Since he’d been cooped up inside for hours, he wandered out to the backyard, feeling ridiculous, like he should be carrying a pot roast to complete the ensemble. There he found his mother in the gazebo. She had her easel set up and had dragged one of the living room barstools out to sit on.
“Should I leave you alone?” he asked.
She glanced up and smiled at him. “Of course not. I can paint and chat at the same time. Come sit down.”
He crossed the bridge and climbed the steps. He sat on the empty bench behind her. From this angle, he could see the landscape she was painting of the pond. Aiden was no judge of paintings, but it seemed fairly good to him. The proportions and perspective were correct, at least to his eye, and the colors were vibrant and beautiful.
His mother had laid her oil paints out on an old towel on one of the gazebo’s curved benches. She dipped her brush into a splotch of pale green on the palette in her left hand, but she hesitated as she took in the gloves on his hands. Her brow creased in concern. “Your hands are aching again?”
“They always do, when I play too long.”
She set her brush down on the bottom shelf of the easel and turned to face him. “Your father tells me they’re not healing as fast as they should be….”
Aiden shook his head and said grimly, “I don’t know. I mean… they’ve healed. But the doctors don’t think they’ll ever get much better than they are now.”
“I heard you playing earlier,” she said. “It sounded beautiful.”
He knew her knowledge of music was on par with his knowledge of oil painting. He doubted she even knew which piece he’d been playing. But he was grateful for her attempt at encouragement. “Thank you.”
She smiled and turned back to her painting. As she lifted the brush and touched it to the canvas, she said casually, “You seem to be spending a lot of time with Dean.”
Aiden smiled. “We had lunch together.” Then he added, “As friends.”
He couldn’t deny he was interested in taking their relationship further than that, but Dean had been right. They felt as if they knew each other, but they really didn’t. Too many years had passed. Their initial relationship had been less than a year long. They’d known each other casually before that, of course—they’d been in the same grade their entire lives up to that point. But Dean had only taken an interest in Aiden around Christmastime that year, and their first kiss had been in the gazebo that spring.
That thought made Aiden flush, since his mother was currently sitting not far from where that kiss had taken place and she was looking right at him.
“We might be interested in each other,” he admitted. “But I’ve only been back in town a little over a week. We need time to sort things out.”
“Of course.” The smile she gave him, before turning back to her painting, was a little too smug for his liking.
“If I do manage to… get past this”—he held up his mittened hands—“I might have to go back to New York. Or maybe some other city. But it’s not likely I could live here and continue working.”
“I think I’m a bit lost,” she said. “Didn’t you say you weren’t in any shape to perform professionally? Have you changed your mind about that?”
Aiden hesitated. “I don’t know. Julie—the friend of mine who called yesterday—had an offer for me. An orchestra down in Manchester is looking for a pianist for just one performance. I’d be lying if I said I was confident I could do it. There are times when I think I could. Other times… it seems ridiculous.” He looked down at his hands. “But part of me is afraid to turn it down. I mean… it’s the first offer I’ve gotten in over a year….”
She turned back to him, her smile wistful now. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see how things work out.”
Aiden nodded, wishing he at least knew what he wanted—to go back to work or settle down. He honestly didn’t know which would make him happy. The thought of being with Dean was enticing. What he’d felt for him all those years ago hadn’t disappeared. He’d thought it had, but it had just lain dormant. Now it was waking. Every moment he wasn’t at the piano, Dean was on his mind.
But could he be happy living here, giving up his music? Playing in an occasional local function—town fairs, church socials, school rallies—perhaps giving lessons to the next up-and-coming pianist from Springhaven, if there was one.
Or maybe I won’t even have that. Maybe I’ll just gradually wither up, until one day I realize I haven’t touched the piano in years….
The choice might not even be his to make. He flexed his hands inside the mittens and wondered at his audacity. Did he really think his hands were likely to heal enough for him to go back onstage? After all this time?
Chapter Fourteen
DEAN pulled into Rick’s driveway and shut the engine off.
“I’m not sure this is a great idea,” he said.
Sarah sat in the passenger seat, watching the front door with trepidation. “Can you talk to him before I get out? See what kind of mood he’s in?”
“You mean, see if he’ll shoot me?”
She smiled at him uncertainly. “He wouldn’t do that.” Then her smile faltered. “Would he?”
“You stay here a minute,” Dean said grimly. He opened his door and stepped down to the driveway.
He was pretty sure Rick wasn’t dangerous. The problem was, he wasn’t absolutely sure. And the last thing he wanted was to put Sarah in danger. But she’d insisted she needed to talk to the idiot, when she’d found out how badly he was falling apart.
I should’ve kept my goddamn mouth shut.
When he was halfway up the front walk, the door opened, and Rick stepped out onto his porch.
He still looked like hell. His hair was a mess, as if he’d just crawled out of bed, even though it was late afternoon, and Dean was certain the grubby shirt he had on was the same one he’d been wearing the day before. He looked at Sarah in the cab of the truck, and then turned his glare on Dean. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“I made the mistake of telling Sarah what a sorry state you were in when I saw you yesterday,” Dean said, approaching him warily. “She insisted on coming to see you.”
