Own the Night

by Debbi Rawlins

  If he’d seemed repulsed or disappointed or shocked, none of those reactions would’ve surprised her. His sudden laughter caught her off guard. “Yeah, I think you’ve tied everything up in a nice neat package.”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “I just heard the back door…must be my dad. Come meet him, and then you can watch me make the mashed potatoes and gravy. You might learn something,” he said with a teasing wink.

  Her eye roll spoke for her. She took another small sip of wine and followed him into the brightly lit kitchen with ruffled, pink gingham curtains and buttery-yellow walls. Celia was at the stove, and a tall, lean man with short dark hair stood at the sink washing his hands. His jeans and green flannel shirt were both faded, but his work boots were remarkably clean.

  “Hey, Pop, I want you to meet Alana.”

  In no apparent hurry, his father shut off the faucet, shook the water from his hands, then turned as he grabbed a striped hand towel off the counter. He wasn’t being standoffish, she quickly realized. It was just his laid-back way, much like his son’s.

  Giving her a friendly smile that reached his blue eyes, he made sure his hands were completely dry before he extended one to her. “I’m David Calder,” he said. “Glad you could make it to supper with us.”

  “Thanks for having me.”

  He had a firm grip that made his welcome genuine and stirred something in her that was a bit unsettling. Due to her own bias, she’d expected someone different. She knew he was a rancher who’d lived his entire life right here, and she’d seen the rustic pipe near the ashtray, all of which, for her, hadn’t added up to this handsome, distinguished-looking man. Put him in a suit, give him a decent haircut and he would’ve fit right in with the retired attorneys or judges who served on so many charity boards.

  His palm was rough, though, and his skin tanned and slightly weathered. But for a man who had to be in his early sixties, he still had a relatively unlined face, and looked quite a bit younger than his wife. If Alana were Celia, she’d really hate that.

  “Do I have time for a quick shower before we eat?” David asked Noah, and not his wife, which Alana found odd.

  “Go ahead, Pop, I still have a few things to do.”

  “I have to put the biscuits in the oven yet,” Celia said, as if to herself, and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks.

  The two men exchanged a cryptic glance, and then David left the kitchen and Noah went to work getting out bowls and whisks and other gadgets.

  Alana set her glass out of the way. “Give me something to do.”

  “No, you’re our guest.” Celia spun around, her elbow catching a glass pitcher and knocking it off the counter.

  Noah’s hands shot out, his reflexes lightning fast, and he caught it not two feet from the floor.

  Celia pressed a hand to her heart. “Thank you, son. You know that belonged to your great-grandmother.”

  He nodded, his mouth curving in a faint smile of someone who’d heard those words a hundred times.

  The rest of the dinner preparation went by smoothly, with Noah doing most of the work. By the time they sat down to the meal of delicious-smelling chicken with all the trimmings, Alana couldn’t decide which she was more starved for, the food or answers to the questions formed while observing mother and son.

  Their complex and delicate relationship intrigued the hell out of her. Throw reserved, emotionally detached David into the mix, and if Eleanor had been here, she would’ve had a field day analyzing everyone.

  “So you’re from New York, is it?” Celia asked pleasantly, her food barely touched, her slightly unsteady hand reaching for the glass of wine to the right of her plate.

  She was the only one who’d joined Alana in imbibing with dinner. Noah had had half a beer while making the gravy and whipping the potatoes. David quietly sipped black coffee while he ate. Alana had tried to stop her sherry glass from being topped off, but Celia had insisted.

  “Yes, Manhattan,” Alana replied, avoiding Noah’s gaze, because this was the third time she’d responded to the inquiry since they’d sat down forty minutes ago. “The meal was incredible. I never have home cooking, and I’ve eaten so much I’m ready to burst.”

  “Is that your subtle way of trying to get out of doing dishes?” Noah had finished his second helping and started stacking plates.

  “Alana is our guest,” Celia said in a disapproving voice. She didn’t seem as sharp as when they’d first arrived, and Alana fleetingly wondered if illness, medication or alcohol was the cause. “Besides, we still have pie.”

