by Amy Marie
“I think that would be a good thing, Mom. It’s been a long time. Dating is a lot different now, though. I’d want to make sure you were safe, not going out with random strangers. Are your new friends wanting to set you up with some people they know, maybe go out as a group to let you meet them?”
“I...well, I didn’t just mean the idea of dating. I guess what I meant to say was, what if I had someone in mind?”
I glance up to see Alex shift to a poker face. He couldn’t do this with me before his time in the Army. “To be totally honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that without more information, Mom. My main concern is you.” He pauses. “Why don’t you tell me more.”
“Around the time I was hashing that out in therapy, I met someone through group. What he shared—it touched me. He shut down for a little bit after his loss, but then he picked himself up and did the work to keep healing. It inspired me to keep removing those layers and bring myself back to the land of the living. We found we had some things in common, talking after group. We discovered a connection.”
I look up quickly. “I don’t mean like an emotional connection—although I think that might be there—I mean like Six Degrees of Separation kind of connection.”
Alex looks puzzled, but doesn’t speak, so I continue.
“What I mean is that he’s not a total stranger.”
He still says nothing.
I set my tea down and force myself to make eye contact again. “We’ve talked after group, even gone out with several friends. There’s been some flirtation and, I think maybe a little spark. We haven’t actually gone on a real date yet.” I take a nervous breath.
“But he did recently ask me out.” I close my eyes. The roles feel reversed, as if I’m the child asking my parents’ permission to go on a date.
“For right now, can I ask you to keep this between the two of us? I know he was going to mention it to his...I mean, can you not say anything yet because of the connection? So just until I can confirm he’s already told...I mean, so our families hear this from us first.”
“You’re dancing around whatever this connection is, Mom. What’s going on?” he asks gently.
“It’s...well, you know his...” I groan, dropping my chin to my chest. “This feels so awkward. I’m probably making a huge mess with all my stumbling around, so let me just...” I shake my hands out, then squeeze them together and look at Alex. “It’s Clint Crawford. Bryant’s dad.”
Utter silence.
I watch Alex’s face, praying to read his thoughts, his emotions. Anything. That damn Army poker face is frozen in place.
Glacially slow, the corners of his eyes and mouth soften. His head tilts a fraction to the side. He takes another sip of tea, looking off in the distance, before slowly starting to nod his head. Finally, he looks back at me and his expression has warmed ever so slightly. “I can see that, Mom.” He sips and nods a little more. “He’s a little older than you are, I think. I’m between Bryant’s and his brother’s age.”
A thought occurs to him and his face tightens a bit. “Do you know if he’s told Bryant yet? Because I’d rather not be the one to share this information. It could make things awkward between us.”
“I certainly understand. I know he planned to talk to his boys about dating again in general terms, but I don’t think he’s ready to tell them it’s someone they know. He’s had time to get used to the idea, so he’s easing them into it. I’ll keep you updated so you aren’t stuck in the middle.”
Alex walks over and wraps me up in a big hug. He’s so big. Taller and broader than Philip ever was.
“I’m so proud of you for this, Mom. I know it isn’t easy to make big changes like this. To let go of your defenses after so long. But it’s a healthy step. I like Mr. Crawford, but that’s not even what this is about. It’s about you finally thawing out that heart that I’ve seen, but no one else has. At least, not since Dad. You’ve got too much love to give, and you’ve wrapped your entire life up in a practice that can’t love you back.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’ve been worried about you. There’s been something fragile, something I couldn’t quite explain—but you saying that about layers of ice? That makes sense. I was worried if I got a job I couldn’t turn down, somewhere far away, what would you do? That would leave you here alone. But the fact that you’re making connections—that you’re coming back to life again? I can’t tell you how happy I am for you. I’m proud of you.”
Valentine’s Day
Clint and I have both decided to completely discard the fact that our first date is on Valentine’s Day. It’s just the first night that worked for both of us after we finally decided to go out without the group—and after telling our kids—so we’re choosing to ignore the implication of the holiday.
Well, aside from taking advantage of the local restaurant offerings, that is.
The restaurant was lovely, set in a restored church with original stained glass and soaring ceilings, but not too formal. And the food! The food was absolutely delicious. Greek specialties and plenty of simple grilled options for the less adventurous. We decided to get dessert to go and finish at my place since the restaurant is beginning to fill up. Although I’m not willing to refer to us as “early birds” and all that implies, I’m not even going to apologize for having dinner a little earlier than is fashionable. Especially not on such a prime night for reservations!
“How did you find this place? It’s perfect!”
Clint gives me a sheepish grin, gripping the back of his neck. “When I mentioned to Grant that I was going out, I asked him if he had any suggestions for where to take you. His new fiancée heard him tell me that he had no clue what was even available up this way anymore, since he mainly visits on holidays. She knew about Anna’s—she moved to Nashville from Glasgow last year, I think. Anyway, she said it’s where I needed to go and offered to make the reservation. I drew the line there, though.” He chuckles and shrugs.
“Well thank you for dinner. And thank her for the recommendation. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed tonight, after working myself into a tizzy over this.”
