Waiting for Spring

By R.J. Keller

© Copyright by the author 2008

Prologue

They say actions speak louder than words. Maybe. But words do a hell of a lot more damage. Even well-meaning words spoken by well-meaning people.

People like Sister Patricia Mary Theriault. She was my catechism teacher when I was seven years old. Until she ruined my life, I loved her more than anything, because — unlike the other nuns at Saint Isabel’s — she was pretty and nice and she always smiled. Her favorite subject was The Power of God’s Love. We once spent an entire ninety-minute class answering the question, When Does God’s Love Seem Most Real To You? Other kids talked about playing with their pets or spending time with their parents or waking up on Christmas morning. Not me.

“When I open up my big box of 72 Crayola Crayons.”

The other kids laughed at that, but Sister Patricia smiled and asked me why I felt that way. I said, “I don’t know,” even though I did know. She would understand, and I could tell her after class, but not in front of the laughing kids. The reason was actually very simple, even if they were too stupid to get it. There wouldn’t be colors called Burnt Sienna and Hot Magenta and Aquamarine if God didn’t love us. There would just be brown and red and blue.

My mother, raised to worship God with fear and trembling, did not approve of Sister Patricia. She called her the Hippie Nun, which, of course, made me like her even more. The first time I dropped acid, I had a vision of Sister Patricia holed up in her nun sanctuary bedroom, or at least what I imagined it to be: dark and dreary with enormous posters of the Blessed Virgin taped to her wall, glowering down at her, scary and accusing and bitter. Her one small window faced north, towards the cold, letting in only cold light, cold air, cold love.

In my vision, she was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up, and when she did, it let in a rainbow, pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room and filled it — filled her — with the love of God. I was nineteen — long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life — holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I’d met two hours earlier. I still can’t remember his name, but his hair was goldenrod and his eyes were sky blue.

But when I was still seven, before I knew anything about the wonders of psychedelic drugs and Pink Floyd and casual sex, I only knew that Sister Patricia was the coolest person I’d ever known. I felt that way right up until she taught us our final lesson for the year. It began innocently enough like this:

“Your heart is like soil. Love grows there.”

The parable of the sower planting seeds. The sower is God, the seeds are his word. They fall here and there, some on bad soil and some on good. She told us first about the good soil, where the seeds can take root and grow. That’s what she — what God — wanted our hearts to be like. Lovely and soft and fertile. Ready for planting. Just like spring. Every one of us knew what she meant, because there were lots of big, smelly, fertile farms in Brookfield, Maine, with acres and of acres of soil.

Then she told us about the bad soil. There was probably more than one type of bad soil in the parable that she explained to our class that day. In fact there must have been, because she talked about it forever. But the only bad soil I heard about was this:

“As the sower was scattering the seed, some fell along the path; it was trampled on and–”

Path. Trampled. Bad soil.

I thought of the path that my older brother Dave and I had worn down through the field beside our house that led over to where Dave’s best friend, Jason, lived. Years of travel, back and forth. Hard ground, packed tight. Grass and wild flowers grew all around it in the summer, tall and beautiful and untamed. But not on the path. Nothing grows on hard ground.

I came back around when she was saying, “‘– those sown on the path are the ones out of whose hearts the devil takes the word so that they will not believe and will not be saved.’ Don’t let your hearts become trampled down, children. Keep them soft and fertile so you can feel God’s love inside of you.”

Seven years old. And already I knew I was in some deep shit. The kind that even Sister Patricia couldn’t do anything about.

Backseat. My mother driving home. Irritated. Her hour and a half of freedom was over. Dave sat up front because he was nine. And because he was Dave. His first communion was only a week away, and my parents were very, very proud of him, because it’s a very big step. All it meant to me was that next year, he would get to stay home and watch Superfriends on Saturday mornings and I’d have to ride home from catechism all alone.

He was telling us what he had learned that morning from Sister Margaret. They had talked about Jesus’ trial and execution. It seemed to have touched something inside him, like the parable of the soil had done to me. Only Dave didn’t seem scared like I was, just angry. Because Jesus had been taken from his friends in the middle of the night, accused of a crime he didn’t do, and there was no justice to be found for him anywhere.

“Pontius Pilate was the magistrate and–”

“What’s a magistrate?”

“That’s sort of like a governor. But he’s like a judge, too.”

“Oh.”

“And he thought Jesus was innocent, but he let the crowd talk him into having him executed anyway.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Because he was weak, I guess.”

“Can I see your book, Dave?” The magistrate’s name sounded familiar.

He handed it to me. Pontius Pilate. Then I remembered.

. . . He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. . .

Not Ponch’s Pilot. Not like CHiPs.

I liked it when things clicked.

I gave him back his book and looked out the window at the scenery as he rambled on about injustice. I didn’t want to hear about injustice. I was thinking about soil. Thinking about it, not talking about it. Because I knew she wasn’t going to ask me what I had learned that morning, even after Dave stopped talking.

Home. Play clothes. Walking to Jason’s house.

“What are you doing? We’re supposed to be there by now.”

“Planting.”

“You can’t plant anything there. It won’t grow.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m going without you, pest.”

I didn’t care. Well, I cared a little. But I cared more about proving that I was right. That I was alright. Good things could grow on the path; I knew it. All I had to do was make the ground soft and fertile, just like spring.

I scraped and scratched with my fingers, my fingernails, imitating the huge machines that graded our road every year. I uncovered a rock, just below the surface, the size of my hand. Couldn’t budge it. I took off my plastic forest green headband, my brown hair spilling everywhere, and used it as a shovel. It snapped in half, which was even better. I dug and dug and dug some more. Dirt wedged underneath my fingernails and crusted in between the teeth of the headband.

The rock came out. It left behind a gaping hole, a crater, and that was perfect. I just had to fill it up, fill it in. The beginning of June was too early for wildflowers, so I settled on grass and dandelions. Used my headband shovel, dug underneath the soil beside the path; good soil, good roots and dirt. Filled in the hole. Packed it down. There was no water nearby, so I spit on it. And spit again. Kept spitting until my mouth was dry.

That would do it.

I ran to Jason’s house and took turns doing swing set races. I lost. My legs were too short. Oreos and milk. More races. I lost again. Then the rain came, a light drizzle that would turn into a downpour. I ran back towards our house, right behind Dave, but stopped halfway.

My little garden was still there. I smiled at it. Because I was right. I was alright.

But the next morning, I went out bright and early before breakfast, before church, and my garden was gone. Just a hole, and it was half filled with sticky mud. The grass and dandelions had been washed away. Within three days, it was completely filled in, more dirt and pebbles, and by the end of the week, it was trampled down again. Hard ground. And I couldn’t tell that there had ever been a garden there at all. Couldn’t even see the crater.

Hard ground. Where nothing would grow.

Chapter 1

Nine steps from the door of the courthouse down to the sidewalk. Granite? Probably. Brookfield was too small for marble. They were some sort of grayish stone, and it didn’t really matter what kind of stone. They were solid, slick with ice in spots, crunchy with salt in others. I focused on that sound, my boots crushing the salt, because it was better than hearing the judge’s gavel echoing in my brain.

Coat pocket. I felt for my keys with mittened fingers, still crunching along. Twenty-one steps from the bottom of the stairs to the parking lot. Thirty-three more to the car. I turned the key in the ignition, switched on the front and rear defroster before I realized I hadn’t been gone from the car long enough for it to frost over. Even though it was only twenty-eight degrees outside. I looked at the clock.

9:17.

Eleven-and-a-half years of marriage. Took less than fifteen minutes to end it. And Jason hadn’t even bothered to show up. He was probably at work right now. Was he looking up at the clock at this very second? Waiting, nervous, wondering if it was finally all over? Only four and a half miles away from where I was sitting right now. Or maybe it was forty or four hundred. And a half.

I pulled onto the main road, headed towards Hillside Café for a coffee and a newspaper and — with luck — maybe a little pick-me-up.

I was in luck. The old marquee sign beside the road was lit.

The place was empty like I knew it would be mid-morning on a Wednesday. By lunchtime, it would be packed. Specials: turkey club, cheeseburger basket, spaghetti with meat sauce, and for dessert — of course — the latest gossip. Hot and juicy and fresh. I’d be gone long before then anyway, either asleep or floating on a cloud. Or both.

The shelves on the far wall were filled with basketball trophies, pictures of champions. Glory days. Jason was there, king of the champions.

He was everywhere.

“What the hell do you want?”

I jumped. Coach Poulin. Why was he here so early?

No cloud today.

“Black coffee. Newspaper.”

Hard eyes. Silver stare. And I was there alone. Small. He gave me a cold smile.

“You fucking whore. Go get it somewhere else.”

Too tired for rage, too empty. Too cold. Not even a flicker. And in that land of numbed unreality, a dispassionate realization. I did the backwards math.

He’d been waiting for eighteen years to say that to me.

Congratulations, Coach. Job well done. Another trophy for your shelf.

I turned away from the silver man, walked to my car. Lost count of the steps after sixteen. I drove to the Qwik Stop where curious stares greeted me, but no open hostility. I brought the paper to the car and snapped it open right there in the parking lot. A bold, black lettered headline on the front page read:

Murder in New Mills

I skimmed through the story, only vaguely interested because

Brutal slaying . . . small lakeside community shocked . . . home invasion . . . rampant drug problem among local teenagers . . .

while it was tragic, this wasn’t the reason I’d bought the paper. But one sentence jumped off the page.

The victim, Catherine Arsenault, 42, operated a local cleaning service . . .

Cleaning service. Small community. How many cleaning services could one small community support?

Section D. Classifieds.

New Mills: One bedroom apartment. Affordable. Rural setting. One mile from lake.

One more question. I opened my glove compartment and dug out my Gazetteer. New Mills was sixty-two miles from Brookfield. Sixty-two glorious miles. From my mother. From Jason. From everybody. It seemed like the closest thing to a sign from God that I could ever hope to receive. Sober at least.

I dug out my cell phone and dialed the number. An old man answered, very thick Downeast accent. “Ayuh. The apartment’s still available.”

He quoted the price. Cheap. Almost too cheap. What was wrong with the place?

“Nothing. It’s small, but it’s a good little house. Me and my wife raised our family there. Cut it in two after she died. Oh, ’bout fifteen years ago, that’d be now.”

Duplex? In the middle of nowhere?

“Sounds good, Mr. Baxter.”

“Charlie. I can give you a tour tomorrow. Can you be down here at ten-thirty?”

Sure could. Might as well, even though a tour was a formality. The only thing that would prevent me taking the place would be a rat infestation.

I hung up the phone and hurried back to my brother’s house. I’d been holding it down long enough, and I knew it was coming. Better to have the breakdown in private. At least, as private as I could with my sister-in-law at home.

Deep breath. That’s it. Good, you’re ready. Now, walk into the house. Just. Like. That.

“Hey, Kim.”

“How did it go?” Sympathetic eyes. Sepia eyes.

Will the baby get those eyes?

I shrugged and gave her a brief smile, then trudged on to the bathroom. I closed the door silently and leaned back against it, closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see Jason’s face. It didn’t work. It was still there, blond and blue, covered with the trim, gorgeous beard that I had always loved. I could still remember the way it felt beneath my fingertips, on my face, my breasts. Scratchy and rough and perfect and. . .

Oh, God. Here it comes.

I turned on the exhaust fan to drown out the noise, then dropped to my knees and

Divorced. And he didn’t bother to come to court. . .

vomited quietly.

I washed my hands, brushed my teeth and tongue vigorously, relishing the mint, then bleached the toilet clean and washed my hands again. Lavender soap. Mint and lavender. They danced together in my mind, the scents gradually giving way to colors, and that was even better.

I looked at my reflection, practiced my smile and walked back out into the living room. Kim and I talked for a few minutes about infant car seats, then I excused myself. I wandered to the guest bedroom, my home for the past five months, lay down on the bed and fell asleep in my clothes. Slept forever.

Chapter 2

“You’re not driving sixty miles on those roads.”

I sipped my coffee.

“Tess . . .”

I could do that, too. I cocked my head and gave a scowl. “Dave . . .”

“I mean it.”

I looked over his head, out the window. I’d slept for nineteen hours. During that time, a foot and a half of snow had fallen. Winter had waited until March to start. Global warming, probably. It was melting ice caps and making all the polar bears drown, so why shouldn’t it fuck with my life, too?

“I’ll call and reschedule.”

He nodded. Proud. Big brother, heap big man. Kim said nothing; only smiled.

“You’re not eating your breakfast.” His victory had made him over-confident.

“That’s because you made eggs. Eggs are an ingredient, not a meal.”

“You need some protein. You’re pale.”

“I’m pale because I don’t eat eggs?”

He didn’t answer. Defeat. Can’t win ‘em all. He finished his coffee, wiped his mouth, then stood up. All six-foot-three of him. Then he left, with a quick kiss for Kim and another stern look for me. Off to battle injustice. He won most of those.

I showered, brushed my teeth, then joined Kim in the living room. She was lying on the couch, practicing her breathing. I poked her big, fat stomach and was rewarded with a kick. “How’s Hezekiah doing today?”

She glared at me. She hated being poked almost as much as she hated hearing me call her son Hezekiah. I couldn’t blame her.

“He’s restless. I wish he’d hurry up and come out.”

I shook my head. “He’s still cooking. Two more weeks?”

“Twelve days.”

“Ah.”

“Is your cell phone charged?”

I checked. “Yep.”

“Drive slowly. Please?”

I nodded. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

The roads were slick. The speed limit on the interstate was down to forty-five, and I set my cruise accordingly. Life sucked, but it was better than the alternative, and I felt better than I had in months. I knew why. Sleep. It’s like sex. You know it’s good, but you don’t know just how good until you’re not getting any.

I got into New Mills at ten o’clock. I was half an hour early, and the apartment was only five miles outside of town — if what I was driving through could be called ‘town.’ New Mills was, indeed, a small lakeside community. In addition to its apparent rampant teenage drug problem and a brutal slaying, New Mills was known for having once been home to a textile mill and a shoe factory. Hence the horrid name. Both plants had closed their doors, like most mills and factories in the state, and those jobs were now in the hands of people who lived south and east of town. Very far south and east. By people who spoke Spanish and Chinese and were willing to work for a few bucks a day.

Most of those former mill workers had lost their homes to foreclosure and back taxes. They’d been sold to foreigners who were only too happy to buy up a lovely, small Maine community so they could have a pretty place to spend their summers. Foreigners from south and west of town. They spoke English — if Massachusetts, New York and Connecticut accents could be considered English — and had surnames like Talbot and Caldwell and Pratt; but they were foreigners nevertheless. Still, former mill workers didn’t hire cleaning ladies. Talbots and Caldwells and Pratts did.

I glanced at the notes I’d jotted down twenty four hours earlier. Typical rural directions, very vague with only landmarks as a guide.

…turn left at the sand shed . . . another three miles out . . . turn right onto the road across from the big lake . . . about a mile, first mailbox on the right. . .

The place was hidden from the road by thick, bushy pines and naked maples. The driveway was a little rough but already plowed, which was a good sign. The house itself was white. Two-story. Small and very old. Old enough to explain the low rent. Enclosed porch with lots of windows. There was no garage or barn, but there was a decent-sized shed beside the house. It was white, too, but looked much newer than the house. And beside that stood a little orchard; five bare, snowy apple trees.

There were no other vehicles in the driveway. I parked facing the orchard, kept the car running. Stared out the window at the trees. The heater was running at full blast. I still shivered. I’d been shivering for five months.

No. I’d been shivering longer than that.

My heart was Titanium White. Arctic Wasteland. Hard, trampled soil covered with ice. The frozen orchard seemed to say that it always would be, and the tears came. Finally. Stinging and bitter, but quiet like always, and I looked away from the trees, looked down at the dashboard. Oil light flashing, neon red. I stared at it, tried to imagine my engine; tired, hot, low on precious blood. The neon light liquefied, blurred, floated as my eyes filled past the point of choking it all back. I glanced up to let them spill over, hoping I’d be able to dam up what would want to follow. Squinted my eyes against the tears.

And that’s when I saw it.

Bare, icy trees; eerie and still. They almost looked dead, but they were really only sleeping. Waiting for spring. The red light caught in the pool of tears; refracted, projected, and I could see it. I could see what the orchard would look like covered with blossoms. In the spring. Alizarin Crimson, Dusty Pink — starry, superimposed on the wintry scene. Like covering a photo with a clear sheet of plastic, then drawing on it with dried-out marker; shadowy and transparent. But real. So real.

God, I know it’s been awhile and I hate to ask, but . . . please . . . please let me be able to paint the orchard. The way it looks right . . . now. . .

Two streams, hot on my cheeks, and the blossoms disappeared. I wiped my face, took a deep, deep cleansing breath and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Cleaned up the makeup. Righted the mirror. Saw, coming at me, a big yellow plow attached to a bigger red truck. I took another deep breath, then practiced my smile. I thought about the orchard and the smile didn’t feel fake.

I hopped out of my car and examined the truck beside me. It didn’t seem possible that the clunker managed to hold onto its plow, let alone that it was strong enough to use it to push aside snow and ice. There was faded black lettering on the door:

LaChance Builders

And a phone number.

The driver got out and strolled towards me. I wondered how many of the calls he got were actually work-related and how many were local women hoping to reach out and touch someone. He was tall and sturdy. His eyes were Van Dyke Brown. So was his hair, and it almost touched his shoulders. Probably mid-twenties, twenty-seven at the most. He was good looking, and he knew it, but not arrogant; the same way a person knows they’ve got blue eyes or big boobs or straight teeth. Genetics. Luck of the draw.

He nodded his greeting. I nodded back and said, “Shit. I’ve got the wrong house.”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And then I saw it. Something other than Van Dyke Brown in the eyes. I recognized the something right away, and it made me smile again.

He smiled right back. “Tess Dyer?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

“Brian LaChance. I live downstairs.” He held out a hand, and I slipped off my mitten to shake it. Bare, warm, calloused. “Charlie’s running a little late, so he wants me to show you around till he gets here. Not,” he added, “that it’ll take that long. It’s kinda small.”

I liked his voice. Deep. Maine French. Probably called his grandparents Memé and Pepé.

He led the way. Cozy porch. Two doors. His was on the right, mine on the left. He unlocked my door, then looked back at me. “Don’t worry. I don’t usually have this key.”

I just nodded.

We clomped up the stairs. He was three steps ahead of me. I knocked some snow off my boots while he unlocked the top door. I heard it open and looked up.

His ass was right there. Right. There.

I missed the step, slipped, grabbed the railing. I hung on with both hands and got my feet underneath me. He reached down and grabbed my arm.

“You okay?”

I nodded, then tried to explain away my clumsiness with: “Icy boots.”

He helped me up the rest of the stairs, let go of my arm once I reached the top step, and I followed him inside. He was right. It was kinda small. Kitchen and dining area to the left, living room to the right. All open. Tiny bathroom. Small bedroom. But lots of windows and an extra storage closet. No tiny turds in the cupboards. No mold or mildew in the bathroom or on the window sills. Only one problem I could see.

“How does he feel about his tenants painting the walls?”

“Well, you can paint ‘em any color you like. As long as you like white.”

It’s what I’d figured. Jason and I had been forced to keep the walls in our apartment beige. Beige was even worse than white.

“He’s a good guy, though. Pretty easy going about most things. Oh, come here.”

I followed him over to the living room closet. He closed the door and pointed to the wall. There was a gash there from the doorknob.

“You show him that. Tell him you’ll fix it, and he’ll let you in without a security deposit.”

“I don’t know how to– ”

“I’ll do it for you. Slap on a coat of mud, let it dry, sand it. It’ll blend right in. Piece of cake.”

“Ah. Well . . . I’ll think about it.”

He nodded, and his gaze fell to the brooch that was pinned on front of my coat. He examined it for a few seconds then said, “Do you know you’ve got a stone missing?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at me for a few moments, waiting for an explanation, but I didn’t feel like giving him one. Fortunately, I was rescued by a heavy clomp, clomp, clomping from the staircase. Charlie Baxter, huffing and puffing. He looked about seventy and had a red face, white hair and a big pot belly. Bigger than Kim’s.

Ho ho ho.

“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Dyer.” I shook his hand and debated on whether or not to correct the Mrs. The reasons for and against such a correction were actually only one reason, and he was standing right behind me.

It’s only been twenty-four hours, Tess. Don’t fuck the nice neighbor boy.

Twenty-five hours. And a half.

I left the Mrs. uncorrected.

Brian tossed Charlie the key and left us to dicker. I decided on the no-security-deposit plan and wrote him a check for first and last month’s rent. Yes, white was the only acceptable wall color; yes, I could move in this Sunday; and yes, I could plant a flower garden in the spring, so long as I kept it weeded.

Charlie left and I looked around the apartment again. Alone. Damn.

I trotted carefully down the stairs. Brian was loitering on the porch.

“So. We’re gonna be neighbors.”

“Yep.”

“Need any help moving in?”

“Oh. Uh . . . ”

He’s wondering about the Mrs.

Well, he’d find out sooner or later. Why not sooner?

“I’m living with my brother, Dave, right now. He has a truck, and most of my stuff’s at his place anyway. My dad’s not really up to lugging shit upstairs — ”

Completely untrue. But if he came, then my mother would come.

“– but I think Dave and I can manage okay.”

I could see him tallying the score. Brother: check. Dad: check. Husband: nope. Then he gave me a big smile. I gave him one right back.

Twenty-six hours, Tess. Cut it out.

Then he looked at me a little dubiously. “What are you? Five-foot-three?”

I scowled. Almost literally. “Five-five.”

With my boots on.

“Yeah. Tell your brother I’ll be here to help him Sunday morning.”

I walked out the door without answering. My car was frosted over just a little. I started it, turned the defroster on high and stepped outside again for another view of the orchard. Bare and icy.

Not for long, Tess. Spring is coming. . .

On my way back through town, I stopped at every business I came to, full of sympathy over the recent loss of their beloved cleaning lady, Mrs. Arsenault. I handed out three pages of references at each one. The doctor, a real estate agent and an insurance company all hired me on the spot, happy to have me start cleaning their offices next week. Because, naturally, all my references were glowing ones.

I might be Brookfield’s town whore, but I could sure scrub the hell out of a toilet.

Chapter 3

All of my worldly possessions — aside from my easel and artwork — fit neatly in the back of my brother’s truck. It wasn’t a fact I was proud of. My mother surveyed it all with cold, blue eyes as Dave and my dad covered it over with a tarp. I braced myself. Clenched my jaw. My hands. My stomach. . .

“You should have kept the bigger table, Theresa.”

You should have worked things out with Jason.

“That one wasn’t mine. It was his before we got married.”

I don’t take things that aren’t mine. Or keep them when they’re not mine anymore.

“You should have bought a new table for yourself, then. A bigger table.”

Too bad you don’t make enough money to buy yourself some decent furniture.

“My new apartment’s too small for a bigger table.”

I’m not a materialistic bitch like you.

“Then you need a bigger apartment.”

You really are pathetic.

“Just so I can have a bigger table?”

It was weak, but it was the last word, and that, at least, was something. Because that’s when Dave said, “Ready to go, Tess?”

You’re goddamn right I am. “Uh, yeah. Let me just go say goodbye to Kim.”

She was in the living room, sitting on the rocking chair. She was a beautiful woman, even though she was puffy with pregnancy weight. Black hair, olive complexion and eyes that always reminded me of old-fashioned photographs. . .

I hope the baby gets those eyes.

She stretched noisily and grimaced. “Everything packed?”

“Yep. Back hurting again?”

“Not again. Still.”

“Only nine more days.”

She groaned, struggled to her feet and looked at me silently for a few moments. I knew what she was thinking. She said it anyway.

“Dave’s worried about you moving so far away.”

“He shouldn’t be. I’m thirty-four, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know, but . . . just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

So he doesn’t have to.

I nodded and let her give me a hug, even though I hated being hugged. When I turned around, my dad was there. I didn’t have to worry about having to endure a hug from him. He was the very personification of New England reticence. Even so, I could see that he — like Dave — was Worried About Me. He waited until Kim, recognizing her cue, left the room before he said, “How are you for money?”

“I’m all set.” I wasn’t, of course, and Dad knew it. Jason and I had spent more than thirteen years together with nothing tangible to show for it. No kids or pets. No real estate or anything of actual value. All we’d had, really, was our joint savings account; several thousand dollars that we’d saved towards a down payment on a house. No house in particular. Just, Someday We’ll Buy A House. Because there’s always Someday. Except that, of course, there wasn’t.

Instead, there were lawyers and papers to be signed. Things to be divided. A savings account to be split. And that’s where things got tricky. Because I wouldn’t take a penny of it, even though I had contributed nearly half. My lawyer could never understand why. It had puzzled even Jason, who sent me frequent messages — through the lawyers — that I should quit being so stubborn and take the damn money. But I was firm. I didn’t want money. I only wanted what was mine. Not his. Not ours. Mine.

“Tess–”

“No, really. I’ve been living with Dave rent-free for five months. He wouldn’t even let me give him anything for food or–”

“I still want to help.”

“I appreciate it.” I said it, even though I really didn’t. “But . . . I’m all set.”

He said nothing, just stared at me with tired, pale green eyes. They were the only things he’d ever been stingy with, letting my brother and me inherit blue from our mother. Well, he’d been stingy with his affection, too. But he was still a good man. And you can’t have it all.

“Dad, I need to go.”

He nodded his goodbye. And I nodded right back.

I pulled out of the driveway, smiled as I saw my mother shrinking in the rearview mirror. We had to pass by Hillside Café on our way to the interstate, and I noticed, with sudden longing, that the sign outside was lit up. I couldn’t stop, though. Even if there was no Coach to worry about, there was a Dave right behind me.

No cloud today.

Once we hit the interstate, I divided the time pretty evenly between glancing at the road and watching the miles tick by on my tripometer. At mile thirty-one, exactly halfway between Brookfield and New Mills, I pulled into the passing lane to let a string of cars merge into traffic. They were coming from Westville, population eighteen thousand, the closest thing to a city this part of the state had. Its highlights included a Walmart, a McDonald’s, a bar, a hospital and a state police station. Everything an area swarming with displaced workers could possibly need.

Another thirty-one miles and we were there. I pulled in beside Brian’s truck, and Dave backed up close to the porch steps. He met me near the tailgate, and we untied the tarp. Then he nodded towards the clunker.

“You didn’t tell me this guy’s in construction.”

I coiled the four short pieces of yellow nylon rope around my hand, tied them tightly together and tossed the wad at Dave. “I told you he’s about as tall as you and wouldn’t have a problem helping you carry my shit up the stairs. What else did you need to know?”

The first question people insist on asking a new acquaintance is: What do you do for a living? I hated that. Insecurity, probably, because I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or any of those other professions that make people say, “Oh. . .” in that reverent, awestruck way. And anyone unlucky enough to ask me that fatal question without preceding it with at least two others — for example, what books have you read lately or who’s your favorite ballplayer — was answered with:

“I’m a lumberjack.”

Because any person with a greater interest in what it is I do to earn enough money to afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans — rather than in the fact that I think Bill Lee is the coolest guy ever to climb onto the pitcher’s mound — deserves to think I spend my days in the woods cutting down trees.

The porch door slammed shut, and the man in question trotted over, zipping up a red hooded sweatshirt. He gave Dave’s truck a quick once over. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Hello to you, too.”

He grinned. “Why, hello, Tess. I sure hope you had a nice drive down.”

“Oh yes. It was lovely.”

“So . . . that’s all you’ve got?”

“Yep.”

Dave cleared his throat. I made the introductions and held my breath. He reached for Brian’s outstretched hand, gave him a long, hard stare, then fixed me with one. The look on his face was identical to the time when, at the age of twelve, he solved his Rubik’s Cube half an hour after he brought it home from the store. I gave him a sideways kick and said, as sweetly as I could, “Dave’s a lawyer.”

Brian raised his eyebrows, awestruck, and said, his voice appropriately reverent, “Oh.”

“So, Brian. Do you own this place?” Dave was in full Big Brother Protector mode, and I did my best not to laugh at the image that was probably haunting him.

