by D. R. Graham
“Oh really? If it doesn’t bother you, then say his name.”
“Shitake.” She laughs and tugs my hand to lead me out of the barn and across the yard to the house. Ah, man. Even holding her hand sends me over the rails. I should have taken an ice cold shower.
Dad is on the porch, smiling at us as we approach. I haven’t seen him smile like that in years. Since before Mom died. And he actually put on a shirt that he had to iron. “Della, this is my dad, Jack. Dad, Della.”
She steps up on the porch and hugs him as if he’s already family. I haven’t even gotten that much action from her yet. Jesus. I’m jealous. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lewis.”
After taking a second to recover from the shock of being hugged by a stranger, he says, “You can call me Jack.”
She sways her head from side-to-side as if she’s considering the prospect of addressing him informally but isn’t entirely convinced she’ll be able to do it. He’s completely bald right now from the treatments, but it probably doesn’t strike her as strange since she didn’t know him when he had hair like mine.
“Come on in. Dinner is ready.” He leads the way through the living room and then pulls a dining room chair out for her. “Normally, it’s just me, so I eat in front of the TV. But I actually set the table for tonight’s meal since Easton said he was bringing his girlfriend for a visit.”
“I said I was bringing my roommate for a visit.” I sit down beside her and shoot him a glare.
“Roommate, right.” He nods as if he’s received the message before he disappears into the kitchen. I doubt clarifying the distinction will make a difference. I haven’t brought a woman around since Tracy, so he knows it’s serious. Not serious the way he thinks. Serious as in I just got a thrill from holding hands with her. If things progress, I’ll be hooked and reeled.
He returns from the kitchen, carrying the platter of rainbow trout. It’s his specialty, served with green beans and potatoes from the garden. Hopefully she doesn’t mind that it’s drenched in butter. He serves it up and sits down to watch Della take her first bite. Her eyes widen as the butter hits her palette. It’s the best part.
“Seriously?” She swallows and looks over at me. “Why does everything taste so good here? This fish is outstanding.”
“Fish always tastes better fresh.”
She places her palm on her chest and faces Dad. “This is amazing. Thank you for going to the trouble to catch it and cook it. I’m so grateful.”
“Anytime.” He smiles and digs in. It’s weird to see him acting friendly. Really weird. He hasn’t willingly socialized with anyone in over a decade. He can barely even tolerate eating at the same table as me, let alone being forced into conversation with someone he’s never met before.
“Oh, wait, I forgot to ask what you would like to drink?” He makes a motion to get up from the table, but I beat him to it.
“I’ll get it, Dad.”
He settles back down. “I’d offer you a glass of wine, Della, but I don’t keep booze in the house.”
“It’s fine, Dad. She doesn’t drink.” I head to the kitchen to check what he’s got in the fridge. Milk and apple juice. Neither is all that appealing with fish. I find a can of lemonade concentrate in the freezer, which isn’t really a better option, but I make that in a pitcher. I pour her just a plain glass of water, too, in case she doesn’t like lemonade.
When I return, they are deep in conversation. I probably shouldn’t be surprised. She cracked the code to get me talking, and he’s basically the source I was cloned from. But what I’m witnessing is a miracle in the dining room. It hasn’t felt this light in the house since Mom was alive.
I hand the glass of water to Della and place the jug of lemonade on the table. She thanks me, and I nod but then get back to eating, trying not to interrupt the roll of their conversation. They talk about everything from the cattle to Mojave traditions, and they eventually end up discussing his cancer. She probably has no idea how rare it is to hear him chatting openly like that.
“Well, you look really great,” she says to him. “The treatments must be working.”
He pours himself a lemonade and leans back in his chair. “I don’t feel quite myself yet, but if I get enough rest it doesn’t slow me down too much.”
“Being out in the fresh country air must help with the recovery. It is so beautiful here. Has the ranch belonged to your family for generations?”
“Only as far back as my father. The house I grew up in is on the north side, we rent it out now. I built this house before Easton was born, even before I got married. Before—before a lot of things.”
