Picket Fence Surprise

by Kris Fletcher

  “Yeah.”

  “I hate to tell you that you’re being a dumb-ass, Xander, but if the name fits...”

  Xander scowled.

  “At the very least,” Ian said, “you’re putting the cart before the horse.”

  “I don’t think so. Not over this.”

  “Xander, let me share the wisdom of my advanced years and experience.”

  “You’re six months younger than me.”

  “It’s not the years, it’s the mileage. Anyway. Here’s what I’ve figured out about women. You can think you found the most perfect woman in the world, only to have it all fall apart before you have an idea it’s crumbling.”

  Xander stayed silent. This was an area where Ian unfortunately did have some painful, pre-Darcy experience.

  “And then you can find someone who seems like the last person you should get involved with, because it could lead to too many problems down the road, but you know what? If you’re really determined to be together and make it work, you will.”

  “Even if you’re talking major life issues?” Xander decided to risk the biggie. “Like kids?”

  Ian reared back. “Seriously?”

  Xander nodded.

  “Shit. You’re right. That’s a tough one.”

  Xander wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better or worse.

  After a long draw on his beer, Ian leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Okay. I agree. I thought you were talking something small, like you live in different cities, or you’re a demon and she’s an exorcist. But I stand by my answer. And here’s why.” He leveled one finger in Xander’s direction. “There aren’t any guarantees in this life. People who want half a dozen kids find out they can’t get pregnant. People who know they don’t want any have an oops and end up ecstatic. People who think they’re perfect for each other end up divorced in six months.”

  “So you’re saying to ignore the fact that there’s an issue?”

  “Don’t ignore it. But I would say, don’t let it be the deciding factor. Not by itself, at least. Because you have no idea what the future holds.” He raised his bottle. “And if you do, you should quit working at the dairy and start raking in big bucks by betting on horse races.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HEATHER AND MILLIE spent the weekend painting stars on the furniture for Millie’s newly finished room. At night she alternated between putting the finishing touches on her presentation and texting with Xander. Sometimes they talked about her job prospects.

  Most of the time they did not.

  There had been just enough sauciness in their exchanges that by the time Sunday night arrived and he showed up at her door, she all but yanked the pizza box from his hands and dragged him upstairs. Except her room was at the far end of the hall and he grabbed her as soon as they hit the top step, and the next thing she knew she was mostly naked against the wall.

  And after that? All she could say was that she had never been so glad to hear that a guy had a condom in his pocket. And the carpet runner on the hall floor had never come in so handy.

  She was still feeling the afterglow—and, yeah, the burn—when she walked into Tim Hortons on Monday night for her meeting with Hank. This time, at least, she wouldn’t need to worry about Xander showing up in the next booth and distracting her. She had given him strict instructions to stay away. Tonight, she needed to focus.

  Because tonight they were going to have a serious talk about custody.

  Hank wasn’t there yet. For that, she gave thanks. She had hoped to be first tonight, to give her time to have all her wits about her. She set her drink on the table and busied herself with arranging her phone, her notebook, her pen. Silly, she knew. But seeing her things laid out, handy and orderly, made her feel that she could pull off this request just as neatly.

  She placed the most important item on her seat, between her and the wall: a tiny photo of her and Millie, taken just this weekend. They were posing in front of the starry dresser, grinning and flushed, covered with paint and glowing with pleasure. She had taken it on a whim, but when she showed it to Xander, he told her to print it out and keep it within sight when she talked to Hank.

  “That way,” he had said, “if you start to get nervous, or feel like you can’t do it, you’ll have a touchstone.”

  “Hey.” Hank slid into the booth across from her, setting his frozen lemonade on a napkin. “Sorry I’m late. Noah’s cutting his first tooth, and we were out of baby pain reliever, so I had to wait for Brynn to run out and grab some before I could leave.”

  As long as he hadn’t been having a last-minute consultation with his lawyer, she could forgive him anything.

  “Not to worry. Poor Noah. How is he?”

  “We’ve had a couple of rough nights, but I think Brynn is feeling it more than he is. Mostly he stares at us with this look on his face like who the hell stole his happy world?”

  Heather laughed, but she was torn between sympathy—a teething baby was no fun for anyone—and anxiety that Hank wouldn’t have time for a serious discussion, that he would be too exhausted, that the edginess she sensed in him was due less to worry over Noah and more to worry over his other child...

  She tapped the photo at her side.

  “Let’s get right to it, then.” She pulled her notebook toward her. “Calendar check first?”

  They worked their way through the usual items—an upcoming birthday party, back to school shopping, how things would shift once science camp ended in a week. Nothing seemed urgent or worrisome. That would change, though, once school started in September, which meant that Heather really needed to broach the topic of custody tonight.

  Part of her still shied away. Wait until you’ve had your interview, whispered the voice of doom. Wait until you have a job offer.

