awaiting his master’s next move. “It’s starting to get cold,” Sheamus told the closet door, “and I want my scarf. And my coat. And my boots. And my basketball. Bobbie said she likes to play basketball, but she doesn’t have a ball. I’m gonna let her play with mine.”

  His voice got a little louder. “I’m gonna open the door, so if you’re in there, Bill, you better go. Arnold might hurt you.”

  When Sheamus stood, Dylan shifted his weight anxiously, as tense as Nate. Placing a palm on his nephew’s shoulder, Nate watched as Sheamus reach for the doorknob.

  Arnold pranced a little, as though a steak waited on the other side of the door.

  Nate held his breath as Sheamus turned the knob. Then with a mighty yank, he pulled the door open and jumped back. Arnold barked and wagged his tail. No steak? No monster?

  Sheamus giggled and stepped cautiously forward, his hand on the dog’s collar. He looked left, then right, pushed clothes aside and peered under them, got down on the floor and crawled back and forth. Arnold, enjoying the game, licked his face.

  Dylan turned to look up at Nate and said with sudden seriousness, “He did it. He finally did it.” Then, after a moment, he walked across the hall to his own room and closed the door.

  Nate felt as though a part of his life that had gone missing when he’d lost Ben and Sherrie had been restored. He felt lighter, strangely hopeful at the little boy’s victory.

  Sheamus got to his feet, reached up to the pegs on the inside of the closet door and pulled down the simply knit yellow scarf Sherrie had made him. He twirled it around his neck and wrapped his arms around himself.

  Nate walked into the room, trying not to make a big deal out of what this meant. He had to clear his throat.

  “Hey,” he said. “You opened the closet. And you found your scarf.”

  Sheamus beamed up at him, then without warning, shed a very large tear. He held up an end of the scarf and rubbed it against his face. “My mom made this.”

  Nate squatted down in front of him. “I know. Now you can wear it all winter long to stay warm.”

  “I’m gonna wear it to bed, okay?”

  “Sure.” Nate untangled it from around his neck and placed it so that the ends fell loosely. “We won’t tie it, so it doesn’t choke you if you roll around. Want me to tuck you in again?”

  “Okay.” He climbed into his bed and lay back against the pillow.

  Nate pulled up the blankets, tucked in Sheamus’s feet, then leaned over to kiss his forehead.

  “I did it, Uncle Nate,” he said, wriggling a little in his excitement. “I opened the door.”

  “I told you you would when you were ready.”

  “Where do you think Bill went?”

  “I think when you stopped being afraid, he left.”

  Sheamus gave him one of those insightful looks. “Does that mean he wasn’t really there?”

  Nate laughed. “It means that when you’re afraid, it feels like there’s a monster in your life, but when you do something brave, you realize how strong you really are, and monsters go away like they were never there.”

  Sheamus reached his arms up and Nate leaned down for a hug.

  “I love you, Uncle Nate,” he said.

  “I love you, too, buddy.” Nate arranged the blankets around his shoulders, ruffled Arnold’s ears, then turned off the light and left the room, leaving the door half-open.

  God, he needed that brandy.

  He passed Dylan’s closed door and knocked lightly once. “You okay in there? You need anything before I go downstairs?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Dylan replied, “I’m sketching because I can’t go to sleep. Okay?”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS MORE FOOD ON Nate’s table, Bobbie thought, than she’d eaten in the last year. Even her father refrained from cautioning her against a second helping of dressing or that wonderful corn pudding. He was eating nonstop himself.

  She loved to listen to him talk to Stella. Bobbie didn’t think a great love affair was in the works there, but they seemed to have a lot of cultural memories to share, and were on the way to developing a strong friendship.

  The boys apparently had undergone a change. Nate had told her that Sheamus had had an epiphany and opened his closet door. She was so happy the boy had taken such an important step, and it was clear that Nate was, too.

 
Sheamus seemed to swagger just a little as he did what he could to help in the kitchen. He took Bobbie’s hand and dragged her to the toy box to show her the basketball.

  “Is that the one from your closet?” she asked, pretending ignorance.

