Touching Down

by Nicole Williams

  I didn’t hear the door open behind me, but a woman stepped out onto the stoop where I stood, watching my daughter roll the legs up on her overalls once she’d reached the fountain.

  “I’m Mrs. Kent, Mr. Turner’s housekeeper.”

  “That’s got to be an impossible task.” I smiled at the elderly woman watching Charlie the same way I was—with amusement and delight.

  “It certainly was in the beginning, but he’s gotten better.”

  I looked at her from the corners of my eyes, remembering Grant’s version of “housekeeping.” It had been putting the dirty dishes around the sink’s general area.

  “Well, he uses the hamper now in any case.”

  Mrs. Kent’s comment made me laugh, despite being spun for another loop that Grant had a housekeeper. One who had a friendly face and wore an apron that looked starched and everything. I felt like I’d just been dropped off at Wayne Manor instead of Grant’s home.

  “Is it okay, Mom?” Charlie shouted, one foot already in the fountain.

  My instinct was to shout absolutely—it was an unseasonably warm day and life was short—but I glanced at Mrs. Kent first.

  “In my opinion, a fountain like that is for more than just admiring.” She winked at me before grabbing the luggage handles and rolling them in through the doors. “I’ve maybe been known to dip my toes into it a time or two myself.”

  After I’d given Charlie the thumbs-up, she didn’t hesitate to finish crawling inside. The fountain came to her knees, but she’d only managed to roll her overalls up to her mid-calf. Instead of worrying about getting her clothes wet, Charlie did Charlie and dropped the rest of the way inside, fully submerging herself. As she did, happy shrieks and splashes echoed across the expansive yard.

  She was already making herself at home. She already seemed happy here. As much of a relief as that was, I still had to talk with Grant. About a list of things—the car and him bringing us to live in his house at the top of that list.

  As I pulled out my phone, I noticed movement from the next stretch of land over. Neighbors. They were out on their lawn, not trying to be subtle about checking out what was going on next door. The lots of land were big enough that I couldn’t make out what they were looking at exactly, but when I guessed their gaze shifted my way, I made sure to give them a big, overdone wave. They didn’t wave back.

  Great. Already making friends with the neighbors who’d just witnessed my daughter splashing around a decorative yard feature in her clothes. Not that I gave a crap what others thought, but it made me realize we wouldn’t be able to keep our presence in Grant’s life a secret for very long. The media had been bad in his hometown; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like up where he lived and played.

  It wouldn’t be long before they figured out who I was and who, in turn, Charlie was. It wouldn’t be long before our names would be linked to Grant and judgments would be made and assumptions drawn.

  It wouldn’t be long after that before they figured out what was happening to me. Whether it happened through digging the way the media did or people figuring out that my dropping things and stumbling weren’t due to acute clumsiness, it wouldn’t be long before the nation would know what was wrong with me. I had to make sure Charlie heard it from me before she stumbled upon it in a headline.

  Thinking about having that conversation made my stomach fold over, but I knew I’d have to tell her. The only reason I hadn’t told her yet was because I wanted her to have as many possible days or weeks or months as a child who didn’t carry the weight of knowing her parent was sick. I wanted her to have as many worry-free moments as I could afford.

  I wanted the best for my daughter. I always had and I always would. Every decision I’d made had been tied to that reason.

  After a few minutes, I accepted that the novelty of swimming in a fountain was not going to wear off anytime soon, so I took a seat on one of the front steps and let Charlie enjoy herself. Mrs. Kent came back a couple of times to check to see if I’d like a drink or anything to eat, but I thanked her and said I was good.

  Another half hour had rolled by when a truck came passing through the gate at the street. Unlike the old one he and his dad had worked on restoring back in Texas, this truck was newer. It wasn’t anything flashy or lifted or anything like that—it was just a simple, everyday type of truck.

  I guessed it was Grant since he said he’d be finishing up practice about this time, but I wasn’t sure until I saw him stick his head out the window when he broke to a stop in front of me.

  I was upset at him. At least a little. And I had some big things to work out with him. But damn if I couldn’t help my smile when his formed.

  “If I wasn’t sure before, now I know she’s my daughter.” Grant checked his rearview mirror, chuckling as he watched Charlie spray a stream of water from her mouth like she was one of the marble fish spitting water into the fountain.

  “She’s all you,” I said.

  “So?” Grant’s brows lifted as he shoved out of his door. “What do you think?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m still trying to decide what I think. Especially when there’s so much to ‘think’ about.”

  His forehead creased into a couple of lines. “Okay, I think I remember that tone. Actually, I could never forget it. That’s your I’m-pissed-but-I’m-trying-not-to-show-it voice, right?”

  “You remember.”

  Grant closed the truck door and started toward me. Slowly. “Impossible to forget.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the address you gave me was your home?” I scooted over to give him space to take a seat beside me on the stair. My voice sounded more tired than pissed.

  “Because I figured you wouldn’t be happy if I did. I was right.” He lifted his arm at where I sat when he paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  “It’s not that I’m not happy. I just feel kind of tricked.”

  “I wasn’t trying to trick you.”

