He pulls a key out of his pocket and fits it in the lock, jiggles it a little, and the door clicks open. “I bought this one about twenty years ago. It belonged to a widow who only used it about one week out of the year. She died, and her family didn’t want it, so I volunteered to buy it. Sometimes I let people stay here who are a little down on their luck, and sometimes I rent it out. Depends on what’s needed at the time.” He walks inside and flips on the light switch. “This one needs some paint and some updating, but you could make it yours.”
I look around. It’s laid out just like Abigail’s grandmother’s place. I see it has two bedrooms and a single bathroom, just like hers. The second bedroom isn’t much bigger than a closet, but Mitchell would probably love it. There’s a bunk bed in the room, and I can already imagine him snuggling into the upper bunk as soon as he’s old enough.
“How much?” I ask.
He props himself in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, his shoulder against the doorjamb. “I had planned to offer it as part of your employment package.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want your charity, Mr. Jacobson.”
“If you knew me at all, you’d know I never give charity. I just give chances.” He holds out the key. I stare at it. “Here’s your chance, son,” he says. “Take it.”
So I reach out and wrap my hand around that little brass-colored key.
And I swallow past that lump that’s back in my throat so I can say, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I scrub my hand down my face, a little frustrated by how much he’s made me feel tonight, how he’s made things so clear and yet so muddled all at the same time.
“Think about what I said, okay?” he says quietly. “About forgiveness.”
I nod. “I will.”
He’d said I need to forgive myself. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to do that yet. I’m closer now than I have been in a really long time, though. I feel more peaceful after this talk with Mr. Jacobson than I have since I got out of prison. He’s helped me to see things much more clearly.
One thing that I know is true is that while I may not feel worthy of my son, my son is worthy of having a father. And that just happens to be me.
26
Abigail
“You’re out of bed,” Ethan says as soon as he walks into my cabin. He didn’t even knock, which surprises me, but it doesn’t bother me. He walks over and feels my forehead with the back of his hand. “Your fever is down.”
I nod. “I took my meds all by myself.”
He looks down at his watch. “What time?”
I give him a weak smile. “The time I was supposed to take them.”
“Did somebody cut them up for you?” He drops a bag from the tackle shop onto the kitchen counter.
“Nope.” I give him another weak smile. “I took them whole.”
He whistles. “Somebody’s feeling better.” He walks back to me and bends over to kiss my forehead. “I’m glad.”
“I’m still weak as water, but I do feel better.” It’s been three days since my symptoms started. My sore throat is tolerable, and my skin doesn’t hurt anymore. Just my muscles hurt now. And maybe my bones. But when my skin hurts, I know I’m sick. I grab his hand as he turns to walk away from me. He stops and turns back. “Thank you for taking care of me,” I say quietly.
“You’re very welcome,” he replies. “Somebody had to do it. You were pretty damn pitiful.”
I keep my seat at the kitchen table, where I have been sucking on a glass of purple juice. “Are you all done preparing for the big storm?”
“I think so,” he replies. “We’re just supposed to get a lot of rain from it. They’re predicting that the category four hurricane will stall on the coast and sit there and churn for a few days, which means we’ll get a shit-ton of rain from the outer bands of the storm. They’re calling for at least a week of it.”
“Is it safe to stay here?”
He nods. “Your cabin’s not in a flood zone. None of the cabins are. But the campground will probably flood if we get as much rain as they’re predicting. Some of the roads and bridges will flood too. It’s liable to be a mess.”
“You got all this from the local weather app?”
He shakes his head as he empties the groceries he bought onto the counter. I see chicken soup with little pasta stars in it, and a loaf of bread.
“No, I got it from Mr. Jacobson, who might as well be the local weather app. If he says it’s coming, it’s coming.” He suddenly turns and looks at me. “You want to give me your opinion on something?”
“Of course. If you want it.”