“Then why the fuck am I talking to you?”
Dean stopped at Rick’s front step and looked up at him. “Because I don’t want her getting out of that truck until I’m sure she’s safe.”
“Safe?” Rick looked as if he’d been slapped. “I’ve never laid a hand on her—not to hurt her—and you know it!” He raised his voice and directed his words at Sarah. “What has this asshole been telling you?”
Dean held up a hand. “I didn’t say anything but the truth. When I came over here yesterday, you were waving a gun at me.”
“A BB gun! And you said yourself I wasn’t aiming at you.”
Dean nodded. “That’s what it looked like to me. If it had looked any different, I wouldn’t have brought her here. But I’d feel a lot better if you handed it over to me before she got out of the truck.”
“Oh, for—” Rick growled in frustration and disappeared back into the house. A moment later, he stepped out onto the porch again and shoved the BB gun at Dean. “Here! Take it! Anything else you want, dumbass?”
“You got any other weapons?”
“You can go look through the kitchen for knives if it’ll make you happy.” He was still snarling, but his eyes were on Sarah the entire time. Dean wasn’t fooled by his bravado—Rick was scared shitless. Sarah had refused to come anywhere near him since the divorce a year ago, and he looked like he’d cut off his left nut if only she’d get out of the truck and speak to him for a few minutes.
Dean walked back to the truck, opened the chest in the truck bed, and set the air rifle inside it. Then he closed and locked it and went to the open driver side door.
“You still want to talk to him?” he asked Sarah.
She pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something unpleasant, but she opened her door and jumped down. Then she
walked around to the front of the truck. “How you doing, Rick?”
Rick couldn’t meet her gaze. After a long silence, he asked, “What do you need?”
“I’m kinda worried about you,” Sarah said frankly. “You look a mess! When’s the last time you took a shower?”
Rick shrugged. “I can take one right now if it’ll make you happy….”
“Have you been going to work like that?”
“I work in a warehouse,” Rick said, spreading his arms widely. “It’s ninety degrees in there. We’re all sweatin’ like pigs.”
“Oh, Rick.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “Go take a shower. I’ll be out here waiting for you.”
“What for?”
“So we can talk.”
Grumbling to himself about being bossed around in his own home, Rick went back inside. Sarah peered in through the screen door and shuddered.
“God! It looks like he’s got every dish in the house and every bit of clothing he owns piled in the living room!”
“I told you,” Dean said. “He’s falling apart.”
She turned to him and gave him a wan smile. “I think you should probably go.”
“And leave you here by yourself?” He wasn’t crazy about that idea. Rick was unstable. Maybe not dangerously so, but….
“I’m not afraid of him, Dean,” Sarah insisted. “Yes, I can see he’s a mess. I think he needs to get some help. But I know him, and he would never hurt me or anyone.”
She was probably right. But still….
“How much do I owe you for putting up the bat houses?” Sarah asked.
Dean scoffed. “For hammering a few nails? Nothing. But listen to me. If he gives you any trouble—”
“He won’t.” Sarah shook her head, but she was smiling. “I swear, it’s like having an overprotective big brother.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you call me as soon as you get home, or I’ll fret about it all night.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I promise. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
AIDEN turned the shower off and slid the glass door open. He swiped his wet hair out of his eyes with one hand and reached for the towel. By the time he’d dried himself off, that same hair was sticking up in all directions, but he’d forgotten to bring his brush into the bathroom. It was sitting in his toilet kit on top of his dresser. He thought about using his parents’ brush for a moment, but using somebody else’s hairbrush had always felt weird to him, so he wrapped the plush towel around his waist and stepped out into the hall.
And there was Dean, standing in front of Aiden’s bedroom door with his hand raised as if he were about to knock.
“Uh… hey,” Aiden said, acutely aware Dean hadn’t seen him this undressed since tenth grade gym class.
Dean looked just as startled as Aiden felt. “Oh.” He leaned over the banister and said loudly, “Your dad told me you were in your room.”
Aiden’s father trotted up the stairs just high enough to peer into the upper hall through the banister railing. He took in his son’s state of undress and huffed. “Don’t blame me if he’s running around the hall half-naked.”
Aiden frowned down at him. “Didn’t you hear the shower running?”
“With Poirot on? Somebody was being murdered!” His father glanced behind him as another scream came from the television. “Gotta go!”
He disappeared downstairs, leaving Aiden and Dean alone.
“I can wait for you down in the living room,” Dean said, looking away from Aiden’s naked torso and shifting his weight awkwardly.
Aiden shook his head and gave him an exasperated smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’ve never changed in front of strange men in gym locker rooms.”
“Am I a strange man?”
“Absolutely.”
He opened his bedroom door and went inside, leaving Dean to make up his own mind about whether he wanted to follow. Aiden wasn’t sure if this counted as flirting. He supposed it did. Part of him hoped Dean would take the opportunity to check him out.
Aiden rummaged through his upper drawer for a fresh pair of boxer briefs. Then he dropped the towel and slipped into them. When he turned around, Dean was standing in the doorway, and he was definitely checking Aiden out. He looked up quickly and his eyes caught Aiden’s. Face flushing, Dean glanced away.
