by Nicole Deese
“Hi, Vivian. Yes, I did. Thank you. Please give my regards to Charles as well.”
“I’ll do that.” A soft tinkling sound I couldn’t quite place filled the gap of silence. “I told Mr. Hewitt down at the nursery to select the most vibrant shade he could order in time. I didn’t get a chance to see it in person as the charity has kept me so busy lately, but I hope it’s a nice one.”
I eyed the shrub again. It looked no different than the others she’d sent me in years past. “It’s quite nice, yes.” Because what else could I possibly say that I hadn’t said a dozen times before? I wasn’t a green thumb. My mother’s obsession with fertilizing, pruning, and watering was the only reason anything lived in my yard.
“Good.”
The faint, stairstep melody sounded again in the background, and this time, my stomach clenched as Vivian’s exact location formed in my mind. A wind chime. The one I’d purchased to hang outside Stephanie’s hospice room at the Lockwood Estate.
“How are you doing today, Vivian?”
“The charity is doing quite well. There’s been a ton of new applications to filter through this year, and—”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I asked about you. How are you doing today, Viv?” The woman might have a personality that drove me half-insane most of the time, but Vivian Lockwood had lost a daughter in the very same moment that I had lost a wife.
Hers was a pain I was acquainted with only from afar.
“I’m . . .” A rare falter in her polished delivery pinched at my empathy. “I’m doing what I know to do.” The truest of statements. A perfectionist from dawn until dusk, Vivian’s tireless approach to life left little room for rest or reflection. Yet I was hardly one to judge. One quiet day a year certainly didn’t qualify me as an expert on the subject.
Still, I attempted the impossible. “I know you are. And everything you’ve accomplished through Stephanie’s charity is nothing short of admirable. But you know what she’d ask if she were still with us.” The same question she asked every single day of those last two years on the transplant list.
Vivian’s reply was a shaky inhale.
So I spoke the memorialized words instead. “She’d ask, ‘What memory did you make today?’”
Silence.
I cleared the tightness from my throat. “I thought about that question as I visited the library and fixed some broken shelving. I thought about it when I made barnyard noises during a reading for a group of children. And I thought about it when I ate ice cream on a park bench. I often forget to pull out of work mode and dad mode . . .” And angry mode. “But today I made some life memories. For Stephanie.” I touched the drooping bloom of the plant. A hanging heart.
“Well.” She sighed. “It certainly sounds like you had a productive day.” The cool edge to her tone was back.
“Not productive. Memorable. Which is what she’d want for you, too.”
“She’d also want me to spend the summer with my only grandson. That logic works both ways, Davis.”
Though I exhaled, tension filled me at the sudden change in her tone. “Let’s not have that discussion today, okay?”
“And when would you prefer to have it?” Her question was crisp and clipped. Whatever softness had slipped through the cracks of her veiled pretense had now vanished. “You’ve put me off for weeks now. What am I supposed to think?”
“This isn’t a power play. I’m not keeping him from you. I’m simply making the decision that’s best for Brandon right now. He needs to stay home this summer.”
“That’s nonsense. How could a visit with his grandparents not be what’s best for him?”
I gripped the back of my dining room chair, my knuckles turning white as I heard the distinct sound of high heels clacking against hardwood. It wasn’t hard to guess exactly where she was going—who she was going to.
“Davis? Is that you?”
Charles Lockwood, the man who once clapped me on the back and handed me five freshly printed one-hundred-dollar bills to take his daughter out to dinner and a movie.
“Good afternoon, Charles.”
I could almost see him, leaning back in his leather chair, looking out at his eighteen-hole golf course in Napa Valley, a decanter of Scotch on his desk, and a half-filled tumbler in his hand. “Listen, whatever Vivian is concerned about, I’m sure we can find a compromise.”
