She laughs and shoves herself back, as she swims toward Mitchell. She goes over to him, cups her hand around his ear, and whispers something to him. He whispers back to her, and they both grin. Then they start advancing toward me. I pretend to swim away but, in reality, I don’t want to swim away. I want to get caught.
I scoop Mitchell up when he gets close to me and I toss him into the air. He lands right next to me in the water, close enough that I could reach him if I needed to. But he pops up just like Abigail did, and he says, “Do it again!”
So I do. I spend almost a half hour scooping him up and throwing him away from me over and over, and I’ve never been happier.
“Fatherhood suits you,” Abigail says as Mitchell hits the water again.
I look at her, my soul absolutely filled with joy. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I do think so.” Then she splashes me right in the face and takes off in the other direction.
I swim after her and catch her foot, drawing her back to me. She’s so pretty, with little wet smears of mascara under her eyes and her hair a big riotous mass of wet curls. “I’m still in like,” I say quietly, right next to her ear.
“Me too,” she replies. She sobers. “But I do still want to know more about you.”
I nod. “It’s coming.”
Suddenly, Mitchell turns around and shakes his booty at both of us. He sings out, “Now you will feel the wrath of my butt.” His face scrunches up like he’s trying to let out a fart, but before he can do it, we all hear a ruckus of quacking and squawking from behind. Flying through the air toward us is not just Wilbur and his girlfriend. It’s Wilbur, the girlfriend, and two other ducks. They land with precision on the water just a few yards away from us. Wilbur’s not as graceful as the others, but he did just learn today.
Abigail looks in my direction. “Wilbur can fly.”
I shrug. “Apparently so.”
The other ducks keep their distance, but Wilbur paddles over. He’s not the least bit wary of the three of us, and the fact that he’s not wary of strangers is a little bit concerning. I’m not sure if he’s not wary of strangers or if he’s not wary since I’m here.
Wilbur hangs out with us, dunking his head over and over. He has never looked happier. And I’m just happy he came back home.
“Do you think he’ll stay?” Abigail asks.
“I kind of hope not,” I reply truthfully.
She watches Wilbur as he splashes around with Mitchell, which makes both of us laugh.
I pick up the shampoo bottle and hold it out to her. “Ladies first.”
She shakes her head. “That stuff will make my hair so frizzy I’ll look like I stuck my finger in a light socket.” She shoves it back toward me. “You go ahead.”
I dump some of the shampoo into my hand and start to rub my hair with it, lathering it up. Mitchell grins and comes and does the same thing. “This is fun,” he says. Then he dunks himself to get all the soap out. I do the same. I hand him the soap so he can wash up, but he looks at it like I’m trying to hand him an unpinned grenade.
“You got something against soap?”
“I’m not washing my butt in front of a girl,” Mitchell says.
“I didn’t want to see your butt anyway,” Abigail says as she splashes him.
He laughs and dunks himself again to wash out the rest of the shampoo.
“I’m actually going to go home and change. Shower. Get the lake water off,” she says. “So I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow?” She waits a beat, like she’s waiting for confirmation.
“You don’t want hot dogs?” Mitchell says, his smile fading from his face. “And marshmallows?”
“Oh…well…” Abigail looks toward me and raises her brows into a questioning attitude.
“Go shower, then come back to our campsite. We’re going to get everything ready.”
“And you want company?” She looks unsure. She very quietly leans close to me and says, “Don’t you want some time with Mitchell? Alone?”
I smile at her. “I want you to join us for dinner.”
“Well then, I guess I will. Thanks.”
I watch her as she walks out of the lake. She tugs at her clothes, which are stuck to her from the water. “It’s colder when you get out,” she says over her shoulder, giving a little shiver.
Her shorts are halfway stuffed up her butt, so she gives them a tug. I notice she faces the other direction, and I would love for her to turn around and yet hate the very idea of her turning around at the same time.
“I’ll see you guys in a little while,” she calls out with a wave. And she walks away without turning back.
“You like her,” Mitchell sings out. Then he jumps on me and tries to shove me under the water.
I let him, because that’s what dads do. And I am a dad. For the first time in a very long time, I am a dad.
I hand him the soap. “Now you can wash your butt.” He rolls his eyes as he takes the soap, but he does as I tell him.
The truth is that I do like Abigail. I like her a lot. I just hope she can like me back half as much. I don’t need or expect much. I’ve learned through the years that doing that only leaves you feeling unsatisfied.
19
Abigail
I go home, take a shower, rinse and condition my hair—because I learned at a very early age that people with hair as curly as mine know it’s hair suicide to wash it every day. Then I get dressed in one of my Lake Fisher t-shirts, put on some jeans because the night air can be chilly, and I go back to find the boys.
When I get there, they’re putting hot dogs in buns, and Ethan is cutting up an apple using his pocketknife. He looks up when he hears my footsteps and smiles at me. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.” He looks at me through one eye, the way he always does when he’s thinking. “I’m glad you did,” he says quietly.
I’m glad too. “What can I help you do?”
“Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Mitchell roasted all the hot dogs all by himself. And I cut up some fruit.” He leans close to me and whispers, “What else do I need?”
“You don’t need anything,” I whisper back.
He grins and waggles his brows at me. “I can think of one thing I need.”
Mitchell pretends to gag from where he’s sitting at the little picnic table eating a hot dog. “Girls are gross,” he says with his mouth full.
“I’d prefer for you to finish chewing before you talk,” Ethan warns, but he smiles at him while he does it. Mitchell tucks back into the food, and Ethan lays a cut-up apple on the side of his plate. He spears one of the apple slices with his knife and holds it out in my direction. “Apple?” He waits.
I reach out and take it. “I’m afraid to ask where that knife has been,” I say. My grandfather always used to cut his toenails with his. Ick.
He looks offended. “I disinfected it before I cut the apple.”
“He did,” Mitchell chimes in. “I saw him.” A piece of apple flies out of his mouth and hits the table, so he scoops it up and shoves it back into his mouth.
“Talk about gross,” I tease. He grins at me and keeps eating.
“How much are they supposed to eat?” Ethan asks me quietly, leaning toward me so he can whisper. His gaze moves to his son and back to me, over and over. “He’s on his fourth hot dog.”
“I think it’s probably fine,” I say. I don’t really know that much about kids, though, so I could be totally wrong.
Ethan passes me a hot dog, which he has already smeared with mustard. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I forgot the chili.”
Mitchell holds up one finger. “Next time, we need chili and onions.”
“You eat onions?”
He nods, his mouth full once again. “I eat everything.”
Ethan waggles his brows at me again. “Like father like son.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as I sit down at the little table and take a bite of my hot dog.
&nbs
p; Mitchell jumps up from the table. “I have to pee,” he says as he dances in place. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Ethan jerks his thumb toward the tree line on the other side of the campsite. “Go pee in the bushes.”
“Really?” Mitchell replies. “Cool!”
He runs toward the trees.
“Keep it pointed away from the lady!” Ethan calls to his retreating back. Mitchell doesn’t reply, but he does give him a thumbs-up over his shoulder.
“So, how’s it going?” I ask.
He sucks in a slow breath. “Great, actually. Is that weird?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s wonderful. He’s a good kid.”
He stares off in the direction where Mitchell went. We can still see him, standing at the tree line, but he’s a good ways away. “Sadly, I don’t get to take any credit for what a good kid he is.” He keeps staring, like he’s afraid his son will disappear if he takes his eyes off him.
When he sees that Mitchell is headed back toward us, he finally turns and looks me in the eye. “I’d like to tell you about what happened,” he says. “If you want to hear it.”
“I want to hear it.” I do. I do want to hear it. I can’t imagine that it’ll be nearly as bad as the bits and pieces I’ve heard from other people.
“Well, hang out, and we’ll talk after he’s asleep.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Mitchell and Ethan walk into the woods to go and find some sticks that are appropriate for roasting marshmallows. I watch them together, and it’s a lot like watching a baby take his first steps. The baby desperately wants to walk, but he has to take a few tentative steps first. That’s Ethan. He’s taking his first few tentative steps. And it’s a beautiful thing to see.
We roast marshmallows on the fire, and Ethan tells Mitchell about all the things his family used to do when he was a little boy, here at the lake. Mitchell eats roasted marshmallows until even I want to throw up, and then I see his eyelids get droopy. He starts to sag in the folding camp chair he’s in.
“And he’s asleep,” Ethan says quietly.
“So, how’s your first night been?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He grins. “He’s a great kid. So I think it went well. I don’t think I’ll want to give him back tomorrow night.”
“So don’t,” I reply.
He looks at me, his brow marred with a sudden frown. “What?”
“So don’t give him back. He can catch the bus with Trixie and Alex. It stops at the end of the drive. I see it every morning.” I shrug.
He stares toward where Mitchell is slumped in the chair. “I’ll need to move into one of the cabins. I wouldn’t want him to get picked on for living like a homeless person in a tent most of the time.”
“Didn’t the Jacobsons offer you a cabin?”
He nods. “They did.” He stares at the fire without blinking. “I turned it down.”
“And now, you’ll need one,” I remind him, gesturing toward Mitchell.
He nods again, slowly. “I’ll need one.” He heaves out a sigh. “I don’t want him to be tainted by what happened. What if it seeps into his life too?”
I sit forward, surprised by the question. “You think people aren’t already talking to him about what happened? I feel sure he’s dealing with it in his own way, more frequently than you would think.” Kids can be cruel, and they know how to exploit weaknesses to lift their positions within group dynamics.
“You think so?” He scratches his head.
“I do.”
“I’ll talk to Jake and see about that cabin.”
I know that the Jacobsons, throughout the years, have bought cabins that people can no longer afford. They usually buy them with the intention of waiting while the people get back on their feet, and then letting them buy them back. But I know that occasionally people don’t come back. They don’t want the hassle, or they don’t want to face the memories, or they just don’t want to come to the lake anymore. The Jacobsons rent those cabins out.
