by Cheri Allan
“That’s for sure,” Claire said, sorting through her photos to decide what she’d ante up with. “If the grown-ups aren’t… enjoying themselves,” she said with a meaningful look, “the kids suffer, too. Then no one’s happy. We all figured that out pretty quick, didn’t we?”
Lydia gasped softly and June cast Claire a quelling look.
“What?” Claire asked. “Oh. Lydia, I’m sorry...”
Lydia waved her marshmallow breezily in the air. “It’s okay. Stu and I sure enjoyed our grown-up time, if you know what I mean. If we could have had kids... well, we would have ended up with more than we could handle!” With that she popped the marshmallow through her bright pink lips and bravely chewed.
Ruth glared at Claire. “Very tactful. Can we play now?”
Lydia blinked back a tear. “I bid one fourteen-foot Christmas tree,” she said, tossing a Christmas picture into the center of the table.
“A Christmas tree? It’s nearly July!” Claire said. At June’s look, she shrugged and reached for the veggie platter again.
June pulled a photo from her own box and added to the pot. “Okay. I’m in with one perfect purple crocus on a frosty April morning taken with my new digital camera.” She shook her head. “The thing is, she’s stuck. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t swear. I’m worried that by the time she remembers what it’s like to feel young and carefree, what it’s like to be a woman, it’ll be too late.”
Lydia sighed and stared at June’s crocus. “My Stu always made me feel like a woman.”
June took a sip from her drink. “I’m thinking of setting her up on a date. Something casual. Without Liam. What do you think?”
Ruth nodded distractedly over her cards. “Good idea. I’ll help. By the way, nice crocus, but I’m raising the stakes now. Lydia, I see your giant Christmas tree with my award-winning jack-o-lantern display and raise you one cherubic grandson with his first fish.”
Lydia smiled and dug through the fabric-covered shoebox she held on her lap. “Very nice fish, Ruth, I grant you that, and I’ve always loved that picture of little Jim at the fishing derby, but... I raise you again with one incredibly handsome, nicely tanned, bare-chested man, in his underwear.” Lydia reverently laid the photo on the table, a soft, happy sigh escaping from her fluorescent lips.
Claire scowled. “Lydia, that’s from a magazine! You can’t use him!”
“And why not? I’d love to talk about him. Isn’t he juicy? Look at that six pack...”
June frowned. “Juicy? Nobody uses that anymore. Come to think of it, I don’t think they ever did.”
Ruth picked up the male model in question and brought it closer for inspection. “If Lydia wants to talk about the new Calvin Klein model, I don’t see why we should object.”
“I wasn’t objecting,” June was quick to point out, peering over Ruth’s arm at the picture, “Claire was.”
“Oh, never mind,” Lydia relented. “I just like to spice things up sometimes.” She retrieved her magazine clipping and pulled an edge-weary photograph from the box. “Here’s Stu and me at the Grand Canyon. Again...”
June 20
I’m well aware that running in circles does not get me far. Don’t judge me. At least I’m moving forward.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
____________________
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Kate tucked Liam into bed for his nap, the air in the bedroom heavy and still as a distant clap of thunder rolled down the valley over the lake.
“Hug you,” Liam slurred sleepily.
Kate leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Love you, too, Pumpkin.” She repositioned the fan on the dresser to face him then tip-toed from the room and down the stairs.
The living room was quiet and smelled pleasantly of fresh paint and window cleaner. Kate looked around. It was amazing what a couple quarts of paint, a few hours and a little imagination could do. She’d given the old rocker a coat of sky blue paint and slipped a pair of vintage lace pillowcases she’d found at the local thrift shop over the hideous gold cushions. An old wedding quilt lay across the sofa in lieu of a slipcover, and the detached mirror from an upstairs dresser she’d discovered stuffed in a closet now rested atop the mantel. Kate walked to the kitchen table where she’d replaced the barstools with a mix of wooden chairs she’d found in the basement and wished the weather had held a bit longer. She had a can of soft pear-green paint set aside for them.
Not that she was procrastinating or anything.
The box with Randy’s ashes still sat on a corner of the mantel.
Kate’s chest felt heavy. She blew out a long breath and walked to the screen door.
The lake grew choppy as the wind kicked up. Kate told herself she should make use of the rainy weather to sit and read the book she had upstairs, but somehow discovering the color of her parachute seemed pointless now, seeing as she’d spent the better part of the night dreaming of being shoved from a plane, her parachute left behind, and hurtling through the air toward certain disaster.
She should move the book from her nightstand at the very least.
Kate pushed at her hair, a restless, frustrated movement. She’d been in New Hampshire more than a week but was no closer to figuring out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life than she had while crying over her washing machine in Connecticut. Hell, what she could do with it. It wasn’t as if she were swimming in options.
The most obvious choice was to go back to Nancy and the academy. She’d have health insurance, which was good, especially now.
Oh God…
The sky outside grew darker, the air electric.
Kicking off her sandals, Kate pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The wind slammed the door shut behind her. Chimes clanged together, and a gust of wind rushed through the trees and lifted her hair. Kate stood at the porch railing and closed her eyes as the first heavy drops of rain spattered the ground and the skies opened up.