Sensing the change in his mood as his voice trails off, she reaches over and places her hand on his wrist in a sympathetic gesture. “I was very sorry to hear about the accident.”
I almost choke and have to grab for the jug of lemonade.
She glances at me to check if I’m all right before finishing what she was saying, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Lewis. It must have been horrible.”
He nods. Conversation over.
Della notices his wall slam down and clenches her eyes shut in regret. After a deep, remorseful exhale she goes back to eating in silence. She’s probably berating herself, but it’s not her fault we don’t talk about the accident. Maybe if we had talked about it we would have moved on by now. Or not. Who knows? I reach over under the table and squeeze her hand to reassure her.
To erase the uneasiness I say, “Della is studying engineering, Dad. She wants to work with water systems.”
“That’s great. Water’s important.” He stands and clears the platter and his plate to the kitchen.
Della’s head rolls to face me as she whispers, “I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine. There’s a giant elephant in the room. It’s not your fault for pointing it out.” I finish my fish, then pour another glass of lemonade. I wish it was alcohol.
I can sense the wheels turning in her mind as she puts together all the pieces—the way Dad reacted to the topic, the no alcohol in the house, my discomfort. She appears to have lost her appetite and pushes the potatoes around the plate with her fork. Maybe I should have mapped out the landmines for her before we got here. Or maybe it’s good to have someone hold a mirror up and show him how the past is still affecting him and our relationship. I have to hand it to her. She made more progress with him over one meal than I’ve made in a decade.
After some clunking around in the kitchen Dad comes back into the dining room, wearing orange oven mitts and carrying a dish that’s hot right out of the oven. He’s obviously decided to press the restart button on the night, so I help him out. “Wow, Della. My dad only makes apple crisp for special occasions. You should feel honored.”
“I do.” She watches him as if she hopes he’ll look over at her with a forgiving glance. To my complete shock, he does. It’s subtle, but it’s the most forgiveness I’ve seen him express. Ever. Satisfied that she’s back on good terms with him, she relaxes and reaches over to scoop out three servings of apple crisp. “So, Easton tells me you used to be quite the bulldog,” she says.
“Bulldogger,” I correct her.
“Oh, right. That’s what I meant.” She sneers her lip in a mock cowboy face and jerks her arms to mimic the motion of twisting the steer’s neck. “A cow tackler.”
Dad and I both laugh. I stretch my arm over the back of Della’s chair as she continues to entertain him with her animated story telling. It’s good to see him happy. But it also stings a little to have confirmation that his normal sullen mood can be lifted—just not by anything I’ve ever done.
After dessert, I clear the table and start the dishes. Della excuses herself to make a phone call. She steps out onto the deck and through the screen door I hear her say, “Hi, Dad.” Then she moves to the end of the porch and the rest of the conversation is muffled.
“She’s a keeper,” Dad says as he wraps the leftover potatoes. “You better be careful.”
I’m not sure if
I’m more thrown off by the fact that he’s talking to me about something other than the direct operation of the ranch, something that involves emotions, or by the comment itself. “Careful about what?”
Dad leans against the counter and crosses his arms. His mood is darkening again now that Della isn’t close enough to blow away the storm clouds of our past. “Never mind.”
He doesn’t have to say it. I know what he’s worried about because we had a huge blowout over it when I was dating Tracy. He thought she and I got too serious too young. It turned into a heated argument about my future and the choices I was making. When I pointed out that he and Mom were married and had me by the time they were eighteen he broke down. It was the first and only time I ever saw him cry. It scared the shit out of me. And although I don’t agree with his philosophy of being miserable and lonely for the rest of my life as an attempt to avoid the heartbreak of losing someone I love; his concerns probably aren’t unjustified. Della and I barely know each other. There are a lot of complicating factors. She’s a year behind me in school. Her family lives in Canada. Shacking up together and dating could end in disaster. Damn it. What if he’s right?
He slaps my shoulder. “Forget I said anything. I like her and I appreciate your help. Thanks for coming out.”
