by Mary McNear
“No, I’ve decided,” Daisy said. “I’m starving. And those steaks look great.” Both of those were lies. Food was the furthest thing from her mind right now. And the steaks, especially, looked unappealing, probably because her stomach felt as if it already had a lead weight sitting inside of it. Regardless of how she felt, though, she knew it was important that she have dinner with her parents tonight. A sea change had taken place in their relationship with each other, and her dad’s suitcase and the framed photograph were only part of the story.
“That’s great, Daisy.” Her dad grinned. “I’ll get these steaks on the table.”
Daisy followed him and her mom into the dining room, and the three of them sat down, a little awkwardly, at the dinner table. It was all so new, she thought. So strange. And it occurred to her then to say something sarcastic about the situation, something like Well, it only took eighteen years, but the three of us are finally having a family dinner together or Better late than never. But she didn’t say either of those things. It wasn’t in her nature to be sarcastic, or to deny either of her parents their hard-won happiness. And it was happiness. She could see it, feel it. It was there, right beneath their concern for her, a deep, glowing happiness that gave off more light than the candles on the table. It made her mother look ten years younger, as if the tiny worry lines she’d had on her forehead and around her eyes had been magically erased. It made her father look different, too, Daisy thought, trying to figure out how. Then she realized what it was. It was the first time since she’d seen him again, over a year ago, that he hadn’t looked lonely, that he hadn’t looked as if he was somehow missing a piece of himself.
Now Jack looked at Caroline and Daisy and asked, a little self-consciously, “Do you two mind if I say something now, before we start dinner?”
“Of course not,” her mom said, pleased, and Daisy tried to smile her encouragement at him.
“Okay,” he said, taking both of their hands. “I’m not in the habit of saying grace, maybe because I’ve always had a kind of . . . complicated relationship with God. But as you may know, in AA we have to trust in what we call a higher power, and tonight has me wondering if that power, for me, at least, isn’t God after all. I mean, how else to explain the fact that here we are, eighteen years later, sitting down to dinner together?”
He continued, “But whatever’s behind it, it’s more than I deserve. I know that. And I’m going to work very hard, every single day, to finish earning back the privilege of sharing my life with two beautiful, strong, intelligent women who are as kind as they are forgiving.”
Jack paused, then, and looked at Daisy. “And, sweetheart? You need to know something. If you decide, one day, that you want Will to be a part of this family, we’ll make room for him in it too.” Daisy thought he said this a little pointedly, for her mom’s sake, but apparently that wasn’t necessary, because as he was saying it, her mom smiled at her, squeezed her hand, and murmured softly, “It’s true, honey.” Daisy squeezed her hand back then, and, for the first time since the beginning of the summer, she felt their old closeness returning. She hadn’t even realized until now how much she had missed it, how much she had missed her. She felt her eyes blur with tears.
“Well, that’s all,” her dad said, letting go of both of their hands.
“That was nice, Jack,” her mom said, beaming at him, and Daisy, much to her annoyance, felt a tear slide down her cheek. She wiped quickly at it, and then, hoping to distract her parents from the realization that she was crying, again, she said, “Dad, can you pass the salad, please?”
CHAPTER 25
One minute Will was sitting on the bus, lulled by the sound of the engine and the gentle rocking of tires sliding over asphalt, and the next minute he was sitting on a lakeside dock, his bare feet dangling over the water. It was a perfect summer morning, he realized, glancing around, and the dock and the cabin on the bluff behind it looked a lot like Mr. Phipps’s. Except they weren’t, he suddenly understood. They weren’t Mr. Phipps’s, because they were his, his and Daisy’s.
Daisy appeared then, walking out to the end of the dock. She was dressed in the short-sleeved cotton blouse that he loved—the one with the little blue flowers on it that matched her eyes—and blue jeans, and her strawberry-blond hair was down on her shoulders and slightly messy, just the way he liked it. She looked so beautiful, he almost turned away. But he didn’t.
“Good morning,” she said, sitting down next to him. She put her head on his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He hadn’t been aware that he’d been thinking about anything, but as soon as she asked him that question he realized he had been thinking about something.
“I was thinking that this was the best decision I ever made,” he said.
“You mean, buying this cabin?” she asked.
“No, Daisy. Getting married. Getting married to you was the best decision I ever made.” And he kissed her, kissed her soft lips and her sweet mouth as if he’d never stop kissing them again . . .
He jerked awake then, trying desperately to get his bearings. He was still on the bus, he saw, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside its windows. He was still sitting in his seat. There was the same woman and the same fussy baby sitting across the aisle from him, the same bored teenager, plugged into his iPod, sitting in front of him. Will sighed and leaned back in his seat, lifting his watch to his eyes. It was only nine o’clock. He had a few hours left to go yet. He closed his eyes and thought about his dream, about how real it had seemed, how real she had seemed. And in that moment, he missed Daisy so much that it was like a pain slicing through him.
He wouldn’t think about it now, he decided. About them being apart. Will found his sweatshirt, rolled it up again, and wedged it against the window, putting his head down on it and closing his eyes. He’d try to remember the dream instead—every single detail of it. And, if he was really lucky, maybe he’d fall back asleep and dream it all over again.