Hey, Mr. Landlord, I’m afraid I’m a little short on the rent money this month.

That’s okay, baby. I’m sure we can work something out. . .

Brian saw it too. “I . . . uh . . . no. No, I don’t. I just rent the bottom . . . the downstairs. The apartment downstairs.”

Dave gave him a grim nod, then turned to open the tailgate. They had, maybe, a half hour’s work ahead of them. With Dave in his present mood, I decided it would be kind to throw Brian a lifeline. I got his attention and mouthed, fishing. Did my best cast-a-rod impression, in case he misread my lips. He nodded, grateful. I grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from my trunk and made my escape upstairs.

They made three trips up and down before Brian noticed what I was doing. Told me all about the recently departed Cathy Arsenault. Charlie had hired her a week before she died, and she’d cleaned the whole place. Kitchen, bathroom, floors . . . everything is spic and span, Tess. Nothing to worry about.

That interested my brother.

“She died?”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “Last week. A couple of teenagers broke into her house. She was home sick with a stomach flu, and when they found her home, they freaked out and . . . uh, killed her.”

I wrung the dirty water out of my rag and prepared myself for the onslaught.

“You moved to a town where they’re killing cleaning ladies?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. A cleaning lady. It’s not like there’s a Clorox Serial Killer roaming the streets of New Mills.”

Brian laughed. “You’re a cleaning lady?”

“Shut up.”

“No. . .. I just mean . . . is that why you moved here? Because you heard about Cathy?”

I shrugged. “We all gotta eat.”

“Yep. That’s true enough.”

Dave was ready to get us back on topic. “They broke into her house and killed her?”

Brian nodded.

Brutal slaying. How had she died? The newspaper hadn’t said. Had those kids shot her? Beaten her to death? Stabbed her? Did she live long enough to know what was happening to her? Already miserable from a stomach flu that was bad enough to keep her home from work. Lying on the couch, watching “The Price is Right.” Then . . . the door bursts open. Or the window breaks. Then there’s fear. Pain. Calling for help; her husband, her mother, calling for anyone. What about her family? Had her kids discovered her body? Get off the school bus, run to the front door. Expecting hot chocolate and a how was your day and some help with homework. And there she is. Dead. Brutally murdered in their own home.

Is that the last thought that floated in front of her before she died? Please, God, don’t let my kids find me like his. . .

I looked up at Dave. He was glaring at me. I hated that. Then he looked at Brian.

“They were on drugs. Right?”

Brian nodded again. “They tried Cathy’s house because her husband died of cancer a month or so ago, and they figured she’d have some Oxycontin left over.”

“You moved into a town where there’s a drug problem.”

“‘A rampant teenage drug problem,’” I quoted.

He glared even harder. We are not amused.

“Dave, please point me in the direction of any town where there isn’t a drug problem. I’ll be very happy to settle there instead. Besides, New Mills is a pretty small town. How bad can it possibly be?”

I looked over at Brian for support and saw something else instead. The truth. It was pretty bad. He tried to come to the rescue anyway.

“Those kids leave us alone over here. They’re usually too busy breaking into the camps on the lake looking for stuff they can sell.”

I chuckled. “Well, at least that’s something I don’t have to worry about.”

Dave said nothing to that, because what can you say? He just shook his head and went back downstairs, with Brian on his heels. By the time they were done unloading the rest of my stuff, the kitchen was clean. And Dave was ready to leave. I knew why, even though he didn’t say it. Even though I’d spent the morning trying not to think about it.

Jason.

He was at the house waiting for Dave to get back. Or on his way there. Because they had repair work to do, the kind they couldn’t do during the winter when they’d really needed to. Not with Tess the Pest hanging around. So I smiled. Thanked him for the help. And then I paused. The great debate. Because what I wanted to say next was:

Make sure you ask him why he didn’t come to court. Didn’t even show up. Couldn’t spare a goddamn half hour from his busy fucking schedule. He’s the one who ended it. And he couldn’t even show his face. Couldn’t see the thing through to the end.

But there are some things you just can’t say. Not to your brother and not to anyone. And so I was stuck with:

“Don’t forget to call me when Kim goes into labor.”

He gave me a halfhearted smile and said he wouldn’t forget to call. Thanked Brian for the help. Then he lingered at the door. Finally looked me in the eye and I saw what Kim had warned me about. Worry. More than that. He was nearly frantic. I could almost feel it coming off of him. But he said only, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Of course I’m not okay. It’s all new. Everything. And I’m all alone now. For real. . .

But I couldn’t say that, either. He’d already told me not to leave so hastily. There’s no rush, Tess. Stay as long as you need. And I knew that he’d really meant, Stay here with us, where you’re safe. Or at least stay close by. Where I can watch you. Where I can keep you from messing up your life. Because he knew, of course, that I probably would. But I’d said, Nope, it’s time to leave now. And it was, really. He’d protected me from myself for five long months. He looked it, too. He and Kim needed their home back. Their life back. So. Here I was.

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t, of course. And he knew it. He looked over at Brian again and then back at me. Because he knew something else. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. So he said, “Well, I’ll see you later.” Then he closed the door before I could say goodbye.

And so I was alone. For real.

Well, not really. Not yet.

I turned towards Brian but couldn’t look him in the eye. Not right away. Because I knew what he’d see in mine. And I knew that it was pathetic. Knew that I was pathetic. I took a deep cleansing breath, like the kind I’d been practicing with Kim, and it worked. I looked up at him and managed a smile. He smiled back and said:

“First baby?”

“Yeah. First grandchild in the family, too.”

“You guys must be excited, then.”

I only shrugged.

Silence. But he still didn’t leave. And that meant it was my turn to make a contribution.

“Sorry about the way he acted when we first got here. He can be a Neanderthal sometimes.”

“I’ve got a sister, so I know where he’s coming from.”

More silence. He looked at the boxes littering the floor.

“Want some help unpacking?”

“No, I’m all set.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Not much here, really.”

There wasn’t, really, and I couldn’t let this guy rummage through my coffee mugs and underwear. But I didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to be alone. So I let my gaze fall on my stereo and speakers. The television. The cheap, unassembled pressboard entertainment center I’d bought only days before, still in the box. Then I looked back at him. Because I knew already.

Mr. Fix It.

He smiled, took off his sweatshirt and went to work. I left him to it and started on the kitchen boxes. But before I was halfway through my precious collection of coffee mugs, I heard him laughing. I turned around to see why. He was looking inside a plastic shopping bag. Inside it were the wires to all the electronic gizmos. Each of them was neatly coiled, held together with a little bread-bag twist tie. I always saved those things because you never know when one might come in handy.

“Why is that funny?”

“Oh, it’s not. It’s not funny at all.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t, of course. He talked while he worked. A lot. About skyrocketing property values and how unfair it was that people whose families had lived in New Mills for generations couldn’t afford to buy a decent home. About a television show he’d seen recently about paparazzi photographers who stalked celebrities and how there oughtta be a law against that sort of thing. But he seemed most upset about an article he’d read in the paper the day before about campaign contributions, and he wondered what had happened to the principles of having a government that was of the people, by the people and for the people rather than of, by and for big corporations.

I nodded a lot and made very intelligent replies like yeah and uh huh and nope while I unpacked my dishes. Finally, he said, “Well, I’m all done here. Bring me a CD and I’ll adjust the sound levels for you.”

My music collection didn’t impress him.

“Everything in here is at least twenty years old.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is.”

I shoved Neil Young at him.

“Uh . . . no.” He looked through the box again and settled, without any real enthusiasm, on Bob Dylan. Once the music started, he busied himself, pushing buttons and adjusting levers. “Does that sound better?”

It didn’t sound any different to me than it had before he’d made the adjustments, but I nodded anyway and said, “Sounds great.”

He shrugged. “You can’t do much to it with this kind of music. You’re gonna need something with lots of bass and a beat to really do the job.”

I had never listened to anything with lots of bass and a beat. I didn’t need to start now.

“You can’t really dance to this, either.”

“I can’t dance, so it’s just as well.”

He smiled. “I bet you can and you just don’t know it.”

I stared at him. At his eyes. They were fucking gorgeous, but it’s not why I stared. There was something there again, a something that scared the shit out of me. The words, of course, were an invitation. I knew that. I’d been waiting for it. It just wasn’t the invitation I’d been expecting. Because his eyes didn’t say why don’t you just forget about these boxes for a while so we can fuck all afternoon. Not that dance. They said something else.

The other dance.

I looked away, because I knew what it was my eyes were saying. Then I forced my mouth to say, “I’d better go unpack the bathroom.”

He wasn’t deterred. “Are you hungry?”

“Nope.”

“Liar. I’m meeting some friends for lunch in a few minutes. You should come with me.”

“I’ll eat later. I’ve got too much to do right now.”

He nodded. Looked around the room. “Maybe. But I don’t think any of those boxes have any food in them. Are you planning on eating packing peanuts or what?”

“I’ll run into the market in a little while.”

“Great. You can do it after we eat.”

I really was starved. What was left of the coffee and toast I’d eaten for breakfast wouldn’t be enough to keep me going long enough to finish unpacking. But.

That dance?

I looked at him again and sighed. Food. Meet new people. Groceries. I did need all of those things. And so I followed him into town.

Chapter 4

His truck sputtered and stalled but somehow managed to make it into town. We drove right past two restaurants that were both very sorry for being closed for the season and pulled instead into a diner called Fran’s.

He opened the door for me and I walked inside, feeling assaulted in every possible way. The air was heavy with the smell of pizza sauce, deli meats and fried things, and there was a general commotion of kids screaming and laughing, arcade games beeping and, most noticeably, a loud jukebox pounding out the beat of an unfamiliar pop tune, the exact sort of music that would never find its way into my CD collection. My empty, growling stomach was the only thing that prevented me from making a beeline for the door.

A thin, petulant girl who appeared to be in her late teens stood behind the counter. Her dark brown hair was streaked with white-blonde chunks and pinned up into an intricate up-do. It made me more self-conscious than ever about my own sloppy, grey-rooted locks. Brian gestured to her and whispered, “That’s my sister.”

I looked at her more closely and nodded, noting the resemblance. She caught sight of us walking towards her and rolled her eyes. They were Van Dyke brown, like her brother’s, but so hazy and bloodshot that I had to wonder how she’d made it into work. She raised an eyebrow at Brian and said, “Don’t you ever cook?”

“Nope. Jeff and Laura here yet?”

“Nope. Zeke’s out back in the bar. He wants to see you.”

“How come?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

He examined her eyes closely. “Uh huh.”

“Just go talk to him and get it over with.” She nodded towards me. “Can’t you see I’ve got customers to deal with?”

He sighed and gave me a quick, “I’ll be back in a sec.” Then he walked down a long hallway and through a set of double doors.

She grabbed her pen and notebook from the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“Veggie Italian. Diet soda.”

She shuddered, hollered back my order and took my money. And stared. I hated that. When she gave me my change, I pocketed the coins and shoved the bills into her tip jar. I’d been on her side of the counter so I knew: You can’t live on minimum wage. That cheered her up a bit, and she managed a real smile as she said:

“You’re Tess.”

I glanced at her nametag. She’d pinned it on upside down. “You’re Rachel.”

She glanced back towards the doors her brother had disappeared through and asked, “So, what do you think of him?”

The question caught me off guard, even though it shouldn’t have. I stumbled through a variety of vowel sounds before managing, “He’s . . . I think he’s nice.”

She laughed loudly at that. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at me or if everything was funny to her in her present condition. Once she recovered, she gave me a smirk and said, “‘Nice.’ Right. I’m sure ‘nice’ is the first adjective that popped into your head.”

I knew this game. I returned the volley with, “Actually, the first was wicked hot . Then came sweet ass. So I guess that makes nice number three.”

That got another laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.”

Home: 1. Visitors: 0.

She handed me a ticket, number 76. Just like the Bicentennial. I shoved it into my pocket and headed for the restroom. I inspected the toilet and decided I could wait until I got home. Washed my hands and examined my hair. It sucked. I shook it out, twisted it into a half-hearted ponytail, then opened my purse to debate my lipsticks. Red or pink. I looked up at my tired reflection and settled for Chapstick instead, then heaved a great sigh and entered the arena again.

Brian was leaning back against the counter upon my return, but Rachel was nowhere in sight. “Howdy.” He said it just like a cowboy.

“Hi.”

“My friends are here.” He gestured towards the corner booth. His posse waved. “I’ve already told them all about you.”

All about me? What did he know? Cleaning lady. Foul mouth. Big tits. Big, obnoxious brother. Can’t climb stairs. “Lead me to them.”

He guided me through the obstacle course of the dining area. Red and white checkered plastic tablecloths, white and brown plastic salt and pepper shakers, families out for a nice lunch. He nodded a greeting to nearly every table, singled out husbands and kids, diplomatically ignored staring wives.

Then, his table. He introduced me to his friends, the Burkes, and I took turns shaking their hands. They were dressed up, probably came to the diner right from church. Jeff had sandy hair and was big enough to be a football player, but wore dark-framed, deliberately nerdy glasses. The contrast made me like him immediately. Laura was skinny and pale, but very pretty, like a porcelain doll. Lots of wavy hair that was too auburn to be natural and her makeup was Just So. She seemed genuinely friendly, like someone who was used to working with the public and liked it. I took off my coat, slung it across the back of my chair and sat down.

Brian looked around the room. “Their daughter is running around here somewhere. Where is the little pinhead?”

Laura said, “She’s playing video games in the other room.” Then she turned her attention to me. “So, how do you like New Mills?”

“It’s a pretty town.” I hadn’t been here long enough to add anything of substance to my review.

“It’s a lot smaller than Brookfield, isn’t it?”

“Brookfield isn’t exactly a huge town.”

Jeff laughed. “Maybe not, but your boys still manage to kick ass in the basketball tourneys every year.”

I managed a ‘We sure do’ that made it sound like I was sufficiently proud of the Hometown Heroes. Basketball was a sore subject with me, but Jeff had no way of knowing that. He was just making polite conversation with the woman who’d been forced on his family’s lunch.

We continued on with the small talk, because that’s what you do when you make a new acquaintance. Jeff sold cars at his dad’s dealership in Westville. He could give me the names of some businesses he knew of there that hadn’t yet found a replacement for the recently departed Mrs. Arsenault. I thanked him and nodded, because it was a nice gesture, and didn’t tell him that I wasn’t interested in traveling that far for work if I could help it. I didn’t want to set the world on fire. All I really cared about was making enough money for rent and music and beer and food and jeans. Maybe enough to save aside for the oil bill in the winter.

But when Laura told me she worked at a hair salon right in town that was still looking to hire someone to clean, I was interested in more than just the work. The salon back in Brookfield was Gossip Central, and I’d avoided the place all winter long.

“I’m so overdue for a trim.”

She cast a quizzical eye over my hair, and I could see she agreed wholeheartedly. She handed me a business card that had her hours written on the back and told me to pop in. Soon.

Rachel’s voice boomed our order numbers over the loudspeakers. I stood up, but Brian waved me back down. “Me and Jeff’ll get it.”

I gave Laura an awkward smile and tried to think of something to say. She returned the smile, apparently as inept at small talk as me. After about thirty full seconds of silence, she turned towards the counter and I followed her gaze. Brian and Rachel were in the middle of what was obviously a heated exchange. Laura and I turned to each other simultaneously, relieved that a topic for conversation had presented itself.

“Zeke — that’s Rachel’s boss — told Brian that he’s going to suspend her for a couple days if she comes in stoned again.”

I didn’t ask why the boss had bugged Brian about it, only nodded sympathetically. Brian was still upset when they returned a minute or so later, accompanied by the Burkes’ daughter. She introduced herself as Cassidy Rose Burke. She was eight years old and very proud of it. She had auburn hair that proved Laura’s to be natural after all, and something about her was familiar. Not just because she looked like her dad. It was something else, someone she reminded me of, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Brian handed me my sandwich with a shudder. “Veggie Italian?”

“Shut up.”

And then things were quiet for a few minutes while we ate, at least as quiet as they could be inside a crowded family diner, until Cassidy pointed to my coat. “Your pin is broken. Did you drop it?”

I finished chewing a cucumber and said, “I bought it that way. Last summer at a yard sale.”

“You bought a broken pin on purpose?”

I nodded, unfastened the brooch from my coat and handed it to her to look at more closely. It was an odd-looking piece of costume jewelry, oval-shaped with four pieces of round, cut glass. A fake emerald, fake amethyst and fakes of whatever gems were naturally orange and light blue. One stone was missing. I liked to think it had been a fake ruby.

“Why did you buy it if it’s broken?”

“Because the lady I bought it from told me a cool story about how it got broken.”

She bounced in her seat. “Ooh! What’s the story?”

I was exhausted and not really in the mood for storytime. But she looked so excited, and she was so damn cute. And she reminded me of someone. Who the hell was it? I wiped my mouth, took a sip of my diet soda and cleared my throat.

“The lady I bought it from, her grandmother had just died and the pin belonged to her. She got it when she was young, back in the thirties, from her boyfriend–”

“Didn’t they call them beaux back then?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Scarlett O’Hara called her boyfriends beaux.”

That didn’t go over well with Jeff. “How the hell do you know anything about Scarlett O’Hara?”

“Grammy let me watch ‘Gone With The Wind’ at her house last week.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and shot Laura a look. She only shrugged. I waited a few seconds before I went on with the story.

“The beau bought the pin for the girl because he knew she liked colorful things, and she loved it. More than anything. Time went by and they got engaged, but a month before the wedding, the beau lost his job.”

“Did he get fired?” Cassidy asked.

She probably didn’t know what the Great Depression was, unless Laura’s mom had let her watch “Grapes of Wrath.” I didn’t want to go off on another tangent, so I told her that the mill where he worked closed down. She nodded to let me know it was a concept she was familiar with.

“The girl’s parents wouldn’t let them get married until the guy got another job. So he packed his suitcase and headed to New York City to look for work. The poor guy was only there a week and he got mugged. He didn’t have a whole lot of money to begin with, and they took what little he had left. So there he was. Stuck in New York with no money and no job and no place to live.”

That sounded fair to Cassidy. “That’ll teach him to go where the Yankees live.”

“The girl’s parents apparently thought so, too, because when they found out about it, they made her break the engagement and set her up with someone else, some guy they’d wanted her to marry all along. And in the meantime, the first guy, the beau–”

It really was the silliest word in the English language, but she literally squealed with delight every time I said it.

“–found out about his fiancée marrying another guy, and he became determined to get rich. Just to show the woman and her family what was what. And that’s just what he did.”

I took another sip of my soda. I wasn’t used to talking quite so much.

“He got a job at a furniture store in New York. And he worked really, really hard, and after many, many years, he opened his own store. And that got bigger and bigger until finally he had lots of stores all over the East Coast. He was very, very rich, and he got married to a really rich woman–”

“I’ll bet he didn’t really love her,” Cassidy said, her eyes gleaming merrily. “Rich people never marry for love.”

“True. Anyway, he came back to Maine with his new wife so he could say–”

Fuck you and the horse you rode me out of town on. It’s what I would’ve said.

“‘How do ya like me now?’ And by that time, the woman’s husband had died, but when her beau came back into town, she was–”

Pissed because she missed out on the gravy train.

“–broken-hearted that he was married to someone else. And that’s when she knew: They’d never be together. Ever. And so she grabbed that pin right out of her jewelry box and flung it against the wall. And it busted right . . . there. And the fake ruby fell out.”

If I was going to tell this story, I might as well do it right.

“She burst into tears when she saw what she’d done and tried to fix it, but she couldn’t. But she kept it anyway so she’d always remember her beau.”

It really did sound better than boyfriend.

“She hid it in a shoebox along with a diary and a bunch of letters he’d written her. And her granddaughter found it, and that’s how she learned The Story of the Broken Pin.”

It was a little anticlimactic, and I wasn’t the world’s greatest storyteller, but it made her smile anyway. Every freckle on her face seemed to pop right off. And that’s when I knew.

Anne of Green Gables. That’s who the kid reminded me of.

“So,” Laura asked, “who was the beau?”

“Beats me. Just some rich furniture guy. It couldn’t have been anyone famous or she would’ve sold the pin to a dealer somewhere instead of sticking a three-dollar price tag on it for her yard sale.”

Brian laughed. “You only paid three bucks for it?”

“Nope. A dollar. I talked her down.”

“But it’s an antique.”

“Well, yeah. But it’s broken.”

“So you like it because it’s broken, but because it’s broken, you only paid a buck for it.”

“One buck, three bucks. It’s all the same. I talked her down because it pissed me off that she was selling it. She should’ve kept it and handed it down as a family heirloom or something.”

I went back to my sandwich. I’d neglected it, and now the bread was a little soggy from the oil. I choked down a bite anyway.

Cassidy gave me back my pin. Then she asked, “Are you Brian’s girlfriend?”

It had been a long time since anyone had made me blush. I snuck a quick peek at Brian. His face was burning up, too. I cleared my throat. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s too bad. Because you’re nice.”

Laura gave her a kick underneath the table.

“Well, she is.”

“Uh, thanks. I think you’re nice, too.”

I finished my sandwich quickly and stood up to leave. Muttered a sincere ‘It was nice meeting you’ to the Burkes and a ‘See you later’ to Brian. He only nodded.

. . .

Small town market. Narrow aisles. Customers who appraised me with expert eyes. Nice coat, but not new. Old boots. Worn-out, inexpensive jeans. Verdict: She’s from out of town, but she’s not From Away. And then they’d nod. That meant approval, a novel thing for me, so I nodded right back. I had a clean slate here. Best to take full advantage of it.

Checkout counter. I stood behind a young woman and her son. He was maybe five or six years old. Both of them were dirty. Smelly. Old, ripped clothes. Her groceries: a candy bar, a gallon of milk and a half gallon bottle of Allen’s Coffee Brandy. I clenched my teeth, because I knew. Even though it’s wrong to judge. Even though I’d been judged — unfairly — too many times to count and knew better than to do it to someone else. I judged her anyway.

And I was right.

I’d never had a problem with the concept of state aid. Food stamps or MaineCare or even welfare. Because sometimes people fall on hard times. Sometimes people work hard and still can’t afford health insurance. Sometimes they roll out of bed one morning and find that their job has been shipped south or east. And that’s when they need a helping hand. A little something to see them through the rough spots. I’d been there myself.

Then there were people like this woman.

She paid cash for the twenty-dollar bottle of liquor. Used her food stamp card for the candy bar and the milk. The milk that wasn’t for her son. He wouldn’t drink it with his supper tonight or dip any cookies in it for dessert or pour in onto his breakfast cereal in the morning. He looked up, gave me a huge smile, and I smiled right back. He had greasy blonde hair and big blue eyes. Probably the kids picked on him at school because his clothes were dirty. Because he smelled. Because his front two teeth were black and rotten. But underneath the dirt, he was a beautiful child.

I wondered how much longer it would be before he realized exactly what kind of family he’d been born into. Before he understood that the twenty dollars his mother was using for liquor should have been used instead for soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Would he grow up resentful? Bitter? Would he rise above it, determined to make a better life for himself? Or would he grow up thinking that it was normal to live that way?

The woman turned back, too, and glared at me. She knew what I was thinking, and I didn’t care. I wanted to say something to her. Wanted to tell her to go get some fucking help. Tell her that twenty bucks would buy a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo and a box of cheap laundry detergent. Or maybe tell her about all the childless couples out there who would gladly take that little boy off her hands and give him a good life. A life that was filled with baths and toothbrushes. With leafy green veggies and cold milk. The kind of milk that was poured over breakfast cereal and not mixed with coffee brandy.

I didn’t, of course, because right now — right now — the boy was at least somewhat content. Living with a mommy who probably loved him at least a little. And he loved her. That much was obvious. Bad days were coming for him. I knew that, too. But right now, to him, today was The Day Mommy Bought Me a Candy Bar. I couldn’t turn it into The Day Mommy Yelled at the Mean Lady in the Grocery Store. So I gave the woman an almost friendly nod, waved goodbye to the boy and watched them walk away. The little boy was holding his mommy’s hand. Because right now, he still loved her.

Then it was my turn to face to Agnes, the nosy cashier. Older than the hills. She quizzed me about my life while she scanned my groceries, personal questions that no one except priests and very old ladies could get away with asking. I gave her cryptic answers and smiled politely. Even though I didn’t feel like smiling.

Then home. I drove quickly because I was already tired and I had to finish unpacking. Brian was still out, and I remembered that Jeff had said something about a poker game. That meant silence. It meant I was going to spend the evening alone. And, worst of all, it meant I was stuck lugging the groceries up the stairs by myself. Four trips up and down, but it was good exercise and I needed it. I’d spent the winter a slave to Kim’s snack cake cravings and gained thirteen pounds in two months, most of it in my ass. It had taken me three months to lose eight of it.

I wanted to sit down for a break, but there was too much to do. I started by hanging my art up on the walls, which made it feel more like home. Even with the white paint. Then I tackled the remaining boxes. It didn’t take too long to unpack every box but one, and that made it feel less like home. And then, finally, the bed.

I’d saved it for last — except for the box that I didn’t want to open — because I knew. Temptation. The kind that would have whispered for me to leave the damn boxes for later and just get some sleep. I put the frame together. Box spring. Mattress. Hopped on it a little to make sure it was sturdy. It squeaked loudly in protest, and that’s when I remembered: this was once our bed. Mine and Jason’s. And I tried not to remember all the things we’d done on it. Made love and cuddled and laughed and talked and fucked and made plans for the future.

Sheets, blankets, pillows. And that was when I heard Brian’s truck heading towards the house, maybe half a mile away. And that meant temptation, too. The kind that didn’t whisper. I ran out into the living room and snapped off all the lights, locked the front door, then peeked out the window. He was just pulling into the driveway. I ran back into my bedroom, stripped naked and slipped between the sheets. Listened quietly.

His truck door slammed. Porch door, open and shut, then his front door. A muffled cough, a little banging around, and another door closed, somewhere. Then nothing, for a long time. I felt myself fading. Drifting. Until. . .

. . .a sharp, wet snap, then a hiss. It scared me so badly that I bolted upright in bed. My heart bolted, too. Jumped into my throat, then back into place, and pounded against my chest. Then there was bubbling. Gurgling.

It’s just the pipes, you idiot. Old house equals old pipes. Noisy pipes.

And then, of course, the other realization.

He was in the shower.

I lay back down, even though I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep right away. Not now. I tried anyway, but the noise was still there. He was still there. In the shower. And even after the noise was gone, I still listened. I heard the door again — must be the bathroom door — and then another one. Bedroom door? Probably. Then silence once again. And still I didn’t sleep. And so I gave in.

He’d been out of the shower for a long time, but in my mind, he was still in there. Wet and naked and soapy. The hair on his chest was Van Dyke brown. There was a little guilt, just a little, because he was right downstairs. And guilt, of course, because this was once our bed. Mine and Jason’s. Even though now, it really was mine. But the guilt didn’t stop me. And when I was done, I rolled over. And finally slept.

Chapter 5

I woke before dawn to the sound of the weatherman bleating cheerfully from my radio alarm clock. Unseasonably warm, highs in the mid-sixties. I groaned out loud, because I knew what that meant: melting snow. It meant I’d waste the sunrise vacuuming rugs and scrubbing floors at a doctor’s office and an insurance company, only to have them tracked up by clumsy, careless, muddy boots. And after half an hour, it would be just like I hadn’t been there at all. I went in anyway, of course, because it had been a week and a half since either place had seen a dust rag or a toilet bowl brush. It looked like it had been longer.

When I was done, I hopped in my car, looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror, then drove to the salon where Laura worked. She gave my hair a thorough examination, shook her head and hacked off three inches. Then it was time for hair color choices. I looked at the price list on the wall and did some quick math. It would be tight for a while, but I needed it. And while I sat in her chair with my hair covered in goo, Laura filled me in on the LaChance family’s history.

Brian and Rachel’s mother was diagnosed with cancer when Brian was only ten, Rachel four. They had an alcoholic father who was never home. Went off to work, then stayed out nights, drinking too much and cheating on his wife. Just like a country song, Laura said, but without the twang. Neither of us laughed because it wasn’t funny.