And I’ve heard rumors, mainly from Gran, that the Jacobsons have deals with some of the local churches and civic organizations that they let people who are homeless come and stay in the cabins rent-free until they can get back on their feet. So them letting Ethan use a cabin won’t be unheard of or even out of the ordinary.
“Do you think I should put him to bed?” Ethan asks.
With the way he’s sleeping, he’ll wake up with a crick in his neck if not. “He’d probably be more comfortable in the bed.”
Ethan walks over and scoops him up. Mitchell doesn’t move a muscle.
“You must have worn him out,” I say. I touch Mitchell’s leg as Ethan walks past me.
He steps into the tent, and I see him lay his son gently on the air mattress bed, pull his shoes off, and tuck him into the sheets and blanket we bought that morning. Ethan leans down and presses a lingering kiss against his son’s forehead, taking a moment to stare down at him like he’s one of the miracles of the world and he’s never seen anything like him before.
Suddenly, a sneeze rises in my nose. My throat has been tickly all day. I hope I’m not coming down with something.
Ethan comes back out, grabs the camp chair he’d been sitting in, and drags it over next to mine. He gets it so close that the arm of his chair overlaps with mine.
“You feel like talking?” he asks. He stares at the fire instead of at me.
“Only if you want to.” I don’t want him to go anywhere in his memories that will be uncomfortable or painful.
“I want to,” he replies. He closes his eyes. “I can still remember the day so vividly. I can still smell the scent of her perfume when I think about it. And I can still smell the rest of it too.”
“The rest of what?”
He doesn’t look at me. He just stares at the fire and starts to talk.
And I listen.
20
Ethan
Melanie, Mitchell’s mom, and I woke up early in the morning because we’d planned to go on a day trip, just the two of us, to a wine tasting. Essentially, it was a place that grew grapes—to call it a vineyard would be a stretch—made and sold wine, and they’d created “an experience.” Melanie had been wanting to go for a while, so I’d bought tickets for her birthday.
She settled into the car next to me, the lilac scent of her floating over to me. I’d always loved the way she smelled. Mitchell kicked his little feet in his car seat behind her and sucked on his pacifier, which we couldn’t get out of his mouth. I was afraid the kid would never speak a word, since that thing was always jammed in his mouth. But he wasn’t ready to give it up, and our pediatrician had said it could wait until he was ready, that it wouldn’t do any harm for him to keep it for now.
We stopped at Melanie’s parents’ house to drop Mitchell off. He had no problem staying with them for the day. I knew that Imogene would probably set him on the kitchen counter and let him help her bake cookies, the way they normally did. Then he would eat too many, and she’d eat too many, and they’d both walk around holding their stomachs. Mitchell couldn’t talk yet, but he was really good at filling up a diaper after he left Imogene and Derrick, every single time.
Melanie burst through their front door like she still lived there. She’d never grasped the idea that she’d been gone long enough that this wasn’t her house anymore. As far as she was concerned, this would always be her other home.
Her mom met her coming around the corner toward the kitchen and took Mitchell from her arms. “There’s my big boy! We’re going to bake cookies, you and I.” Yeah, no surprise there. “When do you think you two will be back to pick him up? I don’t want to start something we won’t have time to finish.”
Melanie looked at me, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her birthday-girl face looking fresh as a daisy. “Around dark?” she asked me.
I nodded, and we both kissed Mitchell goodbye, but Derrick was already flying him
around like an airplane while Mitchell giggled out loud. The pacifier fell out of his mouth, and Imogene swooped in, scooped it up, and washed it in the sink. She set it on the edge of the counter so he could get it when he wanted it. He would want it immediately, as soon as the airplane ride was over, I’d wager.
“Oh, honey,” Imogene said to Melanie, “remind me to give you your birthday present when you come back.”
“Why can’t I have it now?” Melanie whined with an exaggerated pout. Being an only child, it was a miracle she wasn’t spoiled rotten. Instead, she was simply adorable.
“It can wait. Now go on. Have fun!”
We got in the car again, and Melanie reached over to run her hand up my arm. “Do we have time to go back home for a few minutes?”
I shook my head, a grin on my face. “Nope.”
She fluttered her lashes at me. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said as I put the car in gear.
“But it’s my birthday!” She sat back with a huff, but I could tell it was all pretend. She had been looking forward to this outing. I reached over and took her hand in mine.
We were almost to the state line, about an hour from home, when my phone pinged. Melanie was reading a book and she was thoroughly engrossed in it, so I picked my phone up from where I’d left it in a cup holder, and looked down at the picture and message that had come through. It was from a buddy of mine at work, and it was just something stupid. I laughed at it.
“What’s so funny?” Melanie asked.
I twisted my wrist to turn the phone in her direction. We both looked at the screen, and Melanie rolled her eyes.
I didn’t see the truck. I didn’t see anything but that picture and her comical reaction to it. I shouldn’t have even picked up the phone at all while I was driving. I should have waited until we stopped. But I had wanted to be sure that it wasn’t Imogene or Derrick calling about a problem with Mitchell. I’d tapped my phone and stared down at it, trying to read the small message accompanying the picture and—
Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3) Page 14