She reached a hand out and let the rain pound into her palm as it cascaded from the roof. Water droplets splashed onto her shirt and danced off her wedding ring.
She pulled her hand back as memories flooded her of the night Randy died.
Her chest ached with chaotic emotion—of feeling hollow and scared and stunned—the weight of events closing in, bearing down on her, like a tsunami roaring ashore.
She remembered grasping for something to hold onto, gasping for breath and equilibrium as she tried to absorb what it meant, how it changed things, as she’d moved through the silent house that night. And yet, it had felt almost peaceful, the in-between time, as she lay next to Liam on his bed, in the dark.
But the stillness and quiet of night had given way to the grim reality of taking stock of the damage. Cleaning up. Moving on.
Funeral arrangements. Clearing out Randy’s apartment. Making it through each day. Then the next…
Pretending life went on as normal, because there was no other choice.
Kate shoved the memories away as lightening sizzled in the sky above the cottage.
She held her breath, watching the rain bounce off the ground, as she twirled the ring around her finger. More than anything she wished she could erase the numbness that had followed that night, the unnerving sense of having been shoved out into the unknown, the rushing air taking away her ability to breathe, like she’d been pushed from a plane without a parachute.
She twirled the ring again, and without consciously trying, it slipped off her finger and into her right hand. She looked at it, surprised, and for a moment had an overwhelming urge to hurl it long and hard into the dark, choppy waters of the lake, to let the power of the storm swallow the hurt, the mistakes and the unfilled promises the tiny circle of gold represented.
But she couldn’t.
She’d made promises, too.
Kate let out the breath she’d been holding. Throwing the ring away wouldn’t change anything. But Nana was right. Something had to change.
There had to come
a point where she hit rock bottom, where the air stopped rushing by her, where she could stop cringing and start picking up the pieces. And maybe it was foolish, even selfish, to wish for that moment, to pray for the impact. But, surely, nothing could be worse than this not feeling at all.
A new wave of rain sheeted across the lake toward the cottage as if daring her not to be moved by its power.
Kate dropped the ring into her shorts pocket.
Then she stepped off the porch and lifted her face to the sky.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
____________________
JIM CONSIDERED HIMSELF A SMART MAN.
Smart men avoided complications.
And so, he had successfully avoided Kate for nearly a week. Considering she and Liam had spent countless hours puttering and playing around outside the cottage next door, this was no small feat.
But he knew he was caught—hell, his truck was sitting in the drive—when he heard the distinctive rap of knuckles on the door.
“Oh! Hi.” Kate smiled as he yanked open the door, her hand still poised to knock again. She pulled her hand back to tuck her hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture then lowered it to her side. “I’m sorry to bother you, I probably should have caught you over the weekend, but I saw your truck and I’ve been meaning to ask… would it be okay if I spruced up a couple things you brought to the cottage? I picked up some paint at the hardware store, and I thought I’d refinish some of the old furniture. Just a couple things…”
Jim frowned, trying to concentrate on her words. She had on a little skirty thing in a bright, tropical blue with a matching print tee. She looked sweet. Tasty. Like one of those fruity cocktails with the little umbrellas.
“Your grandmother said I could do what I like, but I remembered you had brought over that little side table and that floor lamp with the brown shade, and I—”
“You got your hair cut,” he said, interrupting her.
“Oh! Yes.” She smoothed a hand down one side and her hair shifted and swirled by her chin. It made her neck look sexy and long. His fingers itched to reach out and play with it.
He stared at her. She bit her lip. “About the table…” she said.
“Oh, right. Sure. Paint away.”
“Thanks. I just thought I’d brighten the place up a bit. You know. While I’m here.” She swallowed. “Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m sure you have places to be.”
He met her eyes. “No bother.”
She nodded and turned to go.
“Wait.”
She paused and looked at him expectantly.
“It looks good. Your hair. It looks good.”
Her lips curved in a smile. “Thank you.”
She lingered, and some obtuse, idiotic part of him wanted her to find a reason to linger longer.
“Oh, I almost forgot” she said, “that new shower head seems to be leaking a little. Not all the time, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“I can stop by after work and look at it.”
“Great.” She bobbed her head and smiled again, her tongue darting out to her lips.
“See you tonight, then.” He forced a smile in return, which probably came across as more of a grimace, then shut the door and leaned against it.
Good God. What the hell was wrong with him? Sure, Kate had the whole shy-sexy thing going on, but that was irrelevant. She couldn’t undo being a mother or a widow any more than he could undo his tendency to get involved with women who needed way more help than he was qualified to give.
Alex was right. He needed to find himself a nice, uncomplicated woman with no baggage—and no kids—with whom to have a casual, no-strings fling.
He pushed away from the door.
And failing that, he could get to work.
WHEN JIM GOT HOME LATER THAT afternoon, he waited until he saw Kate and Liam walk down toward the water before heading over with his toolbox—denial being the tool he intended to use first.
“Hey,” he waved. “Okay if I let myself in?”