She was sick for about two years. Chemotherapy, radiation, the whole nine yards. And it didn’t work. So one night, she had to tell Brian that she was going away. That he had to look after Rachel. He had to be strong, even though he was still just a boy. Even though it wasn’t fair. Because his father wouldn’t do it.

“He’s not going to stay,” she said.

She died a week later. Brian was almost twelve. He dropped out of school at sixteen and started working with his father. Watched and worked and learned and waited. Waited for his mother’s prophecy to come true. And it did, the day after Brian turned eighteen. As though his father had been waiting, too. Waiting until it was safe for him to leave. Even though he’d never really been there at all.

And so Brian took it all on his shoulders for real, even though he’d already been carrying most of the burden for years. He and Rachel moved into the apartment that Brian was still living in. Charlie took pity on them because he knew their situation well enough, let them rent it for practically nothing until Brian was able to turn his dad’s business around. Because he’d left that in shambles, too.

Brian still carried it, all of that burden. Especially Rachel. Because she was on the verge of screwing up her life. Even though she was nineteen and on her own now, she was still his to look after. Probably, Laura said, he’d always feel that way.

I nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. I knew why she’d told me the story even before she gave me a look that said:

He’s had it rough, so be nice to him. Don’t use him. Don’t hurt him. Because he deserves better than that. . .

And she was right. Because, of course, we all did.

Then it was home again. Seventeen steps from the car to the porch stairs, four of those. Six to my door. Fourteen stairs up, into my apartment. First time I’d noticed.

I stumbled into bed and slept until six-thirty. After a long shower, I grabbed two beers from the fridge, took them into the living room and plopped them down on top of the big plastic bin that was sitting in front of my couch. It was clear with a lime green cover and held all my sweaters except for the red one I was wearing. It was serving as a temporary coffee table, remarkably similar to the coffee table I’d had in my very first apartment. I’d constructed that one myself. Spray painted three white plastic crates in various neon shades and tied them together, lengthwise, with wire. Then I made two end tables for a matching set. At age eighteen, plastic furniture is a symbol of freedom. Independence. It shouts, Fuck you, world, I don’t need any help. At age thirty four, it whimpers, I’m fucking pathetic.

I made it quickly through my first beer and cracked open the second. Halfway through it, I stared at the box I still hadn’t opened. It claimed to contain three 182-ounce-size jugs of Clorox bleach. Because when you’re a cleaning lady, you buy your bleach in bulk. If I shoved the box into the back of my bedroom closet, right now, then in three days time, I’d have myself convinced that it really was a box containing three bottles of bleach. In a month or so, I’d buy a real coffee table, scoot my plastic bin of sweaters in front of the bleach box and, the day after that, completely forget that the box of bleach was there.

I finished beer number two, walked over to the box of bleach and picked it up. And that’s when my illusion was shattered before it even had a chance to begin, because of one word written in bold block letters on top of the box. Black permanent ink:

PHOTOS

Jason’s writing. He had packed the box on his fateful last trip to our apartment, then given it to Dave to give to me. I had shoved it, along with everything else, in Dave’s garage. And now — apparently — it was Mine.

I chucked it back onto the floor, picked at the tape with my fingernail, loosened it with shaking fingers, then yanked quickly. It released the scent of fresh cardboard, the scent that seemed forever linked in my mind with goodbye. I crumbled up the tape, blindly grabbed a handful of pictures and flipped through them slowly.

It was a mistake.

Because there we were, Jason-and-Tess, captured in time. Trapped on dozens of four-by-six pieces of paper. I was holding our last vacation in my hand, our tenth anniversary weekend in Bar Harbor almost two years earlier. I closed my eyes and I was there again. The sharp, tangy scent of the ocean. Laughter — his and mine mingling together — as we imitated tourists’ accents in the gift shops. His hand, strong and warm, resting on my leg while we drove around Park Loop at sunset. His trim, gorgeous beard, rough and hot against my cheek, my shoulder, my breasts; the sweet sting of the carpet on my back as we made love in our hotel room, ignoring the soft, giant bed. . .

I could feel the tears threatening again, and this time I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop. But then I heard it. Brian’s truck, about half a mile away. I wiped my eyes and listened. Waited. Hoped.

Truck door slammed. Porch door. Then his footsteps up the stairs and a knock at the door. I chucked the pictures onto the coffee table, ran to the door and greeted my rescuer with a sweet smile. Then I remembered my silent promise to Laura’s silent plea and toned down the enthusiasm. If the sudden change in my demeanor surprised him, he didn’t show it. He just cleared his throat and said:

“Your hair looks good blonde.”

“It’s not blonde. It’s. . .” Laura had called it 7NA. I called it Honey. “It’s just a lighter shade of brown.”

“Um . . . okay.”

I nodded to the bag he was holding. Radio Shack. “What’s that?”

“This,” he said, grinning, “is everything you need to get free cable TV.”

“Amazing. And I thought it was just a bag.”

He dug inside and pulled out two packages of wires. The kind that weren’t coiled up and held together with bread bag ties. “I’ve got the cable run through the wall from downstairs, so all I have to do is hook it up to your TV with these.” He noticed my uncertainty. “I do it for all the upstairs people. The last couple took off with the splitter, so. . .” he held up one of the packages. “I had to get a new one.”

“We won’t get in trouble for this?”

“Nah. The cable guys never come all the way out here unless there’s a problem, and when they do, I disconnect everything until they leave.”

“But is that fair? I get free cable, but you have to pay.”

He shrugged. “I have to pay for it anyway.”

“At least let me split the bill with you.”

“Why? No one else ever did.”

“I’m not a freeloader. I either pay for half or you don’t hook it up.”

He gave me a scowl and waited. Probably thought I’d change my mind if he did it long enough. I folded my arms and scowled right back.

“Fine.” He sauntered past me, into the living room, and went to work. When he was done, he gave me a tour of the channels. There were almost a hundred of them, and only five of them jumped out as something I’d actually watch. I thanked him anyway.

“That really is a nice sound system you got there.”

I nodded. Jason had fallen in love with it three years earlier. It was ostensibly a birthday gift for me, though, and therefore Mine.

“Have you played anything on it since I hooked it up?”

“Yep. Neil Young sounded great while I was unpacking.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know what you need?”

“Uh. . .”

“Gunshots and galloping horses–”

That was my second guess.

“–so I can fix the surround sound for you. And you’re in luck, because there’s a John Wayne double feature on tonight.”

“John Wayne.”

“Don’t you like John Wayne?”

Chauvinistic he-man with a heart of gold. What’s not to like? My dad had every one of his movies, which was pretty funny. I really should brush up on my Freud.

“I do, actually.”

“Cool. ‘True Grit’ starts at eight.” He bounded over to the couch, taking the remote control with him. He set it down on the makeshift coffee table and picked up the pictures that I’d left out. Out in the open. Like an idiot.

I held out my hand. “Give them here. I’ll put them away.”

“You don’t want me to see them?”

I considered for a few moments. What was the harm? They were just pictures, after all. Slices of life trapped on dozens of four-by-six pieces of paper. Nothing to be afraid of.

I sat down beside him and shrugged. “Go ahead.”

He stared at the photo on top. I leaned over to see what it was. Windy Haired Tess on Cadillac Mountain. “This is a real good picture of you.”

“Thanks.”

He flipped to the next one. It was Golden Haired Jason. His eyes were beautiful — clear, bright blue like the sky behind him. It was my favorite picture of him because he was smiling. It reminded me of how I used to live to see him smile.

“Your husband?”

“Ex-husband.” It was the first time I’d said it. Ex. It tasted sour.

Brian studied the photograph for a few more seconds, then continued through more of The Doomed Dyers’ Bar Harbor Weekend. When he was finished, he set them down gently on the bin and asked, “What does he do?”

I couldn’t say lumberjack. Because, like Dave, Jason didn’t have the kind of job that was just a means to an end. Not only a way to earn money for food and rent and all the rest. It was his passion. His life. Who he was.

“He’s a teacher.”

Brian nodded, and I looked at my bare feet, wishing I had painted my toenails instead of opening the box of bleach. Finally, he asked, “What happened?”

“To what?”

“I mean . . . why didn’t it work out?”

I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it time for the movie to start?”

“Still got half an hour.”

“Oh.”

I chucked the pictures back into the bleach box. Glared at the plastic bin, as though it was to blame for all my troubles instead of just a representation of them. I looked at my toes again, praying for inspiration. A topic for conversation. Anything. And my eyes fell on my two empty bottles. I asked him if he’d like a beer, and he gave a reluctant nod. We drank in silence for awhile while he scanned the canvases on my walls. He’d nod at one, smile at another. I followed his slow gaze until he got to the last painting. We shivered at the same time.

“Isn’t that Mount Kineo? On Moosehead Lake?”

“Yep. Have you ever been there?”

“A long time ago.” He pointed to its reproduction. “It doesn’t look spooky like that during the day, though.”

I nodded, and we fell silent once more. I finished my beer and got another for each of us. They weren’t doing the trick. I was still seeing blue eyes.

Brian cleared his throat. “I saw a nature show last week about these chimps in the Congo. I can’t remember what their real name was, but they called ‘em hippie chimps because all they do, pretty much, is just have sex all the time.”

He waited for me to respond. I didn’t, of course, so he continued.

“It was kind of sad, though, because they’re almost extinct. You’d think with all the sex they’re having that they’d reproduce quicker’n rabbits, but there are these poachers who–”

“What?”

“Poachers. I guess the meat on those chimps is pretty tasty, because–”

“I meant, what the hell are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t like awkward silences.”

“Monkey sex is better than an awkward silence?”

“Definitely.”

“Ah.”

He looked at his watch then picked up the remote, because — finally — it was time for the movie. “True Grit.” A grizzled U.S. marshal and an arrogant Texas ranger help a spunky teenaged girl track down her father’s murderer. Justice and revenge. No better way to spend an evening. Brian interrupted the movie several times with ‘important trivia’ and a very bad impersonation of the Duke. I’d forgotten Glenn Campbell was in the movie and, under the influence of more beers than I could count, sang the chorus to “Rhinestone Cowboy” every time he came onscreen. The second movie — which I kept forgetting the name to — passed by in a haze of galloping horses and gunfire. By the time it was over, there were ten empty beer bottles in my sink and eight more littering the living room floor. Brian and I were both sprawled out, heads back against the couch, our feet propped up on the lime green coffee table.

He rolled his head towards me and slurred, “Your hair looks good like that.”

I was going to tell him he’d said that already, but I didn’t. Didn’t tell him that I thought his hair looked good, too. That I liked the way it curled behind his right ear but not his left. The way it almost touched his shoulders but didn’t. Not quite. And that I wondered if he always kept it long or if he had it cut short during the summer. Because he probably worked outside a lot, and long hair might be too much in the heat. I didn’t say any of that, even though I was thinking it, because talking and thinking about hair reminded me that I’d promised Laura something.

“What did you promise Laura?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I promised her I’d use the conditioner she made me buy. I have to use it every day.” That wasn’t a lie, because I really had promised her that.

“How was she today?”

“She was good.”

“Did she tell you all about my sad, terrible childhood?”

“Yep.” I said it before I remembered that I’d planned to feign ignorance about his sad, terrible childhood.

He gave me a grin. “In that case, you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“I don’t know anything about you. Nothing real, anyway.”

I rubbed my eyes and yawned. Wondered if I could do a convincing impression of The Woman Who Passed Out From Drinking Too Much. Probably not. Because I’d been drinking too much. “You want to know something about me?”

“Of course.”

So I told him the story, because I was too drunk to care if he knew — even though I wasn’t drunk enough for it not to hurt — about The Doomed Dyers. It was the edited-for-television version.

“So . . . he left you because he wanted kids and you didn’t?”

“Yep.” It wasn’t the only reason, of course, but Brian didn’t need to know everything.

“Didn’t he know that you didn’t want kids before you guys got married?”

“Yep.”

“Not to bright for a teacher, then, is he?”

I shrugged. Nobody’s bright when they first fall in love. Everything is laughter and fun and sex; a nonstop, barefoot, giddy romp in thick, green, sunny meadows. Who cares about tomorrow? Or the tomorrow after that? Especially Jason and me. So many yesterdays, a whole lifetime of them before our Us even began. More than most people started with. So why worry when he’ll never change and she’ll change her mind someday and, especially, when everything will be Just Fine.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Tess, I want you to know something. And don’t ever forget. I have loved you forever.

“I think it was more that he had too much confidence in his own ability to win me over to his side of the issue.”

“Oh.” He looked at me, bleary eyed. “Why don’t you want kids?”

“Well . . . it’s sort of a scary idea, isn’t it? There’s no starting over if you do it wrong. You screw it up, and it’s screwed up.”

Just like that little boy at the grocery store. What if the state came in, right now, and took him away. Put him with a family with milk and soap. Would it make a difference? A real one? Or would he still be screwed up? Was there such a thing as too late?

“Besides, I’m too old for it all now anyway.”

“No, you’re not. Why? How old are you?”

I laughed. “Let’s just say I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“So Laura told you everything about me.”

“Not really. I just paid attention.” And backwards math is my specialty.

He propped an elbow against the back of the couch, leaned his head on his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “So . . . what is it? Forty?”

I kicked him. “I’m not forty, you shithead.”

“I know.” He grinned and looked at me closely, carefully. And his eyes were Van Dyke brown. . .

“Um . . . thirty?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Come on. Tell me. You can’t be any older’n thirty. Not that it matters to me if you are. Honestly. It doesn’t matter at all.”

I smiled and stared at his lips. Lingered there. They were fucking gorgeous, and I wondered what they tasted like. How they’d feel on mine. How they’d feel all over me. . .

He smiled back. He could see it there, all of it. And I didn’t care.

He reached for my face. And missed. The smiles faded.

Shit. Are we too drunk? Too drunk for this? Because you’ve been here before. Drunk sex equals bad sex, and if it’s bad, then what’s the point?

I shook it off. So did he. He tried for my face again and got it this time. His hand felt so nice on my cheek. It really did. Warm and strong and calloused and, oh God, it had been so long since I’d felt a man’s hand on my face. Let alone anywhere else. I leaned in a little closer, close enough to feel his breath on my face, and waited for him to kiss me. I rested my hand on his leg. It was smoldering away just like a woodstove. I looked away from his lips, finally, and into his eyes.

And that’s when I knew why he wasn’t kissing me. He was searching my eyes. I knew what it was he was looking for. And I knew that he wasn’t going to find it. He pulled his hand away, gently, and sat back. Because he knew it, too.

“You’re still in love with him.”

I yanked my hand off his leg. “No. I’m not.”

He shook his head and started to get up. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans, pulled him back down beside me and clutched his hand. “I’m not. Really.”

Don’t leave. Please.

He squeezed my hand and smiled kindly. I knew what it meant, so I let it go. Let him stand again. I stood up, too, and walked him to the door.

“Well, thanks for . . . hooking up the cable.”

“No problem.” He opened the door to leave, then sighed heavily, closed it again and turned to face me. “I’m not just looking to get laid here. That’s not all I . . . want. Okay?”

And there it was. Out in the open. Even though I’d known it already. If that’s all he wanted, he could have gotten it the day I’d moved in. Hell, he could get that anywhere, anytime. . .

“I know, Brian, but . . . I’m just not ready to start anything new. Not anything serious, anyway.” The beer let me add, “Not yet.”

I looked closely at his face to gauge his reaction. To check for signs that he was weakening, faltering; anything that said he might stay, and I saw it. A spark in his eyes. And I knew that it meant I could make him stay. Reach right up, put my hands on his face, pull his mouth onto mine, and that would be it. He’d be mine for the night, and maybe even longer. For as long as it took to make this god-awful ache in my heart disappear; to fill up the craters eroding my soul. . .

But I didn’t. Because I had promised Laura I’d be good to him. That I’d be nice. Just like he deserved. He took a deep breath, and the spark was gone.

“Okay. I can understand that.”

“So I guess I’ll . . . see you around?”

He smiled. “You better believe it.”

I waited until he’d safely navigated the staircase, waited a little longer until I heard his door shut. Then I went to into my bedroom. Stripped naked. Slipped between the sheets, bunched up my blankets and extra pillow and snuggled in close. It didn’t do the trick, of course, because there was nothing solid there. No strong arms around me. No rough beard against my cheek and shoulder and breasts. No sweet whispers that told me . . . that told me. . .

. . .I have loved you forever. . .

But not anymore. I’d felt it all slipping away, for months and months. Hope and happiness and love. Drifting. Slowly. Away. And now . . . it was gone. He was gone. He hadn’t even shown up in court, and it was probably just as well. Because I was drunk enough to remember that I’d planned to beg him to take me back.

Please, Jason? Please? Five months apart, and that’s long enough. Long enough to know that it’s stupid to throw everything away. All those years together. A whole lifetime of love. We can’t just give up on it. Please, Jason. . .

Please?

I was going to beg him. To take me back.

And now it was too late. It really was. But I still missed him. Even as I drifted off to sleep. Even in my dreams. . .

When I woke up in the morning, he was there, Mine again. Golden beard; blue, glowing eyes; hands and lips everywhere. Hotel carpet. Sweet whispers that told me I was safe and loved. Even if it was just in my mind. One more time. One last time.

It had to be the last. Because when I was done, there was no guilt. None at all. But I had to bury my head in my pillow, the one I’d spent the night pretending was him, to hold back the tears. Because that’s when I knew. For real.

He wasn’t mine. Not anymore. Not ever. . .

Chapter 6

Dave called while I was eating supper. Kim was in labor.

“Isn’t it too soon? I mean, doesn’t she have six days left?” Kim had told me that there was something to worry about when a baby came too early . . . something about lung development. . .

“She’s fine. Her water broke anyway, so we don’t really have a choice.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I can be there in about half an hour.”

There was a long pause. Too long, and it made me nervous. Finally, he said, “Tess, Jason’s here. He’s in the waiting room with Mom and Dad.”

I sat down. Fell, really, onto a kitchen chair. It let out a small screech as it scooted a few inches across the floor. I knew just how it felt.

God damn it.

I’d just spent five months with them and their stupid fetus. I’d helped Kim decorate their nursery, painted it for her because Dave didn’t want her inhaling the fumes. Practiced breathing exercises with them until I thought I’d hyperventilate. Folded clothes and washed bottles and helped organize all of their baby shower gifts. And what had Jason done? Why did he deserve to be there? He couldn’t be bothered to come to court, but he had no problem with making himself at home with my family while they all waited for my nephew to be born.

And why not? Dave had been his friend forever. Why shouldn’t he be there?

“What . . . Dave, what should I do? Should I come up, too, or just wait here?”

There was no answer, and he was right. He wasn’t going to play the bad guy. Wasn’t going to play Solomon with his unborn son. He had a wife to worry about, to breathe with; had to watch her suffer and scream for hours and hours. Had to worry about ten fingers and ten toes and. . .

God damn Jason. God damn that fucking bastard.

I took a breath, a deep one, just like hundreds that Dave and Kim would take over the next few hours. And then I tried for Laid Back Tess. Nonchalant.

Everything is fine. Nothing wrong here. What could possibly be wrong?

I managed a yawn that sounded convincing and said, “Dave, I really am tired. In fact, I’ll be honest, I’m fucking exhausted. Moving and unpacking took more out of me than I thought it would. I’ve been working, too, so . . . I’m really wiped.”

That was the story he could tell our mother. She’d believe it, even if she didn’t like it.

“And I wish I could be there for you guys right now, I really do. I’d love to be there the second Matthew is born. But I don’t think I can handle being in a waiting room with her for hours on end. I really don’t.”

That was the story he could tell everyone else. And they’d believe it. Kim and Dad and even Jason. Because it was true. Even if they knew it wasn’t the real reason.

“I’m really sorry, Tess. I was with him at lunch when Kim called and—”

“Dave, it’s okay. Just get back to Kim. Go do the whole Lamaze thing. Did you remember to bring that stupid stuffed elephant?” It was her focal point, her favorite toy when she was a kid.

“Yes.”

“Well, then go. I’ll head up in the morning.”

I hung up before he could say anything else, because he needed to go take care of his wife. And because I needed to not talk to him about it anymore. But what I really needed was to not think about it anymore. To not think about anything.

I jogged to the fridge, grabbed the remaining six bottles of beer, then settled down on the couch in front of the television. Tried to drink myself into oblivion. It didn’t work. I could still see Jason’s face, pleading with me. I could still hear his words.

But, Tess . . . this is what you want to do when you love someone.

Oh is it? So, if I really love you, then I’ll be your incubator?

No, that’s not it. That’s not what I mean at all. . .

I still didn’t know what it was he’d meant. At all. Because he had talked about starting a family just once before we got married. Threw it out there, wrapped up in a ’someday.’ And I’d let him know, very clearly, that it wasn’t going to happen. Not with me.

Just the thought of being a mother makes me sick to my stomach.

Okay, Tess.

No, don’t give me ‘okay.’ I mean it.

And he never mentioned it again after that, not even a hint; never even hid it inside a ’someday.’ Not until the day after he turned thirty-five. And then he never stopped talking about it. He tried everything. Calm explanations, just like I was one of his students, one of his slow students, who needed him to spell it all out for me. Logical reasoning, as though he was Spock and I was McCoy and the problem could be settled in a battle of wits. And, finally, Positive Reassurance.

Tess, you’d be a great mother. You’re so creative and funny and warm and. . .

I hated that most of all, because it made me feel weak. Damaged. As though I needed reassurance. But I didn’t tell him that. I just said the same thing I’d said to all his other tactics.

“No.”

And what I told myself was: It’s just a midlife crisis. And it’s better than having him out screwing some young blonde or buying a bright red sports car. Then finally, in the spring, I started to see signs of the old Jason, like he was waking up right along with the trees. And by the time summer vacation started, he was back for real. Jason. My Jason, the one I’d fallen in love with.

Then came the middle of July. We spend a hot, humid afternoon in Dave’s backyard. Barbecue and croquet and beer. And an announcement from Kim.

We’re going to start hearing the pitter patter of little feet around the house. . .

Pitter patter.

I smiled with the rest of them, tried to be happy for them. But I knew. The other Jason was back. I could see the change already. I could actually see him doing the math.

She’ll see the baby in March. Nine months after that: Fatherhood.

Sure enough. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, kissed me so tenderly that his beard barely touched my cheek, because he knew how much I loved that. Then he whispered, “Just wait till Dave’s baby gets here, Tess. You’ll see. You’ll understand then.”

It was the middle of July, hot and humid. I shivered anyway. I’d just gotten him back, back from That Place. I didn’t want to lose him again. I couldn’t. So on the drive home, I said it.

It.

“Thank God Dave’s finally giving my mother a grandchild. Now she can quit bugging me about it.”

It was bullshit, and we both knew it. My mother had never — not once — bugged me about grandchildren. She wouldn’t care if I never had kids, or if she never had grandchildren at all. I knew it. And Jason knew it.

He knew it. Got the message loud and clear. Finally.

It ain’t ever gonna happen.

The next morning was still hot and humid. Ceiling fans whirring in every room. Cereal and fruit and coffee.

Silent breakfast.

He brushed his teeth and got dressed. Headed for the living room. Hand on the door knob.

Errands.

Errands? Jase, you don’t have any errands to run today.

Obviously, Tess, I do.

We didn’t have any plans to do anything together, nothing specific, but it was summer. Our time. No school, no students, no tests to correct.

Our time.

Swimming, movies, bike rides. Whatever we felt like doing when we woke up in the morning was what we did during the day. But he took off, couldn’t wait to bolt out the door, to be as far away from me as he could get.

Well . . . okay. I love you, Jason.

I’ll see you tonight, Tess.

He didn’t say it back. He didn’t say it again.

I love you, Jason.

Good night, Tess.

Barely got a kiss on the cheek again. Didn’t have sex again for almost two more weeks, and then it was quick, so quick I thought he must have been half asleep. He woke up in the middle of the night with a hard on, rolled over and I was there, so sure, why not?

And then . . . nothing.

No baby, so no sex. Punishment.

I shivered through August.

The first week of school, he signed up to teach night classes; first time he’d ever done that. The week after that, he took up playing basketball with his buddies on weekends. And I knew what fall and winter would bring. More basketball. Because he was the coach now.

Jason Dyer, Patron Saint of Basketball.

I’ll just eat supper out, Tess.

Okay. See ya tonight.

First time I didn’t bother to say it. Didn’t say it again. Even though I did still love him. He probably didn’t notice the omission. He didn’t notice when I said it, didn’t notice when I didn’t say it. So what was the point?

He didn’t want me anymore, so it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He didn’t love me, didn’t want me, and someone else did. So I fucked the someone else. His name was Chris.

And I spent my fall and winter at Dave’s house. Then came divorce court. Because that’s where you go when the love runs out. . .

And he didn’t even bother to show up.

What was Jason thinking about, right now, while he was sitting there in that waiting room with my parents, and Kim’s parents, too? Probably he was thinking I was a coward, and he was right. I was. An even bigger coward than he had been when he hadn’t show up at court. And what about Kim? Right now, right this very second, she was in pain. Lots of it, worse than anything she’d ever gone through. Grunting and breathing and focusing on a relic from the past to forget the agony of the present. All so she could give birth to her Future. And here I was, thirty-something miles away from it all. Drinking myself into oblivion. Focusing on nothing. Doing nothing.

Nothing. . .

I fell asleep and didn’t know it. My cell phone woke me up at just after six a.m. I sat up and blinked rapidly, surprised that I wasn’t hung over, and gave Dave enough time to go to voice mail. Then I trudged into the kitchen to listen to his message. My nephew, Matthew David Bellows, had arrived at last.

I took a shower, threw on my coat and clomped down the stairs. The driveway was wet and soupy with thick, brown mud, and I had to take slow, deliberate steps so my boots didn’t get sucked off my feet. When I finally made it to the car, I tapped them lightly against my tire well, but it didn’t do any good. They were still dirty, and now the car was, too. Dirty and tired and grey, just like me. I kicked the driver’s side door, hard. Kicked it again and left behind a small, muddy dent. I kicked it two more times, for good measure, before I heard Brian’s voice, directly behind me:

“Tess?”

I shrieked so loudly that it bounced off the house and shed and trees, like a thousand startled little girls screeching at us from every corner of the yard. Once they fell silent, I turned to face him, armed with profanity, but the words never made it to my lips. I had expected to find smug amusement on his face. I saw honest concern instead, and my nerves were so raw that it almost made me cry.

He noticed and took a half-step back. Then he thought better of it, reached out and touched my shoulder, gripped it gently. Not a strained, awkward gesture; it was genuine, natural. Just like he was supposed to be touching me. “Tess, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Look, why don’t you come on inside. I can–”

I shook off his hand, opened up my battered door and got into the car without another word. I checked my rearview mirror as I pulled onto the road. He was still right there, watching me drive away.

The hospital elevator stank, and so did the music. Disco, which is the last thing sick people and their relatives should be subjected to. The door opened onto the maternity ward. The hallway was empty except for me, so I waited a few moments to prepare myself; even though Jason was long gone.

I opened the door of the waiting room a crack, peeked inside and groaned. My parents were still there. I thought I’d waited long enough. They were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, my mother reading a book, my dad watching CNN on a television that was bolted to the ceiling. I clenched my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile and strolled in.

My father and I nodded our greetings. My mother looked at me, snorted and said, “What on earth made you decide to go blonde?”

“It’s not blonde. It’s light brown.”

“You can call it what you want, Theresa, but you look atrocious. Your complexion is much too sallow for that color. Especially since you put on all that weight over the winter.”

“Thanks.” I gave my father a quick glance. He had turned his attention back to the news and was pretending to be absorbed in it. I hung my coat on a peg next to his jacket and sat down in a chair across from them. “So, where’s the baby?”

My mother gave me an icy stare. “The baby is with its parents where it belongs.”

“Well, how do I get in to see them?”

“David should be back out in just a few minutes. He’s been checking for you all morning.”