  Noah hesitated, and then with a small smile, patted his flat belly. “I don’t think so, Mom.”

  Sitting at the head of the table, David was quiet, as he’d been through most of dinner, but he looked like a man who really wanted a smoke. Or to be anywhere else.

  Celia ignored her husband and son. “Alana, how about a piece of apple pie? It’s my specialty. The trick is extra cinnamon,” she said, the last few words coming out painfully garbled.

  Though no one said anything, Alana felt the tension coming at her in waves. Noah sent her a quick glance that indicated it was time to go, then picked up the stack of dishes. David watched Celia reach for her wine, the resignation in his eyes unmistakable as he pushed back from the table and murmured an excuse to slip away.

  Celia sighed, her shoulders sagging in helpless defeat.

  Alana toyed with her napkin. So this wasn’t the Norman Rockwell picture she’d expected. At least Celia was trying, and Alana couldn’t let the evening end on this note. It would be horrible…for Celia, for Noah, for everyone.

  “Alana, how about some help with washing the dishes?” Noah stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, his expression pointed.

  “Sure,” she said, purposefully keeping her gaze even with his. “Right after I have some of your mother’s pie.”

  11

  HIS SHOULDERS AND NECK TIGHT from tension, Noah brought the pie to the table, along with dessert plates and a carafe of fresh coffee. He didn’t know what the hell Alana was up to. No way she hadn’t figured out his mother had had too much to drink. Why stay and prolong the agony? He’d made it pretty damn plain that it was time to leave. Jesus, they’d made it through dinner without an incident. He didn’t want to press his luck. The pie? Who knew how that had turned out. Though Celia had kept herself together up until supper.

  He’d made peace with his mother’s drinking problem years ago, and he’d even forgiven… No, not forgiven. He now understood why his father had emotionally distanced himself from her. It had nothing to do with not caring, or giving up. That was the only way a person could live with a drunk on a daily basis. His dad still loved her, just as Noah did. Detaching from the behavior meant you could stay and not go crazy or end up hating. The emotional separation allowed you to be real clear that there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it except be there if and when the time came that she decided she’d had enough and wanted help. He’d read enough books, talked to enough recovering alcoholics, to know he was doing the right thing.

  The “if” part was still hard, though. Sometimes Noah wanted to shake her, force her to face the fact that she was missing out on her grandchildren’s lives. At one time she’d lived for the day she’d have grandbabies, and now they’d been taken from her because watching and waiting for the other shoe to drop was too painful for everyone. Had he been in his kid sister’s place, he’d have done the same thing. The children had to be the first priority.

  Although he knew Alana was watching him, Noah refused to look at her. He wasn’t embarrassed by his mother; her problem was her shame to carry, not his. But he was a little pissed off at Alana for ignoring his cue to leave, and now wasn’t the time to let it show.

  Surveying the pie, knife, plates and clean forks, he asked, “Did I forget anything?” They were gonna eat their pie, fast, and then they would leave.

  “The silver pie server woul
d be nice. It’ll keep the pieces intact,” his mother said, sounding surprisingly sober.

  He glanced at her, and she gave him a tentative smile, full of apology and pleading and gratitude all mashed up together. “Sure,” he said, noticing that she’d pushed her wine aside and reached for the coffee carafe. “I’ll get it.”

  Emotion welled in his chest. For one tiny second she looked like the old Celia, the mom who’d cheered louder than anyone at his varsity football games. Maybe he was too old to want that mother back, but he did.

  He found the serving gadget sitting on the counter, and returned to the dining room. This time he did look at Alana while she was busy swapping stories with his mom. She seemed totally relaxed, listening intently, as if his mother were the most important person in Blackfoot Falls. When had someone last treated Celia Calder like that?

  They both laughed suddenly. He didn’t hear what was said, but the sound snapped him out of his preoccupation. “Go ahead and cut the pie. I’ll go find Dad.”

  “You know he’s probably having his smoke.” She shrugged at Alana and picked up the knife, a slight tremor in her hand.

