by Lori Foster
Marty’s Pizza. The high school kids would hang out there, eating greasy pizza and fries. He’d gone there once in a while. But not a lot. Hanging with the kids who had normal lives, normal families—he hadn’t been comfortable with that.
Joey’s Garage. The post office. Afternoon Delight, a walk-up ice-cream place with picnic tables and swings. He’d avoided that place at all costs.
Today, the order windows were lined up with parents and kids. Families out for a weekend treat. He watched for a moment but then quickly continued on.
He walked past St. Peter’s, the private Catholic school, down the one street he’d never forgotten, no matter how much he tried. His feet moved, one in front of the other as if they were on autopilot, taking him back, both in destination and in time.
Finally he stopped, remaining absolutely still as he looked up at the large white building. The structure didn’t have any of the quaintness or hominess of the other homes in the town.
But it was a home nonetheless.
The sign on the front lawn proclaimed it as such.
Chisholm Boys’ Home.
Funny, some things in his past were so blurry. Like the memory of his real parents. Or even his grandmother. Even some of the several foster homes he’d been shuttled to and from.
But the day he arrived here. That day was burned into his memory—even after years of not allowing himself to think about it.
Walking up the concrete steps that led from the sidewalk to the front yard. The other boys watching as he’d arrived. He’d been sixteen, and he’d known this was his last stop. All he had to do was bide his time and soon enough he’d be free. Finally.
He’d like to say on his own finally, but the truth was he’d always been on his own. Alone in the world. No family. No one who really loved him. Years of being an outsider.
But he’d moved past that. He had a great life now.
Just walk away. This is your past.
But again his wayward body wouldn’t obey his brain. Instead of continuing his tour, he sat down on those concrete steps. The steps that led to his past.
He’d sat there so many times before. Watching the kids at the Catholic school. Watching families, dressed for church, heading farther down the street to St. Ignatius. He’d watched those families every Sunday morning, wondering how it would feel to be part of a loving, caring unit like that.
“Can I help you?”
Rocco shifted on the step to see a woman standing at the top of the steps. Her hair was gray, the color of polished silver. Faint wrinkles fanned out around gray eyes.
She frowned, narrowing her eyes, and then a smile curled her thin lips.
“Rocco? Rocco Vincente?”
Rocco frowned back, then recognition hit him. “Mrs. Martin?”
He rose slowly, staring up at the old lady.
“Well, come up here, dear boy.”
Rocco felt his feet move up the steps. He was hit with déjà vu, the walk toward Mrs. Martin so surreal.
When he reached the top of the stairs, the old woman hugged him, her arms frail but her embrace somehow all-encompassing despite her size and weight.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said, standing back to survey him, her eyes actually shimmering with tears.
Rocco shook his head slightly, again the dreamlike quality overwhelming.
“You, too,” he managed to say.
“Come in. Come see the place.” Mrs. Martin looped an arm through his and led him up the concrete path toward the front door.
She released his arm to turn the knob, then stepped inside. Rocco paused for a moment, uncertain, but then followed her.
The front hallway didn’t look much different. Maybe the wallpaper had changed. Pictures, too. But overall, it was like truly walking into the past. The wood floor scuffed and worn. The white woodwork nicked with chips and dents.
“Come to the kitchen,” Mrs. Martin said, gesturing for him to come along. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
Rocco walked along behind her, taking in the place. The worn but comfortable furniture in the TV room on his left. The stairs that led to the boys’ bedrooms. Five bedrooms in all. Two boys to a room. A bathroom at either end of the hallway.
And the big country kitchen. The long table where all the boys sat to eat meals. Meals Mrs. Martin cooked.
He frowned again, thinking about those meals. Hardy home cooking. Lots of food. Lots of chatter.
“Sit,” she said, waving to the table. “Sit.”
Rocco hesitated, but then slid onto the long bench that lined one side of the table. Again, he was overwhelmed with such a strange feeling of déjà vu. Like it was only yesterday that he sat at this table.
Mrs. Martin poured two cups of coffee, then set them on the table. She returned to the counter to get the sugar bowl and then shuffled to the fridge for some half-and-half.
She placed both items in front of him.
“As I recall, you like your coffee creamy and sweet.”
Rocco nodded, bemused. Mrs. Martin remembered how he liked it.
She nodded in return, smiling. “You were my little coffee drinker,” she said, a fondness in her voice. “Always sneaking in early to get a cup before the other boys saw you.”
He did? Then he paused. He did. He’d forgotten that.
“I’d try to dissuade you,” she said as if narrating his returning memories. “I’d tell you over and over that it would—”
“Stunt my growth,” Rocco finished for her, suddenly recalling all the mornings she had indeed notified him of that fate.
She chuckled, the sound a little hoarse, but pleasing. “It would appear my concerns did not come to pass. You’ve turned into a flne strapping man.”
It was Rocco’s turn to chuckle as he reached for the sugar spoon. Strapping. Such a Mrs. Martin word. “Thank you. And thank you for being concerned for my growth.”
Mrs. Martin sobered. “You did concern me.”
