The First Time at Firelight Falls

by Julie Anne Long

  And who had time for that?

  So she just smiled. Wistfully.

  He stirred, restlessly, almost as if she’d stroked her hand slowly along his arm.

  “Yeah,” she agreed softly, finally. “That’s my life in a nutshell.”

  “Guess it’s next to impossible for busy adults like us to date.” He shrugged.

  “Guess so,” she said after a moment.

  She was fully aware that it was ridiculous to feel a little put out that he didn’t sound more regretful.

  Because she was relieved. Right? She was off the hook! She wouldn’t have to relearn another person from the ground up, or shave her thighs, or buy better bras, or worry about yet another human’s feelings.

  Funny how relief suddenly felt like a synonym for disappointment.

  It was possible the two feelings had arrived swirled together, like the vanilla and chocolate frosty cones Annelise loved. Reliefappointment?

  And then . . . he actually glanced at his phone. Then turned it around to show her: Six fifty-nine. She’d told Annelise they had to get going by seven at the latest.

  “I bet you get chatted up a lot at the flower shop, though,” he teased suddenly.

  “Oh, sure,” Eden said. “Often by guys buying flowers because they did something to piss off their wives.”

  He laughed. “Have pity on us poor fools. Maybe the 2.0 version of men will have a bug fix. Now, if I was going to attempt to fascinate a woman like you—”

  They whipped their heads around at a muffled thundering sound and saw Annelise skipping down the stairs and barreling toward the door, followed by Avalon and Mac. Avalon, good girl, was yelling, “Annelise Harwood, don’t run on the stairs!”

  At seven on the dot, Annelise burst through the doors exuberantly. “Uncle Mac gave me some broccoli to go!”

  “Wow, that is awfully generous of him.”

  But her sister Avalon was behind Annelise, carrying the trifold paper, her face a gleaming question mark, and it was seven o’clock, and they had to get going, and Avalon was going to have to keep wondering about their conversation.

  Gabe was already in the house, talking to Mac.

  But damned if Eden wasn’t dying to hear the end of his sentence.

  Chapter 5

  On the way home, Annelise said suddenly, “Once I saw Caitlynn Pennington’s dad carry her on his shoulders. At a picnic.”

  They were all the way down River Road now and just about to head down Main Street. Back home to finish the Aztec report.

  “Yeah?” Eden said brightly. Instantly guarded and alert again.

  This could be about picnics, or shoulders, or about a rivalry with Caitlynn. Not another little delicate sideways attempt to find out about her dad.

  “If I had a dad, we could go on a picnic, and maybe he’d carry me on his shoulders.”

  Annelise took notions as she tried to figure out the world. Once Eden had asked her why all but one of her Barbies were arrayed in a circle in front of a TV Annelise had made from the lid of an earring box.

  The last Barbie was standing in a tall old necklace box, naked.

  “I’m playing grown-ups,” she’d explained. “They’re drinking coffee and watching CNN and Winter is taking a shower.”

  Apparently, Annelise had decided grown-ups didn’t take baths. Grown-ups didn’t have the time.

  And here she was, trying to piece together what a dad was, what a dad did, what she might be missing. Ironically, one of the things she’d learned from Annelise’s real dad that night was that he’d never known his own dad.

  Eden’s breathing went a little shallow. She’d done triple time as a mom since Annelise was born. And yet, she was beginning to feel cornered by the encroaching sense that it still might not be enough.

  She turned onto Main Street now, where the familiar Gold Rush–era buildings painted muted shades of yellow, pink, and blue snuggled side by side like a little family. Over the flower store was their own beloved, cozy old apartment. It did indeed have a little backyard, not much bigger than a couple of tablecloths. Pretty and precious and theirs. Well, mostly theirs. The bank had the mortgage.

  “I bet Mr. Caldera can carry even you on his shoulders,” Annelise said, when they were a block from home.

  Wow.

  Just his name caused one of those thrilling jabs in the area of Eden’s heart. Her mind’s eye filled with huge gleaming shoulders, tree trunks cleaving in a spray of bark shrapnel—

  She reached over to turn on the car’s air conditioner, even though it was March.

