I’ll ask him if he wants a bottle of water at the beginning, and he’ll nod.
He’ll get frustrated when he assembles the drawers but not enough to where anyone else can tell.
I’ll ask him if he needs help.
“No, Gidget,” he’ll say.
Larry will sit, lounging next to my dad, watching.
He’ll complain about craftsmen work these days compared to thirty years ago. He’ll tell me a story about his dad, my grandfather.
I hate to love this time with him. I hate when he smiles brightly and looks adoringly in my direction. He’ll tell me how proud he is of me and the way I turned out. I hate this time because, tomorrow, it’s only the memories that I’ll have. Not his memories, just mine. By tomorrow, he’ll ask when he can put the entertainment center together, just him and me. Because, tonight, I’ll take the whole thing apart, put it back behind Kyle’s truck, and pray he won’t ask again. But he will. He always does.
We pull up to my house that overlooks Belle’s Hollow. It’s the hill just over from my parents’. We’re used to the views that allow us to see the entire Eel River Valley. The Eel River snakes through the middle as a redwood tree line runs around the perimeter of thirty square miles, the Pacific Ocean on the right. Patched lands of green are threaded together by a fence line.
Dad rocks back on his heels, pushes his cowboy hat off his face, and scratches his forehead. His old, worn jean jacket and faded Wranglers wouldn’t tell you that he comes from old money. That he became an accountant to help his father financially get his affairs in order before the cancer came back again.
“Dad?” I walk to him, and my stomach drops as I wait to see if it’s him or a man I usually meet on a weekly basis who threatens our hearts.
“Gidget, this view never gets old.”
I breathe in relief, allowing it to reach the deepest spots in my lungs.
“I need a few tools.” He hesitates. “Kyle have any?”
I know why he paused. Kyle and my dad were close. But he didn’t pause for himself; he paused for me, carefully stepping around the pieces of my heart that I’m slowly trying to gather, trying to find a new spot for in this life.
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here, Gidg.”
I stop. This isn’t part of the song and dance we do. The protocol. This is new.
“Overheard you and Mom.” He takes off his hat this time and taps the brim with his other hand. “I know I’m sick. I know that I’m slipping. I know that it kills you and Mom—the fact that I can’t remember things. But, Gidget, you’re not going to save me. You can’t stop living because of Kyle. You can’t stop living because I’m sick. You need to find a new beat. A new step. Something different than here.”
I stare at him. “What if I can’t?”
Dad walks to me and takes me in his arms. His familiar scent brings me back to when I was ten.
“But, Daddy, I can’t do it.” My lower lip quivered from behind the curtain. “There are a lot of people out there. I just can’t.”
My father got down on his knees and pushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “Gidget, look at me. I’ve seen you shoot a rattlesnake clean between the eyes to protect a calf. I’ve seen you take a kick to the gut from Skeeter, and then, out of pure determination, you got back on and rode him. You have to meet your fear at the doorway and knock it on its face. You can’t get anywhere in life if fear stands a chance.”
“But, it’s easier, Daddy. It’s easier not to go out there.”
He took my hands in his. “Easy is a two-way street that’s full of decisions and right roads that we didn’t have to make.”
“You have to meet your fear at the doorway, Gidg.” My dad’s voice brings me to the present moment. I’m still against the folds of his jean jacket. “Oh, I have that tool set I left here last Christmas.”
I nod, pulling away, holding down the grief and hope, which creates a nauseating feeling.
We walk inside, and I throw my keys on the kitchen counter. “Dad, want some water?”
“Yeah, Gidg. Water would be great.”
As my dad works, I pretend not to watch him as I sit in the dining room at my computer. Still, Larry sits at his side, waiting for a free hand to wander in his direction.
My phone dings. It’s a text from Bryce.
Bryce: I met him.
Me: Him who?
Bryce: The one.
Me: Where? At 215 Lounge?
Bryce: This isn’t a Netflix Original. This is the rest of my life, Alex.