He stopped stirring his coffee and met the woman’s eyes. Even now he could see the concern there. Clearly she’d looked at him this way before, but he didn’t remember it. Why?
“You were such a closed off kid. Buttoned in on yourself. I knew you’d suffered too much before getting here.”
He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to say. He had suffered, and this was just the final place to put him before he wasn’t the government’s problem anymore.
At least that’s how he’d always thought of it.
“And coming here your junior year. That’s a tough time to move into a new place and new school.” She shook her head, and Rocco could see she was still lamenting his hard lot.
“It wasn’t easy,” he said.
“Well, of course it wasn’t. Ernest and I often discussed what we could do to make the adjustment easier for you.”
Ernest Martin was Mrs. Martin’s husband, a solid, salt of the earth kind of man who’d been there to watch over the boys, too. The janitor, the repairman, the soft-spoken but firm authoritarian. Both of the Martins had expected and demanded respect.
“Ernest? Is he around?” Rocco said, surprised to discover he’d like to see the man.
Mrs. Martin looked down at her coffee mug, curling her gnarled hands around it. She shook her head. “Gone. Passed nearly three years ago now.”
Rocco didn’t know what to say. No, he knew the right words to say, but he didn’t know how to convey his true sorrow. And oddly he didn’t know what to make of the sense of loss that suddenly left his own chest hollow.
“When Ernest passed, my oldest son came to stay with me. I considered retiring, but I had a few boys who really needed routine, and I just couldn’t leave. So my oldest son came to work here to help me.”
Rocco only had a moment to consider her words, when she continued, “We knew you were one of those kids when you arrived, but you were so resistant to opening up. A real tough nut to crack.”
Tough nut to crack. Rocco recognized that as a Mrs. Martin sa
ying, too. Funny he’d remember her sayings but not her generosity. Her concern.
Was she only acting like she’d cared now? And if so, why?
“But Ernest got to see your success before he passed. He was so proud. Me, too.”
For a moment skepticism flared.
“You’ve become a real success,” Mrs. Martin said.
Was that what all this was about? Was she impressed that the unwanted, unloved kid somehow grew up to make good? Did she take some credit for that?
“In fact, I’d love for you to talk to one of the boys here now. He reminds me so much of you. Hurt, angry, far too world-weary. But he draws and writes these amazing stories for the other boys. He makes up superheroes. The other boys love them. I’d be thrilled for Billy, that’s his name, to see he can succeed—if he just works hard and believes in himself. Like you did.”
She wasn’t taking credit. If anything, she was giving all the credit to Rocco. And all she wanted from him was to help one of the boys living here now. Boys who were here for the same reason he’d been.
Rocco nodded. “I would be happy to meet him.”
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Thank you. Do you mind if I go get him?”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Martin rose from the table, her small, frail-looking form moving with the spryness of a much younger woman, as if Rocco’s agreement to talk to this boy had given her a new lease on life. Rocco could feel the caring just exuding from his woman.
“Stay here.” She paused in the doorway. “Thank you, Rocco, dear boy.”
She disappeared and Rocco was alone in the kitchen. How had he never realized, never seen, that the Martins were so concerned with the boys here? With him? In his mind, they’d taken care of him because they had to, not because they really worried about him and wanted him to be okay.
Had he missed an opportunity to have some sort of family? Not a conventional family but people who truly cared? He knew he had resisted any overtures of affection or concern, but he’d always told himself that was because they were given out of duty. Not out of sincerity. Not out of any real emotions.
But seeing Mrs. Martin now, and the genuine joy on her face at seeing him, the very real worry about this other boy, he wondered. Could things have been better while he was here in Beals Point, if he’d just allowed it to be?
A boy appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes sullen, his mouth set in a hard, almost petulant frown. Longish, mussed hair, a baggy T-shirt, and jeans.
Rocco was looking at himself.
“Hey,” he said to the boy.
“Hey.”
Suddenly, Rocco had a chance. A chance to change things, to finally feel like his life had played out just as it should, and it was okay.
FRANNY sat on the front steps, the sun falling lower in the sky, watching the breeze rustle leaves, feeling like a teenage girl who’d been stood up for the prom.
“Stupid,” she muttered, pushing herself up and brushing down her flowered skirt. The bed-and-breakfast was full tonight. She certainly had other things she could be doing besides feeling rejected and sorry for herself.
“Franny!”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob of the front door. She looked back toward the street. Rocco jogged down the sidewalk, waving.
Her heart leapt as he bound up onto the porch, the sea breeze ruffling his dark hair, his dark brown eyes sparkling.
As much as she hated to admit it, he looked far better than any prom date she could have imagined and she was relieved to see him.
“Sorry I missed our meeting at the diner,” he said, his deep voice a little breathless as if he’d run from wherever he’d been.
She shrugged, to act more collected than she felt. “That’s okay. Although I did wonder if you’d left town or something.”
He smiled then, and again her heart did a strange flip in her chest. “Well, I have to admit, I considered it.”
