33 The Return of Bowie Bravo

by Christine Rimmer

  “I know that. I—”

  “Just tell me. Just say it. Did you make that promise or did you not?”

  He sagged against the door. The woman exhausted him. She always had. “All right. Yeah, I made that promise.”

  “And do you intend to keep that promise?”

  “I do, yes.” He said it with feeling. Because it was true.

  She scoffed and pointed. “That duffel bag over there tells me differently.”

  He straightened from the door. He was taller than her by more than a foot. And he had at least a hundred pounds of muscle and sinew over her. Yet somehow, she always seemed to know how to make him feel like something small and slimy that had just slithered out from under the nearest rock.

  So what if she happened to be absolutely right in what she’d just said to him? Her rightness didn’t take any of the sting out of her harsh words.

  “Well,” she prodded, sitting forward in the rocker, gripping the arms. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  He grunted. “You know, you always did have the knack of making me feel about two inches tall.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “No, I’m not. I got out the bag and stuffed a few things in it. And then I just sat there, on the cot, thinking about how I despised myself, and knowing that I was going nowhere.”

  “Good.” The rocker creaked as she let it roll back again.

  “What’s good? That I despise myself for what happened tonight—or that I’m not going anywhere?”

  “I think you can figure that out for yourself.”

  He dared to take a step away from the door. She had rested her head against the rocker back, shut her eyes and started rocking again. The fire was getting low. Leaving her a wide berth, he got a log from the wood basket and put it in the stove, then took the poker and stirred the coals a bit. He shut the stove door, put the poker away and sat in the easy chair.

  She opened her eyes and looked across at him. For once, she spoke softly. “He’s going to be fine. And he told me that you warned him not to touch the knife.”

  He admitted gruffly, “I should have protected him, not set the knife where he could get at it.”

  She laughed then. The soft sound reminded him painfully of the old days. Of the nights in his room up under the eaves at the Sierra Star, of how happy he’d been just to love her and to know that she loved him back. “Look at it this way,” she said, “that’s a mistake you’re unlikely to make again. But don’t worry, you’ll mess up in a thousand other ways you never imagined you could. It’s the nature of being a parent.”

  “If you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.”

  “Me? Reassure you? Hah, like that’s ever gonna happen.” She rose from the rocker.

  He looked up at her, thinking that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. And wishing she wouldn’t go.

  Wishing she might just sit a little longer. She wouldn’t have to say—or do—anything. Just her presence would have been enough.

  He would have enjoyed imagining for a few too-short minutes that they were together and staying that way.

  Then again, maybe it was better if she didn’t stay. After all, it was over between them. Long over. Better for him that he didn’t try and pretend he could earn again what he’d thrown away by his brawling and drinking and general bad behavior.

  She asked, “So can I trust you now not to run off?”

  He nodded. “I’m staying right here. You might never get rid of me.”

  “Okay. Now I’m really starting to worry.” She grabbed her jacket, picked up the baby monitor and went to the door, pausing to look back at him with her hand on the knob. Dimples flashed. “You made progress with him tonight. You get that, don’t you?” When he only grunted, she added, “He didn’t even want to come out here and say good-night to you. He did come, though, because I insisted.”

  “So maybe you shouldn’t have insisted.”

  She gave him a chiding look. “Let me finish.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What I was getting at is, after he cut himself, it was you he wanted to drive him to the clinic.”

  “You’re right.” The realization helped. A lot. “I didn’t even think about that.”

  “How could you? You were too busy beating yourself up.”

  “Yeah, I guess I was—and worrying that if I was the one driving him to see Brett, I might somehow mess that up, too.”

  She pulled open the door. “Good night, Bowie.” And then she was gone.

  The fire crackled in the stove. The workshop was cozy. Warm.

  But still, it felt empty now that Glory had left.

  He reminded himself—again—that she was through with him, that what they’d had was long over and done and he needed to remember that. She was only trying to do what was right for Johnny, fighting to make sure her son didn’t get hurt any more than he’d already been. Trying to give him his father so he wouldn’t turn out like Bowie had—lost and angry without a dad’s guiding hand.

  He sat in his chair and he waited for a long time, to make sure she’d gone up to bed. Then, taking extra care to be quiet about it, he took the key she’d give him from the hook near the door and left the barn. Outside, the cold winter night seemed dipped in silver. The sky was so clear, thick with stars, and the moon just a tiny sliver hanging near the tops of the pines that covered the mountains. He stood there, midway between the house and the barn, looking up, thinking how beautiful the night was.

  Finally, he shook his head and moved on, entering the darkened house on tiptoe. He used the toilet and brushed his teeth.

  Back in the workshop, he banked the fire and stretched out on the narrow cot and closed his eyes—and saw Glory’s face.