When did you become so adorably self-conscious?
“So what’s up?” Aiden asked, as he slid open the drawer holding his slacks.
“I just came from Rick Wallace’s,” Dean replied. “I needed a break.”
“A break? From what?”
“Do you remember Sarah Cassidy?”
Aiden thought back to their high school years. “Uh… kind of short? Brown hair? Looked like a young Sally Fields?”
“That’s her. She married Rick. But then he fucked it all up by cheating on her with Leanne Trumbull, who was her best friend at the time.”
“Ouch.” Aiden withdrew a pair of light gray slacks and slipped into them.
Dean came into the room and sat on Aiden’s bed. “Yeah. So, anyway, they divorced. And Rick’s been losing it ever since. The stupid fuck waved a BB gun in my face yesterday!”
“So now you need someone to help bury the body?” Aiden teased as he threaded his leather belt through the waistband of the pants. “Or did you already dissolve him in a tub full of acid?”
Dean smirked at him. “I didn’t lay a finger on him.”
“The old Dean would have pummeled him.”
“Maybe,” Dean said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “But he wasn’t gonna hurt me. I knew that. He was just being an asshole.”
“Why?”
Dean shrugged. “He wants her back, and he’s miserable. So he’s gnawing his own leg off, trying to get out of the trap he set for himself.”
“That’s very… poetic. I guess.”
Dean snorted, but he didn’t say anything further.
Aiden went to the closet and opened it. He hadn’t brought many clothes with him from New York, but he had nine or ten shirts hanging there. He picked a pale green one, perhaps inspired by his mother’s painting that afternoon. “You said he threatened you yesterday. Why did you go back today?”
“Because,” Dean said, shaking his head, “I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I told Sarah about it.”
“She wanted you to go see Rick again?”
Dean stood and paced around the room as he spoke. “No! She insisted she had to go see him. I tried to talk her out of it—I mean, I had no idea how he’d react. He could’ve threatened her or…. God knows! But she wouldn’t be talked out of it. So I drove her there and at least made sure I got the damned gun away from Rick before I let him talk to her.”
“How did it go?” Aiden drew the shirt on and started buttoning it up.
Dean stopped moving and rested his butt against the frame of one of the bedroom windows. Outside, the sky was turning orange with sunset. “Okay, I guess. She made me take off while they talked. But she just called me and told me she’d gotten a ride home from Rick. I guess the conversation was good, and they’re talking again.”
“So everything worked out?”
“Maybe.” Dean didn’t sound convinced. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with one hand. “I guess I kinda feel betrayed by Rick too. I mean, we were best friends. We told each other everything. And then I found out he was fuckin’ around on one of my other good friends, and he had the fucking nerve to tell me I wasn’t his friend if I wouldn’t keep it from her.” He folded his arms across his chest, but his eyes were unfocused, remembering. “I kept the secret for a while, hating myself for it, until I finally convinced him to come clean with Sarah. Guess who he blamed for the divorce.”
Aiden felt a twinge of jealousy, hearing Dean call Rick his best friend, but that was stupid. Ignoring it, he moved close to Dean and gripped his upper arm gently. The temptation to pull him in for a hug was strong, but he wasn’t sure Dean would welcome it. “
Rick can fuck himself, okay? He’s lucky you didn’t call Sarah the moment you found out. The only person doing anything wrong was him. And Leanne, of course.”
“You know what bugs me the most?” Dean asked, turning his head slightly to focus on Aiden’s face. “He knows that. I know he does.”
“Well, maybe he’ll eventually stop pretending he doesn’t.”
Dean shrugged. “Anyway, I need to de-stress. Want to go for a walk?”
Chapter Fifteen
THEY walked down Birch Street in the opposite direction from town. Here, the houses thinned out until they were walking by open fields, small copses of birch trees, and stands of hemlock. As they neared the river, the road curved to the right, but they continued straight, walking into an overgrown field.
“I was afraid someone had built a condo or something here,” Aiden said.
Dean spread his arms wide to take in the field and the stretch of woods that followed the riverbank. “Nope. Old Man Peterson is still alive, believe it or not.”
“Jesus! He was ancient when we were kids.”
“He’s in his nineties now,” Dean said. “But he’s still sharp as a tack. And he refuses to sell this land. He wants it to go to his grandkids, when they’re old enough.”
The woods were mostly small trees like chokecherry, quaking aspen, and more of the ubiquitous white and golden birch found in northern New Hampshire, so there weren’t many trees more than thirty or forty feet high. The trunks were seldom more than a handsbreadth in diameter, if that. But there was plenty of cover near the river, with just a couple of walking paths through the undergrowth. It was a wonderfully isolated location for two teenagers looking for a place to make out.
When they reached the riverbank, Aiden exclaimed in delight, “The rope swing!”
One of the few really large trees along the bank—an oak—had a low-hanging branch that extended out over a moderately shallow, slow-moving part of the river. Long before Dean and Aiden’s time, somebody had tied a thick, knotted rope to the branch for people to swing out and drop into the water.
Small Town Sonata Page 8
