Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3)

by Tammy Falkner

  I lower the phone to talk to Ethan. “If two of my friends come up this weekend, would you have time to meet them?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll have Mitchell, though. Is that okay?”

  “It’s perfect,” I reply. I lift the phone back up. “He says he’ll be around. He’ll have his seven-year-old son with him.”

  “Okay, text you later, chick,” she says. Then more quietly, “I’m so fucking happy for you!”

  “Thanks,” I say, as heat creeps up my cheeks.

  “Why are you blushing?” Ethan asks.

  “You’re going to meet my friends,” I say quietly.

  “Are you sure you want me to meet them? Like, really sure?” He stares at me hard, his brow furrowed.

  I nod. “You’ll love Camille. And her wife Rachel is the best. You’ll love her too.”

  “Abigail,” he says quietly and slowly. “Are you sure you want to introduce someone like me to your friends?”

  Now I’m sure it’s my brow that furrows. “What do you mean, someone like you?”

  His eyebrows arch now, in surprise. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “I’m actually dying to show them your abs,” I whisper-yell at him.

  “I’m being serious, Abigail. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “You don’t embarrass me. You couldn’t embarrass me. Not now. Not ever. Not about your past. That will never, ever embarrass me. And it shouldn’t embarrass you.”

  “I’m working on that.” He walks over and kisses my cheek. “Then yes, I’d love to meet your friends. And Mitchell is looking forward to the weekend. My mom just called and said he’s packing up some of his toys to bring here so he can leave them in the cabin.” He sucks in a deep breath. “My son is coming to live with me.”

  “That’s great! I’m so happy for you.”

  “I have to get out of here,” he suddenly blurts out. He leans down to kiss me again, but I avoid his mouth.

  “Why?” I tilt my head and stare at him.

  “Because all I can think about is the fact that you’re naked under that robe,” he whispers. Then he kisses me for real. When he pulls back, I nearly fall over chasing his lips.

  “I wasn’t finished,” I complain.

  He chuckles. “Put some damn clothes on.”

  “What’s on your schedule today?” I ask, as I retrieve t-shirt and shorts from a drawer.

  “I have to run to the tackle shop. Jake asked me to pick up some supplies he ordered, and Shy ordered a tracking device I can put on Wilbur. If he suddenly decides to fly south, I’d love to know about it.”

  “That’s smart.” I worry that he’ll be devastated if Wilbur ever does leave.

  “Do you need anything from the store?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything. But thanks for asking.”

  “Okay.” He leans down and kisses me one last time. Then he groans as he walks toward the door. “Put some damn clothes on!” he calls out as he walks out the door.

  I laugh to myself and drop onto the sofa. I think I just admitted, in front of him, that I’m falling in love with him. And I don’t regret it one little bit.

  29

  Ethan

  “Are you sure you want me to go?” I ask again as I help Mr. Jacobson load trays of barbecue and ribs into the back seat of his pickup. Apparently, he smoked the meat overnight, cut it up this morning, and it has been sitting in his own homemade barbecue sauce ever since, marinating in its own greasy goodness.

  “I asked you to go, didn’t I?” Mr. Jacobson replies. “Stop asking stupid questions.” He harrumphs under his breath.

  The thing is that I have no doubt that Mr. Jacobson wants me to go to the rescue squad meeting tonight. It’s the other people that will be there that I’m worried about. They didn’t receive me well at the ball game last Saturday, and when I took Mitchell to practice on Thursday, they still weren’t happy I was there. And on Thursday I didn’t have Jake or Katie or Mr. Jacobson or Shy or even Little Robbie Gentry to run interference for me. I was all by myself. I’d sat on the bench and watched practice, and then I’d dropped Mitchell off at my mom’s, taking a box of his stuff with me when I left, and I’d gone back home.

  Or rather, I’d gone back to Abigail’s cabin. Because where she is, that’s where I want to be. When I imagine home, it could be a shack in the woods or a glass monstrosity of a house at the top of a hill and it wouldn’t be home to me unless Abigail and Mitchell were there. She has quickly become my home, and I need her like I need the air that I breathe.