She turned her attention back to her book, and I stared at my boots. They were caked with dried mud, and it made me wish I’d stopped into the restroom to wash them before I’d exposed myself to my mother. She’d report my appearance and demeanor to anyone who would listen once she got back to Brookfield, and it wouldn’t be favorable.

My dad came to life at the commercial break. He asked about work and my new place. If I was all settled in. Smiling. Excited. Like I was nine years old and on my way to summer camp. But he meant well, so I smiled back and told him that everything was just fine. Work and the new place were fine. Met some new people. Everything is fine. Great.

My mother listened, too, and when I was done, she said, “Jason stayed with us here all night. He stayed awake, like your father and I did, like Kim’s parents did, and he didn’t leave until he had the chance to hold the baby.”

“And now he’s hard at work, filling young minds with knowledge and dreams of a happy and productive future. And all with no sleep. Heroes can do that.”

My father knew what was coming and had no stomach for it. He stood up, grabbed his coat and said he was going to get himself a cup of coffee from the cafeteria. He said it even though I knew he was really going outside to have a smoke. Because he liked to pretend that he’d quit years and years ago, and I liked to let him pretend. The same way he liked to let me pretend that everything in my life was just fine and great. No problems, Dad. Nope. None at all.

I took in a deep breath, a silent one, in through my nostrils so she wouldn’t hear it. She sized me up with blue, piercing eyes, and I had to look away. It was just like looking into some sort of warped mirror, with an older, more confident version of myself staring back.

I didn’t have to ask what it was she saw when she looked at me.

“Theresa, there’s no need to take that tone. Jason–”

“Look, I think it’s great he was here. He’s a great guy and all that other bullshit. But it would’ve been awkward for both of us to be here. The day was supposed to be about Dave and Kim and their baby. Not about me and Jason, which is what would’ve happened if we’d both been here. He got here first and I bowed out. I’m sure he would’ve done the same thing if I’d gotten here first.”

It was a lie and we both knew it. He would have come anyway.

“But it doesn’t matter, really, what I do. I’m always gonna be the bad guy.”

I flinched, because she had me and she knew it. She even closed her book. And smiled. My mother hardly ever smiled. “That is your own fault, Theresa. You made a mistake. A big one. And now you have to pay for it.”

I gave her a bitter chuckle. She was the expert at making people pay for their mistakes. But I couldn’t say that. She carried a can opener around with her just waiting for me to bring out that can of worms.

“Tess!”

I jumped. So did my mother, and it did my heart good to see it. It was Dave. Smiling. Excited. As though it had been light years since our last meeting. As though I hadn’t chickened out and stayed away from the scene of the birth of his firstborn child.

“Hi.”

“Ready?”

God damn right I’m ready.

I followed him out the door without bothering to throw back a goodbye. She wasn’t expecting one.

“Did everything go okay?”

He nodded. “They’re both doing great.”

We turned a corner, and I shuddered. The corridor walls were a boring off white and the waiting room a soothing sage green, so I wasn’t prepared for the Pepto Bismol Pink that greeted me in the maternity ward. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen.

Dave noticed my discomfort. “Christ, Tess. It’s paint. Get over it.”

I did and followed him into Kim’s room. She was lying in bed holding the baby in her arms. He was cocooned in a blue-and-white striped blanket. I tried to hide my astonishment at her appearance. She looked like she’d been through a boxing match. I remembered a picture on one of her baby shower cards that showed a radiant, glowing new mother lovingly cradling her newborn. She had the loving and cradling part down, but she was far from radiant and glowing. She was pale and tired, and she had circles under her eyes that were so dark that if I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed Dave had been using her as a punching bag. But she managed a smile and said:

“Would you like to hold your nephew?”

I hadn’t come all this way just to endure my mother’s contempt and stare at a blanket, so I nodded, backed up so that Dave would have to make the relay, took the bundle, gingerly, and looked closely at its face.

“Dave . . . he looks just like you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. He is my son.”

“I know, but. . .” I looked at Matthew again. His eyes were sort of murky, instead of blue, and he had a head full of black hair, like Kim’s, but he definitely looked like my brother. Same nose and lips. Even a little cleft chin. I had expected some sort of generic Gerber baby, not something so . . . familiar.

They were waiting for me to continue, so I covered with, “I expected him to take after Kim’s side of the family.” I hadn’t expected any such thing. I hadn’t thought about it at all. But I had heard so many people say it while Kim was pregnant — some bullshit about dominant Italian genes — that it came out sounding natural. It seemed to satisfy them at any rate, and I turned my attention back to the baby.

He was stirring just a bit. His little forehead puckered, and so did his lips, and he let out a small noise that was almost a squeak. I held him a little more firmly in my arms and kissed his forehead. It was warm and soft, and he smelled so good, almost like aloe. It made me smile, because I’d always like the scent.

And that, of course, was the moment. The one I’d been warned about months earlier.

You’ll see, Tess. You’ll understand then.

I did. I felt it. Something inside of me shifted, just like changing gears without the clutch engaged; grinding and noisy and painful. I clenched my jaw and steadied my knees, pulled the baby a little closer; closed my eyes against the slightly spinning room.

Oh my God.

What if I’d come last night? What if I’d held the kid this morning with Jason standing in the same room? Breathing the same air. Smelling the same aloe. It’s why he came, why he stayed. He was waiting for me, waiting to see it. And what if he had? Would it have changed anything? Or would it have only been an opportunity for See, Tess, I told you. I was right after all. . .

“Are you okay, Tess?”

I looked up at Dave. He was blurry. “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. He’s just — he’s beautiful, Dave. Even if he does look like you.” I gave him back his son. “I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.”

The room was stuffy and much too warm, and without Matthew’s scent to disguise it, the odor of hospital disinfectant seemed even stronger. I felt suddenly confined. Nervous. And I needed to get the hell outta there.

Deep breath. Through the nose. Silent.

“You look like you could use some sleep, Kim. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m really tired.”

“Well, I’ll get going, then. Give me a call when you’re settled back in at home, and I’ll come up and visit.”

She gave a vague nod. Her eyes were closed before I finished the sentence.

When I made it back to the waiting room, my parents were gone. I grabbed my coat and ran into the elevator. More disco. The song told me I should be dancing, and the advice made me laugh so hard that I had to grab my stomach. I didn’t stop laughing even after the door opened on the fourth floor and a sad-looking family joined me. The woman next to me, the mother from the looks of her, took a step to the left. Away from the crazy laughing lady.

“Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.”

I finally stopped when we hit the ground floor. I let Sad Family out first, then followed. I tried counting footsteps to the parking garage, but I kept losing track after thirty-four. When I got to my car, I reached into my pocket for my keys . . . and a small envelope came out with them. My name in my father’s neat handwriting. Inside was a brief note on white lined paper:

Tess, it’s been a rough few months for you. I know how you feel about accepting help, but please take this and use it. Dad.

Five one-hundred-dollar bills. Benjamin Franklin stared up at me. Five times. His lips were pursed, his left eyebrow raised in silent condemnation. And I wondered where his bifocals were. . .

I tucked three Bens inside the envelope and put it back into my pocket, stuffed the other two into my clean, empty ashtray, then drove over to the McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered a coffee. I shoved my change and the extra two Bens into the Ronald McDonald House collection bin and headed for the interstate.

I switched on the radio and turned it up loud, counted the miles as I drove along. And finally I reached the sign that said Welcome to New Mills. My new town. My Starting-Over town. The sign that meant that everything had changed.

Chapter 7

First Wednesday in April. Three weeks since I’d moved to New Mills.

Brian’s television was on downstairs, a cop show by the sounds of it. I knew his schedule by now and was surprised that he was home. He usually went out to supper with Rachel on Wednesday nights. Chinese food in Westville, all-you-can-eat buffet. He always brought home an order of egg rolls and heated them up for breakfast on Thursday mornings. The smell made me nauseous. Every Thursday morning. My own schedule was much easier to remember than his, because it was always the same. Weekdays: Work, then home alone. Weekends: Home. Alone. For three straight weeks. And I was sick of it. Sick of being alone.

But here it was, Wednesday night, and Brian was home alone, too. So I scribbled out a check, padded my way down the stairs and knocked on his door. When he opened it up, he had a huge smile on his face, and I knew why. We’d only exchanged brief nods and a hello every now and again since he’d caught me kicking the shit out of my car, and now: Here she is. He looked at the check in my outstretched hand, and the smile faded.

“What’s this?”

“Half the cable bill.”

He grabbed it, gave it a once over and said, “This is too much money, Tess.”

I liked the way my name sounded in his voice.

“I know what channels we get. That’s half the cost.”

“You can’t just let me be nice, can you?”

“Sure I can. As long as you let me pay for half the cable.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re gonna make this all about business, then come in here so I can write you a receipt.”

I stood beside the kitchen table while he disappeared into a room that looked like an office. First time inside his apartment. It looked very much as I had imagined: comfortable, masculine, informal. The walls were white, like mine, and there was no real décor. The furniture looked very functional and inexpensive, like he’d gotten most of it at yard sales and department stores. The place was cluttered with piles of papers and empty bottles and his supper mess. He had eaten two mini pot pies. At least he’d eaten the beef, crust and gravy. The vegetables were pushed to the side of each aluminum plate.

Loud footsteps.

“Here you go, ma’am.”

I pocketed the receipt without even looking at it.

“I’d feel better about taking your money if I thought you were actually watching the cable. I never hear your television going.”

“I watch it.”

“What do you watch?”

“Stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow. I knew what he was thinking but didn’t correct him. Better for him to think I spent my free time watching porn than for him to know I’d become addicted to True Hollywood Stories.

“You like cop shows?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Stay down here and watch TV with me. This one’s almost over, but–”

“No, I’d better get back upstairs.” I said it even though it was the real reason I’d come down. Even though he knew it.

He pulled my check out of his pocket and regarded it with a mournful sigh. “I won’t be able to accept your money till I know for sure that you’re watching the cable. And there’s only one way for me to be sure.”

I pretended to think about it. “Fine.”

He smiled and, tackling the big, white elephant head-on, said, “I can get you a beer, too, if you think you can control yourself this time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He handed me a bottle, and I followed him into the living room. Every surface was coated with a thin layer of dust, the coffee table was littered with newspapers and a half empty coffee cup, and there was a huge pile of unfolded laundry on the floor. It answered that age-old question: He was a boxers man.

I sat down beside him on the couch. The credits were rolling, so he grabbed the remote from the coffee table, muted the television and smiled at me. Apparently, this time it was up to me to make sure there were no awkward silences before the next show started. I settled for that old standby: work. He said construction wasn’t his dream job, but he was good at it and he made decent money. Now that he was finally out from under the debts and back taxes his father had left behind, he could start saving some money instead of living from check-to-check.

“But . . . if they were his debts then why did you pay them off? Even if you did take over his business . . . isn’t that what bankruptcy is for? Or you could’ve started from scratch.”

“Nope. Not with his name, and not with his face. Not in this town.”

“Ah.”

He had a crew of four guys working for him, because he’d recently hired two new full-time workers. He could have saved more money for himself if he hired only one, of course, but he could afford them both, so that’s what he’d done. Because, he said, the local economy was in the shithole. Lots of businesses were still leaving the state. So if you have the opportunity to create a new job, then it’s your responsibility to do it.

“How about you? I hear you’ve been getting lots more work.”

“Yep.” About half the businesses in town had called in the past week and a half. Because when one beloved cleaning lady dies, it creates a demand. And when another moves in — one who never forgets to refill the toilet paper and doesn’t leave streaks on the mirrors — word quickly spreads. Unfortunately, it takes a while for the pay to follow, what with accountants and bookkeepers and office managers who always put the light bill and phone bill ahead of the cleaning lady bill. I wasn’t too worried, though. It was what I’d expected, and the money was due to roll in at any time. And in the meantime, I still had my savings.

“Must be a good way to meet new people.”

“Not really. Just gossipy receptionists and dim-witted file clerks.”

I realized I’d said the wrong thing even before I saw him wince. Small towns. Gotta love ‘em. Only three weeks in New Mills and I knew all about Brian’s reputation. Gossip was still debating whether he’d been celibate or discreet while Rachel was living with him, but after she moved out, last fall, he was neither. He’d had a go at most of the local girls, those who were single at any rate, including the dim-witted file clerk who worked at the insurance company I cleaned for.

Her name was Ashley. She was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and very cute. Curly blonde hair and clear green eyes, just like I’d always wanted. She had been nursing a crush on Brian since she was in junior high school with Rachel, so spending a night with him was something she’d dreamt about for ages. Then morning came and she realized that, to him, it was nothing. No big deal, just like all the rest of them. She still wasn’t over him, and she wasn’t smart enough to keep everyone in town from knowing it.

He grunted a response that I couldn’t quite make out, then turned the volume up on the television. Typical cop show. Brutal murder. Investigation. Forensics. Reluctant witnesses. Irritated lieutenant, just get the job done. It was probably very interesting, but I tuned out after the first commercial. The mess in his living room was too distracting. I tried not to stare at the coffee table, but even a dramatic shootout and the subsequent arrest of a murderous drug dealer failed to hold my attention above the six separate sections of newspaper strewn across the surface of the table. I sat up straighter. Crossed my legs. Picked at my socks; dug my nails into my foot to keep it from bouncing. I was finally rescued by another commercial break. Brian, apparently oblivious to my distress, hopped up off the couch.

“Be right back.” Then he strolled into the bathroom.

The door shut.

I leapt up, gathered the bottles and coffee mug, then padded my way into the kitchen. On my way through, I grabbed the pie plates and fork and quietly deposited everything in the sink.

The toilet flushed.

I skidded back to the living room, collected the newspapers, folded them quickly and shoved them into the empty magazine rack beside the couch.

The door opened.

I sat, cross-legged once more, out of breath, waiting for his return. Instead, he headed into the kitchen and hollered over his shoulder, “Want another beer?”

I swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll take one more.”

He came back just in time for the show to start, sat down beside me and handed me the bottle. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He surveyed the coffee table without a word, then stared straight ahead at the television.

The vicious, drug-dealing killer was convicted. Life in prison, no possibility of parole. Dramatic music. Cue credits. That was my cue to leave, but I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to be upstairs alone. Didn’t want to be where he wasn’t. So I asked about Rachel. About why he was home on a Wednesday instead of eating Chinese food with her. He smiled. It was a big one, and I knew why. I knew his schedule. Then he said:

“Oh, she’s pissed at me. She thinks I’m butting into her life too much.”

I laughed. “Are you?”

He wasn’t amused. Someone needed to butt in, he said, because she was screwing up her life. The usual stuff. Sleeping around. Drinking. Smoking pot. She was smart, but she was working a dead-end job instead of trying to Make Something Of Herself. He’d tried to get her to go to college or at least a technical school, but she didn’t take anything seriously.

“She’s still young. Just let her get it out of her system. She’ll be fine in a couple years.”

I waited for him to ask if I was speaking from experience, and the answer, of course, would have been yes I am. Instead, he told me a story. It was the same one Laura had already told me, but his was the DVD version, complete with the deleted scenes.

“I thought my mom was wrong at first, because my father stuck around for a long time. Well, technically, anyway. He wasn’t really around much, and I took care of stuff. I made sure Rach did her homework and took her bath and ate her breakfast and all that shit. But he was still . . . there. So it was easy to pretend that everything was okay. Then this one Friday night when I was sixteen, I stayed out wicked late with my girlfriend. I didn’t get home until way after midnight ’cause. . .”

He stopped and gave an embarrassed grin.

“Anyway, I knew as soon as I pulled in that he wasn’t home, because his car was gone, but I figured that he at least got a babysitter or brought Rachel someplace where someone would watch her. But when I walked in . . . she was there. The school bus dropped her off at three, and she was alone that whole time. She was just sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge.”

He was staring at the wall, but he was looking at a frightened ten-year-old girl. Shaking his head, like he was seeing it for the first time. Like he was still shocked by it.

“My father was out, God knows where, and she was home by herself. In the middle of the night. And . . . she looked up at me as I walked in the door, with these big, big eyes. She was so tired, and I could tell she was scared, but she was trying so hard not to let me know it. And all she said was, ‘I’m kinda hungry, Brian.’ Because the only thing in the fridge was pickles and ketchup.” He rolled his eyes. “And plenty of beer. ’Cause my mom was right. Even if he was there, my father was never gonna be the Dad. He wasn’t even man enough to make sure there was fucking food in the house. So I had to do it instead. I had take care of her. And she hasn’t been the same since then. She hasn’t been . . . right. And once he really left, it got even worse, because she thought he was gonna come back. For a long time. She kept waiting for him to, even though I told her he was gone for good. And once she did realize it . . . well, anyway. I gotta keep an eye on her, Tess. Can you understand that?”

I just nodded and smiled kindly, because what can you say to that? He smiled back, and it was almost real. Except for the eyes. They were filled with something that went even deeper than sadness, and I wanted to reach for him. To hold his hand. Maybe even hold him, because it was what he needed. But I knew what it would probably lead to. And I couldn’t bear having to hear him say no. Not again. So I stood up and told him that I should probably get going. He nodded and said he was glad I’d come down. Said we should do it again sometime. Soon. And I said that sounded like a good idea.

An hour later, I was lying in bed, restless, just like every night. But this time, I wasn’t thinking about Van Dyke brown. Not about naked showers or warm, calloused hands. I was thinking about my brother. And I wondered how often Kim looked into his eyes . . . and saw the same things I’d seen in Brian’s.

Chapter 8

Second Thursday of May. I’d been in New Mills for almost nine weeks and I was nearly broke. I’d used up most of what was left of my savings to pay for food and rent and, of course, the cable bill. Everything else was waiting. Waiting for the offices to pay and for the Summer People to arrive and discover that they needed a new cleaning lady.

It was just as well, because any extra money would not have gone towards anything healthy. I’d discovered, without asking, that there were two sources of good weed in New Mills. The first was the asshole who dealt mostly in harder stuff, and even if I’d had the funds, I wouldn’t have given him my business. The second was a sixteen-year-old boy, a straight-A high school student. His father was gone, his mother worked two jobs, and he was saving for college. It was a noble goal and one I would have given my wholehearted support to. If I’d had the funds.

Because it had been a long time — too long — since I’d been able to float away on a cloud, since the day before I moved in with Jason. When you’re living with a schoolteacher, there are certain things you can’t do, certain things superintendents and school boards and parents frown on. Smoking pot is one of them. And after I moved in with Jason, there was no real need for the cloud. Most of the time.

But I needed it now. Needed something. I had just fifteen bucks in my purse, so the ’something’ was supper out. Fifteen bucks would buy me a meal and a beer and an evening away from home. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

I strolled into Fran’s, with my real destination being the sports bar in the back. People in town called it Zeke’s, as though it was a separate entity, because the bartender was a guy named Zeke. He owned the place, too, having inherited it from his mother, Fran, a few years earlier. When she was alive, she ran the diner and he managed the bar. Now that she was gone, Zeke did it all. Rachel was in her usual place behind the counter, waiting on a customer. He was a rough-looking guy in his late thirties with a very hard face. The way he eyed Rachel while she bagged up his order made it obvious that something else was hard, too. And when she looked up at him, she smiled, apparently flattered by the attention. I rolled my eyes, walked up to the counter and cleared my throat. It did the trick. She jumped slightly and let out a loud squeal.

Home: 1. Visitors 1.

“Oh. It’s just you, Tess.”

“Hey.”

She gave the guy a sideways glance, then looked back at me and plunged ahead with the introductions. “This is Tim.”

I gave the pervert a brief nod of acknowledgment. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t — for the moment — remember why.

“This is Tess, my brother’s, uh . . . neighbor.”

“Neighbor. Gotcha.” He laughed and gave me a slow up-and-down, the kind that made me wish the weather was still cold enough for my bulky winter coat. I glared at him, ready to do battle, but Rachel intervened.

“What can I get for you tonight, Tess? More raw vegetables?”

“Actually, I’m going into the bar to eat. But first. . .” I leaned my elbows against the counter and batted my eyes at her, “I’d like to hear all about how things are going with you. Brian was wondering just yesterday what you’ve been up to, because he hasn’t seen you for awhile. But since I just happened to run into you I can. . .” I nodded towards her admirer, . . .fill him in.”

She clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes at me. I returned the scowl, undeterred. I had more experience with this than she did. She finally gave up, looked over at Shithead and said, “I guess I’ll see ya later.”

He looked right at me and said, “Yeah, Rach. You will.” Then he sauntered out the door. I watched through the window until I saw his car pull safely away. Bright red sports car. And that’s when I remembered where I’d heard the name before. Tim. He was the asshole drug dealer; the one who didn’t confine his inventory to just pot.

I whipped my head around to say something to her, even though I wasn’t quite sure what it should be. A warning? Did I know her well enough for that? Maybe a threat to say something to Brian? But before I could make up my mind, she said:

“It’s not what you think, Tess. Honest. I just like to flirt with some of the customers.” She grinned. “They leave bigger tips that way.”

I had to laugh at that. I’d worked at a convenience store right after high school, and all it had taken was a snug uniform shirt and a friendly smile for me to get a keep the change out of most of my male customers. But my laughter faded when I remembered all the times I’d brought home more than just a big tip.

“Rachel, you need to be careful with that guy. Okay?”

“I will. You won’t . . . say anything about this to Brian, will you?”

I mulled it over. Keeping overprotective brothers in the dark was a specialty of mine. But.

She hasn’t been the same since then. She hasn’t been . . . right.

“Well . . . as long as you promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Shut up.”

“So,” she said, giving me an eyebrow, “what’s Brian been up to?”

I shrugged. “Work, I guess.”

“You guess.”

“Yep.”

She smirked, but let it go. “Well, I’ll let you go back there so you can eat your supper with the grownups.”

I nodded, said a quick goodbye and headed down the hallway. My first trip through the double doors. It was a typical bar: dimly lit, dark wood paneling, New England sports memorabilia clinging to the walls. The bar stools were all empty, but the chairs that surrounded ten big round tables were filled with sweaty guys and their dates. Most of them were watching the Red Sox game on the large screen television that hung on the far wall.

I took a stool and nodded at the bartender. I knew it was Zeke without having to ask. I’d never laid eyes on him before, but I recognized him from the description gossip had given me. He was about my age, tall and thin, with short brown hair and soft brown eyes. He was nice-looking, and single to boot, but he was unavailable just the same. Not just to me, to any woman. Apparently, it was a favorite pastime for some of the local girls to come in and flirt with him. They had aspirations of ‘turning him.’ I could have told them that their mission was in vain, but who was I to get in the way of their dreams?

He grinned and said, “What can I do for you tonight, Tess?”

Apparently, gossip had given him an accurate description of me, too. I grinned right back and said, “Well, for starters, you can tell me something. Is your name really Zeke?”

He looked surprised at the question. “Yes, it is.”

“Really? It’s Zeke?”

“Yeah. Short for Ezekiel. I was named after my great-grandfather. Why?”

“It’s just that it’s a really cool name, so naturally the moment I heard it, I figured you made it up and that your real name was Ralph or Joe or something boring like that.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid not. So . . . can I get you a beer?”

“Yeah. And a green salad. No dressing.” My snack cake pounds were finally gone, and I needed to keep it that way.

He gave me my beer, hollered my order back to the kitchen, then came back over to me with a big smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going be rude and bring up business.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’d like to hire you to clean my house. Once a week, if you have room in your schedule.”

“I have room.”

“Good. I would’ve called you earlier, but I was waiting to see what gossip had to say about your abilities.”

“I take it gossip approves? I’m not used to that.”

“The receptionist from Dr. Stephens’ office was impressed that you cleaned in between the keys of her keyboard. I have to be honest, that impressed me, too.”

“Q-Tips are amazing things.”

“I’ll remember that. And Brian told me you’re a clean freak.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Well, I think he meant it as one. People tend to admire qualities in others that they themselves don’t possess.”

I laughed. “Where’d you get that boatload of crap from?”

“Fortune cookie. Anyway, I don’t have time to keep my place clean, since I’m here all the time, so how about it?”

“Sounds good.” We made arrangements for an estimate, then he brought me my supper. I ate silently for a few minutes while he dealt with a rowdy table. When he came back, he watched me shovel a few forkfuls into my mouth, then said, “If you don’t like celery, you could have ordered the salad without it.”

I looked at my plate. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s my favorite part, so I always save it for last.”

He laughed. “Whatever works.”

I barely heard the words over a sudden explosion of noise from my fellow patrons. Their drunken eyes were glued to the set and several voices — none of them in sync or in harmony — were chanting the batter’s name amid banging fists and clanking beer mugs. I turned to watch the action. Bottom of the eighth. We were down by one run, but the bases were loaded with only one out. We held our collective breath as Our Guy took a swing. . .

And grounded into a double play. The banging and clanking stopped, but not the voices.

“I coulda hit that fucking thing!”

“Give me a million dollars a year and I’ll get a man home.”

“That useless shit gets fifteen million a year.”

I shook my head, remembering that the useless shit had hit over forty home runs last season, and turned back to my salad. Just celery now. I ate it slowly because I wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. Because once I got home, I’d have to walk past Brian’s apartment. Past his window. His door. While he was in there, wide awake and waiting for me to get home.

I’d lied to Rachel. I knew how exactly how Brian was doing, because we watched his cop shows together almost every night now. We took turns; his place, my place. We talked and joked and laughed. And flirted. Just the night before, we’d sat on his couch as close as we could without touching, just like a couple of idiot teenagers. I sat there with my heart thumping in my throat, knowing that I could reach for him without having to worry about getting a no. But I didn’t. Because I knew what it would mean if I did. And I knew it was time I figured out what the hell I was going to do about it. . .

I was startled out of my meditations by a voice that asked, “Can I buy you a beer?”

I looked up from my celery. I hadn’t noticed that a man had taken a stool a few seats over from me. He was about forty or so. Good-looking but arrogant. He’d done the bar a favor by walking in and the stool an even greater one by sitting his precious ass down on in. And now he was about to do me the greatest honor of all. The kind of guy who I knew, from bitter and disappointing experience, would be shitty in the sack. Then there was another thing. The insignia on his baseball cap. Even in my present mood, even if there was no Brian dancing in the back of my mind, the man would never have stood a chance.

I hid a smirk. “No thanks. I’m all set.”

“Just one?”

“Seriously. No thanks. I’m heading home in a minute.”

“Not all alone, I hope?” He let his eyes slip down a little farther south than they should have and let them linger there too long.

“If the alternative is going home with you, then I’m better off alone.”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t think you’re getting a little too old to be so picky?”

New in town. First time at Zeke’s. Business to consider. Didn’t matter. He had pushed every single one of my hot buttons, and all in less than a minute. I sat up straighter in my stool and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Yep, I’m wicked old now. And I’ll admit that life’s been rough. So rough that it’s left me with only two rules when it comes to men. One: I don’t fuck Yankee fans. Two: I don’t fuck assholes. I’m afraid you’re disqualified on both counts.”

He reached for his wallet, put a bill on the bar next to his untouched beer, gave his stool a kick and stormed out. Zeke, who had been watching the scene from the other side of the bar, came over to me with a hearty grin. “Good work.”

I shrugged. “Who the hell was that?”

“Ted . . . something or other. He’s from New York, as you could see, but his wife grew up around here.”

“Wife? Wow, he really is an asshole.”

“Yeah. She’s nice, though. Her father died a few months ago and left them a house on the lake. Ted came up here to sell it.”

“I’ll have my people go put a bid on it tomorrow.”

“Too late. He closed on it today. Half a million.”

I stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Nope. Some couple from Connecticut bought it.”

I shook my head and finished my last mouthful of celery. Zeke put my plate in a plastic tub, then gave me another grin. I groaned out loud, because I knew exactly what was coming. The general topic, anyway. He knew I knew it, but he said it anyway.

“You know, Brian’s not an asshole. Or a Yankee fan.”

“I know he’s not. He’s a great guy. He’s. . .” I sighed. “He’s a great guy.”

“You said that already.”

I laughed. “I know. I . . . I’m just. . ..”

. . .just?

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just scared, I guess.”

It was a stupid thing to say to a guy I’d just met, but he only smiled and said, “Had a rough time of it, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “Coming out of it, though.”