  That instantaneous weakness that swept through her was both delicious and unnerving. And she wondered if that softening, that helpless fascination was some sort of programming built into the species designed to prepare a female for surrender in the face of brute male beauty.

  Or if it was just that his strength reminded her that maybe she wasn’t a fortress after all. That maybe doing it all, all by herself, all the time, wasn’t a sustainable model for life.

  That was a hell of a notion to attempt to accommodate right before they had to finish a report on the Aztecs.

  “Wait—what do you mean he can carry even me?” she teased Annelise finally. “Because I’m as big as an elephant?”

  “No, you’re only as big as a yak!”

  “No, I’m as big as a wallaby,” Eden countered.

  “No, you’re as big as a pickle!”

  “A pickle’s not an animal!” Eden’s outrage made Annelise roar with laughter. “What sound do you think a yak makes, Leesy?”

  “Owwwwoooooga!”

  “Hey—that’s the same sound Lloyd Sunnergren’s old truck horn makes.” Lloyd Sunnergren had a 1940s Ford in pristine condition, and Annelise was fascinated by it and by his big furry dog, Hamburger, who could soak her entire face with one giant slurp of his tongue.

  “It’s the sound a yak makes, too,” Annelise insisted.

  “Okay, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, since I don’t know much about yaks.”

  “That’s okay, Mom. We can Google them when we get home.”

  It was always pretty hilarious when she heard her own words coming out of Annelise’s mouth.

  And during the next few moments of silence, words flooded into her mind, like the refrain of a song: If I was going to try to fascinate a woman like you . . .

  If only she could Google the end of that sentence.

  How did he see her? How long had it been since she’d thought of herself as a Woman, not just a Mom, possessed of qualities unique only to her? What made Gabe Caldera look at her the way he did—like he was literally dazzled—and smile the way he did? Like he’d like to remove her clothes, slowly, with his teeth?

  Because she couldn’t imagine the next time she’d run into him. Might be weeks from now. And if Avalon tried to cleverly engineer anything, well, tough. She and Mr. Caldera (Gabe? Your Excellency?) had already established there wasn’t time for any of that: for dating, or for “fascinating,” or for hearing the ends of sentences that could only lead to other similar sentences that she didn’t have time for.

  So be it.

  She’d likely forget all about it by morning, anyway.

  When they got home, Eden cracked Annelise up by drawing a little smiling broccoli on the whiteboard on the day’s date.

  Then Annelise was dispatched to her room to finish her Aztec project, while Eden set about getting the house tidied and locked down for the night and began her preparations for tomorrow: she packed Leesy’s lunch for school, loaded the dishwasher, tossed in one small, final load of laundry (because Annelise would want to wear her pink sweater tomorrow, and it was looking a little grubby), then went into their computer room—a little bigger than a closet, with a comfy old beat-up olive-colored love seat and a full-length mirror, and one of Peace and Love’s two cat trees perched in front of a window that got a lot of sun—to power down the old desktop computer.

  She sat down hard when she saw what was typed in the se
arch engine bar.

  Who is Annelise Harwood’s dad?

  Eden made a soft, stunned sound. Half laugh, half whimper of pain.

  She sighed and pushed her fingers up through her hair. Dropped her head into her hands for a second. Oh, her baby. Trying to find things out in her way.

  “I’m done with my report, Mom,” Annelise called. “Can I play guitar for a little while?”

  “Um, sure,” Eden called absently.

  Crap.

  Seconds later, Annelise was playing that song again. “Invisible Dad.”

  Eden stood up slowly, then went to stand in Annelise’s doorway and listen. Annelise was perched on the end of her bed. Her voice was pure, supple, naturally emotive, yet still sweetly childlike. She reached notes easily. And God only knew, genetically the kid probably got more than her fair share of confidence. And the talent sure hadn’t come from Eden.

  Invisible dad

  The only dad I ever had

  He knows what to say when I am sad

  Invisible dad

  Invisible dad

  I wonder if his name is Brad or Chad?