Silence and fighting are the only two modes I’m used to with him. Everything about tonight is new territory. I drain the sink and fold the towel to hang it on the handle of the stove. “You know I don’t mind coming home, but I can’t do it every weekend and also keep up with school. I can quit rodeo, but that money helps out.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You should be taking it easy. I’m going to hire another hand.”
He shakes his head. “With what money?”
“I earned some winnings. I’ll figure out the rest.”
He inhales as if he’s going to protest, but then he doesn’t. That’s also a first. It’s probably the closest to asking for help he’ll ever get. “All right, son. I’m going to turn in. Tell Della I said goodbye. And bring her around again.”
I nod, and he clutches my neck briefly in a cowboy brand of affection before he heads down the hall to his bedroom. I don’t know what Della did to him or how she did it, but I just saw a glimpse of my old dad—the one from before the accident. I finish stacking the dishes in the cupboard and turn the lights out, then open the screen door to check if she’s finished her phone call. She’s sitting on Mom’s rocking chair, looking out at the view. Brewster’s got his head propped up on her foot.
“Hey,” she says and relaxes back to rock.
“Hey.” I lean on the porch railing. “Looks like you made a new friend.”
Her eyes roll in a gesture of reluctant surrender. “Every time I move my shoe out from under his chin he just scooches over and places it down on my foot again. He’s relentless.”
I swear it looks like Brewster is smiling smugly. I laugh and sit down on the bench next to them. “How’d the phone call with your dad go?”
“Good. He still wants me to come home, but at least he’s not angry anymore.”
“My dad was tired, so he went to bed. He told me to say goodnight to you, and he wants you to come over again.”
“Phew.” She exhales and combs her fingers through her bangs to push her hair back from her face as she relaxes. “I thought I blew it by bringing up your mom.”
“No. You knocked it out of the park. Seriously. He’s a different man around you.” I offer her my hand. “You want to go for a walk before we head back? There’s something I want to show you.”
She slides her foot out from under Brewster’s attempt to claim her, then reaches over and wraps her fingers around mine as she stands to join me. I wish a relationship with her didn’t have to be complicated. Or, on second thought, maybe that’s why it appeals to me.
The sun is low and the sky is dusky as we walk around the barn, but I know the way by heart and have negotiated the path in the dark plenty of times. She follows me up the incline to the ridge of boulders that overlook the valley. Once we reach a grassy spot I guide her to sit and we hang our legs over the edge. She inhales deeply as she admires how the river runs through the basin and the hills frame the panorama like a painting.
“It’s breathtaking,” she whispers.
The mesmerized expression on her face. Now, that’s breathtaking.
Without looking at me she says, “Your dad was the drunk driver who killed your mom, wasn’t he?”
I close my eyes as the accident replays in my memory. It doesn’t haunt me anymore, like it used to, but it still feels like a sledgehammer to the chest when I do think about it. “Yeah.”
The sky turns a bright orange and then transitions into purple hues. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“Yeah. Me too.”
Her hand gently lays over mine. “You must have been so angry at him. How did you get over that?”
Staring out at the sunset, I seriously consider the question. Unfortunately, I’m not proud of the answer. “I haven’t.”
She nods with empathy and understanding, then tucks her knee up and turns until she’s facing me. “Who took care of you while he was in prison?”
“I was in hospital for the first three months afterwards. Then I lived with my grandparents for the two years of his sentence and the year after that when he was still too messed up to come home.”
Her gaze tracks across my face, reading my expression. Surprisingly, it’s not pity in her eyes. It looks more like admiration. “I guess that’s why you turned out so strong.”
Man, she has a way about her. I want to say thank you, but it will choke me up if I try. Instead, I reach over and gently run the back of my hand over the contour of her cheek.
She smiles and then scoots over closer to lean up against my shoulder to watch what’s left of the sunset. “Thanks for sharing your family history with me.”
“Thanks for caring.”
The stars appear one at a time and she sighs. “I love it here.”