  Not the face she showed him nowadays, but her face the way he remembered it, back in the good times. Soft, with a glow to it, eyes shining, mouth tipped up, waiting for his kiss.

  For him, the face he saw alone at night was always Glory’s face. In the years he’d been gone, he’d tried to banish that face from his mind and his memory. And from his heart.

  Sometimes, he’d almost succeeded in making himself believe that he was over her.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  Chapter Seven

  The next evening, Bowie took his mom out to dinner at the Nugget Steak House on Main. He joked with the owner and head waitress, Nadine Stout. And after Nadine brought their steaks and left them alone, he told his mom about the scary incident the night before.

  Chastity sighed. “Poor little guy. I hate it when they bleed. But it sounds to me like it all worked out in the end.”

  “He wanted me to take him to the clinic so Brett could stitch him up. Me, in particular.”

  “That’s good,” said his mom. “Real good.” She talked about her longtime boyfriend, Alyosha Panopopoulis, a good-natured guy who’d retired to the Flat and still worked as a handyman to bring in extra cash. She said she and Alyosha were getting along great. They liked each other—and no, she didn’t think they’d get married or anything. They both enjoyed their independence.

  He said, “You seem pretty happy, Ma.”

  “I am. I made a lot of mistakes and I regret every one of them. But I don’t spend my days dwelling on them.” When she said that, he thought of Glory, the night before, telling him that mistakes were part of the bargain when you were a parent. His mom added, “What matters is, I survived. And yes, you and your brothers have had your problems. But as of now, I’d say you’re all doing just fine.”

  “Wow, Ma, did you just say you think I’m doing fine?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve been suspecting as much for a good while now. I’m glad you finally came back to town so I could
tell you so to your face.”

  He thought about his father then, about the man he’d never known. Blake had died over a decade before. In his lifetime, he’d married any number of women—and never divorced a single one. Bowie had half siblings all over the country. Each of Blake’s wives had believed she was the “only” one. But it wasn’t his long string of wives that Blake was most famous—or rather infamous—for.

  More than forty years ago, he’d kidnapped his own brother’s child. A ransom in diamonds was paid, but the child, an infant at the time of the kidnapping, was never returned. When it happened, no one knew that Blake was the culprit. The whole story had finally come out around the time of Blake’s death. And the kidnapped baby had been found, alive and well. And all grown up, with no idea of his real identity.

  Bowie said, “Remember how sick you got, when you found out that my father was dead?”

  His mom’s eyes grew shadowed. “I do remember. I went to bed and didn’t get up for two weeks. Worst time of my life. I finally had to face the truth then, after all those years.”

  He thought he knew what truth she meant. “That he was never coming back?”

  She made a snorting sound. “Bowie, I might have been a fool for a very long time over a very bad man, but even I figured out a few years after you were born that we’d seen the last of him. What was harder to accept—what I refused to admit until I learned he was dead—was that I’d loved a man I didn’t even know. I not only loved him, but I kept loving him, even though he was hardly ever home and my sons were growing up without a dad.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, and almost smiled as the words escaped his lips. It was essentially the same advice Glory had given him the night before.

  His mother shook her head. “I should have done better by you and your brothers.”

  “I get that. I do. Just like I should have done better by Johnny.”

  “You are doing better,” she reminded him gently.

  He confessed, “Johnny said he hated me that first day. I knew exactly how he felt because I’d hated my father for most of my life.”

  His mother asked wryly, “Do you see a pattern here?”

  “Yes, I do. And it’s a pattern I plan to change.”

  “That’s the spirit.” She picked up her water glass and toasted him with it.

  Bowie walked her back to the B and B at around seven and went in for a last cup of coffee and a big slice of the carrot cake she’d made fresh that afternoon. He was back in the barn behind Glory’s house by seven-twenty-five and got right to work on the train set for Johnny.

  At seven-forty-three, Johnny tapped on the door.

  Bowie grinned to himself. “It’s open!”

  The door swung wide. Johnny came in and shut it behind him. He was wearing a pair of Toy Story pajamas, a different jacket than the one he’d worn the night before and his boots. “I came to say ’night.”

  “Can you stay a few minutes?”

  Johnny frowned, his small brow furrowing, as though the question required deep thought. Finally, he decided, “Well, just for a little while.” He went and climbed up into the rocker where his mom had sat the night before. “I like rocking chairs.” He rocked happily for several seconds, the old rocker creaking the whole time in a cheerful sort of way.

  Bowie kept whittling.

  “I got to show-and-tell about my injury.” He said the big word with pride as, still rocking, he held up his bandaged hand. “And it hardly hurts at all today.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  The rocker went silent. Johnny was watching him. “You never said who the train was for.”

  Bowie gave up trying to figure out just the right way to deliver the news. “It’s for you.”

  Johnny tried not to grin, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I knew it.” And then he started rocking again, with enthusiasm, for maybe thirty seconds. After which he got down. “I think I better go to bed now.”