  But she’s not going to the meeting tonight. Tonight, it’ll just be me, Mr. Jacobson, and Jake, and we’re bringing ribs. The whole town will probably be there, since they’re going to be talking about water rescue plans in case there’s flooding after the storm. The hurricane that’s supposed to hit the coast won’t even be a big deal here; it’ll just mean a lot of rain, and maybe a little wind. But what will be the problem is when the water rises in the days after the storm, when roads and bridges become impassible due to high water. People should always “turn around, don’t drown,” but folks think it’s safe to drive through standing water. Then cars flood out, and people get stuck, and some of them get trapped in their vehicles, and some get swept away and die. Even attempting to rescue people stuck in high flood water is extremely dangerous.

  Tonight, the rescue squad will discuss ways they’ll communicate their need for volunteers, along with a review of some of the most basic safety rules for water rescues. One thing I’m sure of is that Derrick, my late wife’s father who wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire, will be there since he’s the fire chief. And I sincerely doubt that he’ll appreciate my presence.

  I close the back door of the truck and walk around to the other side so I can get in what’s left of the big back seat. The food smells so good that my stomach lets out a growl. Jake reaches past me from his spot in the front, lifts the tin foil wrapper from the edge of one of the dishes, and fishes out a beef rib. He starts to eat it in the front seat of the truck.

  “These are good, Pop,” he mutters around a mouthful.

  “Some days I think you don’t have the sense God gave a billy goat,” Mr. Jacobson scolds. Jake just keeps eating.

  Jake turns around to look at me, the edge of his mouth smeared with barbecue sauce. “You want one?”

  “I think I’ll wait,” I reply. But my stomach lets out another little plaintive groan as I watch Jake gnaw on that beef rib. It smells so good.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Jacobson says resignedly. “If doofus here can steal one, you can get one with my permission.” Jake reaches back, takes another from the pan, and holds it out to me. I take it, laughing lightly as I do.

  “What would it take to get the recipe, Mr. Jacobson?” I ask him.

  “I’d have to die.”

  “But then you’d be dead, and no one would still know the recipe,” Jake complains.

  “I’ll take it with me to the grave. You know they won’t taste nearly as good if I don’t stick my finger in the pot.” He chortles out a laugh.

  I unroll a paper towel from the roll Mr. Jacobson threw on top of the ribs and pass one to Jake. He accepts it and wipes his fingers.

  “You got a little right here,” his dad says, pointing. Jake wipes the left side of his mouth. Then Mr. Jacobson points to the right side of his mouth. Jake wipes that side. Then Mr. Jacobson points to his forehead, and Jake wipes his forehead, even though there’s no way he could have sauce there.

  He realizes what he’s done when Mr. Jacobson slaps his knee and Jake groans out loud.

  “Got you,” Mr. Jacobson sings out.

  “You suck, Pop,” Jake tosses back, as he pulls down the visor to use the little mirror to clean his face.

  We pull up to the fire station and get out. I look around at the full parking lot. It’s so full that trucks are parked along the roadside. Apparently, they put out a call for volunteers and volunteers showed up.

  “
See, nothing to worry about,” Mr. Jacobson says to me quietly as I follow him into the large multi-purpose room at the fire station. They have set up rows of chairs in the large space, and a big table is loaded with food people have brought. I follow Mr. Jacobson to the table, where he sets up his trays and uncovers them with a flourish.

  I look for Derrick, my used-to-be father-in-law and find him in the corner with a small crowd of men around him. Most of them are looking in my direction, and Derrick’s face is bright red as he points toward me and hisses expletives at the men around him.

  The deputy fire chief waits for him to finish. Then he nods, hangs his head long enough to take a deep breath, and he walks toward me. He stops in front of me. “Ethan,” he says. I reach out my hand to shake, but he doesn’t take it. “I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This isn’t the time or the place to rehash the past.”

  “I had no plans on bringing up the past,” I reply. “Did you?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare at him. He’s about five inches shorter than me, and he seems to get smaller the longer I look at him.

  “Well, no, and personally, I’m fine with you being here, grateful you showed up, actually, but Derrick…well…Derrick is not.”