“Me too.” I squeeze my arm around her and rest my cheek on top of her head briefly. “We should get going, though. We have a long drive ahead.”
She nods but doesn’t seem ready to leave yet. Her fingers tighten around mine and she stares down at our intertwined hands. “I’ve been thinking. All day. Well, actually, all day and all last night. Because there is something I want to say to you. Obviously, I could have said it before now, but I’ve been waiting for the right moment. I hope this is the right moment. If I’m wrong, sorry.” She inhales and then lifts her chin and meets my gaze. “Okay. Here goes. I think you are an amazing person, already, and I don’t even know everything about you. I’ve never met anyone even remotely as intriguing as you. And the thing is—I don’t know how to put it exactly. You know last night when you said you were dying to ask me for a good night kiss? The truth is I was dying for you to ask me for a good night kiss. And we don’t—”
I cut her off by leaning in to kiss her. She initially stiffens as if she wasn’t expecting it, but when I slide my hand up the side of her neck and comb my fingers through her hair, she relaxes and her lips soften against mine. She tastes like apple cinnamon crisp, which guarantees I’m never going to be able to smell those scents again without remembering this moment. It takes all my strength to restrain myself from laying her back right here in the grass. I don’t want to spook her by rushing things, so I ease off and smile. She doesn’t move, as if she’s stunned.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I just want to take it all in. I never imagined my first kiss would be so perfect and I don’t want to forget anything.”
What? “Your first kiss?”
“Um.” It’s too dark to see, but I can tell by her tone that her face has turned scarlet. “Yes. Unless an eighth-grade truth or dare peck on the lips at a birthday party counts.”
Whoa. First kiss. I didn’t see that coming. This needs to g
o even slower than I thought.
Chapter 11
Della
I’m such an idiot. When I told Easton it was my first real kiss he immediately withdrew. Although he held my hand as we walked back to the barn to get my books, and he’s made small talk during the drive, he hasn’t said a word about the kiss. And we’re almost back in Palo Alto. I lean my head back and clench my eyes shut. It was such an amazing moment and I ruined it. But who am I kidding? I was bound to screw up my chances with him at some point. I just didn’t expect the collapse to happen so quickly. Maybe it was better to crash and burn right out of the gates. Painful and embarrassing, but at least it saves me from suffering a slow demise. It really was the perfect first kiss, though, with the perfect guy. I’m glad about that. Even if that’s all it will ever be.
Easton pulls into the driveway and parks the truck. He glances at me as if he wants to address what happened but doesn’t know what to say. To save him the discomfort, I hop out of the truck and rush up the path to unlock the front door of the house. Based on how dark and quiet it is inside, BJ and Chuck must be either out or already in bed. I remove my shoes and head upstairs. Maybe we can start over in the morning and pretend the kiss didn’t happen? Or maybe there will be an awkward tension between us for the rest of our foreseeable future?
As I reach out to turn my bedroom doorknob, Easton catches my other hand in his. And just like that the awkward tension is over. “Is it all right if I come in for a minute?” he whispers into my ear.
Tingling all over from his touch, I nod and step into my room. In one smooth motion he spins me around, closes the door behind us, and presses me against the wall. Wow, maybe talking isn’t what he has in mind. His thumb lifts my chin until I’m looking directly at him before he says, “I was hoping maybe I could steal a goodnight kiss. How do you feel about that?”
“Okay,” I breathe out, almost inaudibly, insanely excited.
He smiles and gazes into my eyes for a few extra heartbeats before he leans in and presses his lips to mine. They are strong and soft at the same time, like his hands, which slide up my neck to cradle my head. A warm sensation travels down my throat and into the core of my body where it transforms into a slow, deep pulse. His lips move with mine and his hands travel from my neck down the side of my body, until he reaches my hips and pulls me even tighter up against him. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but it feels good, at least to me. Really good. Fan-freaking-tastic good. The blood rushes out of my legs and I’m worried they won’t be able to support my weight much longer, so I dig my fingers into his shoulders to hold myself up.