  “Would you like me to cut that?” Alana offered. “I can’t have Noah accuse me of slacking off.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll try not to lick my fingers,” Alana said, grinning, and his mother smiled back, any momentary awkwardness erased.

  He found his father on the porch. Prepared to bodily drag him inside if need be, Noah was still relieved when it turned out that wasn’t necessary. They all sat at the table again, each with a piece of pie.

  “You said earlier your mother is a psychiatrist?”

  At his father’s voice, Noah jerked a look at him. He hadn’t uttered more than a dozen words since they’d started supper.

  Alana had just taken a bite of pie and nodded, touching a napkin to the corner of her mouth.

  “You haven’t mentioned your father.”

  She put her fork down. “I don’t know him,” she said with slow deliberation. “He’s never been in my life.”

  “Oh.”

  Noah had to control a smile at the oh-shit look on his father’s face. Poor guy finally opened his mouth and he ended up sticking his foot in it. Not really, but Noah knew that’s what was going through his head.

  “Were your parents divorced?” Noah asked, to get his father off the hook, and because Alana had evaded the subject yesterday.

  “Never married.” She picked up her fork again and focused on slicing off a bite of pie. “Eleanor used a sperm donor.”

  Of all the things she could’ve said, he wasn’t expecting that explanation.

  “You call your mother by her first name?” his mom asked, mild disapproval in her voice.

  “She prefers that I do.” Alana shrugged. “She isn’t what one would call a conventional maternal figure.”

  Even in his mother’s slightly inebriated condition, Noah doubted she missed the underlying sarcasm in Alana’s tone. But the tinge of sadness in her eyes was what got to him. Though she tried to sound matter-of-fact, her eyes told the truth. She knew disappointment well.

  “I was basically raised by a nanny until I went to boarding school. When I came home for weekends and holidays, the housekeeper was there when Eleanor wasn’t. Grade school was a bit difficult. Even the kids with divorced parents had someone show up for functions. Sometimes I did wish…” She stared down at her pie and slowly carved out another bite. “This is delicious. I’d ask for the recipe except I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  Noah smiled. His parents just stared at her.

  Finally, his mother asked, “Does…Eleanor…live in New York, too?”

  “Not far from me. We see each other a couple times a month, usually for lunch or dinner at a restaurant. I like keeping our visits to a time limit.”

  His parents shared a glance. They hadn’t done that in front of him in a while. Then Celia asked, “Do you ever wonder about your—the man who fathered you?”

  “I don’t think of him as my father. He donated his sperm for money, which, by the way, I don’t begrudge him. He didn’t want to be a parent. Some people shouldn’t be.” Alana’s lips curved in a sad smile. “Like Eleanor. Oh, I do love her and I’m grateful for the advantages she gave me. We simply don’t—” Alana blushed, her eyes widening for a moment. “I’m sorry, I seem to have told you more than you needed to hear.”

  “Nonsense.” Celia reached across the table and gave her hand a hearty pat. “You’ve been the highlight of my week. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. You’re welcome here anytime.”

  Noah shoveled in his last two bites and chewed quickly. He wiped his mouth, threw his napkin onto his plate. “It has been nice, Mom, but we do have to go. I have to stop by the office and check in with Roy before it gets too late.”

  “Oh.” She seemed disappointed, but then smiled. “When do you leave, Alana? Maybe you two can come back for dinner again before you go.”

  No guarantees were made, only that Noah promised he’d call later in the week. They said their goodbyes quickly, with hugs all around, after his father shocked him by offering to help wash the dishes so that they could start back to town. And it wasn’t because he was trying to get rid of them. The man even stepped out onto the porch to wave. Another shocker.

  It was a dark, moonless night, with nothing but trees and nocturnal creatures between the family ranch and Blackfoot Falls. Noah and Alana had driven for five minutes before she broke the silence. “You’re mad at me for prolonging dinner, but I’m not sorry that I did,” she said, keeping her gaze on the road ahead. “So if you’re waiting for an apology you might as well give up.”

  “I don’t expect one. No reason for it.”