  He nodded, beaming. “Uncle Nate says we can play basketball after dinner.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Dylan was also different, though the change was a little harder to figure out. He was polite and helpful, but more restrained than usual. There was no hostility, no biting humor, no harassment of Sheamus.

  Stella put a hand to his head when he turned down Bobbie’s offer of pumpkin pie. “Are you okay?” she asked in concern. “You haven’t eaten very much, and I’ve never seen you refuse dessert.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I had three dinner rolls, and I think I just filled myself up. I’ll have some pie later.”

  Stella would have persisted, but Nate shook his head at her. “He was up late last night working on his sketch. You want to lie down for a while, Dyl?”

  “Yeah. May I be excused?”

  “Sure.”

  Dylan smiled briefly at everyone, then walked away from the table.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Stella asked Nate softly. “I know he didn’t have three rolls. He had one, and left half of it.” She pointed to his plate, which had most of the food still on it. Then she frowned as something seemed to occur to her. “Oh.” She’d started to clear away some plates, then stopped and sat down again, looking at Nate. She handed Sheamus her water glass. “Would you get me some more, please?” she asked.

  He took the glass and went for the filtration pitcher in the refrigerator. While he was busy, she asked, just above a whisper, “Do you think he’s missing his parents? He’s told me several times how much they loved the holidays. This must be hard.”

  “Thanksgiving was always a big deal for our family,” Nate said. “Dylan’s been convinced since we began planning it that it would be awful this year. But he was happy that Bobbie and Dennis were coming. I thought it might be all right for him, after all.”

  Sheamus was back with Stella’s water. The conversation stopped, a slight pall falling over the sunny afternoon.

  “I’ll have pumpkin pie,” Sheamus said excitedly. “With ice cream and whipped cream.”

  “You don’t have room for all that,” Bobbie teased, squeezing his shoulders as she passed him. “I’ll give the ice cream to Stella and half of the pie to Uncle Nate.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, then, realizing she was playing with him, laughed with everyone else.

  After dessert, everyone pitched in to clean up. While working with Stella on making all the leftovers fit into the refrigerator, Bobbie received a text from Laura and Sean, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving. Know that I’m thankful for you, it read. She held the phone to her chest for a moment.

  “Old boyfriend?” Nate asked with a grin.

  “My friend Laura.” She put her phone on the table. “We had chemo at the same time. We helped pull each other through.”

  “Ah. Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Nate transferred the turkey carcass to a smaller platter while Dennis cleaned off the table. He gave Sheamus the cotton napkins to take to the laundry room.

  Dennis held up the salt and pepper. “Do these stay on the table?”

  “Leave them out for sandwiches later.” When everyone looked horrified at the thought of more food, Nate added, “We’re going to play basketball and work off all those calories.”

  “I could play with the Trailblazers for a whole season,” Bobbie said with a laugh, “and not be ready for a sandwich.”

  Dennis cleared his throat. “I’ve thought about joining Doctors Without Borders,” he said, rolling down the sleeves of his blue flannel shirt. “But I’m afraid to commit to taking off at a moment’s notice for an emergency, or agreeing to spend time halfway around the world.”

  Bobbie kissed his cheek as she reached past him to the table for the place mats. “That’s because you don’t want to leave me, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be in Florence, so there’s no need for you to stay handy to take care of me. And there’s also the fact that I’m just fine.”

  “I know that. I’d just like you to be able to reach me if you need me.” He looked at her directly, daring her to argue.

  Stella closed the refrigerator door and dusted off her hands. “I’m probably going to die on the job,” she said, “and be carried out of here in an apron with a spoon in my hand.”

  Nate put an arm around her shoulders. “Good. Not your being carried out of here. I mean, your wanting to stay. I promise you regular raises and combat pay. And vacations.”

  Tired of the adult chitchat, Sheamus announced, with a smile in Nate’s direction, “I’m going upstairs to get my cold weather jacket.”

  He smiled back. “Okay. You want to check on Dylan while you’re up there? If he’s awake, ask him if he wants to join us.”

  Sheamus ran off.

  Dennis shrugged into his jacket, handed Bobbie’s to Nate and helped Stella into hers. With her back to Nate, pushing her arms into the sleeves, Bobbie watched her father treat Stella with his customary gentle care. “You’re never going to retire?”