“The local fire and rescue crew is responsible for water rescues when we have a lot of flooding, or so Mr. Jacobson says. People try to drive through high water, stall out, and sometimes they even get swept away by the rushing current.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, the fire crew has called an emergency meeting to gather volunteers to help with water rescues and downed trees. They’ll show everybody how to use the rescue equipment, but they don’t really have anybody, except the people on the fire squad, that does water rescues. They’re calling for volunteers, and Mr. Jacobson asked me to go along with him and Jake tomorrow night, for the meeting.” He waits a beat. “Do you think it’s a terrible idea?”
“Do you want to volunteer?”
“I don’t see why not. The only requirement is that you have to be able to lift a certain number of pounds, and they prefer people who know how to swim.”
I smile at him. “You swim like a fish.” But the idea of him going to try to volunteer with these people worries me. “How receptive do you think the townspeople will be?” I saw how awful they were to him at the ballgame. I saw how it affected him.
“No idea. But I want to help my community. If my mom were to drive into high water by accident, I’d want a strong, fit person to go in after her, to bring her to safety.”
I let my eyes slowly slide up and down his body. “You’re certainly strong and fit.” I waggle my brows at him.
His cheeks immediately turn pink. “Stop it,” he says. He turns and starts to open cans of soup, so that his back is to me. Then he grabs bowls for the soup and puts them in the microwave to heat.
“How did you get so fit, anyway?” I ask, just because I’m curious.
“Well, there wasn’t much to do in prison aside from read and work out. So I did a lot of both.” He shrugs as he drops a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster and pushes the lever down.
“What was prison like?” I probably shouldn’t pry.
It takes him a long moment to respond, so long I begin to think he won’t answer at all. “Lonely,” he eventually says. “It was so fucking lonely.” The toast pops up, and he takes it out, cuts it into triangles, and smears a little butter on it, and then sets a bowl of soup and a plate of toast in front of me. “Dinner is served.”
“You know you don’t have to take care of me, right?” I ask as I dip a toast point into my soup and then stick it in my mouth.
“Who else would do it?” he asks. He grabs a bowl of soup for himself, and two pieces of toast but he doesn’t cut his into triangles. “Nobody is here.”
“This place is a little strange when it’s deserted, isn’t it?” I’ve never been here during this time of the year, at least not for long.
“I wouldn’t say it’s weird. I’d say it’s peaceful.”
Suddenly, a thought pops into my head, based on something he said when he was talking about the storm. “If the campground floods, what will happen to your tent?”
“I’m going to have to take it down, I guess.” He shrugs. “I haven’t really given it a lot of thought.”
“Where will you go?” The thought of him leaving makes my pulse quicken. “To your mom’s house?”
He shakes his head and grins. “No. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He looks at me, his eyes full of light and excitement all of a sudden. “M
r. Jacobson just gave me the keys to a cabin for me and Mitchell.”
“Seriously?” He looks overjoyed by the idea.
“Seriously. And it just happens to be the one right next door to you.” His grin grows even more. “We’ll be neighbors.”
“What’s the place like?”
He motions around us. “Exactly like this one. Already furnished. I just need to paint and do some maintenance.”
“And then you can have Mitchell come live with you? Permanently?”
He nods. “Yeah, I think that’s where we’ll end up. Maybe not all at once. He might go back and forth for a little while, until he gets used to spending time with me. I mean, I don’t want to just force myself on him. He barely knows me.” He stares into my eyes. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
I cover his hand with mine. “I think it’s a great idea. The best one you’ve ever had.” Mitchell will be ecstatic.
“Thanks.” His brow furrows. “You never did answer me about volunteering for fire and rescue. What do you think about that?”
“The Jacobsons are going with you to the meeting?”
“Mr. Jacobson said something about smoking a huge pile of ribs to take to the meeting. He already has them in the smoker.”
“Well, as long as they’ll be there, I don’t think anything can go wrong.” They’ll take care of him. They wouldn’t let anyone treat him poorly. I saw how Mr. Jacobson took up for him at the ball game. The fire and rescue meeting will probably be similar. “Are you sure you want to volunteer?” I reach over and cover his hand with mine.