Me: Well, all right then. When do I get to meet him?
Bryce: He’s not from here. Honestly, it was a one-night stand. He’s gone. I didn’t get his number. Nothing. I’m so pissed at myself.
It’s not like her at all. Not even close. But she already knows that, and I’m not going to tell her something she already knows.
Me: Pissed at yourself because you did it or pissed because you didn’t get his number?
Bryce: Both. :( I’ll call you later. I’m going to take a cold shower and wash off his remnants.
There’s no connection with that side of me anymore—the love part, the sexual part, the need for someone else’s hands on my body. Someone to take care of my needs with his own is gone. After Kyle died, I’ve been perfectly comfortable with dying as an old cat lady.
But the questions poke around in the parts of my mind that Kyle always seemed to take care of. What if I’m not? What if part of me doesn’t want to die as an old cat lady? What if I just need a change of pace? What if my dad is right? What if my mom’s words are truer than I thought?
Maybe I’m not going to find what I’m looking for here.
But what if I’m too scared to take the leap?
Three
Alex
October 10, 2017
San Francisco, California. This is crazy.
My heart pounds out of my chest as the wheels of the 747 aircraft leave the ground with a drop, and gravity pounds against my body like a grieving widow. I know I am powerless over people, places, and things. I know I’m also powerless in a 747.
Slowly, we begin to level out, and I stare out the window below me as San Francisco’s skyline starts to disappear quickly. The fog assumes its normal position on the bay. My eyes follow a car moving on a lonely road, and I wonder where they’re going so early in the morning. I try to focus my attention on my itinerary.
Departure: October 10, 2017
Return: November 7, 2017
The woman sitting beside me, in her mid-fifties, takes out her paperback book, and I glance at the cover and the author’s name. The bookmark reads, Jesus Saves.
“Good book?” I ask, wondering her opinion with her peculiar bookmark.
The woman sets the book down on the tray in front of her. “Lord have mercy,” she drawls. “This woman can write a love story. Sweet baby Jesus!”
I laugh. “What’s it about?” I already know the answer, but I’m asking to see her interpretation of the book.
“It’s about a young woman who’s looking for love in all the wrong places.” The woman shakes her head with a smile. “Finally, she finds it with a firefighter. And the love scenes, those will get your heart going like a great nativity scene at Christmas.”
Why she compared the two, I’m not sure, but maybe it has something to do with her Jesus Saves bookmark. At any rate, I smile and look back at the book. I see she’s at the tail end, and I know what comes next.
“Enjoy.”
“I’m Ruthie, by the way.”
“Alexandra.” I extend my hand.
“Feel like I’ve gotta light up a cigarette every time I finish one of her books.” Ruthie shakes her head. “Don’t tell my husband that. I’m a Christian woman who loves the Lord, but I love me a good romance, too.” She pauses. “I bet this author lives in some high-rise apartment and contemplates the cosmos by sipping expensive red wine while her husband fans her and feeds her grapes.”
I let out a half-gasp, half-lau
gh. “Perhaps.” But what I want to say is, Not by a long shot.
The flight from San Francisco to Chicago is long. I want to text my mom and text Bryce, curse them for talking me into this, but I didn’t pay the extra ten dollars for the Wi-Fi. With first class, you’d expect that to come with the price of the ticket. And, if I’m being honest, the only reason I paid for a first-class ticket was for the food. That, and my accountant said I could afford it. But it doesn’t take away the fact that I’m cheap.
“Oh, dear God,” Ruthie whispers, tears in her eyes, her attention fixated on the words she’s reading. Tears stream down her face.
I’m sorry, I want to say. Keep reading.
Ruthie sets my book down and goes to the restroom.
While she’s gone, I pull out a piece of paper from my journal and write her a note. I shove it back in her book, so it’s unnoticed, but she’ll find it on the last page.
Dear Ruthie,
Don’t worry; your heart will mend when you read book two in the Swept Series.
Thank you for reading my books.