  She turned to look at him. “They’re nice people. I wish I could’ve met your sisters.”

  “And my nieces?” he asked, smiling.

  “No, they would’ve scared me to death.”

  “Yeah, me, too, sometimes.” He shook his head. “I don’t envy my sister and brother-in-law when the girls get to be teenagers.”

  “Teenagers? Ha. Twelve-year-old girls are sexting boys these days.”

  Noah groaned. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

  “It’s the truth. No sense sugarcoating things.”

  He let her words float around in his head for a minute, dissecting them three ways to Wednesday. “You think I should’ve warned you about my mother.”

  “Only if you think I should’ve kept my mouth shut about Eleanor.”

  He’d guessed at her intention during dessert, and her quick, impassive response confirmed his suspicion. Whether she’d admit it or not, she’d learned a few tricks from her mother. “I knew what you were doing and I appreciate it.”

  “What was I doing?”

  “Deflecting for Mom, sympathizing, laying yourself open and making sure we knew you didn’t come from a perfect cookie-cutter background.” He smiled at her slack-jawed stare. “Do I need to go on?”

  Finally, she sighed, a quiet sound of resignation. “You give me too much credit.” She slumped back. “I got a little carried away with the sperm donor thing. Way too much information.”

  Chuckling, Noah shook his head. “You East Coast people…”

  “What?”

  “You call that getting carried away? Spend another afternoon at the diner or the Watering Hole.”

  “What does it have to do with being from the East Coast?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “People gossip and blab no matter where they’re from. I hear it in the break room at work. I can’t even grab a cup of coffee in peace. It drives me crazy.” She reached over and rubbed his thigh. “You didn’t, though. I respect that.”

  “Tell you about my mom?” It was hard to keep his focus with Alana’s hand on his leg. He shrugged. “Not my story to tell. If I could take the burden from her, I would. But I can’t. I love her, and that’s all I can do. Though I’m g
lad you didn’t feel ambushed.”

  After a moment’s silence, Alana said, “You’re a great son, you know that?” She squeezed his thigh. Nothing sexual, more a friendly gesture, but his brain was having trouble communicating that to his cock. “And she was absolutely lovely. She’s lonely and misses her daughters and grandkids.”

  “I know.”

  “But I understand.” Alana cleared her throat. “I really do. Family stuff can be so damn complicated. See, if it had been my mother I wouldn’t have been able to bear listening to her patronizing tone, seeing the bored look on her face. Only I would know, because she’s excellent at hiding her feelings, but it would kill me. So in that regard, I apologize for drawing out the evening if it made you uncomfortable.”

  “You’re pretty good at hiding, yourself.”

  “I am.” She moved her hand. “I’m damn good at it. All those why-don’t-you-have-a-dad questions when you’re little really tend to toughen one up.”

  He hadn’t meant to upset her. “When I was a kid, I hated to be in public with her, or around her at all. That’s why I mostly hung out at the McAllisters.”

  “Is that why you moved to Chicago?” Alana asked.

  “Who told you I lived there?” Noah wasn’t necessarily surprised, more curious about what she’d heard. “Sadie?”

  “Yes, she mentioned it. So did your mom. She said you came back after your older sister took off.” Alana paused. “Your mom told me about the miscarriages, too.”

  “Did she?” Now that did throw him off. He’d hoped his mother didn’t think about that dark time in her life anymore. But wasn’t that part of the reason she drank? Naive and foolish of him to think she’d shaken off the past.

  “Yes, she said that your sisters were ten and fourteen, you were almost thirteen, and her getting pregnant had been a shock to her and your father.”

  Noah was glad when Alana stopped talking. God knew he was well acquainted with the rest of the story: the resigned joy, the miscarriage, the second miscarriage, his mom’s descent into the bottle.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I brought it up.” Alana turned her head to look out at the darkness. “That’s not true,” she said, bringing her gaze back to him. “I was feeling defensive because I assumed you thought, ironically, that I’d been gossiping. So I very clumsily tried to let you know I came by the information honestly.”