  If I knew that sure would be rad

  Invisible dad

  “Sweetie . . . that’s . . . a . . . um . . . lovely song.”

  “Thanks!” she said cheerfully. “A minor goes good with C major.” Annelise strummed and the wistful gloom of A minor filled the room.

  “A rather mournful chord, isn’t it?”

  “What’s mournful?”

  “Sad. M-o-u-r-n-f-u-l.”

  Annelise mouthed the letters along with her. She’d have that word down, and it would likely get a starring role in quite a few of her sentences over the next few weeks.

  “I know!” Annelise said with gleeful relish. “It is mournful!”

  Eden sat down next to her on the bed. The coverlet was a retina-searing pink quilted job with pink bobbles on the hem. Annelise had insisted. Peace and Love was curled up on one of the pillows. He was a music fan.

  The mermaid night-light was also pink, as was the little kid-sized guitar that Annelise set aside, resting its headstock on her pillow next to Peace and Love gently. She loved that thing.

  Eden reflexively checked, and she saw that the trifold poster board, colorfully illustrated with information about human sacrifice and the Aztec language, calendar, education, and food stuffs, occupied a corner. Annelise would ace her presentation. The topic was a juicy one.

  “Can I ask you something, Leesy?”

  “Shoot.”

  Annelise had learned “shoot” from her grandpa.

  “Do you think about your real dad very much? We haven’t talked about that in a while.”

  Annelise searched her mom’s face for some clue as to how she should answer.

  Eden kept her expression open and cheerful.

  “Mmm . . . just sometimes.”

  Eden’s heart squeezed. In Annelise’s rare thoughtful silences—for instance, when they were in the car together driving to Hummingbirds, or when Annelise was about to drift off to sleep—what did her baby think about?

  “Does it make you sad that you don’t know your dad?”

  “Mmm . . . I don’t think so. Maybe not sad. It’s just . . . Caitlynn said he could be anybody. He could be the guy who sleeps in front of the courthouse. It could be Truck Donegal or Giorgio.”

  ARRRGH! Fucking Jan Pennington!

  Because little Caitlynn was likely quoting her mom, who usually had the good sense not to say that stuff in front of her child, but give her a glass of Chardonnay, and she’d yammer on about anything. She’d probably said that to her husband, and Caitlynn overheard. Truck Donegal was an occasional bouncer at the Misty Cat, a reformed lunkhead of sorts, and Giorgio was their swarthy taciturn grill savant.

  The only reason Eden cared at all was that it would send ripples of uncertainty and discontent across Annelise’s world.

  “I promise you, honey, your dad isn’t anyone you’ve met or that even Mrs. Pennington has met. He doesn’t live in our town. Caitlynn shouldn’t say those kinds of things to you. It’s a matter between you and your own family, and it’s very impolite. If she says anything like that again, all you need to tell her is that it’s private and you won’t talk about it.”

  Easier said than done, that was for sure, given that her daughter was quite the gregarious talker. But she also had a good deal of pride and was no pushover.

  “I told her he could be the president,” Annelise said defiantly.

  “Um—”

  “Or maybe Nigel Lythgoe.”

  They religiously watched So You Think You Can Dance, and Annelise was very impressed by the strict, compassionate, knowledgeable Nigel.

  “Well—”

  “Or Han Solo.”

  “Han Solo is a fictional character, honey. And he seems lovely, but I’ve never met Nigel Lythgoe.”

  “Is it Principal Caldera?”

  She was startled by another of those washes of weakness and that thrilling little heart jab. Just at the sound of his name.

  “Mr. Caldera hasn’t been in our town that long, sweets. C’mon, you’re ten years old, Annelise. You have to get up close and personal to make a baby, and it takes nine months for a baby to get here. You know that.”

  “So gross,” Leesy said placidly.

  Songs about boys appealed to Annelise’s sense of drama. The kissing part of boys and girls and whatnot still heebed her out a little. Thank God.

  “Caitlynn’s dad is on the city council,” she said, with an offhandedness that fooled Eden not one bit. “That’s pretty important.”