  Bowie wished he wouldn’t go, but it seemed a little early in their new relationship to say that. So he only nodded. “Well, all right. Sleep well.”

  “Will you be making breakfast in the morning?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Can we maybe have pancakes tomorrow, you think?”

  “Yes, we can. And we will.”

  “I like pancakes.” Still, he didn’t make a move for the door. He twisted his mouth to the side for a moment, looking uncomfortable. And then he burst out with, “It was Bobby Winkle who said you were a drunk and a crazy man. He said that you were my real dad and my real dad was a drunk and a crazy man.”

  “I see,” Bowie answered because he really wasn’t sure what he should say.

  “That was right after my dad died, when I was feeling really bad.”

  “He was a good man,” Bowie said. “Your dad, I mean.”

  “He was the best. And I didn’t do anything to Bobby Winkle for saying that you were drunk and crazy and that my dad wasn’t my dad. But I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.” Johnny thought for a moment. “Sometimes I still want to punch him in the face.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “Nope.”

  Bowie set the finished train engine on the table next to his chair. “That’s good. Sometimes, you have to fight. But most of the time, there are better ways to handle things. I didn’t learn that the way you have. Not until I was all grown up.”

  “So…you think I did good?”

  “I do. Yes.”

  “I think my dad would have said that, too.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Johnny was looking at the wooden engine. “Engines are usually black.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “But I would like it to be blue—like Thomas, the tank engine.”

  “Well, all right, then. Blue it will be.”

  “Pancakes, huh?” Glory said the next morning when she came in the kitchen and found him whipping up the batter, the griddle nice and hot on the cooktop.

  “Johnny asked for them last night.”

  She put the baby monitor on the counter and went and got the water going for the tea she liked. “You’ll spoil him.”

  “That’s my plan.” He sent her a glance.

  She was smiling—and so beautiful that it hurt him to look at her. In old jeans and a faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway to her elbows, her brown hair loose and shining on her shoulders. She did look a little tired, though. Sera had probably kept her up half the night. She got down a mug and put a tea bag in it, poured in the hot water from the teapot he had heated for her and then gestured with the full mug at the table. “Even got the table all set, I see.”

  “I like to do my part.”

  She pulled out her usual chair and sat down. “Are you sure you’re the same Bowie I used to know?”

  “God, I hope not.” He turned the fire down under the griddle and started pouring pancakes. The batter sizzled a little as it hit the hot surface, telling him he had the temperature right.

  Johnny came bouncing in. “Pancakes. Yeah!” He went to the fridge, got out the pitcher of orange juice and carried it carefully to the table, where he poured with great concentration, his tongue caught in the side of his mouth.

  Bowie flipped the pancakes. They were ready in no time. He transferred them to the platter he’d heated in the microwave.

  Johnny got the first two and Glory took the two that were left. They were spreading on the butter and syrup when Sera started fussing. Glory sighed and pushed back her chair.

  “Let me get her.” He said it too fast and much too eagerly.

  Glory almost said yes. For a moment, he could see relief and gratitude on her sweet face. She could let him get t
he baby for her, and eat her pancakes before they got cold. But then she pressed her lips together. “No, it’s okay. Thanks, though.” Those were her words. Her eyes said something altogether different. They were guarded against him.

  Upstairs in the master suite, Glory put the yowling baby to her breast. The ensuing silence was a truly lovely thing. She sat in the pretty white rocker by the window and stared out at the overcast sky. More snow was predicted for that night.

  And she really did need to watch herself.

  It was one thing to help Bowie and Johnny find their way to each other, one thing to establish a solid and cordial relationship with the father of her son. But it was something else altogether to let herself start playing house with him. Yeah, it was great if he wanted to help. She could use a little help around the kitchen, an extra hand at the hardware store.

  But she couldn’t start counting on him. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in by him, let herself get too close to him.

  Nights like last night, when she’d given in to her concern for him and sought him out alone…

  Uh-uh. Not going to happen again. That would be plain idiocy on her part, to get involved with him now—or ever. She’d already paid and paid dearly for loving Bowie Bravo. Never again.

  She just had to watch herself. Keep her distance. Remind him of the boundaries and make sure they stayed firmly in place.

  From the nightstand, the picture of her and Matteo on their wedding day seemed to reproach her. She stared at her lost husband’s pleasant face, his kind eyes. She still remembered that day, the day they got married, like it was yesterday. They’d exchanged their vows at the courthouse and then gone back to her mamma’s house for a simple reception, just the family. Next to Johnny—and now, Sera—Matteo was the best thing that had ever happened to her. A good man, solid. Loving. Funny. Smart.

  They should have had a lifetime together. She hated that he was gone. And the least she could do after losing him was to remain true to his memory and not end up throwing herself at the man who’d abandoned her and her child.