Excerpt from Moonlight on Butternut Lake
CHAPTER 1
Miss? Miss?”
Mila jerked awake and stared, uncomprehendingly, around her. “Where are we?” she asked, and her voice sounded strange to her.
“Butternut,” the bus driver said. “This is the last stop.”
The last stop. That sounded ominous, she thought, as her hand moved to massage her stiff neck.
“I saw you’d fallen asleep,” the driver continued, almost apologetically. “But I remembered your ticket said Butternut. And I thought if you could sleep through that baby’s screaming, you must really need the rest.”
Mila nodded, annoyed at herself for falling asleep. That was stupid. She was going to have to learn to keep her guard up. And not just some of the time, but all the time. She started to stand up, but her cramped legs rebelled. She sat back down.
“Take your time,” the driver said genially, looking every bit the grandfather Mila imagined he must be with his thick shock of white hair and pleasantly crinkled blue eyes. “You’ve been the only passenger since Two Harbors. Not many people travel this far north, I guess. Why don’t you take a minute to stretch and I’ll get your baggage out for you.”
Mila nodded, then stood up again, slowly this time, and tested her legs. They were stiff, but otherwise functional. She gathered up her handbag, which she’d been careful to wedge between herself and the side of the bus, and made her way down the aisle.
When she climbed down the bus’s steps, she saw that the driver was holding her suitcase and looking around doubtfully.
“Is someone meeting you here?” he asked.
“They’re supposed to be,” Mila said, a little uncertainly.
“Good,” he said, handing her a slightly battered suitcase. “Because they don’t get much traffic out this way. I don’t know why they have the bus stop out at this junction, instead of right in the town.”
But Mila had no opinion about this. Until six days ago, she’d never even heard of B
utternut, Minnesota. Still, she had to admit, what she’d seen of it so far didn’t look very promising. There was no bus station here, for instance, only a rest area, whose cracked asphalt was overrun with weeds, and whose sole amenities were an old bus shelter and a lopsided bench.
“I hope your ride comes soon,” the driver said. “I hate to leave you here alone, but I’ve got to be getting back to the Twin Cities. My grandson’s got a Little League game tonight,” he added.
“Well, good luck to him,” Mila said. “And thank you.”
He started to get back onto the bus then, but Mila had a sudden thought. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Can I ask you a favor?”
He stopped, halfway up the bus’s steps, and turned around. “Name is Bob,” he said, indicating his name tag. “And you can ask me a favor. I’ll be happy to do it for you, too, if it doesn’t take too long.”
“It won’t,” she said. “I was wondering if . . .” Her voice trailed off. She had no idea how to phrase this. She thought about it and started over. “I was wondering, Bob . . . if someone was looking for me, and they tracked me down as far as, say, the bus station in Minneapolis, and they asked you if you’d seen me . . . if they, you know, described me to you, or showed you a photograph of me, could you . . .” She hesitated again. “Could you tell them you haven’t seen me?”
Bob frowned. “Are you asking me to lie, miss?”
“Not lie, exactly.” Mila hedged. “More like forget.”
“Forget I ever saw you?”
She nodded.
Bob shifted uncomfortably. “Are the police looking for you?” he asked. “Because if they are—”
“No,” Mila said, relieved to be telling the truth. “No, I promise, it’s nothing like that. I’m not a criminal. I’m just . . .” She paused again here. “I’m just someone who’s trying to start over, that’s all.”
Bob gave her a long, speculative look. “So you want a fresh start?
“Exactly.”
“And you don’t want to bring any old baggage with you?” he asked, with a smile. “None,” she said, smiling back. “Except maybe this,” she amended, swinging her suitcase.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Bob said. “If anyone asks— anyone not in a uniform, that is— I’ll say that I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”
“Thank you, Bob,” Mila said gratefully, swallowing past something hard in her throat. But she caught herself. Don’t you dare cry, Mila. Because then he really will remember you. Besides, he can’t start comforting you now. The man’s got a Little league game to get to.
“Well, good luck,” Bob said. He climbed up the rest of the steps, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled the lever that closed the bus’s door.
“Thanks again,” Mila called, relieved that the danger of her crying had subsided. Bob held up his hand to her in a good-bye gesture, started the engine, and eased the bus back onto the road. Mila watched him drive away, then dragged her suitcase over to the bench. She sat down on it, but no sooner had she done this than it began to rain. Not a hard rain. Just a dull, gray rain. Although it had been an unusually warm spring in Minnesota, today, the third day of June, was shaping up to be cool and wet.
So she stood up and carried her suitcase over to the bus shelter’s narrow overhang, hoping to get a little protection from the rain. It was better there, but not by much. She shivered in her thin cotton blouse and skirt and wished she’d worn something warmer. But she’d tried to dress as innocuously, and as forgettably, as possible, and this was the outfit she’d settled on.
She saw something then out of the corner of her eye, and she flinched. But when she turned to see what it was, she realized with relief that it was nothing more than a crow alighting on a nearby telephone line.
Would this ever end? she wondered. This constant looking over her shoulder? This fear, always, of being followed? Of being discovered? She had a sinking feeling that it would not. Unless the unthinkable happened. And he found her.