  “What’s this about?” Mr. Jacobson interjects loudly.

  I hold out my hand, as if that’s going to hold the old man back. It doesn’t. He charges forward like a bull, his chest getting wider and wider the closer he comes.

  I get bumped by someone holding an empty plate, and I realize that there’s a line already moving where people are loading up on Mr. Jacobson’s barbecue. I step a foot to the left to get out of the stream of people.

  “You’re going to have to leave, Ethan,” the deputy fire chief says quietly.

  “Like hell he is,” Mr. Jacobson says.

  “Mr. Jacobson, we don’t want an argument,” he says, holding up his palms.

  “You might not, but somebody does.” He glares toward Derrick. “Derrick, I thought this was a meeting for volunteers,” he says, his voice loud enough that everyone in the room hears and stops to listen.

  “It is,” Derrick replies. His face is the color of the fire truck parked in the bay next door, and his armpits are so sweaty that I can see the stains from here. “But we reserve the right to refuse some volunteers. It’s nothing personal against you, Jacobson,” he says. “He can wait in the truck until you’re done.”

  Reluctantly I turn to walk out, but Mr. Jacobson grabs my shoulder. “Don’t,” he says. Just that one word. I feel like a dog that has been told to stay.

  Jake leans toward me. “All you can do now is sit and enjoy the show,” he says out of the side of his mouth. “There’s no stopping him once he gets started.”

  “I don’t want this,” I say quietly.

  But Mr. Jacobson will not be quelled. “Derrick,” he says, staring hard at the other man. “You’re telling me and everyone else here that this young man can’t volunteer to save lives because you’re still holding on to that hatred you’ve had festering inside you all these years?”

  Derrick repeats, “We reserve the right to refuse volunteers. Again, it’s nothing personal.”

  Mr. Jacobson’s voice grows deathly quiet, but it seems so loud to me in that moment. “It feels pretty damn personal to me,” he says. “Are you certain this is the way you want this to go? You want to welcome all these people—” He points to indicate everyone in the room. “—but send this one young man home? Really?”

  Derrick hitches his pants higher, but all it does is make him look like his balls are up near his bellybutton. “We do have a morals clause in our policies.”

  “Morals clause?” Mr. Jacobson snorts out a laugh. “If you were operating under a morals clause, most of the people in here wouldn’t qualify as volunteers.” Mr. Jacobson’s eyes sweep the room, lighting briefly on certain faces, many of which turn scarlet, and one man even gets up and leaves the room as fast as his feet will carry him.

  “We’re not doing this tonight, Jacobson,” Derrick warns, his voice filled with the type of authority that one can only give oneself.

  “Uh-oh,” Jake mutters. “He’s gone and done it now.” He looks at me. “You might want to duck.”

  “Maybe you should go, too, Jacobson,” Derrick adds.

  “Oh, fuck,” Jake breathes, and he takes three steps back.

  Suddenly, Mr. Jacobson starts walking through the crowd. He pulls plates full of barbecue from startled people’s hands, and even yanks a beef bone right from between one man’s teeth. The man doesn’t immediately let it go, and I see Mr. Jacobson’s lip snarl, the most menacing look I have ever seen on a man, and I saw some pretty shady sons of bitches in prison. The man opens his mouth and Mr. Jacobson take the bone and everything the man has left on his plate and stalks to the trash can. He tosses every plate into the trash, as startled men and women stare at him in disbelief.

  “Get those pans, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson says, motioning toward the pans of barbecue on the table.

  “Yes, sir,” Jake replies, as he springs toward the table. He quickly covers the trays back up, stacks them, and lifts them into his arms. “I’ll meet you at the truck, Pop!”

  “I’ll be right there, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson replies calmly.

  Jake inclines his head toward the door. “Run while you can,” he whispers to me.

  But I don’t follow Jake. I watch Mr. Jacobson. People are murmuring behind their hands, as others look on with guilty faces. Little Robbie Gentry comes to stand next to me. “I do love me some Mr. Jacobson,” he says with a laugh. “That man never changes.”