  So it was down to the competitive thing.

  “Well, let’s talk about what makes a person important and what makes a thing important. Who’s the most important person in your daily life?”

  “Um . . . you?”

  Eden stifled a laugh. It was a pretty low-risk guess. “Good answer, kiddo. You are the most important person in the world to me. But you are also the most important person you know. And the most important thing to know is always be kind and sensible, right, because kindness comes back to us?”

  “Right,” Annelise agreed cheerily.

  Eden reminded herself daily to savor these years where her daughter took her wisdom as gospel, and didn’t know enough yet to ask questions like, “If you were so sensible, how did you get knocked up with me and wind up a single mom?” Those questions were a few years down the road yet, God willing.

  “Baby, I can assure you that your father is talented and successful and cute, but nowhere near as cute as . . . you!” She lunged in for a tickle.

  Annelise squealed in delighted outrage and dove right back at her for tickling.

  Then Eden remembered she better not get her worked up before sleep.

  “Okay, go brush your teeth and get into your jammies.”

  “Okeydoke!” Annelise half danced, half skipped off to the bathroom. She never simply walked if she could get there in a fancier way.

  It often seemed to Eden like morning arrived as soon as her head hit the pillow, and she was looking forward to it, though she had a lot to think about tonight.

  She turned around to leave Annelise’s bedroom and then halted.

  And slowly walked over to the Barbie Tableau.

  The little doll she’d named Chrissie was perched atop Scrotal Ken’s shoulders, and Scrotal Ken and Winter were holding hands.

  And from a scrunchie and a length of yarn tie, Annelise had fashioned what looked like a tire swing.

  Chapter 6

  “You’re awfully quiet, Lieutenant. You eat something wrong at Pasquale’s?”

  Gabe and his softball team had gone from practice at the high school field out to pizza, then back to the Veteran’s Hall near city hall to work on a few repairs—wheelchairs, a tractor, a lawn mower, manly soothing activities requiring brute strength, grunting, and metallic clanks and clunks. With him tonight were Lloyd Sunnergren, who owned the feed store; Bud Wallace, who was seventy
-two and tough and stringy as a guy thirty years younger and who had a sort of reserved dignity; Louis Hurlbutt, smart-ass ex-army; Mike Wade, also ex-army, a good guy with a mouth on him; Jordie Tahira, ex-marine, best wheelchair basketball forward in the league and had a killer arm. No one made it every week, but everyone made it most weeks.

  Usually Mac joined them, too. He was busy with the donkey barn tonight, though.

  “Everything is wrong at Pasquale’s,” Gabe said with a little grunt as he attempted to wrench a rusted screw loose. “That’s why we like it.”

  “Usually you’re in full lecture mode right about now about how we did at practice.”

  This was true. Lecturing: a principal’s habit. Kind of a lieutenant habit, too.

  “Just thinking about my game. Deciding if I have any anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? You scored at least half the points last game.” Bud’s voice was a little muffled. He was upside down under a tractor.

  “He’s talking about women, nimrod,” Mike said placidly.

  “That’s hilarious!” Louis crowed. “Who’s the lucky girl who has you doubting yourself like you’re some ordinary schmuck?”

  This was what passed for sympathy among his friends.

  “If I tell you, I’ll never hear the end of it, and God knows you talk more than any of us want to hear, Louis.”

  “You’re a catch, Caldera. Probably the most eligible bachelor in Hellcat Canyon. Since I was taken out of circulation, that is.” This was Bud.

  “Yeah, that’s a dubious distinction. Who would be in the bachelor pageant? Me, Truck Donegal, Giorgio the grill cook at the Misty Cat?”

  “We should have a bachelor pageant!” Louis announced.

  “What? No, we shouldn’t.” Gabe was alarmed. “You’ve been breathing a little too much paint thinner, dude.”

  The conversation lulled, filled with clinking sounds and “Pass me that Phillips head” and the like.

  “It’s just . . . she’s a little . . . squirrelly,” Gabe ventured.

  He knew it was risky talking about her. But the fact was, if he didn’t talk about her, he might go mad.