  My eyebrow arched. “Then what were you trying to do?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish look cast over his face. After a minute, he sighed. “Okay, fine. I was trying to trick you. A little.” He sighed again. “Do you not want to be here?” His gaze shifted to where Charlie was still splashing around in the fountain, oblivious to who had just pulled into the driveway.

  “I don’t think I have enough mental capacity to arrive at an answer to that question yet. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you bought me a car. A nice car.”

  Grant nudged me. “That car’s pretty badass, right?”

  “The car. The house.” I nudged him back, but he barely budged. The result of him being a wall of muscle and brawn. “Not too shabby for some kid from The Clink.”

  He chuckled. “There are still mornings I wake up and don’t have a clue where I am or how I got there. Feels like I fell asleep in one world and woke up in another some days.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  We sat like that for a minute, smiling as we watched Charlie having a grand time. Then Grant turned so he was facing me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that the place I arranged for you two to stay was my home. I should have, and I knew I should have . . . but I didn’t.” His eyes drifted toward the front doors. “When I bought this place, I always imagined that one day I’d be able to enjoy it with my family. You and Charlie, you’re the only family I’ve got, Ryan.” His jaw popped as he worked it loose, still staring at his house like he was seeing something I couldn’t. “I let the idea of you guys being here with me get ahead of my better judgment. If you want to go somewhere else, I’ll understand. Or at least I’ll pretend to understand. Shit, I’ll even act understanding.” When he peered at me, his half-smile was in place, the storms of contemplation having passed.

  “How big of you,” I teased, sliding out of the cardigan I’d slipped on earlier, anticipating it being cool up here in New York City, but it had turned out to be a warm day.

  I didn’t miss th
e way Grant looked at me, the way his throat bobbed when I slid my hair over my shoulder. I also didn’t miss the way my stomach felt when I realized he was watching me that way. The way I remembered him looking at me when he’d wanted me. The way he’d admired me, taking his time looking before touching. God, it had been years since I’d felt that stomach-bottoming out phenomenon I was now. Years since I’d been looked at the way Grant was appraising me right now, because no one could look at me and make me feel the things he did. No one in this life at least.

  With a long exhale, he acted like he had to make himself look away. “Before you make your final decision, let me add a few things that might help sway your vote.”

  “In your favor, no doubt.”

  His dark brow lifted. “No doubt.” He let that punctuate the air before continuing. “I’ve already moved into the pool house, so you don’t have to feel strange about ‘sharing’ a house with me. You know, in case that, and how you were going to explain that to Charlie, was one of your concerns. I thought it would be easier to just live in totally separate structures.”

  He’d moved into his pool house? Wait. Grant Turner had a pool house?

  “What? No way. We are not kicking you out of your house, Grant—”

  Before I could continue, he cut me off. “Already done. This behemoth is too damn big for one person anyway. I get lost, so the pool house is a better set-up for me anyway.”

  “Grant, no—”

  “And let me just throw in that Mrs. Kent prepares nutritious, well-balanced meals every day, there’s a library inside that’s a perfect place for Charlie to do her schoolwork in, and the city’s best neurologist specializing in Huntington’s office is a ten-minute drive away.” When he was done listing things off on his fingers, he gave me a victorious smile, like he already knew my answer but was just dying to hear me say it.

  I sighed, knowing my answer already too. I just wasn’t quite ready to give in. “Anything else?”

  Grant motioned at the fountain Charlie had moved on to playing a mermaid in. “I’ve got a swimming fountain.”

  My smile came naturally, which was a nice change. Most of them had been the forced kind lately. “Sold.”

  Beside me, he visibly relaxed. Almost like a weight had been lifted that had been capable of crushing him. “Good,” he exhaled.

  “And you’re wrong about us being the only family you’ll ever have. One day that will change. One day you’ll meet someone amazing, and you’ll have more amazing children with her.” My throat bobbed as I swallowed, my eyes getting blurry as I watched the child he’d created with me. Grant had always been special to me. It might have taken the world a while to see it, but now the rest of the planet knew how wonderful he was too.

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” He sniffed, shaking his head.

  My head leaned back into his broad shoulder as we watched Charlie. At the same time the motion was familiar, it was foreign. Time had blurred the sensation, making it sharper. “Why not?”

  His chin tucked over my head at the same time I felt his arm come around behind me. I felt his throat move against my head when he swallowed. “Because how do you go and fall in love with someone new when you left your heart with someone else?”

  “WHY DID YOU used to dress like that?” Charlie’s voice echoed from the massive living room into the equally massive kitchen. Grant had given us the grand tour a few hours ago, but I still couldn’t remember where the elevator was that would take us to the second and third floor. You know, if the stairs were too big of an inconvenience.

  “Because I had to look tough, that’s why,” Grant answered as I counted down the timer on the microwave.

  “Why did you have to look tough?”

  “So I wouldn’t get my as . . .”—a quick clearing of his throat—“so I wouldn’t get my butt kicked. That’s why I had to look tough.”

  “You don’t dress like that anymore.”

  “That’s because I don’t have to worry about getting my butt kicked anymore.”