“Good to hear.”

“So,” I said, grabbing my purse and trying for nonchalant, “what else did he say about me? Other than the whole anal clean freak thing.”

He pulled out a dishcloth and wiped the counter — just like bartenders are supposed to do — and seemed to consider his answer. Then he looked up at me and said, “He says he has to fight to get more than two words in row out of you, but that it’s worth it when he finally can, so he’s gonna keep right on fighting. He’s trying to figure out why you like to stare at the trees beside the house, and someday soon, he’s gonna break down and ask you about it. And . . . he said you have the prettiest smile he’s ever seen.”

I stared at him long enough for his face to blur before I finally remembered to blink. And then all I could think of to say was, “Oh.”

He tossed the dishcloth aside and smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Uh . . . nope. I’m all set.” I plunked down my fifteen bucks and told him to keep the change. Even though it wasn’t much. And I made a mental note to leave a bigger tip next time.

When I got home, I stared at the orchard again through the glare of the headlights. It was still to early for leaves or flowers. The trees hadn’t even started to bud. But I could see the blossoms there, clinging to the bare limbs, just like I had that first day. Even against the black, starry sky. Even if it was only in my mind.

Brian’s living room light was on, but I didn’t linger by his door. I rushed over to my own, ran up the fourteen stairs and rescued my easel from the living room closet. I’d been waiting for some signs of life from the orchard before I put it on canvas, something real to tell me that I’d been right about it; but I couldn’t wait for the leaves or the blossoms. It had to be tonight. If I waited, for even one more day, it would be gone; whatever it was that had whispered to me.

. . .Spring is here. . .

Gone forever. I knew it. Even though I didn’t know why.

Chapter 9

I was eight years old the first time I held a real paint brush in my hand, the kind that wasn’t big and gawmy and dipped into plastic pint-sized containers of watery elementary school paint. It was at Jason’s house, because his mother, Alice, watched Dave and me during summer vacation.

Alice was a potter. She had learned the craft from her mother and, after her husband died, she made her living by selling plates and bowls and mugs to gift shops all over the state. Every weekday summer morning, while Dave and Jason rode their bikes along the back roads of Brookfield, I would sit in Alice’s workshop, drawing and coloring in my sketchbook while she turned cold, ugly lumps of clay into lovely souvenirs. Each piece was hand-painted with a small moose or a deer or a clump of blueberries, because that’s what the tourists like.

But every once in awhile, after her clay was centered on the bat, waiting to be formed, she’d stare out the window, out at her backyard. I never knew exactly what it was she was looking at, but I knew she wasn’t actually seeing the backyard. And when her foot gently kicked the wheel into motion again, her pale blue eyes were soft and distant, like she was still in that faraway place. Her strong, lean fingers would coax the wet clay, guide it, let it reveal itself to her rather than bending it to her will. And when the wheel finally came to a stop, she’d survey her new creation with a smile and say:

“That’s so I don’t forget why I started doing this in the first place.”

And one day I was brave enough to ask her, “Why did you start making pottery?”

She nodded towards my sketchbook. “The same reason you started drawing.”

“Because it’s fun?”

“Well . . . that’s part of the reason.”

Then she started up her potter’s wheel and went to work on another mug. I went back to my sketchbook. I didn’t bother to ask her what the rest of the reason was. I knew she’d tell me when she was ready.

She was ready two days later.

We watched through the window as the boys took off on their bikes, and when they were out of sight, she said, “Tess, I have something for you.”

She held my hand, led me out the back door and into her workshop. Standing in the corner was a three-legged wooden easel. Beside that, on a stool, sat an open wooden box filled with a dozen tubes of acrylic paint and a package of paintbrushes. I let go of her hand and ran over to it, examined each tube. Rolled the names of the colors around in my mind.

Cobalt Turquoise . . . Raw Umber . . . Phthalo Green. . .

And that’s when she brought it out. A fresh, new canvas.

“It’s so big, Alice. What am I supposed to paint?”

“Tess, there is no supposed to. You just paint whatever it is you’re feeling.”

“But . . . what if I make a mistake?” You can erase something you draw with a pencil, and even throw away something you colored with a crayon if you mess it up. But a canvas seemed so . . . permanent. There’s no going back if you do it wrong.

“You’ll just have to incorporate your mistakes into your painting.” And then she strolled over to her wheel without another word. Leaving me alone. Alone with the canvas.

I looked at it for a good long time. It was white. Blank. Scary. I touched it gently, ran my fingers along the rough surface. Thousands of little threads, woven together into a cloth, stretched over a solid wooden frame. I looked out the window and into the backyard, to the place where Alice always seemed to get her inspiration. And it worked. Because I saw it, standing there, shining merrily in the hot, golden summer sun. Jason’s swingset.

As much as I loved watching Alice in her workshop every morning, what I loved even more was what happened every day after lunch, after the boys were done with their bike ride. Swingset races. I always lost, every time, but I never cared. It was the most fun ever.

Pump faster, Tess. You can do it! Faster. Now . . . let go!

Ever.

Jason’s swingset was blue, nothing but cold, rigid metal poles. But in my painting, it glowed with Cadmium Red and Yellow Ochre, and the top bar was pitched, just like a roof. Because that’s how it looked — how it felt — in my mind. Warm and safe. It was my haven. The swingset, the backyard, the workshop, the house . . . all of it.

It was home.

And when Alice looked at it, she smiled, too, because she knew that it meant I loved her. And I smiled right back, because I had discovered why Alice made her pottery. Not the cookie-cutter trinkets she sold in gift shops to keep a roof over her head, over Jason’s head, and to put food in their bellies. But the vases and bottles that came off the wheel when she wrapped her heart around the clay . . . instead of her hands. And the reason was this:

There are some things you just can’t say out loud. Some feelings you can’t find any words for. They have to find a different way to escape. A better way. A truer way.

That’s the way it was with the orchard. Because it was more than just five bare apple trees waiting to bloom. It was a sign, a message. It was trying to tell me that everything was going to be all right. That I was going to be all right.

I set a fresh canvas down on the same easel Alice had given me on that perfect summer day so many years before. It was scratched, worn, stained with paint. I’d had to repair the back leg three times in the past five years. But it was still up to the job. Then I opened up the windows, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Cool night air. Spring air. Because it was here. Finally.

I picked up my palette, gripped it in my hand, loaded it with color. I closed my eyes once more and remembered the orchard the way it had looked that day, more than two months earlier. Remembered the cold, bitter snow, the even colder despair. The loneliness. All the other countless emotions I couldn’t put names to. Then had come the hot tears that brought the flowers, even through the snow. The flowers that were really a promise. Something to cling to.

Hope.

I opened my eyes and let it come out. It surged out of me, a swift, hot current — right through the bristles and onto the canvas. All night long. I missed the sunrise, didn’t even think to look out at what colors it was bringing to the morning, to the day. I just kept right on painting until it was done.

And by then, of course, it was time to get ready for work. Because there’s always work. Even after you’ve spent the night pouring out your heart and soul and gut onto thousands of little woven threads. So I took my shower, got into my grubby work clothes, grabbed a quick breakfast and skipped down the stairs.

And ran right into Brian. He was wearing a great big smile, and I knew why.

“You’re chipper this morning.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a beautiful morning.”

It was. Sunny and green and almost warm. He held the door open for me, and I skipped down the porch steps, too. Looked all around, at all the trees. The maples in between the pines that lined the road were starting to come alive. Newborn leaves of the palest spring green, the prettiest green of all. I turned towards the orchard, my heart nearly leaping inside of me, because I knew. It was time for it to come to life, too. Finally.

Except that it wasn’t. The branches were still bare.

I looked back at Brian. “What . . . what’s wrong with the orchard?”

“Uh . . . what do you mean?”

“Well, look at it.”

He did. Then he shrugged. “Pretty nasty, huh? Charlie wants me to knock all those trees down. I’ll probably get to it some time next weekend.”

He said it like it was nothing.

“Knock ‘em down? Why?” I asked it even though — really — I already knew. I just needed to hear him say it. To hear the truth.

“Well . . . they’re just rotting away out there.”

They were. They were dead. So I said the only thing I could say:

“Oh.”

And I left for work without another word. I cleaned for the doctor and the real estate agent who both still hadn’t paid me, then headed to Zeke’s house. I gave him my estimate, which he accepted, and gave the place a good, thorough cleaning. Then I drove home, showered away the stink of cleaning chemicals and fell asleep on the couch. Dreamt — like I knew I would — about the orchard. It called out to me even while I was sleeping. Even in my dream, I knew it was dead. But it still whispered:

Spring is here. Summer is coming. It’s gonna be all right. . .

Then:

Tess.

And that made me smile. Even in my dream. Because it knew my name.

“Tess?”

Shaking; gentle at first. Then rocking. A hand on my shoulder. Rocking me awake. I opened my eyes. Red hair. Freckles. Bright green eyes.

Anne of Green Gables.

“Cassidy?”

“Brian wants to know if you wanna eat supper with us and play penny poker.”

I sat up, cleared my throat, and tried to focus.

Supper. Penny poker?

“I’m supposed to tell you that he got one of the pizzas with just vegetables.”

“Um, your parents are here, too?”

“Yep. Do you know you have raccoon eyes?”

“Do I? Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So, are you coming?”

“Tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Okay. See ya.”

She ran down the stairs, and I ran over to the window, looked out at the orchard. Because in that land of barely awake, I couldn’t remember if it was really dead and rotting away or if that was just part of my dream. But no. It was still dead. Which meant that, very soon, it would be gone.

I fixed my hair and makeup. Red lipstick. Just so. Then I changed my clothes. Tight, red button-up shirt. Low cut. Because I knew.

This is it. Tonight. It has to be. If it doesn’t happen soon, it isn’t going to happen at all. And I need it to. I need him.

And not just sex, although that would be good, because I needed that, too. But there was a something that was inside of him that I wanted to have with me. Something in his eyes that told me it was all going to be all right.

And I really needed that.

I trotted down the stairs towards vegetable pizza and Brian and new friends. Hellos and chit chat. Supper and beer. Then Jeff dug out the cards. I had scrounged around in my coat pockets and all my drawers before I’d come downstairs and managed to scrape together three dollars. I traded it in for six rolls of pennies. I lost two hands before I caught Laura looking at my roots.

“I’ll be in again soon.”

She nodded. She heard what I didn’t say.

As soon as I can afford it.

Brian must have heard it, too, because he said, “You got room in your schedule for another housecleaning job?”

Damn right. “Is it a one time deal or a weekly thing?”

“Weekly. Remember your buddy from Zeke’s last night? The Yankee fan?”

“How do you know about that?”

They all laughed, and Jeff said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Know about what?” Cassidy asked.

Brian smiled at her. “Hey kiddo, remember those tadpoles I told you about?”

She beamed. “The ones in the backyard?”

“Yep. Why don’t you go check ‘em out.”

She hesitated for a few seconds, looked at her parents, then me, then Brian again. The Great Debate. Tadpoles or adult conversation? She shrugged and ran out the door, headed towards the vernal pool on the edge of the woods.

Brian continued. “Tess, you holler out something like that in a bar fulla guys and . . . well, it’s gonna get around.”

“Jesus, that didn’t take long.” Not even twenty-four hours. So much for my clean slate. I looked at my cards and folded. My hand was shit.

“Hey, don’t take it that way. You’re their new hero.”

“Well, what does the Yankee guy have to do with the job?”

“The couple he sold that camp to called me for an estimate today, to remodel the upstairs, and the wife was bitching about how filthy it is. She didn’t exactly strike me as the type who’d do the job herself, so I gave her one of your cards.”

“Oh. Well, thanks. . .”

Conversation lagged until Laura mentioned Zeke. He’d been in to have his hair cut the day before, and she’d wanted to ask whether he was seeing anyone new, but didn’t dare. I could have answered, but I let Brian do it.

“Nope. He’s too buried inside that fucking bar of his.”

It’s what I’d figured. When you clean a person’s house, you get to know things about them. Zeke’s house was the kind of mess that said:

I’m never home. And when I am, I’m by myself.

It had been a week, he’d said, since he’d done any housework, yet the only dishes in the sink were seven cereal bowls, seven coffee mugs and seven spoons. Dust accumulated over the remote controls and books and the telephone. And the saddest clues: only one rumpled pillow, only one toothbrush.

Jeff shook his head. “The man needs to get a life outside that place.”

“He won’t. He’s afraid to leave anyone else in charge.”

“Control freak?” I asked.

“Not really,” Laura said. “It’s just that he and his mom almost lost the diner once. I think he feels like it’s his responsibility to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

Brian scoffed. “The only reason they almost lost it was because of those church people.”

Laura glared at him. “Don’t you look at me like that. They weren’t from my church.”

“Your church, their church. It’s all the same.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Old argument here, I could see, and one I wanted no part of. Still, not being familiar with New Mills’ ancient history, I asked, “What happened? Did people freak out when they discovered Zeke’s gay?”

Brian nodded. “He came out about ten years ago. The minister of the church Laura and Jeff don’t go to told his followers that they should boycott the bar and the diner. I guess he figured Fran would make Zeke leave or something. All she did was say fuck you and stayed open anyway. She made Zeke stay open, too, ‘cause he was gonna take off so she could save the diner at least.” He shrugged. “But they all came around eventually.”

“What made them change their minds?”

Jeff laughed as he dealt out another hand. “It’s the only bar in town. The only place to eat out during the winter, too, unless you wanna drive to Westville.”

“Funny thing,” Brian said, “is that those same church people were in there every night getting plowed for years and years before their minister caused all the problems. And once the whole thing blew over, they were right back there, at it again. Still are, too.”

I was familiar with that brand of piety. “Bible potluck. Pick and choose which sins you’re gonna pile on your plate. And I’m Catholic, so all I have to do is go to a priest and run it through the dishwasher so I can start all over again.”

Brian laughed so hard that he choked on his beer. Jeff said nothing, and Laura squirmed in her seat.

Rule number one when discussing religion with new friends: don’t discuss religion.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you guys were Catholic, too.”

Cassidy picked that moment to wander back into the house. “You’re Catholic, Tess?”

I nodded.

Her face lit up. “You should come to church with us on Sunday.”

“I . . . uh, well thanks. But–”

“And then maybe Brian would come, too.”

Brian shook his head and tossed a handful of pennies into the pot. “Nope. Brian wouldn’t come even then.”

Cassidy looked at him, a little wounded, almost teary-eyed. “That’s what you always say. You don’t believe in God. Do you?”

He considered for a moment, held her gaze; silent. Torn. He loved her, didn’t want to make her cry, and he could stop it with a little lie. She’d probably know it was a lie, but sometimes that’s what we need. The struggle was plain on his face. He tried to smile, tried to say something that was kind, but he couldn’t do it. He was too filled with some kind of bitterness that even she, as young as she was, could feel. And there was no way she could understand that it wasn’t directed at her.

“No, Cass. I don’t.”

“But. . .” Real tears now. “But I don’t want you to go to hell.”

Laura stepped in to steer her daughter’s boat to a safe shore. “Cassidy, Brian isn’t going to hell. He’s just mad at God right now. That’s all. It’s like when you got into that fight with Brittany last week. You were mad and you wouldn’t talk to her, even when she called on the phone. But then you realized that you missed her, and you talked the problem over with her at school, and now you’re friends again. It’s just like that.”

Cassidy nodded and looked at Brian. He was looking at his cards.

We played four more hands of penny poker. I lost them all, even with Cassidy’s help, and found myself two dollars and eleven cents poorer than I’d started the evening. Jeff was nearly five dollars richer. He stretched and looked at Brian. Then he grinned and said, “We’d better get going.” He collected his cards while I collected the beer and supper mess.

I said a quick goodbye to the three of them and watched Brian walk out onto the porch to say his own goodbyes. Before she left, Cassidy gave him a huge hug, wrapped her little arms tightly around his neck. Then she whispered something in his ear. He nodded and kissed her forehead. He stayed on the porch and watched silently until their car was out of sight.

Chapter 10

He wasn’t surprised to find me still in his kitchen. Leaning against the counter. Waiting for him. But first things first.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He gestured towards the porch. “Cass is just . . . yeah. I’m fine. You, uh, wanna stay for awhile? For a drink or something?”

“Sure.”

He made his way over, slowly. Smiling. He stopped directly in front of me and pointed to the cupboard behind my head. The one that held his liquor. “You know, you’re sorta in my way.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there. So close I could actually feel the heat coming off of him. He was going to make me say it. Even though he knew. He’d known it the second I’d come downstairs, just like I’d known the second I’d been snatched out of my dream that afternoon.

I cleared my throat. “I’m not really thirsty.”

“Yeah,” he said, and he was still smiling. “I know.”

I was shaking, just slightly, and I knew why. I was nervous. I hadn’t been the first time this had almost happened, but this was different. I managed to smile, though, managed to keep my eyes focused on his. They were more alive than I’d ever seen them, and my heart started thumping, pounding out that ancient drumbeat. Because this really was it. It was all about to break loose, and I was ready. Stopped shaking. Finally.

He noticed, had been waiting for the shaking to stop. He reached out and held my face in his hands with gentle fingers. Like it was something precious and fragile. Like it would break if he wasn’t careful. It threw me a little, because I hadn’t expected tenderness, wasn’t prepared for it at all. Until that moment, I’d been ready to dive right in and go for it. Wild hippie monkey sex, the kind where you wake up in the morning wondering where the hell your pants are. But his touch promised something even better. Something I hadn’t had for a very long time, and when he closed the gap, so slowly, and finally kissed me, it was with a soft, warm mouth. Tender. Slow. Like he didn’t care if it took all night. Like he didn’t care if it took forever.

But then he stopped, just barely. Our lips still were still touching, but he didn’t move. I felt him smile, opened my eyes to see his hovering there. Open, expectant, and I could see the question. I smiled back, my lips stretching over his.

Oh, it’s happening, baby. Buckle up.

I found his belt loops, grabbed tight hold of them, opened my mouth and guided his lips into another kiss. But not like before. I had to let him know.

I need this.

I touched his tongue with mine, slid it slowly underneath his, coaxed it into my mouth. I wanted it all, needed it, and he gave it to me. It was hot, tasted a little like beer, and I knew mine did, too. And it was perfect.

But it wasn’t enough. I needed to feel him, to touch him. Him. His body, his skin. I tugged, pulled his shirt out of his jeans and reached underneath it. He trembled at my touch, but his hands were still gentle as he ran his fingers through my hair. I took my time, explored the new terrain slowly. His tight stomach. The taut muscles of his chest. It was covered with soft, damp hair, and I slid my fingers through it, lingered there. It had been at the root of every fantasy I’d ever had about him, and I was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden, swift flood of all of them: The sounds of his breath in my ear, his hot scent. His rough hands, all over me. The way he’d tasted. In my mind. All of him. It mingled with reality, with his lips and fingers and heat and tongue, and I let out a brief moan, almost a whimper, then choked it back, embarrassed.

He let go of my lips and drew in a sharp breath. Looked at me with eyes that weren’t quite focused, hazy with arousal, and I thought he’d finally reached his breaking point. The point when clothes got ripped off of bodies in a mad rush for the bedroom. But he only put his arms around me, firmly, and pulled me to him. I slipped my arms around him, still underneath his shirt, ran my fingers along the muscles of his back. He pressed me against him even closer, so close that I could feel my heartbeat against him, an echo of his, my breasts tight against his chest. Then he took my mouth again, held me in his arms on that hot, spinning carnival ride of wet lips and damp skin.

And it wasn’t enough.

I knew he was holding back. I could feel him wanting to let it go. And I needed him to. I slid my fingers slowly down his back, slick now and hot with sweat, let them wander lower still. I stopped for a moment at the waist band of his jeans, pulled at it with my thumbs. Waiting. Waiting, my heartbeat ticking down the last remaining seconds. Gave him one more chance. Waited. Then. . .

I let go of the waistband and grabbed it. His ass. It was tight and round and perfect, and I saw, behind my closed eyes, how it looked that day, that first day, climbing those stairs right in front of me, and now I was

Oh my God, it’s in my hands, right here, it’s in my hands. . .

actually touching it, I could feel it, finally, even if it was just through his jeans, it was. . .

It’s. Right. Here. Right here in my fucking. Hands.

My blood flowed hot through my veins, washed away all reason and thought; lost all track of his lips and his hands. The only thing in the world was his ass, his ass, and I grabbed it harder, squeezed it. Leaned back against the counter. Pulled him closer. Close as I could, so that his ass wasn’t the only thing in existence. Even through his pants, even through mine, I felt him, hot and hard, and I still didn’t let him go. I had waited so long, too long, and I needed him, please, God, needed all of him, against me, on me, inside me. . .

He pulled his mouth away from mine again, gave a loud, deep groan. His hands were heavy on my shoulders, like he might fall over if he didn’t clutch them. It made me smile. Into his shirt. While I struggled to catch my breath. His breath was quick and hot in my hair and on my forehead, and finally I heard a husky whisper in my ear:

“Tess . . . if you don’t let go of me . . . I swear . . . you’re gonna get it right here. Right here in the fucking kitchen.”

Oh God, yes. Please, please, please. Gimme. . .

I squeezed my eyes, fought to get control of myself again. Took a slow, deep breath, oxygen and coherent thought finally returning to my brain.

“Sorry.” I let go, embarrassed again, my own breath still hard and shallow.

What the hell is wrong with you? It’s been a long time, but you’re not an animal. . .

“Don’t be,” he said, and his voice was still hoarse. “I’m not. I just want . . . I don’t want. . .”

He took my face in his hands again, firmly this time, lifted it up towards his. Everything else in the world melted away. Everything except for Brian. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. His mouth wet and open, his hot gorgeous breath on my face. His hair was damp and he smelled — God, he smelled sweaty and spicy and hot and so, so good. His eyes were wild and dark and burning, searching my whole face. I knew what it was he was hunting for. And I hoped he found it looking back at him.

He pulled me quickly out of the kitchen, through the hallway, into his bedroom. He snapped on a dim lamp, kicked the door shut, pushed me up against it and kissed me. This time his mouth was different; raw, rough, demanding. He pressed himself, his whole body, tight against mine, barely leaving enough room for breath. And I loved it.

I did that to him.

I pulled at his shirt, and he broke away reluctantly, leaned back to let me slip it over his head. I caught a brief glimpse of an armband tattooed high on his right bicep. Once his head was clear of his shirt, he came right back at me, and I cursed myself for focusing on it, because I’d lost my chance of getting a good look at his chest.

He pinned my arms against the door, holding me in place. His open mouth was hot at my neck, sliding slowly down, slowly, and I was sure he could feel my pulse with his lips and his tongue. So slowly, until he got his first taste of cleavage. He lingered there forever, my shirt fluttering with each breath he took, then he finally released my arms and went to work on the buttons. He fumbled slightly with the first one, but the other three gave up without a fight, and soon my shirt was dangling, not quite open, just waiting for him to unwrap his gift. Before he did, he looked into my eyes. Clear, focused, ready. Making sure I was, too. I dropped my arms, let them rest at my sides, and smiled for him again.

Go for it.

He brushed aside the two halves of my shirt, just below the curve of my breasts, and stared silently for a few moments. Then he smiled, and his eyes told me that he knew. And he was right. Red lace bra. I’d put it on just for him.

He gave me his mouth again as he slipped off my shirt and, with a few urgent tugs, my bra. My breasts were free at last, but only for a second because he was right there, exploring. First with tentative fingers, then boldly with his rough, warm hands. Finally his mouth left mine and he continued his research with those gorgeous lips, and his tongue, and

oh God his mouth is so, so, so fucking hot

he stayed there for a slow, hot eternity. I held his head in my hands, his hair wet in my fingers. Short gasps. Murky head, swimming dizzily. I felt myself losing balance, listing back towards the door. He pulled me back to him, firmly, back to his open mouth, but the rest of my body was burning and neglected, crying out for him to touch it. I took in a raspy breath, and when I let it out, it was a plea, practically a sob.

“Brian. . .”

He tore himself away, and I waited, with my own mouth open, for him to kiss me again. Instead, he smiled weakly, his face flushed and hot, and whispered a breathless, “Sorry.”

I smiled back. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

I found his buckle and made quick, careful work of opening his jeans, pulled them down as far as my arms would reach, while he did the same to me. I stepped out of my pants, and he whipped off his own. Finally, we faced each other completely naked.

I looked at him, at all of him. I was going to touch that gorgeous body, to feel it on top of me, underneath me. Mine. And then, of course, the other realization. He was looking at me just as closely. Nothing to be too ashamed of, not really, but thirty-four isn’t twenty-five and. . .

He shook his head and pulled me to him. His arms were gentle once again, and it was just how I wanted him to be. Then he uttered the sweetest words in the world.

“Tess. . .” and he was looking right into my eyes. “You are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

His lips were on mine before I could respond. Slow, hot, patient, just the way he’d begun. He backed slowly towards the bed, pulling me right along with him. Even as he lay me down on it, leaning over me, sliding me farther back, his mouth never left mine, not until I felt his pillow underneath my head. I looked again into those dark, dark eyes and smiled up at him, waiting for him to start.

Instead, he reached over beside the bed, yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and started digging around inside it. The drawer banged shut, and I heard something crinkling above my head.

Welcome back to single life, Tess.

The words flashed like neon in my mind and helped me to focus. I thought of the prescription that I had taken for years, the one I’d been too afraid to cancel, even through a lonely fall and winter. And I wanted to tell him he didn’t need to put it on, that we were all set. But then I remembered. His fall and winter hadn’t been so lonely.

He finished quickly and lay down on top of me. I loved the feel of him. His skin, his heat, his weight on me. He brushed aside the bangs that had fallen over my forehead. Then he didn’t move. Just gazed down at me with beautiful, glowing eyes. They told me what I already knew, what I’d known since the first time I’d seen them, and I had to close my own eyes, suddenly, stupidly panicking.

Just for right now, please Brian, just for tonight . . . let it just be about the sex. Please don’t look at me that way. Please. I can’t bear to think of how bad it will hurt when you stop looking at me that way. Please — please — just fuck me tonight and let me worry about whether I’m ready to deal with the rest tomorrow.

I opened my eyes. His were directly above me. Searching. Worried.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded and smiled up at him. He waited a few moments longer, still searching. Then he smiled back, swallowed hard and finally started; a slow, sweet, exquisite rhythm. He whispered to me, deep and soft. Hot, sexy, beautiful words that felt just like a song, and I lost myself in him, completely engulfed by him, his touch and smell and sound and sweat. He was so tender and warm, nothing at all like I’d expected, so much better than I had ever imagined him, and I finally let go. Finally gave in to him, let him carry me off with him to where he was, where he’d been for so long, where I knew he wanted me to be. And when I felt it start, the slow spark that became hotter and hotter, one electric wave after another, it wasn’t only my body, but all of me responding to him, and I surrendered to it — and to him — completely. His name started in some deep, secret corner within me, and I wasn’t sure I’d said it out loud until he whispered mine back, and when I heard it again, a final, searing moan, his eyes were wide open and looking down into mine.

He collapsed heavily on me, his breath quick and warm, blowing in my hair, his heart pounding against me. Mine hammered away, too, short, deafening blasts; each beat a cymbal in my ears. And it was full, so full of him, that I thought it would burst. I tried to focus on it, to make my way through the ripples to find the sweet emotion at the center, but I couldn’t. All I knew for certain was that everything had changed. Because he was still inside me. Still. And I didn’t want him to ever leave.

He raised his head, finally, and looked down at me. I knew exactly what it was he was thinking — what he was feeling — because his eyes were still glowing with it. But he didn’t say the words. He just caressed my cheek gently, kissed it, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

I listened to his footsteps thudding towards the bathroom while I stared at a tiny crack in the ceiling. His room was directly below mine. And I wondered, for the first time, how my own footsteps had sounded to him from down here. If he had ever lain awake, right here, right in this bed, listening to me.