For some reason his confession stung a little, even as she told herself it shouldn’t. After all, Rocco Vincente hadn’t been back to Beals Point in fifteen years. Clearly this wasn’t a place he missed.
Stop acting like a damned teenage girl, she silently reprimanded herself again. He hadn’t even remembered her—not really. She could hardly take offense that he wasn’t thrilled to be back here. Although from his smile and glittering eyes, he didn’t look exactly like he was upset either.
“I actually went to the boys’ home and saw Mrs. Martin. I also talked for a long time with this boy who lives there now. He’s super-talented. Interested in writing and drawing.”
Franny smiled, sensing that going back to the place he’d so clearly hated in school had been good for him. Giving him some real peace.
“That’s wonderful,” she said.
He appeared a bit bemused, but he nodded. “It really was.”
For a moment, they just stood there, in the shade of the porch, the ocean air ruffling their hair, grinning at each other.
“So what are you doing now?” he asked.
His sudden question filled her with schoolgirl giddiness. An emotion that could lead to real trouble.
She hesitated, telling herself she should just say she was busy. Yes, it had been years, but for some reason, this man had always done crazy things to her insides and she got the feeling he had the ability to hurt her—badly—if she allowed herself to react to him too much.
But her sensible thoughts about self-preservation didn’t stop her from saying, “Nothing.”
“Want to go get an ice cream?”
She faltered for a second, but then nodded. “That would be nice.”
He grinned again and she was stunned at how amazingly handsome he was. Tall and muscular in a plain white button down shirt and jeans. His thick hair with a little curl at the ends, still gave him a disheveled look, even though he wore it much shorter than he had in high school. Five o’clock shadow shaded his chin and cheeks, adding to his roguish quality. But his coffee brown eyes were fringed with long, dark lashes and his lips were wide and so beautifully shaped that she’d always found his features a strange paradox of totally masculine and a little pretty. Like some artist’s depiction of the perfect man.
That hadn’t changed in fifteen years.
He gestured for her to walk down the steps ahead of him, but once they reached the sidewalk he fell into step beside her.
“So did you walk around town, too?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t been here for so long, I thought I’d look around a bit.”
“And? Just as you remembered?” She smiled. “Things don’t change much here in Beals Point.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, his attention focused on the sidewalk in front of them, then he shook his head, that strange, bemused expression back on his handsome face.
“You know, it’s actually a lot different than I remember. So how about you?” he asked suddenly. “Have you been happy here?”
Franny considered his words. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.”
He nodded, and they walked silently until they reached Afternoon Delight. Both ordered small chocolate soft-serves in a cone and sat on a bench under a large oak tree to enjoy them. The ice-cream shop was still busy even though it was close to dinnertime. Children darted around the play area, laughter and happy voices filling the air. Just a nice summer’s evening.
Franny smiled as one girl ran by sporting ice cream around her bow lips like a chocolate goatee.
“You don’t have kids?” Rocco asked.
Franny shook her head, swallowing the lick of ice cream she’d just taken. “No. No kids.”
She could feel Rocco’s eyes on her as she still watched the kids playing by the swings.
“But you want kids, don’t you?”
She nodded without hesitation. “Yeah, I do.”
Rocco shifted beside her, and she could actually feel a subtle change in the air between them like static electricity. She looked at him and he still regarded her, but she couldn’t quite r
ead his expression. Something close to bewilderment, she thought.
From his columns, Franny suspected Rocco wasn’t particularly interested in having children. He wasn’t particularly interested in marriage, either, by his own accounts. Maybe he couldn’t quite fathom why she would want a family, since he was clearly a free spirit with no desire to be tied down.
So she was initially confused when he suddenly asked, “Wait, you aren’t married, are you?”
She laughed at his almost dismayed sound. Surely he wasn’t so put off by the state of matrimony that her own marriage would disgust him.
“I was married. I married Mark Arsenault. I’m not sure if you remember him. He graduated with us.”
Unsurprisingly, he shook his head. “Not really.”
“Well, we married shortly after high school.” After Rocco had left town and all her hopes of her high school crush were gone. “But we only made it four years before we parted ways. He’s remarried now, living in Bangor.”
A strange sense of relief spread through Rocco, making his muscles almost weak. He shouldn’t be so pleased to flnd out she was single. But he was.
Rocco continued to study Franny. He realized he’d been staring at her since they sat down, but he couldn’t seem to stop. For two reasons.
One, she had that serene way about her that he found fascinating. Maybe because it was so different from the intense, harried energy of New York, but whatever the reason, he found her easy tranquillity very . . . well, calming.
Yet exciting, too, he realized. Her movements were languid, graceful—and sexy. She licked the side of her ice-cream cone and he felt his body react.
Which brought him to the second reason he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She really was lovely. Her hair fell in loose curls around her pale, elfin face. Freckles, faint and golden, dotted her nose and those pale, pale blue eyes of hers were so unusual, almost hypnotic. Her lips were small but full. The kind of lips made for kissing.
He shifted, forcing himself to think about what they’d been discussing. Her divorce.
Damn, Rocco, don’t be a total idiot here.