Clint takes my hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles and looking concerned. “Why did you work yourself into a tizzy? Did I do something to make you nervous?”
I laugh nervously. “Breathe?”
Clint looks crestfallen, so I wave my free hand dismissively.
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I mean that you didn’t have to do anything to make me nervous—this is just my first date in so long. I don’t remember exactly, but I know I had given up on the whole dating scene before Alex turned 15 and got his drivers permit. And my heart was never involved in any of those.”
I close my eyes, willing my anxiety to settle. “Frankly, it’s my first real date—where I’m not just going through the motions to appease people concerned about me—since Philip. Almost thirty years.”
I open my eyes to look at him, hoping he understands that it’s just nerves, and in no way a reflection on him. “We barely even had a chance to date before we got married and moved to Germany. We went from strangers in Georgia to newlywed parents in Germany in less than a year.”
Something flashes across Clint’s face, and I freeze, waiting for difficult questions. Then he smiles and squeezes my hand, turning to face the server who brought our packaged desserts and the check. He puts a few bills in the check and hands it back to her, declining her offer of change. He takes my hand again as we walk to his car.
I bustle around my kitchen, putting on a kettle of water to boil. “Would you prefer coffee or tea? I’ve got a French press and some really good coffee in regular or decaf. And of course, you know I have lots of tea options.”
“What tea would you recommend with the desserts we got?”
“Are we going to share both or each have one of them?”
“Well, I ordered the creamy one and you ordered the baklava, but I think we should at least share a bite so we know who ordered the b
est dessert,” he chuckles. “What do you want to do?”
“I say we split them. We were both struggling to decide between the two, and the portions they gave us were generous.”
I tap my finger to my chin. “This may sound strange, but I would either recommend decaf coffee with both, or...” I pause to gather my nerve. “Since we obviously don’t mind eating after one another—we’ve shared bites from each other’s forks at the café and we did again tonight—what if we had one cup of tea paired with each dessert, and we share plates and cups alike?”
Clint smiles and nods in agreement. “Works for me.” He suddenly seems a little shy as he continues. “We’d probably have to sit close together.”
I smile, feeling a bit of warmth crawling up my chest to my cheeks. “I think I’d like that,” I reply softly. “I’m thinking an herbal tea blend—mint with a little citrus, served plain—to go with the baklava. I know it sounds crazy, but that tea pairs well with sweet, nutty desserts like that, or the gourmet caramel popcorn with all different kinds of nuts that the Boy Scouts sell in their fundraiser every year.”
His brow furrows as he considers, nodding his agreement as I continue.
“And the galaktoboureko is a little bit like chess pie baked in phyllo, with the sweet syrup on top. I think a black tea—decaf, of course—will be a nice contrast to the creamy, sweet flavors. I have a nice decaf breakfast blend that will do nicely. And we’ll have that British style, with a little sugar and milk. Well, maybe honey instead of sugar, because I think that might complement the Greek flavors a little better.”
“That makes sense to me.” Clint plates the desserts, grabbing utensils and napkins as I brew the cups of tea in large mugs that I usually save for Alex’s big hands. “Table or couch?”
“Couch. You go ahead with the desserts and I’ll bring the tea.”
I watch as Clint takes a bite of baklava, then follows it with a sip of the minty herbal tea. He closes his eyes, pondering all the flavors for a moment.
His eyes open and cut to mine. “I never would have put these two together, but they really combine well. Not that I doubted you—” his cheeks color a bit as he rushes to explain. “I thought they would be fine together. I just never thought they would work this well.”
“It’s okay. Just remember, when it comes to tea, I am always right.” I smile and pat his arm. “I’m right about most other things, too, but we’ll start with tea.”
Clint almost chokes on his tea, laughing. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” He reaches for a napkin, wiping his mouth before swapping desserts and mugs. “Seriously, though, I knew you like lots of different teas, but I never realized the thought you put into pairing them with food.”
“Or my mood, or the weather. Lots of factors.”
He smiles warmly at me, and I feel something loosen in my chest. “I enjoyed listening to your explanation. It was like getting a behind-the-scenes glimpse into your private world. It’s fascinating.”
He pauses, then softly—nervously—he adds, “You are fascinating, Roxie.” He reaches over to take my hand, lifting it to his lips, never breaking eye contact.
I tremble as he releases my hand. Not sure exactly how to respond, I reach for the closest mug of tea. As I lift it to take a sip, I realize I am smiling. Bit by bit, Clint is finding his way through those icy walls to my heart.
I can almost feel it beating again.
Dessert finished, plates and forks in the kitchen, and mugs of tea in hand, I find myself snuggled into Clint’s side under his arm. It’s simultaneously comfortable and weird. I sigh and sink a little deeper against him. I feel his lips on the top of my head. Again, comfortable and very definitely weird.
The silence is easy between us, but I want to get to know him better. “Are you originally from Kentucky?”