“I’m afraid there’s no compromise to be made. Brandon spent spring break with you and a large portion of last winter break at your condo in Vail. I realize this isn’t what you both want, but Brandon’s not able to visit you in California this summer. I’m sorry for whatever frustration or disappointment this decision may cause you, but for his sake, I’d like you to let this visit go.”
I could hear the huffy undertones of Viv’s voice in the background, her outrage at my disagreeable manner. Rarely—if ever—did she hear the word no.
“Davis,” Charles continued, “I’m sure you can sympathize with my situation here.” Situation meaning: his wife. “We’ve organized several events for Brandon to attend with us this summer, and Vivian has a . . .” Another murmuring in the background. “A private art teacher who has agreed to tutor him. The expense will be ours, of course.” A slight chuckle. “You and I both know that Brandon never leaves our home unhappy.”
And there it was, spelled out.
The wealth. The privileges. The entitlement.
Which was exactly why we no longer lived next door to them.
But I didn’t have to be psychic to know that if I let him go to California this summer, his bad attitude would escalate when he returned. Just like it had after spring break. No. Brandon didn’t need private art showings and tutors this summer. He needed to deal with his anger before I allowed their influence over him again. Whatever seeds of discontentment they’d planted in him last March were being harvested now.
“My decision to keep Brandon home this summer is mine to make, Charles. Not yours or Vivian’s. I’m his father.”
“And we are his maternal grandparents. Now, I know you don’t want this to turn ugly, Davis. Three weeks out of the summer is a small request. Let’s be done with the back-and-forth of all this. Why don’t I have my secretary reach out to you first thing Monday morning, and you two can work out the details and dates, huh?”
“No.” The word pulsed through my teeth. “There are no dates to work out—”
“I’m sorry, but I need to catch this other call. We’ll be in touch soon.”
The line went dead.
I slammed the phone onto the granite and fought back the urge to do the same to Vivian’s signature plant. No matter what they sent me, or how many voice mails they left, I wasn’t going to give in to them. Those days were over. Brandon wasn’t a pawn to be tossed around.
He was my son.
Chapter Fourteen
CALLIE
Clem didn’t hear me when I waltzed inside the kitchen. Truth be told, she probably wouldn’t have heard me even if I’d banged two of her cast-iron pots together at the back of her head. How the surround sound could pump music out at that volume without combusting was beyond my understanding of technology.
With her back to me, she scrubbed at the line of grout around the sink as if she were a surgeon fighting for a life.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, “Clem!”
She continued her task, her elbow sawing back and forth to the beat of whatever supercharged Carrie Underwood song trilled overhead, and I took in the sparkly kitchen. She’d given up her mom strike a few days ago, which meant that, for the last seventy-two hours, Clem had trekked around the house like an old-fashioned gunslinger—except her holsters weren’t filled with pistols. They were filled with spray bottles containing homemade essential-oil solutions smelling of lemongrass, cloves, eucalyptus, and frankincense.
And heaven forbid you used the wrong one. “They are labeled for a reason, Callie!” The kids had pretty much lived at the neighbors’ pool all week.
I couldn’t blame them.
I picked up a spray bottle labeled “Water Only” and hoped her system was up to date.
Aiming for that patch of skin right between her bobbed ponytail and T-shirt collar, I pulled the trigger.
Bull’s-eye.
She screamed, whirled, and tossed the Brillo Pad at the center of my chest, leaving a soppy wet spot on my neckline. I tossed it back into the sink.
“Ugh! Callie!” her lips mouthed—the music drowning out her voice.
“What?” I mouthed back, pointing to my ear. “Can’t hear you.”
Chest heaving, she wiped damp fingers down her yoga pants and punched a code into her phone on the counter, muting the volume.
The instant silence made my ears crackle.
“You could have given me a heart attack!” she said.
I blew the imaginary smoke from my spray-bottle pistol and smiled. “I’m pretty sure that’s a myth.”
She swiped at the back of her neck. “I really hope that was only water.”