  But Millie had waited long enough.

  “There’s one more thing.” She shifted to allow herself one steadying peek at the joy on her girl’s paint-spattered face. “Now that we’ve both had a chance to get used to the idea, I think it’s time for us to discuss a more equitable distribution of time with Millie.”

  Was it her imagination, or had everyone in the store stopped to stare?

  Hank opened his mouth. Heather braced herself for the accusation she was pretty sure was coming—the reminder that Heather could have had a lot more time with Millie if she had stuck around, the fact that Heather had nobody but herself to blame if she wasn’t happy with how things had turned out.

  Instead, Hank let out a long and weary sigh.

  “You said...back when you first moved to Ottawa. You said you weren’t trying to interfere. You told me flat out you didn’t want to upset things.”

  “I didn’t. I still don’t. And if Millie hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t be asking.” She leaned forward, damp palms on the table. “She’s growing up, Hank. It’s only natural that she wants her mom.”

  He stared at his cup.

  “When you left,” he began, and Heather braced herself.

  “After you left, I came the closest I ever have to actually hating someone.”

  Heather ordered herself to stay focused. Hank wasn’t saying anything she didn’t know already, nothing he didn’t have every right to say. She could feel later.

  “I wanted to hate you. It would have made it easier, you know?” He ripped a shred off the napkin beneath his cup. “I think I could have pulled it off, too, except Ma got after me. She told me that even if I never said anything against you in front of Millie, she’d still pick up on it. And if I thought life was complicated being a single dad out of the blue, it would be a hell of a lot worse if Mills figured out that I hated you. Because Millie still loved you. And she always would, no matter what you—”

  He stopped. Heather gave silent thanks for the moment of resp
ite.

  “Ma was right. No surprise there.” He managed something that bore a vague resemblance to a smile. “I didn’t want to listen, but you know her. I didn’t want to...okay, yeah. I did. I wanted to find a way to make you hurt, too. And I probably would have used Millie to do it, because I wasn’t feeling too charitable back in those days, you know?”

  Could she blame him? No.

  Had she expected to ache at his resurrected anguish? No. Yet she did. For a fleeting moment, she wished she had the right to take his hand, not as his former wife but as someone who still wanted only good for him.

  “It took a long time for me to really believe what you kept telling me. About you being in a bad way, being all messed up. I thought you were just... I don’t know. Selfish. Stupid. I don’t think I really got it until you moved back here. Now I see who you are, and I remember who you were then, and I can see the difference. You’re more... I don’t know. Centered. Together. It’s like you threw away whole chunks of yourself, and all that’s left is the good stuff.”

  Tears tightened her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered. Other than Millie’s continued love, there was no better testament that she had won.

  “But I have to be honest, Heather. Part of me still isn’t sure about you.”

  “In your shoes, I would probably feel the same.”

  “But you’re asking for this anyway.”

  “Because Millie asked for it.”

  Hank crossed his arms tight against his chest.

  “Look, Hank. You have every right to doubt me.” Heather spoke slowly, both to gauge his emotions and to buy herself some time to deal with the rawness inside her. “But you said it yourself. I’m not who I was. I spent years learning how to be the kind of parent I want to be. I wouldn’t let myself come back until I knew I was ready, and, honestly, sometimes I’m still so worried I’ll screw up that I don’t know what to do next. But from everything I hear, that’s a pretty universal part of parenting.”

  Hank grunted. Acknowledgment? Sympathy?

  “You know,” he said, too casually, “Millie said something the other day about Xander spending time at your place.”

  Whoa. Where had that come from?

  “Yes, he’s been over a couple of times. I hired him to help me with some technical parts of a project I’m working on.”

  “Ah. A project.”

  “Right.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I told you I was looking for a new job. Well, I applied for one. Right here in Comeback Cove. I have an interview Friday afternoon. If nothing comes of it, then I’ll apply for something else.” She glanced down at the photo. “I want to make this happen. For Millie’s sake.”

  Hank pulled back in his seat.

  “I never thought I would be in this position.” Heather spoke quickly, terrified she was losing already. “I never dared think that Millie might want equal time with me. But the fact that she could ask—it proves that you were right to not let the hate win. You showed her how to be compassionate and committed to doing right by her, even when it benefited—well, someone who didn’t deserve that consideration. So no matter what you decide, I owe you for that, Hank. And I’m grateful.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. She didn’t know what. The only thing that was certain was that she had said all there was to say.

  The next move was up to him.

  “I should let you get going.” She gathered her things, shoved them into her purse and slipped out of the booth. His only response was a slight nod when she said good-night.

  She made it to her car just in time for her knees to give out.

  She was still sitting there when he walked out and climbed into his truck, his movements slow, as if he were pushing through water.