“Not only do I want to volunteer, but I think I need to volunteer.” He flips his hand over so that we’re palm to palm. “Have I told you how happy I am that you walked into my life again?”
I lean my chin on my other hand and grin. “No, you haven’t mentioned it. Maybe you should tell me all about it.”
His gaze snags mine, and I suddenly feel heat creeping up my cheeks at the intensity. “I am so damn happy, Abigail, that you walked right back into my life.” He leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. My face is probably flaming by now. “I didn’t know how much I needed you until you were here.”
I take the last bite of my soup and suddenly yawn. “I’m so sorry,” I rush to say over my rude yawn. “I’m still not quite up to snuff.”
“You should go back to bed. It’ll take a few days before you get over it and feel better.” He leans over and tests my forehead again. “Cool as a cucumber,” he says.
“Gran still says that.” I grin at him.
“Ma does too.” He gets up and takes the dishes to the sink to wash them. “And you shouldn’t overdo it. Get your behind back in bed.” He shoos me with his hands toward the bedroom. “Go on. Get.”
“I thought we were going to play UNO,” I complain.
He stares at me in that way he does when he’s really thinking hard about something—one eye open and one closed. He sighs. “One hand,” he says. “One. Then you need to rest.”
He very quickly washes the dishes while I go and get the UNO cards out of my keepsake box.
“Oh, I remember that box,” he says as he looks over my shoulder in the bedroom. “Your grandfather made it, right?”
I nod, gently running my fingers over the engraved name on the top. He’d carved it himself. “It’s the only thing I took with me when I left Charles.” I look into his eyes. “It was the only thing that matters.”
“Why are the UNO cards in there?” he asks, as he sees me retrieve the pack.
Now I really do blush. Heat floods my face. “That’s just where I left them.”
“Why are you lying?”
“I’m not lying.”
He closes one eye, and I know he’s serious about whatever he’s trying to figure out. “Yes, you are.” He points a finger at me. “I know you, Abigail Marshall. I know when you’re lying.”
He’s right. He does know me. I may not have seen him for many years, but I feel like no time has passed at all. “That summer, after your dad died…”
His brow furrows but he says nothing.
“…and you didn’t come back to the lake…” I stop to clear my throat. “I put the card deck and your Monopoly piece in my memory box.”
“Why did you do that?” he whispers.
This time, it’s me who shrugs. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
I reach into my memory box and pull out his favorite Monopoly piece. I hold it up so he can see it in my palm. He always wanted to use the man on the horse. I always picked the iron.
“You put my piece away?” he says quietly.
“I didn’t want to play with anybody else.” I curl my hand around the game piece and hold it tightly for a moment. Then I return it to my box. I’m not ready to let it go yet. “I still don’t.”
Suddenly, he reaches for me, pulling me tight against him. His arms wrap around me and he squeezes me hard. I wrap my arms around his trim waist and hold on as tight as he is. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?” This time, I’m the one who’s confused.
“For remembering who I used to be and not just judging me for who I am right now.” He squeezes me one last time and then sets me away from him.
My eyes are suddenly wet, and I blink hard to brush the tears away. “I liked who you were then, and I like who you are now.” I shake my head. “You’re still the same person, Ethan, even if you don’t feel like it.” I lay my hand on his arm. “You feel exactly the same to me.” I gently tickle his abs. “Except now you got this washboard stomach, my God!” I laugh as he tries to wiggle away from my fingers. “No, stop! I’ve been wanting to touch them for so long!” I’m teasing. Sort of. They really are a thing of wonder.
He grabs my hand, laughing as he shoves my probing fingers away. “Stop it,” he complains, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it. “You make me feel cheap.” He sniffs like I’ve wounded him, but his eyes are dancing with playfulness.
“You want to have a sleepover?” I ask. I do his eye closing thing and stare at him through my left one.
“A sleepover?” He motions from me to him and back. “Me and you?”
“I don’t see anybody else,” I toss back.
He grins. “Are you going to molest me?”