I gave her the all-teeth grin I’d been giving her since childhood and hopped up on the island counter, crossed my legs, and stole an apple from her perfectly stocked fruit bowl. “It was. You’ll be happy to note I read the label.”
With her rear resting against the edge of the farm-style sink opposite me, she screwed her face into a sour pucker. “You are so not normal.”
At her feigned angry expression, I started to giggle.
“I’m serious.” She actually pressed her palms to her cheeks, as if that gesture alone would somehow prove her seriousness.
It didn’t.
“You’re gonna make me choke on this apple if you keep making that fish face.”
She threw a dish towel at me, and I blocked the flying cloth. “Remember that time when you came home from some dance at school—”
“Homecoming.”
“Yeah.” I snorted, recalling the memory. “With that guy you dated before Chris . . . what was his name?”
“Herbert.”
I belted out a laugh. “That’s right! Herbie Clarkson. And right when he was about to kiss you, I jumped out from behind the door.”
“I could have killed you that night.” Clem shook her head, her half grin transforming into reluctant chuckle.
“I think you would have if Mom hadn’t come running.” My cheeks actually hurt from smiling so wide. I gestured to the knotted cleaning bandanna on her head. “Old Herbie missed out. Big-time. I mean, your hair wrap is . . . something.”
With the hem of her T-shirt pinched between her fingers, she curtsied. “Yes, I know. I’m a rare beauty.”
“You are.” I took a bite of the crisp apple, the tartness causing my eyes to water. “Which is only one of the reasons why Chris worships you like a queen.”
Amusement dimmed from her eyes, the same way it had every time I’d mentioned Chris this summer.
I lowered the apple to my lap and straightened. This was it—my chance to broach the one subject she seemed determined to avoid.
“Hey, Clem,” I said, using the same tenderness I usually reserved for timid children. “What’s going on between you two? I mean, it seems like whenever I bring him up, you—”
“Whoa,” she said, stepping closer, examining my shoulders.
“What?”
“I thought it was just the lighting in here, but”—she pressed the pad of her thumb into the top of my bicep—“you’re sunburned. Like, you’re two shades darker than my garden strawberries.”
I glanced at my arms, turning them this way and that in the light. “I am? I wasn’t even out that long.”
“You didn’t use sunscreen?” She rolled her eyes at me. “I told you last week that I bought some great all-natural stuff—it’s in my bathroom cabinet upstairs.”
“It’s not like I planned on sightseeing today. But after the library reading and then ice cream with Davis, I just figured I should take the opportunity to look around, peek in all the cool shops downtown and—”
“Wait—Davis?” Her voice hitched. “You two went out for ice cream together? Like on a date?”
“No, like two people eating ice cream together at a park. And anyway, I don’t want to talk about him. Or my sunburn. I want to talk about you and—”
“How serious is this thing with him getting?”
“Serious?” I laughed. “Clem, Davis is the last guy in the world who’d be interested in someone like me. We’re just . . . friends. Believe me, he’s as traditional as they come.”
She gave me a look that said she wasn’t so sure. “And yet you went to his place nearly every night last week.”
“To visit the dog. You remember? The one you wouldn’t let me keep here.”
“That must be some stray.”
“He is, actually. Kosher is going to make some family very happy someday.”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Stop doing that.”
“Be careful, Callie.” Big sister Clem had returned.
“With what?”
“You know with what. He’s a single dad.”
“I know he is. And he also happens to be a nice guy who offered to take care of a rescue dog I found under my porch. That’s it.” But was it? The question battled against my instincts.
“Listen,” she started, “I don’t know a ton about his personal life, only what I’ve managed to pick up at school functions and Brandon and Collin’s exchanges here, but he isn’t like the other guys you’ve gone out with.”
The muscles in my back tensed. “I’ve already said he’s not my type. And I know I’m not his either. So you can stop mothering me about it.”
“After all Davis has been through, he doesn’t need to be led on.”