  “No.” Stella turned to Dennis, snapping her jacket closed. She made a wry face. “If you’re joining Doctors Without Borders, it sounds as though you aren’t, either.”

  His brow furrowed. “Aren’t you tempted to travel, take up a hobby?”

  “These guys are my hobby and I love my home.”

  Dennis pushed the door open and they walked out into the brisk, brilliant autumn afternoon. Bobbie hurried to catch up, not wanting to miss their conversation.

  “I knit like a fiend in my spare time.” She kicked at the rusty mountain ash leaves all over the driveway. “And I’m taking an online class in design.”

  Bobbie wondered if her father was thinking about how he could fit into such a life. Or if Stella could fit into his. But there seemed to be no urgency with either of them.

  Nate’s voice came from behind Bobbie. “Stella, are there things you want to do for yourself that you’re not finding time for? Because we can work that out somehow.”

  She shook her head. “No. I do enjoy having a male coffee and dinner companion, though. That way the conversation doesn’t always come down to grandchildren—of which I have none.”

  “Ah, but Hunter’s dating now and Sandy has two little girls.”

  Stella nodded, a smile forming. “That’s true. But it’s still nice to have a man around.”

  Nate turned to Bobbie. “Told ya!”

  Bobbie laughed and hooked her arm in his. “Get over yourself, Raleigh. You’re about to be trounced at basketball by the Free Throw Champion of Whittier High School women’s basketball team.”

  He gave her a light shove on the shoulder. “Oh, yeah? Shall we make a wager on this? Because I was Facts and Figures Club captain at Oregon State.”

  She blinked at him. “And how does that relate to basketball?”

  “It shows my determination and fearless self-esteem in the face of bullying.”

  She laughed again and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, a gesture that seemed fraught with electric significance. He took advantage of the moment to hold her to him, and she relished having the excuse to let him. She felt as though she’d swallowed butterflies.

  She finally pushed herself away, looking into his eyes with accusation she didn’t really feel.

  “Phony baloney,” he said under his breath. “Don’t blame me for that.”

  Sheamus came out of the house frowning, the basketball tucked under his arm, his jacket hanging open. “Dylan’s crying,” he said.

  “Okay.” Nate’s
expression changed and he began backing toward the house. “You all go ahead and play....”

  Stella started to follow. “Shall I come?”

  “No. Stay and play.”

  “I’ll go with Nate.” Bobbie fell in step beside him as he turned toward the house. “Okay?” she asked him.

  “Please.” He opened the door and held it for her, looking worried.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I’M NOT claiming to know what to do,” she said softly as she ran up the stairs behind him. “I just thought you might like backup.”

  “I do. I never know what to do.”

  Serious sobbing was audible even before they reached the top of the stairs. Nate followed the sound, ignored the closed door and went inside, Bobbie right behind him.

  There was a medium-size lump under the blue-and-gray quilt in the middle of Dylan’s bed. Arnold lay beside it, whining. Nate sat on the other side and touched the top of the blanket.

  “Dylan? What is it?”

  “Go away!”

  “I’m not going away. I have to know what’s wrong. Are you sick?”

  “No. So you can go away!”

  “Well...” Nate hesitated. “There’re all kinds of sick. Sometimes it’s not your head or your stomach, but...your heart. Or maybe your feelings.”

  Dylan cried harder and said nothing.

  Bobbie saw Nate square his shoulders. “Are you missing your mom and dad?” he asked. “Because there’s nothing wrong with that. Especially at Thanksgiving. It was always such an important holiday for our family. You can tell me if that’s it.”

  Dylan burst out from under the blanket, his dark hair mussed, his face red and swollen, his eyes tortured. He sat up, holding a rumpled piece of paper. Bobbie recognized it as a page from the Canson sketch pad she’d given him.

  “I thought I could do it, but I can’t!” he wept. “I wanted to because...” His voice choked.

  Bobbie sat behind him and rubbed his back. “It’s okay, Dylan. It’s going to be okay.”

  Nate asked quietly, “What is it that you can’t do?”