I shake my head. I’m still waiting for those test results, after all. “I don’t plan to, but if I get a little handsy in my sleep, you can’t blame me for it.”
“If you don’t get a little handsy in your sleep,” he says close to my ear, “then I’m going to be pretty damn disappointed.” His voice isn’t much more than a purr, and if I wasn’t sick, I’m sure it would have shot straight to my toes. He kisses my cheek. “I will have to go check on Wilbur, though. I’m afraid he’ll go to the tent and I won’t be there.”
I grin. “He can sleepover here, too.”
He narrows his eyes as he stares at me. “Are you sure? He’s not housebroken.”
Wilbur is important to Ethan, and Ethan is important to me. “I’m sure,” I say. I grab the UNO cards and go to the bed. After two hands, I can’t keep my eyes open any more.
Ethan reads a book next to me, after he finds one of my books on the nightstand and cracks it open. It’s a romance novel that immediately enthralls him. When I ask him about it, he replies with a flippant, “Real men read romance.” Then he dives right back into the book. Around midnight, he goes to his tent and comes back with a quacking duck who follows him right into the house, complaining all the while.
“Apparently, he was pissed that I wasn’t there when he finally came home. He’s been talking shit ever since I walked up to the tent.” Ethan makes a small nest of blankets for him next to the bed, and the duck settles in, curling into a ball.
Then Ethan goes and takes a quick shower, and he comes out wearing a pair of boxers and an old threadbare t-shirt. He gets in between the covers and I lean over him to look at Wilbur, who is sleeping soundly, totally trusting his new surroundings.
&nbs
p; “Do you think he loves her yet?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me, but he does freeze. I feel his body tense. Then he relaxes and lets out a deep breath. He smiles at me. “If he doesn’t yet, I’m pretty sure he’s almost there.”
My heart surges and every hair on my arms stands tall. Because I’m feeling exactly the same. “She’s a lucky duck,” I say quietly. Then I burrow into his side, lift his shirt, and lay my palm on his abs. I tickle him lightly, which makes him laugh and grab for my hands.
“Behave,” he says. But he’s smiling. He flattens my palm and presses it against his naked skin. “If you can behave yourself, I’ll let you stay there.”
“No promises.” I kiss his shoulder and close my eyes.
27
Ethan
The next morning, I wake up with Abigail wrapped around me. I tip my chin so I can look down, and I see that her head is on my chest and her arm wrapped around me, her hand tucked into the waistband of my boxers. Wilbur pecks my elbow from his side of the bed, and I look over at him.
“What?” I hiss. I really don’t want to move. I want to stay wrapped in this cocoon of comfort. It has been a long time since I’ve been cuddled, and I am absolutely loathing the idea of moving.
“Does he need to go out?” Abigail asks, her voice sleepy and quiet. Her breath moves across my chin as she lifts her head to look up at me. Abigail’s hair is curly and all over the place on a normal day. But now, it’s sticking up in wayward strands of curls at odd angles. She frowns when she sees my smile. “What?” She sits back a few inches and furrows her brow. “Why are you smiling?”
I pull her back to me, because two inches is suddenly too far away. “Your hand is in my shorts.” I whisper. I flex my abs so that her hand wiggles. She jerks her hand back.
“It was not,” she cries out indignantly. Her voice is hoarse, and her nose is stuffy from sleep.
“I beg to differ. Your hand has been in my boxers for at least the last three hours.” I remember because I was going to get up to go pee, but I didn’t want to move her. Instead, I just went back to sleep. “You’ve been molesting me all night long.” I certainly wasn’t complaining. “First it was my abs, and then you stuffed your hand up my shirt because you said your hand was cold.” She’d rested her hand directly below my nipple. Then it had taken that final dip into my pants. And there it had stayed. “Then you went straight for the D.” I pull her closer and roll to face her, holding her against my chest. I grab handfuls of her curls and brush them back from her face, settling them behind her. “This hair has a mind of its own,” I say with a laugh.
Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3) Page 18