He sauntered back into the room and plopped down beside me on his back, pulled me over to him. I rested my head on his shoulder, played with the hair on his chest while he caressed my back lightly with his fingers. It was the best feeling in the world. But there was a can of worms I had to open. The one I hadn’t thought about until I’d heard crinkling above my head. I watched the clock on his nightstand, trying to build up my courage. It glared back at me in bold red numbers for seven full minutes. Both of us were silent the entire time. Finally, I managed an, “Ummm. . .”

He waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t, he asked, “Are you humming to yourself or are you trying to tell me something?”

I laughed, and it made me brave enough to tell him about my prescription. Then I asked him that question. He smiled and said:

“Yeah, I have been. And I’m clean. I’ve never done it without a rubber anyway.”

I smiled back, relieved. Then there was something else.

Never?

It had been so long since there was something new. Even if it wasn’t my something new. So I climbed on top of him and kissed him, deep and hot and slow. . .

Ready again. Twenty-five. Gotta love that.

Chapter 11

I woke up long before Brian did the next morning. I lay next to him for a long time, just watching him sleep. He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other hanging off the bed, his mouth open, breathing softly. A faint, dark shadow covered his jaw.

He was almost too beautiful.

And then I remembered the tattoo. I leaned over him quietly, craned my neck trying to get a better view. It was a name. It was partially hidden by his pillow, but the letters dy were very clearly inscribed within an intricate black-ink armband. I wondered who she was, who had been so important to him that he’d gone through the pain and hassle and expense of having her name permanently drilled onto his body. And I braced myself for the ordeal of having to see it staring back at me every time he was naked. . .

“Don’t worry, Tess.”

His voice startled me so badly I nearly fell off the bed. He grabbed my arm just in time and pulled me to safety. I would’ve been more grateful if he wasn’t laughing so hard. He made sure I was situated securely before he let go of me. Then he turned his arm slightly so I could see the whole name.

Wendy.

I nodded, still clueless.

“Wendy was my mom’s name.”

“Ah.” Then I smiled. “You know . . . that’s really sweet.”

He grimaced. Manly men do not like being called sweet.

“Nice? Thoughtful? Kind?”

Nope.

“Studly?”

He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever the words were going to be died on his lips. Because that’s when we heard the kitchen door slam shut. He bolted out of bed towards the door, and I took a brief moment to admire his naked ass before I covered myself with a sheet. He cracked open the door, peeked out and hollered, “That you, Rach?”

“Duh. Who else has a key to this fucking pig hole?”

He groaned, grabbed a pair of jeans from a pile on top of his dresser and threw them on.

“I’ll see if I can get rid of her.” Then he jogged out the door, slamming it behind him. I knew my cover was blown when I heard Rachel cackling a few moments later, but I still waited for him to come back in and break it to me.

“I don’t know how she knew it was you.”

“Maybe because she’s not an idiot.”

He smiled, almost shyly, and that’s when I knew the answer to the question that New Mills had debated for years: He’d been celibate, not discreet. All those years and . . . no one; not until Rachel moved out. Even with a town filled with willing women. I wasn’t sure if that was sad or sweet. It was probably a little of both. Just like the tattoo.

I rummaged through his pile of fortunately clean laundry, picked out a T-shirt that could have been a dress and a pair of sweatpants. I had to roll each leg up five times before I could walk. Then I followed him into the kitchen. Rachel was busy at the stove, cooking bacon and eggs. She snickered when she saw my ensemble. I ignored her and headed for the bathroom. I did my business, washed my hands, surveyed my reflection, then stared at his medicine cabinet. Studied the hinges. They looked old, like they might squeak. I ran my tongue over my teeth and decided it was worth the risk. I flushed the toilet again, to cover any noise, slowly opened the cabinet door, and I found what I’d been hoping for: an extra toothbrush. It was brand new, still in the package. Red handle, medium bristle. And I tried not to wonder why he had an extra one lying around.

By the time I finished up in the bathroom, breakfast was ready. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and jellied a slice of toast. Brian dove right in, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days. I had to avert my eyes when he dipped the corner of his own toast into a glob of runny egg yolk. Rachel shook her head.

“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She made it sound like the worst of all possible offenses.

“No.”

Brian laughed. “Then why don’t you eat meat?”

“I eat chicken and turkey. And fish.”

“That’s not meat.”

“Please tell me I’m not getting nutritional advice from the man whose cupboards are filled with Chef Boyardee.”

The phone rang before he could answer. He looked over at it, then down at his half-finished breakfast. Ring number two. He gave a big sigh. Then: inspiration. He piled what was left of his egg and two strips of bacon onto his remaining piece of toast, folded it over and jogged to the phone. He answered it with a “Yeah?” then stuffed half the sandwich into his mouth. He chewed noisily, away from the mouthpiece, swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he gave Rachel an angry stare, then turned away from her, still silent. Still listening.

Whatever her transgression was, she didn’t seem phased by his wrath. But she probably was. I took a quick peek at her eyes. They were clear. But it was only nine-thirty.

“You’re not trying to impress him by not eating a lot, are you?”

I smiled. I knew this game.

I’m about to catch hell, so I’ll dish it out to someone else first.

“No. Why, does that impress him?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

She twisted her hair into a tight loop at the nape of her neck, then let it go. It spun wildly and finally came to a rest over her right shoulder. “It sure took you long enough to finally get your shit together.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s been following you around like a puppy dog since you first moved in here. I’ve been waiting for the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign to pop up on the door here for weeks. I figured you thought he wasn’t good enough for you or something.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s in construction. Or something like that. But he’s a real smart guy. He’d be doing something else if. . . He’s smart enough to be doing something else.”

I love my brother. He’s a good man. He gave up a lot to take care of me. Don’t hurt him.

Fair enough.

“I scrub shit outta toilets for a living, Rachel. Do you really think I’m gonna be put off by a guy because he swings a hammer? Besides, I know it takes a lot of brains to run a business.”

She poured herself a glass of juice. “What does your husband do?”

“My ex-husband teaches high school. English literature.”

“So he’s pretty smart, then?”

“Well. . .” I hesitated. “He’s smart about English literature.”

I finally got a laugh out of her. It faded when Brian slammed the phone down. He stormed back into the kitchen, sat back down, chucked the remnants of his sandwich onto his plate, and glared at her. She glared right back.

“You were suspended for two days without pay?”

She shrugged.

“You go into work fucked up just one more time and Zeke’s gonna shitcan your ass.”

“He already told me that. He didn’t need to bug you with it.”

“Well, he did. Don’t you get it, Rach? At all? The only reason you still have a job is because he likes you. Because he knows you’re not really a fuckup. And you’re not. So quit acting like one.”

He waited for her to say something. She didn’t. He cleared his throat and finished his lecture with:

“I told him it’s not gonna fucking happen again. And it sure as hell better not.” He gave her eyes the same once over I had. Then his gaze dropped to her inner arms.

She pulled them back. “I’m not doing any of that shit. Jesus, I just smoke a little pot every once in awhile.”

“A little.”

“It’s not like you’re perfect, you know.”

“I haven’t done any of that kinda shit in a long time. And I never went to work that way, Rachel. Never.”

She didn’t have an answer for that. He shook his head, looked at her with frantic eyes that said: I love you. Don’t screw up your life.

She was looking at her fingernails.

“What are you doing today?”

She shrugged.

“Wanna hang out here with us? We could rent a movie or–”

“Nope.”

“–we could take off for the day and go to–”

“I said no.”

“How come?”

“I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“To see a movie.”

“Who with?”

“With some friends.” He gave her a suspicious scowl, and she smirked. “Why? You lookin’ to score?”

“Fuck you, Rachel. Quit treating this like it’s a joke.”

She stood up and shoved her chair under the table. It honked in protest.

“Wait. Who are you going to the movies with?”

Her hand was on the doorknob. “I told you. With. A. Friend.”

“You said some friends.”

“Goodbye, Brian.”

The door slammed behind her.

He glared at his plate. I knew he was itching to chuck it at the wall. I’d seen that look on a different face. I cleared my throat. “She wants you to know what she’s up to. That’s why she goes to work that way.”

He looked up at me and sighed. “I know. And she wanted me to yell at her. That’s why she came over here.”

I nodded.

He nodded back. “Well, I guess that’s settled.”

Except that it wasn’t, of course. But what can you do?

He had an idea. “Let’s walk to the lake.”

“The lake?”

“Yeah. It’s less than a mile, and it’s warm out today.”

We held hands as we walked down the road. The water was beautiful. Cold, dark blue — Prussian Blue. The spot he took me to was hidden from the road by thick clusters of newly budding maples and white birches and filled in with lovely green grass. We spread out an old blanket and lay underneath the shadow of the trees.

We were silent for a little while, but it couldn’t last. I was glad it didn’t, because I’d already learned to love the sound of his voice. He didn’t talk about Rachel, he talked about the lake. Not about its beauty, because he didn’t have to. It was too obvious a thing to have to say. Instead, he talked about endings. Only two more weeks before the summer people came to take over the town. Soon the lake would be overrun with jet skis and motor boats. And that meant No Trespassing. He was wistful. Resigned. About the lake. And about the other thing.

So I wasn’t surprised when he pulled me on top of him and kissed me. Long and deep and full of need. A need that wasn’t just sex, although it was that, too.

Because what is sex, really?

Sometimes it’s making love. Hearts bursting with fragile emotion, two souls touching, closer than two bodies ever could. Sometimes it’s fucking; passion and fun and wild release. Sometimes just an urge. Or an itch. A means to an end. A compulsion.

But whatever it is, it’s really always the same, mechanically. Sex is taking another person’s body inside of yours, or giving yours to them. Even when that’s not all it is, that’s what it is. And sometimes that’s the real need. To be inside, to hold inside, to be a part of someone else, to be connected to them. That’s what he needed. And it’s what I needed; but I needed something more than that, too. I rolled us over a few times. Off of the blanket. Onto the ground. . .

I rocked on top of him. Gentle, slow, deliberate. The grass was damp underneath my knees and underneath his body. And underneath the grass and the dirt, inside the ground, were the roots of the trees that hovered above us. They were connected to the lake, too. Fed off of it. Part of it. The breeze rustled through the leaves of the maples and birches so that even the wind became a part of everything. The lake. The trees. The ground. . .

. . . and part of Brian and me.

Chapter 12

When I was six years old, my family was snatched out of slumber in the middle of the night by a phone call. Dave and I sat in the upstairs hallway, rubbing sleep from our eyes, while my mother muttered indistinguishable sounds into the kitchen phone downstairs. On her way back to her room, she saw us waiting and said simply, “My mother died. Now go back to sleep.” Then she walked into her bedroom and closed the door.

Dave obeyed her immediately. At least, he went into his room. I have no way of knowing whether or not he actually went back to sleep. Probably he did. But I stayed awake the rest of the night, sitting outside my mother’s bedroom door, quietly listening. My father was sleeping in the den by that time, so I knew she was in there all alone. Like she was every night. I didn’t go back into my room until I heard her get out of bed and open up her dresser drawer at six-fifteen. She was getting ready for work, just like she did every morning. And for weeks afterwards, I wondered why it was she didn’t cry that night. There are times, even now, when I wonder about that.

So when Brian and I were snatched out of slumber by a phone call on the last Monday in May, my first conscious thought was, who died? He reached for the phone, and my next thought was that it must be about Rachel. And I hoped that she was just sick or in jail. . .

“Yeah? Uh, okay . . . yeah, no problem.” He hung it up and fell back onto the bed with a small yawn. Or it may have been a sigh of relief. “Wrong number.”

Good. It was someone else’s bad news. I looked at the clock. 2:38 in glowing green numbers. Just over three hours of sleep left. I rested my head on his chest to settle back down to sleep. Then it hit me.

Green numbers. . .

I sat up. “Shit!”

“What is it?”

“This is my apartment.”

“Yeah. So?” Then: “Oh.”

The phone rang again. Because it was my bad news. Mine.

Second ring. Some things go away if you ignore them. A ringing telephone carrying bad news in the middle of the night isn’t one of them.

It was Dave. “Sorry to wake you up, Tess.”

“Is Matthew okay? And Kim?”

“Yeah, they’re fine.”

It was Dad, then. Or my mother.

Please, God. Please don’t let it be Dad. . .

“Tess, I . . . it’s Alice.”

“No.”

Gone. She’s gone. I knew it already.

Please let her just be sick, God. Please just sick, not. . .

I swallowed. Tried to talk. I had to say it again

No!

but couldn’t find my voice. I hadn’t seen her in months. Spoke to her the day before I moved. She called me at Dave’s house, begged me to come see her before I left.

I’ll try, Alice.

I’d said it even though I knew I wouldn’t. I should have gone to see her. Just to say goodbye. That’s all she’d wanted. Just to say goodbye.

Please, God, please don’t let it be too late. . .

I cleared my throat and finally managed, “Is she sick?”

“No, she’s . . . she died. It was a heart attack.”

“Oh my God. . .”

“It started late last night. Jason was there at the house with her and–”

I flipped myself over onto my belly and let my feet dangle off the side of the bed. I rested my free arm on Brian’s chest. Rested my chin on my arm. Cracked the joints in my toes. Ankles. Knees. Couldn’t think of anything else to do that might drown out Dave’s words. I tuned back in at:

“–they lost her once in the ambulance, but they were able to bring her back. When they got her to the hospital . . . well, she was just too sick and . . . it happened about an hour ago. I was going to wait till morning to call, but I thought you’d want to know.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. Closed my eyes and saw Alice’s kind, lovely face, tender and patient and generous. She had always loved me, always. Never stopped. Even when she should have stopped.

Please, God no. . .

The tears came, finally, hot stinging tears that rolled down my face and landed on Brian’s chest. He touched my cheek, wiped it dry, but it was wet again a second later.

I should’ve gone. Should’ve gone to see her. Just to say goodbye.

I wanted to turn towards him, to try to make out the shape of his face in the semi darkness, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I stared instead at the clock and got control of myself.

“Did. . .” I closed my eyes again. “Did Jason get a chance to say goodbye before she . . . went?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Good.” His father died when Jason was only nine. Car accident. That morning, Jason was sick and stayed home from school. He’d slept in late, so he didn’t get the chance to say his usual goodbye. Their little ritual. Fake British accents.

Goodbye, Professor Dyer.

So long, young Master Dyer.

And he’d never really gotten over it.

“Can you . . . can you tell Jason that . . . can you tell him that I’m sorry?”

What a useless, empty thing to say. I tried to think of something better, but a hard, hollow bubble of sadness and guilt had swelled in my chest, and for a moment, I was afraid that I was going to break down. Lose it for real. I swallowed, squeezed every muscle in my stomach, managed to hold it in. Took a deep breath.

“I really loved her, Dave. Can you let him know that?”

“I’ll tell him.”

Then there was silence, except for background noise, a woman’s voice paging a doctor. Dave was still at the hospital. Was Jason standing near him? Listening to Dave’s half of the conversation? Maybe I should ask to speak to him, to let him hear my condolences personally instead of having them filtered through my brother.

Except that I was lying in our old bed. Naked. On Brian’s naked chest.

Dave sighed heavily. “Well I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon — well, it’ll be this afternoon, actually. Hey, Tess, is this your new phone number . . .?” He rattled it off.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because I . . . I must have dialed a wrong number right before I got you. I woke up some . . . guy.”

I wasn’t in the mood for his little fishing expedition. “He’ll get over it.”

There was a long pause, then: “Yeah. I’m sure he will.”

He knew. The only question was whether he knew it was Brian he’d talked to or if he thought I’d just picked up some strange guy. A random hookup. Which would he think was worse?

I hung up the phone and sat up. Took in a slow, tight breath and let it out even slower. Brian sat up, too, and switched on the lamp beside the bed. I hadn’t expected it and had to close my eyes against the sudden bright intrusion. I blinked rapidly and focused on him, but he said nothing, only looked at me expectantly.

“That was my brother. My mother-in-law — my, um, ex-mother-in-law — died.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“Heart attack.”

More silence. He was waiting for more, but I couldn’t think of anything. Finally, he asked, “You were close to her?”

“Um, yeah. We . . . uh, Jason’s family lived on the same road as us when we were growing up, so I’ve known Alice since I was a kid, and . . . well, anyway, she’s gone.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “What was she like?”

“Like?”

“Yeah. You know, what kind of person was she?”

I shrugged. “She was . . . nice.”

Nice was a stupid word, and Alice deserved a better one, deserved a thousand and one of them. And if she had been just a friend, then I could’ve found all those words, used them to tell Brian all about her. Tell him about the sound of her potter’s wheel, tell him about my easel. That she had always smelled of ginger, even though she never baked. How she encouraged my impractical dreams when my own mother was too busy with work and money to bother to even ask me what they were. Let me visit with her, long after I was past the age of needing a babysitter. Just let me sit with her in the workshop, and didn’t ask questions, during my last two horrible years of high school, after my mother had completely given up on me.

I wanted to tell him all of it, and I knew he wanted to let me, probably wanted to hear about her. Because it would help him to know me better. And because he wanted to comfort me. But it would all lead back to Jason.

Pump faster, Tess. You can do it! Faster. Now . . . let go!

Make it clear to him just how deeply those roots went. He didn’t need that rubbed in his face. And I didn’t want to be reminded of it.

He finally said, simply, “I’m sorry.”

I only shrugged again and wiped away another tear. What I really needed was to let it out. Have a good, hard cry. Because that’s what you do when you lose someone you love, what you’re supposed to do. Cry. Say goodbye. Move on. But the idea of mourning my ex-husband’s mother in front of my new boyfriend didn’t feel right. And, even worse, I had a sudden, creepy feeling that somehow Alice could see me now, that she knew that I was in her son’s bed with someone other than her son.

Stop it. You’re just tired. Just go back to sleep. Bury your head in your pillow and hunker down until morning. You can let it all out in the shower after Brian leaves for work. You can hold it in. Just a few more hours. You can do it. You can wait.

I tried to tell him I was okay, to turn off the light. I wanted to remind him that he had to be to work early and that he needed to get back to sleep. Instead, the bubble finally burst. It burst with a horrible, sick yelp that I tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

I struggled blindly to make my escape to the bathroom, to have my breakdown in private, but he reached out before I could and pulled me to him, held me tightly against him so I couldn’t get away. I lay there with my face against his chest, trying not to cry, mostly succeeded. Just a few errant tears. A few dry, sickening sobs. And still Brian held me, whispered comforting words, stroked my hair. Told me, over and over, to just let it out, that it was okay to cry. But I couldn’t. The guilt was too great, bigger than the grief.

I’ll try, Alice. If I have time after I’m all done packing. I’ll try then.

It was bullshit. Most of it was packed already, just waiting to be moved. She knew it, too. Knew she wouldn’t see me. Probably ever.

Coward.

And then there was Jason. He had lost the woman who was the most precious person in the world to him. He was — at this very moment — being tortured with a grief I couldn’t even imagine. And he had no one to hold him like I did, to whisper sweet words of comfort and love in his ear, to make him feel safe.

And it’s all my fault.

I fell asleep against Brian’s chest. When I woke up a few hours later, he asked if I was okay. I told him, yes, thanks for holding me, I feel better now. And it was true. I did feel better.

I didn’t feel anything.

. . .

True to his word, my brother called me with details about the funeral.

“Do you think you’ll make it?”

“I think it would be pretty awkward for Jason if I’m there. Don’t you?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Tess. It’s up to you.”

I rubbed my eyes and mulled it over. I knew already. Everyone would be there. Everyone.

“If I show up, it will cause a fuss, and I don’t want that. Everyone’s energy should be focused on comforting Jason, not on gossiping about us.”

“If you don’t show up, then they’ll just talk about you anyway. It will all be about why you weren’t there.”

“Well, if I’m gonna be in a damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation, I’d rather do the ‘don’t.’ It won’t do Jason any good having me there anyway. I bought a card for him this morning. I’ll mail it to him and leave it to his friends to do the rest.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“You sound exhausted, Dave. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“None.”

“Well, try to get some tonight.”

“Speaking of sleep, Tess . . . that wasn’t a wrong number I got last night. Was it.”

I’d known it was coming, eventually. I just figured he’d wait, maybe until after things had settled down. After the funeral at least. “Dave, I don’t think this is an appropriate time to get into this subject.”

“Really? And when would be an appropriate time?”

I sighed. Why not? What was the big deal anyway? I wasn’t committing a crime. Hell, this time I wasn’t even committing adultery. Why shouldn’t he know? Why shouldn’t they all know?

“I’ve been . . . seeing someone. It’s just been a couple weeks, but–”

“That didn’t take you very long.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think it’s a little soon?”

“Is there a waiting period I’m supposed to observe? Shit, I guess I shoulda bought me some black dye to boil all my clothes in the day after Saint Jason left me so I–”

“Cut the bullshit, okay? I only meant . . . you just moved down there. That’s all I meant.” He groaned. “Jesus Christ, Tess. Who is it? That kid from downstairs?”

“It’s none of your goddamned business, Dave. What a fucking double standard. And I never expected it from you. Jason started banging someone less than a week after he left me, and all you had to say about it was some bullshit about how he was doing it for an ego boost. Here it is, closing in on a year later, and I’m starting an actual relationship, not just putting a few notches in my bedpost. And I’m the one getting shit? Is it because I’m a woman? Or because Jason’s your best friend?”

“Goddamn it, Tess, it’s neither. Just forget it. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

I rubbed my forehead. It was throbbing. The sort of throb I knew from experience wouldn’t fade anytime soon. Then I took a deep breath. I might as well tell him the truth. He was going to find out sooner or later; they all were. And I wasn’t ashamed. I had no reason to be.

“It was Brian. And it’s not what you think.”

Silence. So much of it I began to think we’d been cut off. Finally, he said, “Okay, Tess. Whatever makes you happy, I guess.”

I snickered. I couldn’t help it. Because I’d heard those words from him once before.

He remembered, too. “I mean . . . I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Oh.” It was the first time he’d ever acknowledged that I’d been hurt, too. It was the first time anyone had.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t forget to send the card, Tess. I think Jason will . . . it would be a nice gesture.”

I checked the clock. 4:34. Just enough time to write a few lines, sign my name and drop it off at the post office before work. Except for one thing.

“Dave . . . I don’t know his new address. I always just had my lawyer–”

He gave it to me.

“Thanks. He should get it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Good. Well . . . I’ll talk to you later.”

I sat down at the table and looked at the card. Orange sunset. Inside it was white. Blank. Scary. I’d always hated words, and this card didn’t need any. The sunset said it all.

I looked up at the clock again. I was running out of time. I scribbled a few lines, read them over, added a few more and read the whole thing. Read it again and groaned.

I drove to the post office and bought a stamp from a tall, young brunette who told me, without much enthusiasm, to have a nice evening. I wished her the same, only with even less enthusiasm. She was one of them. One of the local girls who’d kept Brian company over the winter. Like curly, blonde Ashley from the insurance company. And the pretty, dark receptionist at Dr. Stephens’ office. And the curvy, red-headed cashier at the courtesy counter at the market. There were others, too. They always seemed to be staring, sizing me up. Why her? What’s so goddamn special about . . . her? But there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I dropped the card in the mailbox outside. It told me that the last pickup had been at four-thirty, almost half an hour earlier. But Jason would get a hundred cards in the next few days. If he bothered to open mine at all, he’d only skim through the awkward expressions of sympathy . . . then he’d toss it aside. So what difference would a day make?

A big difference. And it wouldn’t get tossed aside. I was too tired to fool myself, and that didn’t happen very often. But there wasn’t anything I could do about the postal service, either. And so I went to work. To start cleaning. Other people’s shit.

Chapter 13

Something I learned about Brian in our first month together — because he frequently told me — was that he wasn’t one of those guys. He meant, of course, that he wasn’t a chauvinistic asshole who couldn’t take care of himself.

“I’m not gonna let you do all the cooking, Tess. I’m not one of those guys.”

A noble sentiment. What it actually meant was this: on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, he went through the strenuous effort of opening a can or two, and sometimes a box, for the microwave; on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday, he pushed vegetables and broiled chicken or fish around his plate with his fork, looking at me like I was Judas Iscariot. Our only night of refuge was Friday. That’s when he treated me to supper at Zeke’s. Things finally came to a head when I came home one warm Thursday evening in the middle of June to Spaghetti O’s and fish sticks.

“You like fish.”

“This isn’t fish.”

He grabbed the box from the freezer and looked at the ingredients.

“Okay, Brian, this is ridiculous. We need to start doing our shopping together so we can get some food we both like.”

Saturday, late afternoon. Small town market. Narrow aisles. Customers who appraised us with expert eyes and laughed. Because we couldn’t even agree on hot dogs.

“I’m not eating tofu.”

“They’re not made from tofu. They’re organic, but they’re still made with meat. See. . .” I pointed to the package.

“Chicken hot dogs?”

“Look. Yours have nitrates. These don’t.”

“What the hell is a nitrate?”

“They’re . . . it’s . . . I don’t remember,” I admitted irritably. “But I know they’re bad for you. And besides, they use real meat in these. Those hot dogs are just made from–”

“I really don’t want to know what they’re made from.”

By the time we made it to the deli, we both needed a break. I left him to fend for himself while I soldiered onward with the cart. I wasn’t too worried. I’d been through this kind of thing before. I’d managed to get Jason to quit smoking, so getting Brian to start eating healthier would be a breeze.

I stopped in Health and Beauty to examine a jar of eye cream that I’d seen advertised on TV. It was guaranteed to minimize the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. I read through the list of ingredients, then put it back on the shelf. It may very well have been a miracle product, just like the teenager masquerading as a thirty-something-year-old woman in the commercial claimed, but it was full of chemicals whose names were too long and had too many consonants for comfort. And when I looked up from the shelf, I saw a mass of blonde curls coming at me that was too familiar for comfort. It was Ashley. I seemed to run into her everywhere I went. And today, of course, she’d hit the jackpot.

“Hi, Tess.”

I nodded and looked at her outfit. Short shorts. Tight T-shirt.

You’re no Daisy Duke, honey.

She didn’t have to be. She was young and thin and cute and blonde and had pretty clear green eyes. And no wrinkles. But it really was stupid to be jealous of a little girl, so I smiled and managed to sound friendly as I asked her how she was doing.

She was doing great. Life was great. She’d just got a raise at work, her second one in six months. Her mother’s new boyfriend had given her his old computer, which was very, very exciting, because she could surf the web at her apartment now instead of having to go to her mom’s house to do it. She had tickets to some concert, and it made me feel like a grandma because the band’s name sounded only vaguely familiar. . .

She rambled on and on, from one inane topic to another. It was more than just polite conversation and I knew it, but I let her ramble anyway, surveyed her cart while she did. It was filled with beer and chips and just about every kind of liquor imaginable, and it made me wonder just what kind of raises they gave out over there at that insurance company. It might be time to raise my rates.

Finally, the moment she’d been waiting for. It was almost amusing to see her expression undergo its startling transformation as she caught sight of him. Her eyes lit up, her smile widened — in fact, her whole face seemed to jump up and holler ‘Yee haw!’ And I did the only thing I could do. Which was nothing. Except stand there and watch.

Brian was mercifully oblivious to the hell he was walking into, because his head was bent over several deli packages. “The lady back there said these are all full of nitrates too, but–”

The transformation on his face as he saw her was startling, too, but not at all amusing. Surprise, of course. Then embarrassment. Finally, there was shame. And that told me everything I needed to know.

He glanced quickly at me, wondering what, if anything, I knew. I just grinned. Then he looked away and tossed the lunchmeat into the cart. Ashley gave her curls a toss and got the ball rolling.

“How have you been, Brian?”

“Great.” He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “You?”

“I’ve been okay.” She dragged the last syllable out until she hit nearly every note in the key of B flat. Then she brightened up. “Today’s my birthday.”

He nodded, examined the contents of her cart, then finally looked up at her. “Rachel’s not twenty-one yet. She’s not even twenty. You know that, don’t you, Ash?”

“Yeah, I know. Rachel was a year behind me in school. Remember?”

And she’d be there anyway. She’d get plastered or high or both. Then she’d go home with some guy. And there was nothing he could do about it.

But Ashley had a suggestion.

“You can come, Brian. If you want. That way you can keep an eye on her.”

He didn’t even miss a beat. “Nope. We already have plans.”