I was about to accuse her of avoiding my questions about Chris, but her tone piqued my curiosity. “All he’s been through? What, with his divorce, you mean?”
“He isn’t divorced, Callie. His wife died.”
Died? The word whooshed in my ears.
Davis wasn’t a divorcee? He was a . . . widower?
And yet, somehow, the revelation seemed to fit in ways my first assumption had not. There were moments Davis had seemed so much older than his thirty-two years. And not because he looked older, but because his eyes seemed to reflect a history his age did not. While I’d flitted from place to place, living life without any attachments weighing me down . . . Davis had buried a wife.
“How did she die?” A question that felt as delicate as it did sacred.
Clem squished her lips to one side, thinking. “Hmm. I think it was a heart condition of some kind? But I’m not sure.”
“Wow.” The near-breathless word escaped me as I tried to reconcile everything I knew about Davis Carter.
“Exactly, so he deserves more than to be Callie-charmed.”
“Excuse me?”
She crossed her arms. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Uh, no, actually I don’t. I don’t charm anyone.”
She held up her hand and ticked off her fingers. “Greg. Darren. Michael. Kyle. Bobby. Andrew—”
“For the record”—I shot out a finger of my own—“I never actually dated Andrew. Besides, I’ve stayed friends with all of them.”
“That’s my point.” She folded her arms over her chest. “You cast a spell on every man you meet—charm them into overlooking the flight risk stamped across your forehead.”
“That is so not true. Every man I’ve dated has known from the start that I’m not looking for anything long term. Our splits are always mutual and amicable.”
“Callie.” Bewilderment crossed her face. “Maintaining friendship status with every man you’ve been involved with romantically is a big fat red flag as far as I’m concerned. How can you not see that?”
My skin began to prickle, my blood heating. “Perhaps I’m more evolved than you give me credit for.”
“Not evolved. You’re afraid.”
This conversation had ente
red an entirely new territory. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“No? Then how come every time you end a relationship and call to tell me about it, it’s always the same story? Over and over again. On repeat. You meet, have fun, play games, flirt and kiss, and you move on. Usually literally. A new town. A new job. A new romance. A whole new you. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.”
Her judgment was a slap in my face.
“How I start and end my relationships is my choice.”
“News flash: relationships aren’t only about you.” All kindness had leaked from her voice. “Whether you like it or not, your choices affect other people.” She thrust her finger at me. “Love is more than flirty feelings and fun dates. It’s about what lives underneath the surface. The commitment you keep even when life gets hard and all the fuzzy feelings fade.” Her vibrant blue eyes flickered with emotion as if she’d realized her slip. She might be an expert in the art of diversion, but she couldn’t redirect our conversation this time.
“What’s going on between you and Chris, Clem? And don’t tell me everything is fine. It’s not. I might be your baby sister, but I’m not blind to the signs.”
She paused, as if debating how much she should reveal.
“We’ve been struggling. For nearly a year.”
Struggling. For nearly a year.
Everything inside me thrashed against the thought of Chris and Clementine working through real marital problems. They weren’t like other couples. They weren’t like those petty cliché spouses who fought over household chores or forgotten garbage bills. Truth was, I couldn’t recall a single moment when their marriage had appeared anything less than happy and content. They were two perfectly designed puzzle pieces—Chris the sturdy corner piece, grounding them in the framework, and Clem the inside connector, the one all of us snapped into.
“But what happened? Did you two have an argument? Are you fighting over something specific?”
When her gaze dragged back to mine, her weary glazed-over eyes made my chest ache. “We stopped arguing months ago. It’s hard to fight with someone when you’re never in the same room.”
The apple I’d eaten seemed to churn in my belly at the thought of them at odds for so long. And even worse, my wheelhouse for marital words of wisdom was barren. I had no at-the-ready encouragement for seeing tough times through or sticking it out. I was the polar opposite of a stick-it-outer. No wonder she’d kept it from me all this time.