My love,
Alex Fisher
When we land, Ruthie isn’t quite done with the book, but she’s within pages of finishing.
“Nice to meet you, Alexandra. Where are you headed?” She shoves the book in her purse.
“Really, it’s a long story. One I’m having a hard time grasping myself, Ruthie.”
“Well”—she grabs her carry-on from above—“if you ever find where you’re going, here’s my card.”
She hands me her business card. The air from my lungs leaves as I read what she does and where she’s from.
“You’re-you’re a real estate agent from Granite Harbor, Maine?” I say it out loud, trying to will myself to believe this. “But you have an accent. You’re supposed to be from Texas or Mississippi or Louisiana.”
She laughs out loud and places her hand on her hip. “Twist of fate,” she says. “My husband, Milton, and I met five years ago in Texas. He’s a Texan, and I’m from Granite Harbor. The accent just stuck.” She nods in my direction, my eyes fixated on her card and her. “Really, he can work from anywhere. I needed to be closer to my mother, so we moved back to Maine. Catching a flight from Chicago to Florida and then going home.”
We exchange good-byes. Second thoughts push themselves around in my head after we’re in the terminal. Fear festers between them.
You’re taking a trip to Maine by yourself.
You know no one. Except Ruthie now.
A moose’ll probably trample you. You’ll fall in the frigid waters of Rangeley Lake.
I text my mom.
Me: I’m coming home. This was a bad idea.
A return text comes almost immediately.
Mom: No, you’re not. I see your flight has landed in Chicago. You’re almost there. You don’t have much time to make your next flight. GO! Call me when you land in Granite Harbor.
Before I do, I go to the ticket counter to see if there are any return flights back to San Francisco, but there’s a snowstorm covering the northwest territory, so the next four are canceled, making it impossible to get back to the West Coast in the next day or so. My heart starts to pound, and my face feels hot.
Of course.
I text Bryce.
Me: You’re sure the house you rented for me isn’t out in the boondocks, right? I’m not in the mood to be murdered in my sleep.
Bryce booked my trip because, the last time I booked a trip, I ended up in Arizona when I was supposed to be in Las Vegas. She also sent me a pre-packed bag of clothes—to supplement what I packed—and overnighted it to me along with a note: Yoga pants are not street legal. Find something different.
Bryce: (eye roll emoji) I’m sure. There’s the witty friend I know and love. Love you. The rental car should be waiting for you. Granite Harbor is about an hour and a half north. Call me when you get there.
I quickly walk to my gate. The passengers are already in line to board. I could stop right here. I could say I’m not going, like an indignant child. I could turn around and go back the way I came. Tell them I’m drunk and that I can’t fly.
Why lie, Alex? Why not tell them the truth? Why do you have to have any excuse at all? You’re a grown woman. Don’t go if you don’t want to. Chill the hell out.
Sighing, I close my eyes and look up at the industrial ceiling of O’Hare International Airport.
What now? Guilt creeps in about leaving my dad. About leaving my mom to take care of my dad.
It’s just a month, Alex.
Maybe all I need is a sign that this trip is the right decision. I’ve never taken a leap of faith. I’ve always been on the side of facts. No risks. Calculated. Calm. Planned. Allowing myself to see the whole picture. My heart thumps against my chest.
A shove from behind makes me fall forward as I wait on the sideline, debating on the impending line of passengers. Is there a line for maybe?
“Oh, I’m so sorry, miss.”
I turn to a man, a really tall man, who has an apologetic look on his face.
“I was looking at the travel sign, not paying attention to where I was going. I’m so sorry.”
I smile and look at the travel sign.
Granite Harbor, Maine. Where you come as a visitor and leave as a friend.
“I’m Kyle.”
The air leaves my lungs, and a loud ringing takes the place of the airport noise. I stare.
The man known as Kyle looks from side to side.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I finally speak.
“Kyle? My name is Kyle.”
I look down at his shoes. They’re white Vans, the kind with no laces. Slip-ons. “Did you say your name was Kyle?”