His hand rubs softly up and down my arm as he replies. “I am. My parents, too. I think my grandparents moved from Louisville and Bowling Green to the Glasgow area. The family tree is firmly rooted in Kentucky. I’ve got cousins scattered around the area—a few in Edmonton worked at Kingsford Charcoal, a few of them farm and sell their crops to local distilleries. It being Kentucky, there are some horse racing connections in the family tree, too. A vet that specializes in horses and a farrier—I think someone married a horse trainer?”
He takes a sip of tea. “But I was born and raised in Glasgow. Other than odd jobs I did as a teen, I’ve always worked in Bowling Green. Worked a little construction, even considered going to the police academy. I was a new husband, just starting our lives as adults, and I wanted a stable career that Amelia would be proud of, you know? Then we found out she was expecting Grant. The police job sounded good, but then it hit me. This was in the middle of the drug war era, which meant violence. One of the major pipelines for drugs into the country at that time was I-65. Bowling Green wasn’t a big city, but it was affected.”
He glances at me, eyes sad. “The thought of her sitting at home with a new baby, worrying about my safety, not knowing if I’d make it home? I just couldn’t do that to her. A friend from my high school football team heard that the power company was updating a lot of poles and lines and needed to hire some strong guys to make it happen. Then he came back from the interview and told me what they were paying, and all that they offered? It seemed too good to pass up. So I started there and worked my way up. Still there.”
His hand starts rubbing my arm again. “You said the Army brought you to Kentucky. Where are you from originally?”
“Georgia. Near Columbus—” My voice cracks and gets husky. “Near Fort Benning, where it all started.” I clear my throat and take another sip of tea. “You’ve heard how I ended up in Kentucky. Stationed at Fort Campbell, reconnecting with Philip’s family in Glasgow, and then he died and I moved off base. But I really need to go back further and tell you more of my story.”
I scoot to the corner of the couch and tuck my feet under me. I immediately miss Clint’s warmth. I wrap my arms around myself protectively as goosebumps rise on my arms. I can’t meet his eyes as I remember the lonely little girl I used to be.
“I was actually married as soon as I turned eighteen.” I close my eyes tightly and force the words out. “Not to Philip. This was before I met him. This was one of those anything to get out of the house marriages because I was lonely and impulsive, and a cute older guy in uniform flirted with me.”
I’m so anxious—from the memories, from having to share them with Clint, from the fear of judgment—I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I’m nauseous at the thought of Clint seeing me as Roxanna Rose Hendricks, the scruffy little redheaded ragamuffin from the Laurel Oaks Mobile Home Court.
That name may sound fancy, but in truth, it was the only improvement the owners were willing to invest in.
Chapter 4
Clint
Memories of childhood, leading up to first marriage 30+ years ago
Growing up, I hated the flicker and buzz of streetlights coming on. Not because my mother would yell my full name and embarrass me like some of my friends. Not because she or my father would yell at me for not being home before the lights came on, or even take their anger out on me in even worse ways, like my friend Tami Lynn.
I saw fear in her eyes every day until she ran away when she turned sixteen. If it hadn’t happened on her birthday, and if I hadn’t found a goodbye note stuck in the corner where my window screen was bent just enough to hold it, I might have suspected her father was responsible for her disappearance.
So I know that others had it really bad at home. Much worse than I did. I hated when the streetlights come on because everyone else had to go in, so I couldn’t stay outside alone. There’s nothing quite like the stale aroma of an ancient single-wide trailer—a strange combination of smoke, dust, mildew, dry rot, and wet dog. Curious since we lived there as long as I could remember, and we never had a dog.
I just knew that odor clung to me, like the visible trail you see in cartoons behind Pe
pé le Pew or Pig Pen, screaming to everyone around me that I was nothing but the trailer trash daughter of trailer trash, with no hopes of rising above it.
The trailer was always dark when I got home. Mama worked nights at a little crossroads gas-and-grocery spot. She dreamed of being a fashion designer when she was little, but she met Daddy and got pregnant, so the trailer park sucked her back down to earth. The closest she ever got to clothing design was being paid to sew peewee cheerleader costumes from old McCall’s patterns.
Daddy was a shade-tree mechanic. There was always a car up on blocks or with the hood open in our yard, but he actually worked at Mike’s Garage. He hates driving the wrecker, but sometimes he has to. Mama used to make dinner and leave it in the oven for Daddy and me, but as I got older, he went to the VFW every night. Mama figured if I was old enough to say by myself, I was old enough to feed myself.
Of course, it didn’t occur to either of them to buy groceries or give me money to do so. I ate all the bologna and government cheese sandwiches I could stand before I finally got old enough to get a real job. I tried to babysit, but nobody around there had money to pay sitters, and no one who had money wanted a sitter from the trailer park.
I started working at Burger Barn when I turned fourteen—it was close enough to the high school that I could walk. It’s been around since my grandparents were dating, with some of the original grease still in the corners and stuck in the grout. I have no idea how the building met any kind of building codes or passed health inspections.
I excelled in school, so I took every honors and AP class the school had. There were classes that counted for college credit as well as high school credit, so I took every one that was available. I stayed at the top of my class, because I knew a scholarship was the only way I was getting out of Laurel Oaks and going to college.