She looked at me, and I gave her an eyebrow.

That’s right, honey. While you’re getting drunk and stoned with your little friends, he’ll be in my bed. Fucking me. Stuff that in your training bra.

And there it was, the secret to eternal youth: Jealousy and pettiness. I’d gone from grandma to ten-year-old in less than five minutes.

She shrugged and turned her attention back to Brian. “If you change your mind, feel free to pop in. You know where I live.”

Ah. Well, at least it hadn’t happened in his bed.

She strolled merrily away. It hadn’t gone too badly after all. And that meant that we’d have to do it all over again some other time. I studied my list. Crossed out three items I’d already crossed out. Looked at the cart and then my list again. I finally felt confident enough in my ability to speak. “What kind of toothpaste do you want?”

No answer. I looked up. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his face was tense with what appeared to be defiance. I countered with a blank stare. Finally, he reached over, grabbed a tube of toothpaste and threw it into the cart. I tossed the eye cream in on top of it.

He drove us home in silence. More silence while we split the groceries and took turns putting them away; first his cupboards, then mine. We ate a silent supper in my apartment, a Brian-friendly meal of hot dogs and macaroni-and-cheese and a salad, and by the time we were finished, he’d finally had enough.

“You’re just gonna sit there all night not saying anything about her?”

“What’s there to say? It’s none of my business what you did before we got together.”

What I meant, of course, was who you did. And he knew it.

“Haven’t you ever done something stupid before?”

“Of course. That’s why I’m not gonna say anything about her.”

He nodded, but he was still irritated. He cleared the table while I brushed my teeth, then he helped me with the dishes. And after the final fork was safely tucked away inside the silverware drawer, he said:

“Let’s go out tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

“There’s this dance club in Westville–”

He knew better than that.

“Oh, come on, Tess. Live a little.”

“I can’t dance.”

He didn’t push it. Even though he wanted to. “Okay. A movie then. I’ll even let you pick it out.”

It seemed a little strange that it was our first time out, our first actual date. I chose an action flick that was a sequel to a movie I knew was one of his favorites. Car chases and explosions and very bad acting. A sex scene that showed the girl fully naked and the hero only shirtless, didn’t even show his ass, which wasn’t fair. It was still pretty hot. Then there was the inevitable breakup followed by the inevitable shootout. The bad guys all died, and the hero walked away with only a few scratches. And, of course, he patched things up with the girl. As we walked out of the theater, I wondered if she’d be back for the inevitable part three or if they’d find the aging hero a newer — and even younger — love interest.

It was a perfect June night. Starry and warm and not muggy at all. He unlocked the truck door and opened it up for me. Before I got in, I stood up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, told him he should pull around to the side of the building where it was dark and deserted. Because, I said, the sex scenes had made me horny. And because of the novelty of doing it in a vehicle in a public place. And, I didn’t say, because of the other thing.

I didn’t have to ask twice, and it was even better than the sex in the movie. When I came, he covered my mouth with his, and I could feel his own muffled groans echoing against mine. It was almost midnight by the time we got home, but neither of us was tired. We lay in my bed in the darkness, wide awake and silent, but not still. He fidgeted. Tapped his feet and hands on the mattress, along to some beat that only he could hear. Rolled over onto his side, then his stomach. Onto his back again. Finally, he hopped up, switched on the overhead light and ceiling fan, jumped back onto the bed and tickled me till I begged for mercy. Then he rolled off me, snuggled in close and, before I’d even caught my breath, said:

“Tell me something about you I don’t know. Something real.”

I didn’t have to think too hard. The list was long, but most of the items on the list weren’t open for discussion. So I nodded towards the living room and said, “I painted all the pictures hanging on the wall out there.”

He shook his head and started tracing invisible circles around my belly button with his index finger, in sync with the shadow of the fan. “I knew that already.”

“How did you know that?” They were all signed, of course, but the signatures were all deliberately illegible.

“Maybe because I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh.”

“They’re really good, you know. Have you ever sold any of your paintings?”

“Actually. . .” I could feel my face burning, even though the breeze from the fan was chilly. “I put one in a gallery a few weeks ago. Over in Hallowell.”

I didn’t tell him that I knew the guy who owned it. I’d had a quick fling with him right before Jason and I got together. My last fling. He was a nice guy, the kind you could settle down with, and someone had. He was married now — at least as married as the law allowed — to another nice guy. Because despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to turn him.

“Really?” He smiled. “What’s the painting of?”

“The orchard that used to be out back.” I braced myself, because I knew, from his beaming face, what was coming next.

“Let’s go there tomorrow so I can see it.”

I dropped my gaze, focused on his chest, on the dark, curly hair. “It sold already.” I looked up at his face again to see his reaction.

“Oh.” He tried to look happy, and mostly succeeded, but his voice sounded a little hurt. “What made you decide to sell it?”

. . .without letting me see it first?

“Well . . . I needed the money. My house cleaning jobs are the only ones that aren’t behind and my savings was getting low–”

It had all but run out. There had only been twenty-five dollars left, the minimum amount to keep the account open.

“–and I didn’t think it would sell. At least not that quickly. But I figured it was worth a shot and . . . anyway.”

He waited a moment, then ventured, “If you need money, Tess–”

“No. Let’s not go there.”

“Tess–”

“Look, I’m okay now. The checks are finally starting to roll in for work I did back in March and April. I should be fine from now on. You know how billing cycles and payment cycles work.”

“Yes I do. But. . .” He sighed. “I think it’s awesome that one of your paintings sold. I’m not surprised, because I think you’ve got a lot of talent. But I hate that you only did it because you were broke.”

“It’s not like it’s gonna be a habit. I don’t paint to make money. I just do it because I . . . well, not for money. Not usually, anyway.”

It was the first time I’d sold one of my paintings. I knew it was supposed to feel like an accomplishment. Validation. But it only made me feel dirty.

“I’ve been doing some new sketches lately, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Actually, it does. What have you been sketching?”

I smiled. “Our lake.”

He smiled back. I thought he was going to ask if he could see what I’d done so far, and I prepared myself for having to let him down again. I couldn’t let him see the sketches; not yet. I wasn’t at all happy with them. As he’d predicted, the summer people had taken over the lake. It was constantly abuzz with motors, which made it impossible for me to capture it with any accuracy. Heat and sadness and love and connection. . .

But he didn’t ask to see them. Instead, he brushed my bangs out of my eyes and said, “Tell me about Kineo.”

“Kineo?”

“Yeah. That Kineo painting.”

I shrugged. “There’s not really much to tell. It’s a painting of a mountain and a lake.”

“Bullshit. There’s more to it than just that.” He propped himself up a little higher on his elbow and, for the first time since I’d known him, struggled to find words to express himself. “There’s something about it, Tess, and I don’t know what it is. I never saw a place that looked like that before. It’s almost like the mountain is . . . like it’s weeping. It’s like a heartbreak or something. I don’t even know how you do that with just a brush and some paint. Were you sad, or depressed or whatever, when you did it?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

I’d painted it during my first summer with Jason. Summer of Love. We’d gone to Moosehead Lake for a daytrip and had a great time. Mount Kineo was supposed to be the highlight of the day because neither of us had ever seen it. It was a beautiful, oddly shaped mountain. Narrow at the bottom, cresting high above the lake, then ending suddenly flat on one side, in high, flinty cliffs. At first glance, from a distance, it had reminded me of the whale from Pinocchio, and we had laughed about that.

“I wasn’t depressed. But when I was up there I heard this story . . . a legend about a–” I pulled the sheet up and started playing with it, making little accordion folds. “It sounds stupid now, but it was about an Indian princess. Her husband went out on a hunting trip and he never came back. She waited and waited, for a long time, but . . . nothing. No word from him, not anything from him. He was just . . . gone. She was so . . . heartbroken that she jumped off the cliff and into the water, and killed herself. It was . . . it . . . I don’t know. I guess it sort of stuck with me.”

It had done more than that. The woman who had told us the story — she was a waitress in a restaurant a few towns over from where the mountain stood — had done so very matter-of-factly. It was obvious she’d told it a thousand times, and it didn’t really mean anything to her other than as a minor point of interest for tourists. But it had scared the hell out of me, so badly that I couldn’t eat my lunch.

Are you feeling all right, Tess?

Yeah, Jase. Just a little carsick. I’ll be fine.

It was after sunset when we drove past the mountain again on our way home. It looked different somehow. Lonely. Forbidding. Rising out of the water like a haunted headstone.

We got home late, exhausted from the day and the drive, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for hours watching his peaceful, sleeping face. I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman — who had probably never really existed — waiting for her husband to return. Sick with worry. Going over every horrifying possibility of what might have happened to him. Had he been killed in the forest by an animal? Come across a member of an enemy tribe or stumbled upon a white settlement? Maybe his canoe had capsized and he had drowned in the lake. . .

Or maybe he had just run off. Got bored or restless. Or fell out of love. And just . . . left her.

I shot out of bed, shaking so badly that my teeth actually chattered, pulled out my easel and poured everything out onto a fresh canvas. Dark, frantic, heavy lines. Foggy. Black and grey and dark, dark blue. But I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t depressed when I painted that picture. I was scared out of my fucking mind. Scared of losing that feeling I had only just discovered, for the first time in my life, of being in love and having someone love me back. Safe and completely, truly happy. Most of all, I was scared because I could imagine, for a brief, fatigue-induced moment, why that Indian princess had climbed to the top of the steep, woody mountain. Looked over the edge. And jumped. Landing hard on the water.

Brian touched my cheek and I jumped, startled back to reality.

“All that stuff you’re feeling right now? You got that all on the canvas, Tess.” He ran his finger gently underneath both my eyes. I hadn’t realized I was crying. “But I’m gonna make sure you never feel like that again.”

I nodded, blinked back a few more tears, then gave him my best smile. It didn’t fool him, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s pretty late, you know,” I said. “And you need to get up early in the morning.”

“Nice try. Even I don’t work on Sunday.” He brushed my cheek gently with his lips. Then he whispered softly in my ear, “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Just like that. Even though I’d already known it. So I said it back. “Yes, I know. I love you, too.”

He fell asleep with his arm wrapped tight around me. He was so close that I could actually feel his breath, warm on my shoulder, his heart beating against my back. It was telling me that everything was okay again, that I was safe and loved. But I stayed awake all night anyway, shivering. Because I’d felt that way before. And I knew, even if Brian didn’t.

Flying. Falling. Landing hard.

Chapter 14

“Six plates? Is that boy eating with us?”

I grabbed a fistful of forks and knives from the drawer, took a deep breath and handed them to my mother. “Yes. Brian is eating with us.”

Kim hopped up out of her chair. “I’ll go tell the guys everything is ready.”

What she meant was:

Thank God. An excuse to get the hell out of here, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

Fourth of July. It’s normally a safe time for a Bellow’s Family Day. Throw everyone outside with a plateful of food, give ‘em each a couple of beers, set up a horseshoe pit, and everyone has something to keep them occupied. Very little opportunity for conversation, and that’s important. This year, it was more important than ever. Which is exactly why, this year, it was raining. It was coming down in buckets. And that meant we were trapped indoors with nothing to occupy us. Except for conversation.

So far, so good. Brian, Dave and my dad were all outside, standing underneath my dad’s umbrella, peering under the hood of Brian’s truck. Dave’s idea. He’d said:

“Let’s go take a peek at that alternator. Maybe we can figure out what’s wrong with it.”

What he’d meant, of course, was:

Come on, Dad. Let’s keep this poor guy away from Mom for as long as we can.

But he hadn’t left me completely unprotected. He never did. He’d left me Kim, which meant my mother had played nice. But now Kim was leaving, and Matthew was too young to do me any good.

The door closed quietly. I clenched my toes, my stomach, my heart. . .

“Just when it looks like you can’t screw your life up any worse than you already have,” she began, “you manage to top yourself.”

I grabbed my mitts, opened the oven door and pulled out the chicken.

“Just how old is he? Twenty?”

Set it on the counter. On a hot pad.

“It’s all well and good for you to go back to playing your little games, but this one lives right downstairs.”

I pulled the aluminum foil off the pan and inhaled deeply. The smell of barbecue sauce made my mouth water. I opened the oven again and shoved the chicken back inside to brown.

“You couldn’t manage to stay in the same town as Jason when you were done with him.”

I grabbed the potato salad from the fridge and set it on the counter.

“So why do you think you can live upstairs from this boy when he’s through with you?”

Then the coleslaw.

“Does he know what you did to Jason?”

I took the lid off the steaming stockpot and looked inside at the corn. The great debate: Transfer it to a platter now and risk letting it getting cold? Or let it stay inside the hot water and get soggy?

“Does he know that he can’t trust you around his friends?”

Because if they didn’t hurry up and come inside soon, then it would. Get soggy. Soggy and gross instead of crisp and tender and sweet. It would be ruined. Ruined and, goddamn it, what the fucking hell was taking them so long?

“At least the boy is self-employed. He doesn’t have a boss he’ll need to keep an eagle eye on whenever you walk into the room. Or to worry about whenever he leaves the room. Too bad I wasn’t so lucky.”

Bullseye. I could actually hear my nerves snap. I spun on my heel, lid in hand, mouth open, ready to let her have it; but that’s when the cavalry arrived. Dave came through the door first. He checked my face, then my mother’s and then mine again for a damage report. I gave him a brief smile that said, I’m okay. Even though I wasn’t. He was followed by Kim, who headed directly for her still sleeping baby, then my dad, who avoided eye contact with both my mother and me. And finally, Brian.

He strolled right over, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and asked, “What can I do? And don’t say ‘nothing.’”

I took in a shaky breath, then did a quick inventory. Something was missing, and I couldn’t think of what it was. I rubbed my left temple. It had been throbbing for three days, in spite of the all the Tylenol I’d taken. Brian had finally taken the bottle away from me because, he’d said, taking too much was bad for my liver.

Liver. . .

“Beer.”

He nodded and went to work. He emptied two bags of ice into a huge metal bucket, then filled that with the beer bottles. I watched him, still rubbing my temple, pressed down on the spot that hurt the worst. My mother noticed, sauntered over and put a hand on my forehead. I pulled away.

“I’m fine.”

Fuck off. You don’t get to play the role of Concerned Mom.

She backed up and gave me a small smile.

Suits me just fine.

Everybody grabbed a plate, filled it and settled around the table. For a few minutes, the only sounds were those made by clinking silverware and sloshing beer. I snuck a glance at my mother. She was sneaking glances at Brian in between mouthfuls. He was sitting beside me, happily stuffing his face with potato salad. It had been a few weeks since he’d eaten a carbohydrate that wasn’t high in fiber. I looked over at Dave, who was already looking at me. Waiting for his signal. I gave him a brief nod, and he cleared his throat.

“Brian, what’s the fishing like down here?”

He wiped a glob of dressing off his mouth with his napkin before he answered. “They stock the lake real good every year. Trouble is, you can’t get on it anymore unless you got a house down there, and those are all bought up.”

Dave nodded sympathetically. It was getting that way all over the state. Then he told Brian about the place where he and my dad frequently fished, about an hour west of New Mills. It was too far into the woods for tourists to know about it, but easy to get to with a truck. Then he asked Brian if he’d like to join them for their annual Labor Day fishing weekend. He accepted the invitation, surprised but happy.

After a minute or so of silence, Brian picked up the slack with the safest of all possible topics. He nodded towards Matthew and said:

“You guys have got a great-looking baby there.”

It wasn’t safe enough. My mother had been waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“How many children do you have, young man?”

I glared at her, but she ignored me and fixed Brian with an icy stare. He gave her an eyebrow of his own.

“I don’t have any children, Mrs. Bellows.”

“Has Theresa told you that she doesn’t like children?”

“No. She didn’t. She told me she doesn’t want any kids of her own. But from what I’ve seen, she likes ‘em just fine.”

My mother was undeterred. “Don’t you want children of your own someday?”

He gave her a sweet smile. “Only an idiot would get involved with a woman who doesn’t want kids if he does. I’m not an idiot.”

Dave’s ears turned red, my dad choked on his cole slaw, and Kim snickered, then covered it over with a cough. My mother gave Brian a dirty look while she prepared her troops for the second wave of the assault. He was a formidable opponent, true, but she wasn’t in the habit of retreating. I cast a frantic glance at Dave. He swallowed whatever it was he was chewing, washed it down with some beer and came to the rescue.

“Uh . . . Tess. How is — business going?”

Normally, of course, the subject of work was off limits. But I had called him earlier in the week and told him my good news. My business clients were all still behind but paying steadily, and my housecleaning jobs were all up to date. For the first time in my life, I was more than just self-sufficient. I was caught up on the bills and building a savings. Because I knew, of course, that once fall came and the summer people left, my pay would be cut in half. It didn’t matter, though, because I was planning ahead. Calamity foreseen and dealt with. For once.

And it felt good.

So I gave my mother a brief rundown of my weekly schedule. Busy, busy, busy. Out there working hard. Making Money. And when I finished speaking, I fixed her with what I hoped was a pair of cold, blue eyes.

I’m earning my paycheck.

She pretended not to notice.

“Hey, that’s great.” Dave said. “It didn’t take you long to get back on track.”

It didn’t take my mother long, either. She ran through the list of what the rest of the family did from eight till five.

“David is a well-respected lawyer in Brookfield–”

Brian knew that and, of course, my mother knew that he did. But she never missed the chance to savor the way the words rolled off her tongue. My son, the lawyer. So much better than Tess. She cleans toilets.

“–John is an accountant–”

My dad despised his work and his boss.

“–I work as an office manager for Mike Poulin.”

Here she paused for effect. Brian didn’t know who Mike Poulin was and just nodded politely. I polished off my second beer and reached for a third. Finally, she finished with:

“And Kimberly is a registered nurse in the cardiac intensive care unit.”

Brian turned to Kim with obvious interest. “Really?”

My mother added, “She’ll be going back to work in the fall.”

Kim glanced at Matthew and said, “We’ll see.”

Brian plunged ahead. “When my mother was sick, we hardly ever saw the doctor, but the nurses were always there. They took real good care of her. Me and my sister, too. They knew just as much about what was going on as the doctors did, and they were a lot nicer. If you ask me, nurses are way underpaid.”

Kim smiled at him. Score one for Brian.

“Tess didn’t go to college,” my mother started.

“Neither did I,” Brian returned.

“She wanted to go to school for her painting, but I told her that I wasn’t about to pay for her to play with her paints. Not when she could fool around with them at home for free.” She narrowed her gaze at me. “If you were really serious about it, I’m sure you could have found . . . some way to pay for it on your own.”

I finished my beer. Two thirds of a bottle in one long, noisy gulp. I plunked it down on the table and looked towards the big, beautiful bucket, sitting prettily on the floor next to the kitchen counter. And I wondered if a fourth would do me more harm than good. . .

“She’s much better off cleaning, anyway,” my mother added. “She’s good at that.”

She’d finally managed to shock Brian. He sat silently for longer than I thought possible. Just staring at her. She held his gaze. Just waiting. And he said:

“Tess sold a painting last month. Obviously, someone thinks she’s good at that, too.”

She only shrugged.

He set his fork down, rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t you think she’s a good painter, Mrs. Bellows?”

He thought he had her cornered. That he knew what she’d say, what she’d have to say. But he was wrong. He’d done it. And he didn’t even know it.

He didn’t know her.

She looked at me. At me, with those hard eyes. And I wanted to look away from them, but I couldn’t. So I sat there, staring back at her. Just waiting.

“No, I don’t. And I think she’s wasting her time and her energy and her money when she should be using them for–”

But she didn’t get any farther. At the words, No, I don’t, Brian grabbed my hand. I looked away from my mother and over at him. His eyes were filled with remorse. Because now he knew.

“Don’t listen to her, Tess. You’re a great artist.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Part of it was because I was a little foggy from having downed three beers in less than fifteen minutes. But most of it was because his words were still bouncing around in my brain. They echoed everywhere. Especially:

Artist.

It sounded good. Better than good. I especially loved the way it sounded in his voice. And I loved him for saying it, because it was the first time anyone had. Not just, you do good work or that’s a nice painting.

Artist.

But even better than that was: Don’t listen to her. Because what he’d really meant was: She’s hurting you. And I’m gonna make her stop. Even though it wasn’t true. Nothing, ever, would really make her stop. But at least it was true for a little while. And at least he was willing to try.

Dave cleared his throat and said, “Yes, she is.”

And that made my dad brave enough to ask about the painting I’d sold.

“Oh. Um, it was . . . it was just an orchard.”

Hope. That’s what I’d called it. In my mind. Then I’d sold it.

And that’s when Matthew woke up demanding food. It was about time, too. Dave held the kid close to his chest while he him gave his bottle. The rest of us finished our meal in silence, then I cleared the table while the guys and my mother retired into the living room. There was plenty of room for everyone because now I had three new armchairs and a new coffee table. I’d paid fifty bucks for all four pieces at a yard sale the week before. None of them matched each other or my couch, and my living room was a little crowded now, but they were colorful and clean. And none of them were plastic.

Kim and I did the dishes while Brian and my dad talked politics. It was a topic I’d given him the green light to bring up, since they were pretty much on the same page. Dave interjected from time to time, but my mother said nothing. She just stared out the window. Out at the rain.

Once the dishes were done, I sat beside Brian on the couch. He was holding Matthew on his lap facing him. It was the first time I’d looked at his face since the day he was born. He still looked like Dave, even had the eyes. He was very fascinated, for some reason, with Brian’s nose, and he stared at it for quite some time. Brian attempted to hand him off to me, but Matthew took one look at my face, puckered his own and bawled for all he was worth.

Kim grabbed him and covered with, “He’s just had too much excitement today, Tess. That’s all.”

They only stayed for another hour, because there’s not much to do inside a small, crowded apartment on a rainy day with a cranky baby who’s had too much excitement. I said my goodbyes from the living room while Brian walked them out to Dave’s new minivan. When he came back upstairs a few minutes later, I was curled up on the couch. He stood over me. Upside down. And still he was beautiful.

He didn’t bother with are you okay? Instead he went right to, “He married her because he knocked her up. Right?”

I nodded. “They were both nineteen. Then I came along two years later, and her life was really over.” I was a Thanksgiving baby. Because God has a sense of humor.

“Is that what she told you?”

“Sort of.”

He pondered for a moment, then said, a bit reluctantly, “That’s more than just a mother-daughter thing. I mean, I’ve seen Laura and her mother go at it before, and it’s not pretty. But your mother . . . she doesn’t like you. Does she?”

Nobody had ever said it out loud before, and it felt good to hear it. But the truth was that it went even deeper than dislike. My mother hated me. She’d hated me even before I was born. And even though I’d always known it, she had confirmed it for me when I was fifteen.

It was the weekend before Dave’s eleventh grade final exams. I sat across from him at the kitchen table, quizzing him on landmark Supreme Court cases for his history class, while she stood at the counter, hacking up vegetables for supper.

“Mapp v. Ohio.”

“1961. Guards against unreasonable search and seizure.”

“Gibbons v. Ogden.”

“1824. The states cannot interfere with the power of Congress to regulate commerce.”

“Commerce?” I rolled my eyes. “Bo-ring.”

“Come on, Tess.”

“Alright, alright, alright. How ‘bout . . . Roe v. Wade.”

My mother snorted over the celery. “That one came two years too late for me.”

I glanced up at her, then back at Dave’s notes. And then I shivered.

Roe v. Wade, 1973. The Supreme Court recognizes a woman’s right to abortion.

Two years too late. Not four years. Not just too late. Not Dave.

Me.

And what can you say to that? Nothing, except:

“Hazelwood v. Kuhlmeier. . .”

I cleared my throat. “No. She doesn’t like me. But then, the feeling is mutual. So it’s really no big deal.”

It was a big deal, of course. But it’s one of those things you just have to let go, because there’s nothing you can do to change it. And talking about it isn’t going to make it any better. So he kissed me. Upside down. Then he plopped down beside me.

“Who is Mike Poulin?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your mom said she worked for a Mike Poulin. Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“Oh. Uh . . . not really. He’s a well-respected businessman back in Brookfield.” I laughed, because it was a pretty good imitation of my mother. “He was a selectman for a while, too, so . . . well, it’s a big deal for her to be working for him.”

“Oh.” He put his arm around me, then nodded to the wall with my paintings. “I meant what I said, you know. You’re really good. That’s what you should be doing, all the time.”

I didn’t say anything, just snuggled in close and rested my head on his shoulder. We sat there in silence, looking out the window. Just watching the rain.

It was still coming down in buckets.

. . .

Later that night, I lit a dozen tiny candles all over my room, and we made love in my bed, slow and hot and beautiful. The room was filled with shadows. They flickered everywhere; on the ceiling, on the walls, on Brian’s face as it hovered gently over mine. My heart was open wide, filled and overflowing with a thousand fragile emotions I couldn’t even put names to. I stared into his eyes, eyes that were glowing with dark orange light, glowing with love and heat and the reflected flames of the candles, and I was too overwhelmed for words or moans or sounds of any kind. I just gazed at him, at those eyes, his hot breath on my face, as he reached inside me and touched my soul.

And when we were finished, when I was lying in his arms, I looked into his eyes again and I said it. Even though I’d said it to him before, more times than I could count.

“I love you, Brian.”

I said it to him again. Because it was the first time that I’d really meant it.

Chapter 15

Friday was always a busy day. Doctor’s office. Real estate office. Zeke’s house, which was still a lonely mess. Then I spent the rest of the day cleaning camps on the lake.

They weren’t really camps, they were houses. Most of them were once owned by locals, but they’d been bought up by Flatlanders, people From Away. The ones with names like Talbot and Caldwell and Pratt. These families generally fell into two categories: Couples in their late thirties or early forties who had teenaged children and the May-December couples.

The husbands, December and otherwise, spent most of their time on their computers or cell phones, keeping themselves connected to the Real World. Business. Money. Important matters. The May wives planned parties and swam in the lake and tanned their skinny little bodies in the sun; drove their cute little cars into the salon, the one where Laura worked, to have their hair and nails done. And they got together and gossiped. The forty-year-old wives did all of the things the May wives did, but they also set aside precious time from their busy schedules for Business. It wasn’t the same kind of business that their husbands conducted, but it was just as important. It was the business of Staying Young.

They worked hard at it. Exercise and trips into Portland for botox injections. Facials. Plastic surgery. Because they knew all about the May-December couples, and they wanted to make sure that their own husbands didn’t turn their own May secretaries or massage therapists — or a stray waitress — into the second Mrs. Talbot or Caldwell or Pratt. They even eyed their cleaning lady with suspicion, which is why I always made a point to wear my oldest, baggiest jeans and an oversized T-shirt when I worked on the lake. Even though my May days had long since passed me by.

And then there were the teenagers, who were bored out of our fucking minds because they were stuck in the boonies all summer long. They spent their days swimming and sunbathing, driving their parents cars and polluting the air and water with their jet skis and boats. But it was better than how they spent their nights. I knew all about that, more than their parents did, because the teenagers gossiped about each other, too. They talked about sex and money and drinking, even when I was within earshot. Because the lesson they’d already learned is that you can say anything you want to in front of your cleaning lady or your cook or the guy who’s fixing your roof. Because, of course, they’re not people. Not real people. Not the kind who have eyes and ears and brains.

I always ended Friday’s work day with George and Tiffany Kendall. They were the couple from Connecticut who’d bought the Yankee fan’s camp, one of the May-December couples. Sixty-four and twenty-two. He’d left his second wife, a former May who was now an aging June, the previous summer so he could marry Tiffany. And, if he lived long enough, he’d probably replace Tiffany before she turned thirty. If he didn’t live that long, then Tiffany, who’d been a waitress until a year ago, would inherit millions of dollars, several cars, a big house in Connecticut and a nice lakeside camp in a lovely Maine community. But they paid well and on time, so what business was it of mine? And not just me. Brian had been doing work at their place since even before they moved in. They paid him well and on time, too.