  Ten minutes later, just when she felt like she might be able to drive without endangering anyone, her phone buzzed. Her barely regained strength fled in a rush when she saw Hank’s text.

  I’ll think about it.

  * * *

  IT WAS NOT LONG after dinner on Thursday when Xander had a brainwave.

  Heather had sent him all the materials for her presentation, asking for last-minute feedback, so he had spent the meal alternating between bites of a damned fine beer-can chicken and the pages of a great proposal. Not that he knew anything about marketing or tourism. He did, however, know how to recognize crisp, clean, attractive work, and that was precisely what Heather had pulled together. By the time he finished going through everything, he was ready to book a hotel and start exploring Comeback Cove himself, and rumor had it he already lived here.

  Yet something about it bugged him.

  He finished dinner. Washed the dishes. Dried them and put them away and shoved the drain board under the sink, fast, because the sight of one solitary plate and fork was too pathetic for words.

  That was when it clicked.

  He returned to his laptop, scrolling through the images and text, making certain...but yeah. He was right. The photo that Heather had used, the one of the overgrown door at the Cline place—it didn’t fit. Or rather, it did, but it was so different from everything else she had used that it felt out of place. It distracted instead of enhanced.

  She needed a matching shot—something else to carry that whole feeling of mystery. Something else that beckoned the viewer to look closer.

  He checked the window. If he hustled, he might have just enough light to pull it off.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the house. He grabbed his camera bag from the passenger seat, then stopped.

  This might not be the best idea.

  The days were already getting shorter. It was seven thirty now, so he had maybe half an hour of sunlight left. He had his phone, but no real flashlight. No dog. And Heather had asked him not to come back here. A smart man would put the car in reverse and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Xander killed the engine and opened the door.

  “A few shots of the window,” he told himself. “Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.”

  A group of birds broke into loud caws as he approached the house, their cries magnifying the sense of hurry, hurry that pushed him with every step. Crows. Of course. Because the other day, there was a question on Jeopardy! about the names of groups of animals, so now he had a murder of crows swimming around in his brain.

  Just what he needed—Alfred Hitchcock directing this scene.

  Whistling loudly in case there happened to be any raccoons or other creatures lurking in the ruins, he pulled aside a branch that had fallen across the steps and heaved it away. Something skittered in the long grass. He whistled louder and—testing each step before putting his weight on it—made his way onto the porch.

  There. Who said he couldn’t be cautious?

  He set down his bag and pulled out his camera and the notebook he used to jot down particulars of the shots. He never used to need it. Funny thing, though. Ever since Cady came into his life, his memory wasn’t what it used to be.

  But tonight, with the light fading with every breath, he decided that notes could wait until after he was done.

  Camera in hand, he walked the sagging boards of the wraparound porch until he was at the back. There was a window back there, one he’d noticed last time, with something green and weedy wrapped around the sagging shutter. It would make a great bookend for the photo of the door.

  Except that when he rounded the back corner of the house, the window was bare and the broken pieces of the shutter were scattered across the porch floor.

  “Crap-tastic.”

  Without it, that aging frame was simply another dark and cracked glimpse into something that used to be beautiful.

  So much for that attempt.

  He turned around, shielding his eyes against the setting sun blazing pink and red and orange across the field. He paused for a moment t
o soak it in—the light, the peace, the air.

  The freedom.

  When Heather had asked if he regretted what he did, he had answered as truthfully as he could. He was ashamed of the pain and embarrassment he had caused his family. He was embarrassed at his own idiocy and ego. But since Cady’s very existence was a direct result of his stupidity, his remorse was always tempered by wonder.

  Moments like this, though...yeah. He had regretted cutting himself off from stillness and shifting sunlight and fading birdcalls. He had regretted that every minute he was inside.

  He would never let himself be that stupid again.

  When he finally turned away, the sun that little bit lower, he noticed bits of reflected light on the porch floor. Glass from a broken window, no doubt. He looked up. Sure enough, there looked to be a hole in the corner of the second-story window.

  Odd that the glass should have fallen out, rather than—

  Whoa.

  There was another window up there. A porthole shaped one that he suspected overlooked a stairway landing. Branches from the closest tree brushed against it, and unless he missed his guess, that right there could be the shot he needed.

  Except it was on the second floor.

  And the impact wouldn’t be the same if he shot from the ground.

  And funny thing, but he didn’t carry a ladder in the back of his old Chevy.

  But if he were to climb the tree and lodge himself against the trunk, he just might be high enough to make it work.

  Right. He’d have to be high to attempt it, and that was another thing he was never doing again.

  But maybe, if he was really careful...

  He headed for the tree and looked up, gauging distances. He checked his pocket for his phone, slung the camera securely across his back and grabbed the lowest branch. The tree wasn’t tall, at least not as maples go, but even the lowest bough was going to require a massive jump and major league boosting. He wasn’t sure he could do it.