I’m sure he’s thinking, Crazy lady in aisle four.
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know, Kyle.” I shake my head and go stand in line to board the plan.
Message received, loud and clear.
We board the plane.
“Mrs. Beaumont?” the male flight attendant asks.
I look up at him and notice his eyebrows. First of all, they’re well kept, and second, they’re furrowed, which means he might be upset or perhaps worried.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, but I’m not. I haven’t heard Mrs. Beaumont in quite some time. My heart contracts and saddens.
“How did you know my last name?”
It’s my married name. I kept it Fisher for writing purposes, but anything personal was under Beaumont. I changed it back to Fisher once Kyle died. One of the only things I managed to do. Back then, I felt that the quicker I tried to remove myself from the situation, the quicker I’d heal. Somehow though, I can’t manage to take off my wedding ring.
He points to my writing bag.
“Oh.”
Kyle had it made for me as a wedding present.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Water, please,” I say in a pubescent teen voice, trying to keep my memories, my emotions at bay.
Across the aisle, two men talk in giddy voices. One of them pulls out a picture of a dog, and they both fall all over it.
“I can’t wait to get back to Granite to see her.” One of them leans his head over on the other one’s shoulder.
“Soon,” the other says.
I roll my eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me.
They both turn to me. I’m staring, and I quickly turn my head and stare at my lap, as if I wasn’t staring but I totally was.
“Do you have a dog?” one says.
God, did they see me roll my eyes?
“I was—I wasn’t rolling my eyes at you—just—no. No, I don’t have a dog. I have a cat named Larry,” I offer.
The awkward silence kills me, even over the drone of the plane’s engines.
I continue, “I was just admiring how adoring you both are about her. She’s beautiful.” I nod, as if nodding will allow me to shut up.
“
Her name’s Lucy. I’m Clay, and this is Randall.”
They both extend their hands across the aisle for a handshake.
“Alexandra,” I say.
“Where are you headed?” Clay asks.
My eyebrows rise. Say it. No, don’t. “Granite Harbor. You guys?”
“Granite Harbor actually,” Clay says. “Back from a quick trip to Brooklyn and then Chicago and now back up to Maine. Flights can be weird.”
Randall’s head cocks to the right, and his eyes narrow. “Business or pleasure?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Honey, nobody flies to Granite Harbor, Maine, unsure. Are you working? Or are you going to take up what our side of the country has to offer?” Clay rests his cheek on his hand.
“Both, I guess.” I stall.
I’m a writer. My husband died and I can’t seem to connect to anything anymore. A friend booked this trip for me in hopes that I’d find a new different. A new life. Meanwhile, my mother is home, taking care of my father, who has Alzheimer’s. I guess that’s where it all started. The intervention. So, I’m here, on this flight, praying to fucking God that I don’t turn around and fly home because I know I need a new different. I’m desperate, I say to myself instead.
Clay and Randall stare back at me, as if they can see past the bullshit line I fed them and read straight to my brain. Clay puts down the picture, pushes past his partner, walks across the aisle, and throws his arms around me. He whispers into my hair, “You just found your two new best friends.”
It’s just past nine p.m. when we land and pick up the keys from the car rental company. I still have about an hour and a half to drive to Granite Harbor.
Randall throws his carry-on over his shoulder while pulling his overnight bag.
I find my bag on the luggage carousel, and with one swift move, I pull it off the belt.
“You’re an avid traveler.” Clay walks up behind us. “That was no beginner move.”
“Did some traveling for work.” I try to keep it vague.
“Some?” Clay’s right eyebrow rises.
I shrug. “A lot.”
“Better,” he says.
Randall’s perfectly cut, longer-on-the-top dark brown hair sits on his head as if he just stepped out of a salon. He’s a lot taller than I thought. Standing next to him, I wonder how I didn’t notice this before. He must be at least six foot four. A collared button-down shirt and slacks makes it look as if he was traveling for business and not pleasure, and I didn’t think to ask earlier.
Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Page 3