  “Why not?” Charlie asked as the microwave timer went off.

  “Because now I’m the one who does the butt-kicking. Every Sunday on the field.”

  Her laugh chimed through the house. “But instead of clothes that look ten sizes too big, you wear spandex that look ten sizes too small.”

  Halfway back into the living room, I choked on my laugh. Both from Charlie’s words and the wounded look on Grant’s face. “Hey, the spandex came as a package deal with the contract. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Sure, you don’t.” I winked at Charlie as I moved into the room. “That’s why you’re wearing spandex right here as we speak.”

  Grant’s wounded expression turned on me. Then he pinched the tights in question. “These are compression tights. My trainer makes me wear these after an intense practice. Again, no choice in the matter. Package deal with the contract.”

  This time, Charlie winked at me. “Sure, it is,” she said in a sarcastic tone that made her mama proud.

  “Two against one. Why do I feel like I’m witnessing a trend emerging?”

  “Trend is already fully emerged.” My shoulder lifted as I approached where the two of them were stretched out on the couch, flipping through what looked like a photo album. “Sorry.”

  “Compression tights,” Grant repeated.

  My eyes dropped to his Lycra leggings, and I shook my head. To be fair, he had on a pair of athletic shorts over them, but still. “Whatever, Superman.”

  Charlie giggled, flipping another page in the album.

  Grant sighed, rubbing at his shoulder. “After today’s practice, I’m not feeling so ‘super’ or made of steel.”

  I lifted what I’d just pulled out of the microwave and crawled beside him onto the couch. It was one of those huge, sprawling couches with recliners and cup holders built into it. Very much of the bachelor persuasion, which followed the theme of most of the house. The most feminine touch was the flowers growing in the beds outside, making me wonder if a woman had ever lived here with him or even shared a night every once in a while.

  The lack of incriminating evidence in his bedroom and bathroom indicated that none had . . . not that I’d checked.

  “Old war wound acting up?” I said, getting him to sit up just enough so I could drape the warm compress over his shoulder.

  Grant’s head tipped back toward me, his eyes finding mine. “Best battle I ever fought.”

  We held each other’s stare for a minute, long enough for me to be transported back in time to when we’d been nothing but a couple of kids that society had turned its collective back on. I saw the same mix of strength and rage in his eyes as I’d seen back then. He saw the same mix of courage and fear in mine, I guessed from the way his forehead pinched together.

  “Sweet Jesus, what is that?” Grant practically moaned a minute later, his whole body relaxing.

  I wrestled with a smile as I adjusted the warm pad a little higher up on his shoulder. “Witchy voodoo medicine.”

  “So much better than those top-of-the-line doctors and physical therapists the Storm keeps on the payroll.” Grant’s eyes closed as I gently rubbed his shoulder through the pillow of the compress. “What is it really?”

  Charlie’s attention turned from the album to what we were talking about. “It’s just rice inside a couple of pieces of fabric. Then you microwave it for a minute.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Mom and I made it.”

  “I love witchy voodoo medicine.” Grant sighed again. “You two should mass produce these things, and I can sell them to a bunch of guys I know who have too much money and too many muscle aches. They would eat these things up.”

  “What did you do to your shoulder?” Charlie asked, sitting up to look over at where I’d draped the warm rice bag on him. She’d changed out of her wet clothes and was in her pajamas. It was late again, and she was still up, but there had been lots of special exceptions lately. Lots of reasons to let bedtime slide a little.


  “I dislocated it.”

  “When?” I saw Charlie scan through her memory, searching for the game where Grant Turner had dislocated his shoulder.

  “When I was thirteen. Just a kid.” His tone was a note deeper, undetectable to anyone who hadn’t spent countless days with him.

  “How?”

  Grant paused a moment, checking me before answering. When I gave a slight nod, he said, “A fight.”

  “Who’d you get into a fight with?” Charlie had totally twisted around in her seat, fully invested in the story now.

  “A man.”

  My hand still rubbing his shoulder started to tremble. This time, it wasn’t from the Huntington’s. I managed to rein it in quickly though, before even Grant picked up on it.

  “Why did you get into a fight with a man when you were only thirteen?” Charlie’s big, innocent eyes blinked at Grant, waiting.

  He didn’t know what to do; I could see it on his face. He didn’t want to betray his daughter by lying to her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to betray me by telling anyone what we’d agreed was my story to tell should I ever want or choose to.

  I made the choice, so he didn’t have to betray either of us.

  “Because he was helping me,” I said calmly, looking her in the eye. “Your dad got into the fight with that man because he was trying to save me.”

  “Save you from what?”

  Stalling to figure out a way to word my answer, I wetted my lips. “That man, he was trying to take something from me.”

  Charlie’s next question came before I was finished giving my answer to her prior one. “What was he trying to take?”

  Like Grant, I wanted to be honest with our daughter . . . but I didn’t want her to know the world as I’d known it. I’d done everything I could to give her a life wholly different than the one I’d been born into, and I wasn’t going to bring her into it by giving her a detailed account of my almost-rape at nine by a man three times my age, the very “boyfriend” my mother had claimed could do no wrong.