Kate waved back and nodded. For a moment she looked like she would head back up the bank toward him again, but he took the porch steps in one long, purposeful stride and pretended not to notice her hesitate.
The fix was easy, just needed a little tightening, and he was done without incident—carnal or otherwise.
Jim slid the wrench back into his toolbox and was congratulating himself on successfully avoiding contact when Liam blocked him at the front door.
“Can you fish?” the boy demanded.
Jim blinked. “Can I fish? Well, yes, I—”
“Yay!” Liam squealed, then turned and thumped down the porch steps toward his mother. “He fish with me!”
Kate strode toward the cottage, a child’s fishing pole in hand. “Are you sure?” she asked, looking sweet and grateful all at the same time. “He saw this in town and insisted we get it, but it turns out fishing is harder than I thought. We’ve mostly been spending time being bug-bait.”
Jim looked from Kate’s flushed, pretty face to Liam’s hopeful, excited one.
“What are you using for bait?” he asked.
“Um, this thingy?” Kate pointed to a little bit of feather on the end of the line.
“No worms?”
“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to get into that.”
“Were you hoping to actually catch fish?”
A dimple flashed in one cheek. “Truthfully?”
At her guilty expression he couldn’t not laugh. “What if by some miracle you did catch a fish with this?”
“I was counting on that not happening,” she whispered.
Liam looked up at him earnestly, a bright, little yellow tackle box in hand, and Jim couldn’t help but remember the fishing derby when he’d caught his first fish. A six inch perch. They must’ve thrown it back, but he remembered Gramps cooking something up back at the house and serving it to him for dinner with great ceremony.
Jim crouched down in front of Liam. “Tell you what, Buddy—you go get a hat and some bug spray on, and I’ll get my own pole and meet you back here in a few minutes. Then your mom can cook some dinner…” He looked up and got a spectacular view of Kate’s legs. “Ah, just in case the fish aren’t biting tonight. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Liam scrambled up the steps and into the house, leaving Kate to smile shyly at him. “Thank you.”
Jim nodded, tugging at the brim of his cap. “Good to see you, again,” he said, backing up toward the trees that separated the driveways. “Shower’s fixed, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, tried to smile in a casual, neighborly, non-leering kind of way, and swung around toward home before he said or did something stupid. Like kiss her again.
Back at his house, he pulled the little Styrofoam container of worms out of his fridge, retrieved his pole from the basement, and headed toward the door.
Liam was waiting on the other side.
Kate stood a few steps behind. “Do you, ah, need me to come?”
“No! No. We’ll be fine. I’ll show him the joys of worms.” Jim held up the container of worms and jiggled it between them.
Kate backed away. “In that case… I’ll start dinner.”
Jim watched her rapid retreat toward the cottage and blew out a slow breath before he realized Liam was tugging on his shirt hem. “We fish now?”
“Right. We fish now.” Jim led the way down the path toward his dock.
Liam scrambled after him, all little boy enthusiasm and exuberance as he tromped down the boards of the dock—despite the fact that Jim had told him to walk quietly so as not to scare the fish.
“Are those worms?” Liam asked in the loudest whisper Jim had ever heard.
“They sure are. You want to get one out?”
Liam excitedly grabbed the container and pried open the top… then dropped it onto the dock like a hot potato as a worm broke the surface of the dirt. He looked at Jim in horror.
&n
bsp; Jim scooped the clump of dirt and worms back into the container and swished his hand in the water to clean it. “By the way, they’re alive.”
Jim held the container toward Liam a second time.
“You do it,” Liam said, making a face.
Jim chuckled and pulled out a worm, stuck it on the hook on Liam’s line then proceeded to do the same on his own. He showed Liam how to cast. Or, in his case, drop his line into the water, and then they settled down to wait.
Jim set his pole beside him and pulled off his boots to dangle his legs over the side of the dock into the water. Liam followed suit, and before long they were sitting amiably next to one another, feet cooling in the water, lines drifting. No way were they catching any fish, but it wasn’t a bad way to relax at the end of the day.
Jim watched his line float and let his mind wander.
After a while, he showed Liam how to gently tug every so often to keep the worm moving, but Liam ended up slapping the water with his pole more than anything. No matter. They were having fun. Liam turned and beamed at Jim, and Jim felt a tug of something other than his fishing line.
Maybe if Doug and Rach had a son, he and his nephew could go fishing like this sometimes.
Jim pursed his lips and squinted over the lake.
Just as likely Doug would take his own son fishing. And swimming. And show him stuff like how to replace rotten boards in the dock or grill a steak just right.
Things dads do with their sons.
Jim bobbed his line as the sun dipped toward the horizon, the water turning dark with streaks of burnished gold. He noticed that shadows were forming where trees overhung the shore. They should probably hang it up soon. Just as well.
He startled as Liam scootched closer toward him on the dock, Liam’s little face sweaty, dirt-streaked… and unbearably hopeful.
“We catch fish soon?” he breathed.
Jim tugged the brim of Liam’s floppy-style fishing hat and tried hard to ignore the knot in his gut. “Not sure they’re biting tonight, Buddy. How about we try another time?”
“Tomorrow?”