  “Steady as the day is long,” I reply.

  “You need to do some serious soul searching, Derrick,” Mr. Jacobson says. “I hope you can find some way to ease what’s going on in your heart because if you don’t it’s going to eat you up inside.”

  Mr. Jacobson speaks to him like there are not seventy-five people standing in the room watching with open mouths. He speaks to him the way he speaks to everyone else, honestly and with compassion. He speaks from his heart.

  “Let’s go, son,” Mr. Jacobson says. He claps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze as he walks by me. I turn to follow him.

  “He doesn’t deserve your kindness!” Derrick calls.

  I run into Mr. Jacobson’s back when he stops short in front of me. He turns around, steps around me, and shoves me behind him like I’m a six-year-old and he doesn’t want me to see the accident that’s happening in front of me.

  “He does deserve my kindness. And he deserves your kindness. And he deserves all of your kindness, because he’s a human being.” He stabs a finger in Derrick’s direction. “You need to work all this out for yourself, Derrick. Me yelling at you ain’t going to help you none.” He stabs that finger again and the man flinches, even from across the room. “One thing I know, Derrick, is that God don’t like ugly. And your daughter would be ashamed of you if she saw how you’ve been treating the man she loved. Ashamed, I tell you.” He stabs again. “God don’t like ugly.”

  And utter silence settles on the room. Derrick falls into a nearby chair like his legs won’t support him any longer.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. Jacobson says.

  I get in the back seat of the truck. Jake turns to face me and whispers, “What did he do?”

  “He said God don’t like ugly.”

  Jake snorts. “Hell, nobody likes ugly, least of all Pop.”

  I heave out a sigh, suddenly feeling like my insides are hanging on the outside. All my vital, easily bruised places are open and waiting to be wounded. I feel raw and exposed and so fucking vulnerable.

  Mr. Jacobson gets in with a huff, slams his door, and grabs the steering wheel at ten and two. “I’m going to pray for that asshole,” he says. He looks into the rearview mirror so he can look into my eyes. “Give me one of those ribs, would you?”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do with all these ribs, Pop?” Jake asks. �
�You could have just left them. It’s not like we can eat all this.”

  Mr. Jacobson shakes his head as I hand him one of the ribs. I wrapped the end of it in a paper towel before I passed it to him so he can keep his hands clean. “I couldn’t leave them there, Jake. I just couldn’t.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Jacobson,” I say quietly. “It really wasn’t worth it.”

  He meets my gaze in the mirror. “You’re worth it, Ethan,” he says. “You are most definitely worth it.” Then he takes a bite of his rib, puts the truck in gear, and eats with one hand while he drives with the other. “These are some of my best work,” Mr. Jacobson says contentedly, waving his rib bone in the air.

  “They are mighty fine, Pop,” Jake replies.

  “What do you think, Ethan?” he asks. But I can tell he’s asking me about more than ribs.

  “I think they’re the best ribs I’ve ever had. Ever.”

  And I think Mr. Jacobson is the hero every lost soul should have in their life. Because when you’re lost, he’ll be sure you get found.

  And in that moment, I feel found. I feel seen.

  Mr. Jacobson reaches back with his bare beef bone, and says, “Give me another.” I replace it with a new one. Around a full mouth he says, “They thought they could kick us out and still eat ribs.” He grunts out a laugh.

  “Technically, they didn’t kick you out, Pop,” Jake chides.

  “They may as well have,” Pop says quietly.

  “My dad, always fighting for the underdog,” Jake mutters. He shakes his head with a laugh.

  “I take my responsibilities seriously, Jake,” he replies softly. “One day when you’re as old as I am and you’ve seen as much as I have and done as much as I have, you’ll be just like me.”

  I want to be just like him too.

  We make eight stops on the way home, and Mr. Jacobson leaves a batch of ribs with various families, all families who could use a little help, but Mr. Jacobson makes it seem like they’re doing him a huge favor by taking the food off his hands. Then he drops by the two local nursing homes and leaves the rest for an evening snack for the residents. He stays to talk for a few minutes, and Jake and I lean against the tailgate, waiting for him to be finished.