Reid? Reid? Are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” he lied, though, in fairness to him, he had tried to listen to what his sister-in-law, Allie, was saying to him. But the painkillers— the painkillers that didn’t seem to kill the pain— were making him a little foggy.
He watched now as Allie lifted her six-month-old daughter, Brooke, out of her stroller and settled her onto her lap. Cute baby, he thought, and, almost as if she knew what he was thinking about her, Brooke wriggled in her mother’s arms and smiled at him, a toothless, charming smile. And then, for an encore, she balled up her tiny fist and shoved the entire thing into her mouth. Very impressive, Reid thought. Funny how he’d never known before how entertaining babies could be. Much more entertaining than adults, he decided, as he watched Brooke suck mightily on her little fist.
But apparently, while he was doing this, Allie was trying to talk to him, because now her voice intruded on him again. “Reid? Please try to stay with me, all right?” she asked. “Just for a few minutes.” She sounded exasperated. Exasperated and something else. Concerned. Reid tensed, warily. Because if there was anything he hated, it was being on the receiving end of concern.
“Do I sense a lecture coming on?” he asked now, finally tearing his eyes away from the baby. And his voice, even to him, sounded odd. Thick, and cottony. As if he didn’t use it that much anymore. Which, of course, he didn’t.
“A lecture?” Allie asked now, raising her eyebrows. “No. Not a lecture. Not exactly.”
“Because that sounded to me like the beginning of a lecture,” he said, reaching for the glass of ice water on the table in front of him. It was hard to reach from his wheelchair, though, especially since when he leaned too far forward, the full cast on his left leg dug into his thigh, and his still mending ribs ached from the effort. Still, he reached for it, and, misjudging the glass’s distance, his fingers only brushed against it, knocking it off the table.
“Damn it,” he said, as the glass shattered on the floor. And, as if on cue, Brooke started to cry.
“Shhh,” Allie said, trying to soothe her. “Caroline,” she called out, to the woman who owned the coffee shop. “We’re going to need a broom and dustpan over here.”
Reid reached down to pick up a piece of broken glass, but the side of his wheelchair limited his range of movement.
“Damn it,” he said again, giving up.
“It doesn’t matter, Reid,” Allie said, reaching over to pat his hand, which was resting on the arm of his wheelchair. “It’s just a glass. I’m sure it happens all the time here.”
“But I scared the baby,” Reid said, wondering what kind of a jerk you needed to be to scare a baby.
“Reid, she’s fine,” Allie said, putting the baby up on her shoulder and patting her on her back. “She’s just tired, that’s all. She’s overdue for her nap.”
Caroline appeared then with a broom and a dustpan.
“I wish I could tell you this was our first broken glass of the day,” she said to Reid, sweeping up the fragments of glass. “But it’s our third. And today was a slow day, too.” Reid looked away and mumbled an apology.
Caroline left with the dustpan and broom and came back with another glass of water, this one with a bendy straw in it. She handed the glass to Reid and waited until he had a firm grip on it before she let go of it.
“Thanks,” Reid said, sipping from the straw.
“There you go,” Caroline said, sounding pleased. But Reid felt himself sink a little farther into his wheelchair. Is this what’s it come to? he wondered. Holding my own glass and drinking from a bendy straw now constitutes a major accomplishment?
“Allie,” Caroline said. “Why don’t I take Brooke for a little while? You and Reid are obviously trying to talk.”
“Trying being the operative word,” Allie murmured. But she smiled as she handed Brooke over to Caroline. “We just need a few minutes,” she said, shifting her gaze back to Reid. A few minutes, Reid thought hopefully, as the sound of the baby’
s fussing receded into the background. Even he could handle a few minutes of being lectured to.
“Look, Reid,” Allie started again, “I can only imagine how difficult it’s been for you since the accident. And Walker and I have tried to be patient, and we’ve tried to give you time to adjust to all the changes in your life. But, Reid, sometimes we feel like we’re the only ones who are trying.”
Reid sighed wearily. So this was about his attitude. Which, admittedly, was pretty poor. But he was in a wheelchair, for Christ’s sake, dependent on other people for all but his most basic of needs, and there were days, still, when the pain was so bad he was convinced the pills he took were nothing more than placebos.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he muttered now. “I’ll do better, okay?”
“Reid, you said that the last time we had this conversation.”
“Well, I mean it this time.”
Allie didn’t look optimistic. “Reid, as of last week,” she reminded him, “you’ve been through two home health aides.”
“I know that,” he said, still sipping from his straw. “But I can’t help the fact that they were both completely incompetent.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said. “Walker and I, for instance, are of the opinion that they were both perfectly competent.”
“Right. Well, maybe that’s because you didn’t have to live with either of them.”
“Maybe,” Allie conceded. “But the fact remains that both of them quit, Reid. And they both gave the same reasons for quitting, too. They said that you were condescending, rude, and un-cooperative.”
Reid, knowing this was a fairly accurate representation of his behavior, chose not to defend himself.
“The agency we’ve been using, Reid,” Allie continued, “has refused to place another aide with you.”