I strolled in the side door, the kitchen door, like I did every Friday. Bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, canister vacuum in the other, the hose coiled loosely around my shoulder. Three-thirty. On the dot. The cook, Mrs. Pelletier, watched me walk through the room. She was a very old lady, silent, protective. The kitchen was her space, and I knew it. I nodded, and she nodded right back. Then I pushed gently on the door that led into the dining room. And when I was finished in there, I opened a different door, walked through a hallway and stumbled into the living room. Tiffany was sitting on the sofa reading a book.

“Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Kendall.” It really did irritate me that I had to refer to her that way, but I was very careful not to let it show. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

She looked up and smiled. Like she was actually happy to see me. “Hello, Tess.”

Tess. There were kids Jason had taught who were her age now, and some who were older, who would still call me Mrs. Dyer if they saw me.

“I didn’t realize what time it was.”

She bookmarked her page, then looked up at me again, almost expectantly. I recognized the look and the need behind it. She was lonely. Stuck here in the boonies with nothing to do. Stuck with a husband who was old enough to be her grandfather and no women to talk to except for a flock of Mays, who were shallow and brainless and gold digging, and the older wives, who feared and despised her.

And she wanted a friend.

I knew I shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She’d dug her own grave, and now she had to lie in it. But I felt sorry for her, anyway. Because she wasn’t shallow or brainless, even though she was a gold digger. She wasn’t outside sunbathing or spending her husband’s money on a manicure or gossiping idly with another May about the older wives. She was inside on a sunny day, alone, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. So desperate for company that she was trying to strike up a conversation with the cleaning lady. But there wasn’t much I could do for her. I wasn’t really Tess Dyer while I was here. I was just the cleaning lady, The Help, so I had to wait for her to get the conversation rolling. Even though I wanted to ask her what she thought of the book. Even though I really was curious to know if she loved it, like Jason did, or if, like me, she though it was a repetitive pile of condescending crap.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. My load was heavy and a little awkward, but I didn’t feel right setting it down until I knew which direction things were heading. She finally noticed and said:

“I’m keeping you from your work. I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, Mrs. Kendall.”

She stood up. Smiled again. Hesitated once more, but finally left the room, clutching her book. I heard the back door open and shut and knew she was heading for the back deck. The thing was huge with a gorgeous view of the lake. Brian had built it for them.

I got to work. Living room, master bedroom, master bathroom, guest bedroom. Then my favorite room. I knocked. There was a long pause before I heard come in.

The den. It reminded me of the room where my dad spent most of his time. Manly. Outdoorsy. Dark wood and leather furniture. Mr. Kendall was standing behind his desk. When he saw who it was coming in, he smiled and said, “Why hello, Mrs. Dyer.”

Fortunately, I’d always been a huge fan of irony.

“I thought you were my wife.”

God forbid. I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the horrors that possessing that title must entail. But she’d volunteered for the job, so it was hard to feel too much sympathy for her in that regard. And he was a pleasant enough man. So I smiled back.

He lowered his voice and continued. “Her birthday is next week, and I’ve got her present hidden in here.”

I tried to make my ah sound interested. I must have succeeded because he asked:

“Would you like to see it?”

The answer was no. I didn’t give a shit about the latest diamond covered monstrosity he’d spent too much money on in order to compensate her for services rendered. I wanted to hurry up and finish so I’d have time for a shower before I met Brian at Zeke’s. I couldn’t actually say that, of course, or anything like it. Even if I was stupid enough to put my own job in jeopardy by telling off a client — and I wasn’t that stupid — there was no way I’d risk Brian’s job that way.

Most of the lake husbands, especially the Decembers, had been a little hesitant about hiring Brian. Letting him into their homes, getting all hot and sweaty around their wives. Of course, even if there wasn’t a Tess in his life, he wasn’t stupid enough to put his business in jeopardy just for the thrill of banging a bored, lonely May or even a scared, lonely Botox Beauty. But the husbands didn’t know that. All they knew was that he was a young, good-looking guy and that there were whispers of how his father had behaved in similar circumstances. It’s why Brian always wore his oldest, baggiest jeans and an oversized T-shirt whenever he worked on the lake. Even though it meant he risked getting a farmer’s tan.

George Kendall was the first of the Decembers to give Brian’s work — and his character — a thumbs-up, and it had opened a lot of doors for him. By now, they all knew we were an item, which was actually a point our favor. But it also meant that any mistake I made with my big, fat mouth could risk both of us losing our best-paying clients. Consequently I responded with:

“I’d love to see your wife’s gift.” I even managed a smile.

There was a small bookshelf on the floor behind his desk. He pulled it out a few inches, reached behind it and pulled something out that was covered by a white sheet. Even before he unwrapped it, I could tell what it was. A framed canvas. He looked at it and grinned proudly, just like it was something he’d given birth to. Then he turned it around so I could see. And all I could say was:

“Oh . . . my God.”

Because he had it. He had my painting. Hope. The room spun for a few seconds, and I had to force myself not to speak. Because what I would have said was:

Give it back, give it back now. It’s mine. I’ll work for it, work for free for the rest of the summer. Next summer, too. You can even keep the frame, find another painting for it. Just give me back my fucking orchard.

My orchard. Mine.

I couldn’t say that, of course, because it wasn’t mine. Not anymore. I’d sold it, traded it for one month’s rent and a light bill, because I was too proud and stupid to borrow the money. Now it was George Kendall’s painting. He’d paid for it. Then he’d paid someone to put it inside a God-awful, butt-ugly frame, so he could give it to a bimbo named Tiffany. And I couldn’t even tell him that the signature at the bottom was mine. Because nobody wants to hear that their artwork was painted by the cleaning lady.

I took a deep breath. Two jobs at stake. I had to smile. And it wasn’t too difficult, because, after all, he’d bought my painting. He’d walked into the gallery. Saw it. Liked it. Paid money for it. That was a good thing. And so I smiled.

My reaction seemed to please him. “You like it, don’t you?”

I shivered, tried to ignore the hair that was standing up on the back of my neck. Then I said the only thing I could say:

“It’s lovely.” But still, I had to know. Because I’d never sold a painting before. “Why this particular painting? What was it that drew you to it?”

He smiled again, like he’d been hoping I’d ask. “My wife has been busy decorating the camp, as you know. And the leaves in this painting are almost an exact match to the wallpaper in the living room.”

Wallpaper. Exact match. And that’s when the room started spinning again.

“Um . . . excuse me, sir?”

Wallpaper?

“Uh . . . you . . . it. . .”

No. Shut up. Don’t say anything. Close the mouth. Close it. Right now.

“You look surprised.”

And he looked proud. So proud. I wasn’t sure if it was because he thought he’d surprised me or because he’d managed to find a pretty little painting that exactly matched the goddamn living room wallpaper. Or both. But I managed a nod.

“I know it’s true that men don’t typically pay attention to decorating and colors, but I know how important it is to you ladies.”

You ladies.

Focal point. Just like Kim’s Lamaze class. Remember? Look at his glasses. They’re crooked. Just a little crooked. . .

“So I brought a sample of the wallpaper with me to the gallery and searched until I found the perfect match.”

Green wallpaper. Perfect match. It really was the reason he’d chosen it. Perfect. Match.

Crooked glasses.

I cleared my throat. “Ah.”

It seemed to satisfy him. He covered the painting with its sheet and hid it once more behind the shelf. Then he looked at his watch. I looked at mine.

4:45. Shit.

“I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long, Mrs. Dyer. Why don’t you let this room be until next week. It will keep.”

I looked around. Dust. I hated that. But.

“Okay.”

I turned to leave. Bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, canister vacuum in the other, the hose coiled loosely around my shoulder. He courteously closed the door behind me.

I walked down the hallway, set the vacuum down and knocked on the bathroom door. It was empty. Sink, shower, tub, toilet. Mirror. Floor. Cleaned ‘em all.

Because that’s what I did. What I was good at.

I drove home quickly, but I lingered in the shower. Washed the stench of the day off of my body, watched it swirl down the drain. Then I did my makeup and hair. Just so. Put on my lucky Red Sox T-shirt, just like I did every Friday. There’d be no pinstripes for us to boo at tonight, but Zeke’s would still be busy. That meant fun. And I needed that.

I hopped into my car and drove into town. Sure enough, the place was packed. I walked in through Fran’s instead of going in the back way, so I could say a quick hello to Rachel. She was standing in her usual place behind the counter. And standing in front of it, slimy as ever, was Tim.

This time, they noticed me right away. Rachel rolled her eyes and said, “Hey, Tess.”

“Is Brian here yet?”

Get this stupid fuck out of here before Brian gets here and sees It.

“Nope. He’s not here. Yet.”

Go sit down before my brother gets here and sees you.

But Tim didn’t move, apparently too stupid to get the hint. I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He grinned back.

Oh, I got the hint, alright. I just don’t give a shit.

I could play that game, too. I stretched, loudly and leisurely, then leaned against the counter. “So, Tim. How’s business?”

“Business is booming.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

A month earlier a sixteen-year-old boy and his mother had been arrested. Cultivation and distribution of marijuana. Someone had called in an anonymous tip to the State Police. And when they were released on bail, the boy was sent to a foster home, away from the Bad Influence of his mother. Even though she didn’t have anything to do with the pot. Even though she’d been the only person in New Mills who hadn’t known that her son was growing and selling it in order to save money for college. Because she was too busy working two jobs. Now, of course, she was working no jobs, and the kid wasn’t saving anything towards college. Even though she really was a good mother and the boy really was a good kid. They were both just doing what they thought they had to do in order to get by. Maybe even get ahead.

So now there was only one person in town to see if you wanted to float away on a cloud. If you wanted to escape into a haze. Or if you wanted something a little stronger. A bigger cloud. A hazier haze. Just one place, one-stop shopping, just like a convenience store. All because someone had called in an anonymous tip to the State Police.

Tim leaned in close and whispered, “You interested in–”

“Nope.” Even though, of course, I was. Just not from him.

He stepped back and shrugged. Then he looked at his watch, turned to Rachel and said, “Well, I gotta go.”

“See ya.”

I waited until Fuckwad was safely out the door, then said, “You need to stay away from that asshole.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Rach, I’m not kidding.” Because even though her eyes were clear and bright — right now — I knew that usually they weren’t.

The door gave a loud ding as it opened up behind me. I turned to look, but it wasn’t Brian, just a group of teenagers — locals, of course, not Lake Kids — with hearty hellos for Rachel. She returned their greeting with great gusto. And that was a hint for me.

Go away. Let me talk to my friends in peace.

And so I left her. I entered Zeke’s to the usual chorus that greeted me. Several voices, none of them in sync or in harmony, called out:

“Hey Tess! I’m not a Yankees fan!”

“I know, but you’re all assholes.”

Having taken care of the formalities, I strolled over to the bar. Zeke and my first beer were waiting for me. He looked at my face carefully. “You okay, Tess?”

The answer was no. There was something dancing in the back of my mind, something about fear and love and insecurity and loneliness. For a moment, a vague image of Tiffany Kendall floated before me. Sad. Desperate. Something in her face, especially in her eyes, that spoke of misery and regret. And I wanted to talk to him about it, to see if he could help me figure it out. But the place was just too busy to get into anything real. So I gave him a smile and brought up a different subject, the one I’d wanted to talk to him about for weeks.

“Zeke, we need to do something about your house.”

That surprised him. “What’s the matter with my house?”

I sighed dramatically. “I don’t have enough time to go into the subject in any great detail, so I’ll just highlight the obvious. It’s an old lady’s house. And the last time I checked — well, not that I’ve ever actually checked — you’re not an old lady.”

“Tess . . . it was my mother’s house.”

“I hate to break it to you, but she doesn’t live there anymore. And I never met the woman, but from what I’ve heard, she wasn’t the kind of person who’d insist on making you keep that place a shrine. I mean, do you actually like plastic slip covers and lilac wallpaper?”

I finally got a laugh out of him. “No, but I don’t have the time to do any remodeling.”

“Gimme a break. It’ll take you less than an hour to walk to the hardware store and pick out a couple colors. Less than that if you’re lazy and drive. Then I’ll do the rest.”

“You’re just gonna paint every room in my house.”

“Sure.”

“And how much is that gonna cost me?”

“I’m not gonna charge you. Damn it, Zeke, I’m a cleaning lady, not an interior decorator. You just have to pay for the paint and brushes and the thousands of gallons of wallpaper adhesive remover it’s gonna take to clean up those walls.”

“I’m not letting you do it for free.”

“Oh, come on, Zeke. If you pay me, it won’t be fun, it will be work. And I need something fun to do.”

I needed something. Not fun, really. I needed some color, needed to be surrounded by it, by paint and brushes, to be creating something, even if the canvas was a just a wall. Because I hadn’t painted anything all summer, nothing since the orchard. The lake was still dancing in the back of my mind, but there was still something not quite right about it. Something that went beyond the motorized intrusion. It wasn’t complete somehow, wasn’t ready. And nothing else was speaking to me.

“But I’ll tell you this. I won’t do white or off-white or beige or anything boring like that. Pick some real colors. Something hot.”

I winked at him, and he turned red with embarrassment, then gave me a scowl. But he’d give in. I was right, and he knew it. He needed change, needed lots of it, the kind that didn’t come from a paint can. There wasn’t anything I could do about most of that, but maybe if he wasn’t living in Grannyland, he’d be more inspired to go out and find it. Because it would be a nice change for me to have more than seven coffee mugs to wash every week.

I turned my attention to my beer, nursed it slowly, waiting for Brian. And, finally, a body sat down beside me. I turned, prepared with a smile, but it faded quickly enough. Because it was Ashley. Green-eyed and blonde and young. And for a moment, I wondered how many extra toilets I’d need to scrub before I could afford one or two of those botox treatments.

“Hi, Tess.”

“Hey.”

She had a drink already in hand, some sort of sweet-smelling shit in a tall glass. “Are you waiting for Brian?”

“Yep.”

“That’s what I thought.”

We each guzzled our drinks. She finished before me, but Zeke refilled mine first. Then it was her turn, but with a that’s your last one warning. I looked at her more closely. Her eyes were fuzzy, and she was swaying slightly on her stool. And it was only six-fifteen. She tapped my arm and gazed at me a bit unsteadily.

“Are you really in love with him?”

“Yep.”

“Me, too.”

I sighed. I’d known this day was coming. But of all the places in the world, this bar — filled to capacity with sweaty men and their dates — was the last place I would have chosen for the encounter. And this was not the day I would have chosen, either. At the same time, I had to feel bad for the girl. I’d been her. Spread ‘em for a guy, thinking it was The Real Thing. Turns out you’re nothing more than A Sure Thing. It sucks, but it’s the lesson all women have to learn. So there was nothing I could do for her except try to be nice.

“Ashley, I–”

“You sorta have a fat ass, don’t you?”

“Uh . . . excuse me?”

“But some guys like that. And you’ve got big tits, too, so that evens it all out.”

I looked around the room. Sure enough, her voice had carried above the din of sweaty guys and their dates, even above the ex-ballplayers and pompous sportswriters who were yapping away on the pre-game show, giving their opinions about a game that hadn’t even been played yet.

I turned away from the chuckles and snickers, leaned in closer to her and whispered, “Ashley, why don’t you let me give you a ride home, and we can talk about this later. Or maybe Zeke can call someone for you and–”

She shook her head and shoved me. Hard. I hadn’t been expecting it, naturally, and fell right off the stool; barely managed to keep myself from landing flat on my big, fat ass. Even worse, I’d been holding onto my beer, and it spilled all down the front of me.

I set the mug down on the bar and hopped back onto my stool, because there was more to come. I knew that much. And since we’d already caused a scene, I figured I might as well get it out of the way. It would be better than having to endure another one later on. I took a deep breath, turned to face her and waited for the rest.

And she brought it. She rambled on and on about her magical night with Brian. Zeke tried to shush her, as though I didn’t already know, as though everyone in the bar didn’t already know; but she wouldn’t stop. She told us all about it, painted it in beautiful, rosy colors. And when she was done, I felt more sorry for her than ever. Because even though she hadn’t said it, I knew. Just by the way she talked about It. About Him.

Brian had been her first. Because she’d had a crush on him — and in her mind, it was love — since she was just a girl. She had loved him forever. She was thin and blonde and pretty, and she could have had any number of guys if she’d wanted them. But she’d waited, saved herself. For Brian. And to him, it had been nothing special. Neither was she. It was close to being the saddest thing I’d ever heard and, for a fleeting moment, I wanted to track the bastard down and smack the shit out of him. But then she said:

“You know, one of these days he’s gonna wake up and realize that he needs something more than just big tits, you fat old bitch!”

I swallowed and took a very deep breath. “Okay, Ashley. I think–”

“He’s gonna get tired of you, and when he does, he’ll know where to go. I know what he really wants. And–”

“Oh, please, little girl. You don’t know shit. I was playing with dicks when you were still playing with dolls.”

She muttered something in response, but I wasn’t listening. I leaned over the bar, grabbed a handful of napkins and tried to wipe the beer bubbles off my big, fat tits. It didn’t help. My lucky shirt was still soaked. And I knew what it meant, even though I’d never admit it to another living soul. The Sox were jinxed for the rest of the season.

So I reached for my purse, rifled around inside and pulled out a big bill. My emergency fund. Then I finally looked up at Zeke. He looked amused and worried. Funny how guys could be both at the same time, even the nice ones. He saw the money in my hand and waved me off.

“No, you’re all set, Tess.”

“Fuck you. I’m paying for my beer. And . . . whatever her bill is, too.” I dropped the money onto the bar, walked away before he could say anything else. I kept my head held high, like Wronged Heroines are supposed to do.

And I ran right into Brian.

He was leaning against the counter talking to Rachel. He looked tired and sweaty, brown with dirt and sun, his hair pulled back into the ridiculous ponytail he wore whenever he worked outside in the heat. But whatever the conversation was about, I could see that it was, at worst, a neutral subject, because they were both smiling, even before they caught sight of me. And when they did, it gave them both a big laugh.

“What happened to you, babe?”

I resisted the urge to start the story this way:

Once upon a time, you popped a girl’s cherry . . . and broke her heart.

“Oh . . . I just had a little accident.”

He laughed again, but I still didn’t smack him. Even though, really, he deserved it. “I guess this means we should get supper to go?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you head on home, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind–”

“Nope. Go on. You look exhausted.”

Rachel called back the order without having to ask what we wanted. We always got the same thing; veggie Italian and a steak sandwich. Every Friday. Brian paid and said, “See ya, Rach.” Then he gave me a quick kiss and headed out.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I turned to Rachel. “I meant what I said about Tim. Stay away from him.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Too late.”

I had figured. Still, I’d been hoping I had figured wrong.

“Tess, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not into the shit he’s selling. I swear. I’m just having a little fun with him.”

“That’s not the kinda guy you have a little fun with. Damn it, you’re young and pretty and funny and smart. You deserve so much better than . . . that.”

“Look around. There’s not a whole hell of a lot to choose from.”

She was right. Then I peeked over her shoulder. Fry cook. Blond. Tall. Cute. “There you go.”

She looked behind her and smirked. “That’s Donny. Been there. Done that.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, do it again. Anything’s better than that other fuckwad. Besides, why do you have to do anyone? Just . . . go out into the world and do some living. There’s so much more out there for you than just . . . this. You could go to school or–”

But I didn’t get any farther. The double doors swung open, and Rachel and I both looked over. Ashley, barely vertical, was being helped out by one of the guys who was an asshole but not a Yankee fan. He was wearing a big smile. And a wedding ring.

“Hey!” Stern voice. Mean Tess. I was on a roll. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But–”

“Nope. You put her in my car.”

Ashley opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to focus, but when she finally did, she sputtered, “You’re not bringing me home, bitch.”

I ignored her, glared up at the married asshole and repeated, “Put her. In my car.”

He glared right back.

“If you wanna screw around on your wife, be my guest. But you’re not doin’ it with a girl who’s too drunk to walk. So put her skinny little ass in my car. Right now.”

I said it with conviction. As though I was six feet tall instead of just a beer-soaked shrimp and could actually back up what I was saying with some muscle. But he must have seen something in my face. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe they were cold and hard like my mother’s were. Or maybe he just had an attack of conscience. Whatever it was, he wavered, then gave in.

“Fine.”

He dragged Ashley out the door. I watched out the window and nodded when I saw him heading for my car, then turned my attention back to Rachel. “Is my supper ready?”

She headed for the kitchen, laughing to herself, and when she came back, she was laughing even harder. She set the bag down on the counter and said, “Donny wants me to tell you that Ashley’s full of shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“He said you got curves, not a fat ass, and that guys really do like that.”

I looked past Rachel, into the kitchen. “Hey, Donny!”

He looked up from his fry vat. “Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome, Tess.”

By the time I got to the car, Horny Disappointed Man was buckling Ashley’s seatbelt. I hoped that’s all he’d been doing, but it was too late to do anything about it now. When he saw me coming, he slammed the door. He was horny and pissed now. And I didn’t care.

“Go home and fuck your wife instead.”

He gave me the finger and walked back inside.

I got into my car and let my head fall back against the headrest. Ashley glared at me and repeated her objection. “I don’t want you to bring me home. I want Andy.”

I started the car. “No, Ashley. You don’t.”

I drove to her apartment and plopped her down on the couch. Partly because it was the nearest soft surface, but mostly because I didn’t want go into her bedroom. Didn’t want to see the bed where Brian had fucked her. I tiptoed into the bathroom, rummaged through her linen closet, grabbed a couple towels and a bucket and placed them within puking distance of the couch. I locked the door on my way out and wondered if she’d remember who her rescuer was when she woke up in the morning. If it would make her hate me even more than she already she did. And I wondered how much longer it would take her to get over Brian. Pretty soon, she’d hate him, too, even more than she hated me. It was the natural progression. Love, hate, sadness. Learn the lesson. Move on.

Brian was in the shower when I finally made it home. I opened the bathroom door a crack and peeked inside. His tall silhouette was fuzzy through the frosted glass door. He was washing his hair, singing to himself, happy as he could be. Naturally. What the hell was there for him to worry about?

I closed the door silently behind me, leaned back against it, inhaled the hazy steam. Fought back a raw, sharp fang of fear. I’d been fighting it for a long time, long before tonight. It had been there, poised and ready to sink in, since our first night together. I watched him still as he poured more shampoo into his hands. It seemed sweet and funny that he really did lather, rinse and then repeat; sweeter still that I was probably the only other person in the world who knew that he did. And I was overcome by a sudden, tired, primitive urge, a cold, desperate need to claim him. To mark him.

Mine.

Because I’d had it with all the cute, young chickies hanging around him. Not just Ashley. All of them. The nameless faces that stared at him, at us. They were everywhere. Just like vultures. Waiting for him to get tired of me. To get it out of his system. They’d had their turn. He was mine now, goddamn it.

Mine.

I peeled off my clothes, opened the shower door a couple of inches and watched him scrub his wavy, dark hair. His eyes were closed, his chest and stomach and legs covered in white, foamy suds. He was still singing some song I didn’t recognize. Even his voice was gorgeous. Deep and soft, echoing against the stark, white tile.

He finally opened his eyes. “Enjoying the show?”

“Sure am. How was your day, anyway? I never did ask.”

He grunted and rinsed out the last of the shampoo. “Long day.”

I stepped inside, and he smiled.

“It’s getting better all the time, though.”

I didn’t say a word, just put my arms around his neck and pressed my body against his. Let mine get slick with water and soap and leftover shampoo; got an instant reaction from him. And it was my turn to smile.

I stood on tiptoe, took his face in my hands, pulled his lips onto mine and kissed him. Slowly. Full of fire and passion and tongue, the way he always kissed me, the way I loved it. He wrapped his arms around me, enveloped me in a warm, wet embrace, and I lingered at his mouth. Kissed him forever. Then I traced the line of his jaw with my tongue, gently nibbled on his neck. He pulled me even closer, pressed me tightly against his chest, and I could feel his heart hammering against me.

I slid my body down his, slithering slowly out of his grasp in the hot, steady downpour, kissed the muscles of his chest, let the hair tickle my face. Because I still loved that, more than just about anything in the world. Then I continued my journey downward, paused at his stomach, kissed it, too. Lightly, gently. Gave him temporary shelter between my breasts while I glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, mouth open. Dreamy. Off in another world.

He really was too beautiful.

I smiled, dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth. He cried out suddenly, just like it had surprised him, even though he’d been expecting it. Even though he’d known what he was in for the second I’d stepped into the shower. I started slowly, because it’s how he liked it, and his hands found the back of my head, but not to guide me. He didn’t even try, knew he didn’t need to. I could always tell by his breathing and his moans when he wanted me to speed up or to slow down. He just liked to touch me, loved to run his fingers through my hair, caress my neck, my face. To feel my mouth while it was going down on him. . .

He let out a quick, sharp breath. The muscles in his legs and abdomen locked, relaxed and then tensed up again. He was getting close. I knew what he wanted before he said it, knew exactly where he wanted to be, where he wanted to end, because I’d made him want it, was making him want it right now, even more, by rubbing them gently against his thighs. I waited anyway, made him say it, and when he did, it was more a command than a request. Desperate, vulgar, hoarse, rough, and I let him go. Took him in my hands, shook my head as he reached down, trying to take over. I knew he was looking down, that he was watching, could feel his eyes on me as he gave me exactly what I wanted, even though he didn’t know it.

My name in his deep, clear, ringing voice.

I smiled as he repeated it, as it echoed against the shower walls. I knew that he wanted me to look up at him, to look into his eyes while it was happening. But I couldn’t. I looked down at the floor of the shower instead, even after he was finished. Watched the drain as the water collected there, swirled slowly around, then disappeared; watched as the cycle repeated a few more times. I couldn’t let him see my face. Not yet. I had to wait, just a few more seconds.

I knew my smile would give me away.

You’re mine, goddamn it.

Mine.

Chapter 16

The last Saturday in July.

I woke up to golden sunlight streaming in through the windows. Another beautiful summer morning. I stretched slowly, then rolled over to snuggle in close to Brian. To watch his peaceful, sleeping face — a face that would be covered in the dark, early-morning whiskers that I loved so much. To run my fingers through the hair on his chest while I waited for him to open his eyes. Just like I did every Saturday morning. Then he’d smile and kiss me, and we’d make love. Just like every Saturday morning.

Except that he wasn’t there.

It was the first time I’d had to face the morning alone in over two months, and I couldn’t remember if we’d spent the night in my bed or his. I looked at the clock. 7:56 in bold red numbers. Red. Brian’s room.

I kicked off the covers, slipped on his favorite T-shirt and staggered into the kitchen. He’d left a note propped against his coffee maker, right where I’d be sure to see it. Short and to the point.

Be back later.

So I drank my coffee, then spent the morning puttering in the garden. Running my fingers through the cool, dark soil, tossing aside errant weeds, removing spent blossoms from my marigolds and petunias. Summer had been kind to them, and they glowed their appreciation in hues of gold and fuschia, alongside spiky red salvia and delicate purple pansies. But behind them all stood a highbush blueberry that hadn’t fared so well. It was a gift from Laura’s garden; supposedly old enough to produce fruit, but barely holding onto its leaves. I gave the thing a reproachful shake of my head, then stood up to brush the dirt off my hands. And that, of course, was the moment Laura chose to show up for a visit. It had been nearly a week since I’d seen her. Brian and I spent every Sunday afternoon at the Burkes’ house, eating pretzels and drinking beer and losing all our spare change to Jeff at penny poker.

She gave the plant a thorough inspection and said, “I think it’s your soil.”

“My soil?”

“Blueberries need acidic soil.”

Then she gave me a brief lesson about balancing the pH levels in my soil that went right over my head. I nodded along anyway, just like I understood every word, and when it was over, I promised her that I’d visit the greenhouse in the fall to get some sulfur and peat moss. Even though I knew I probably wouldn’t. Then there was silence, and it was my turn to fill it.

“Uh . . . if you came to see Brian, he’s not home.”

“I know. He’s at my house.”

“He is?”

She didn’t seem surprised that I hadn’t known where he was. “Jeff is helping him fix his carburetor.”

“I thought it was his alternator that was acting up.”

“Everything on that truck is acting up.”

“Ah.”

That left us to stumble through the land of Small Talk. We exhausted the subjects of Zeke’s walls, Brian’s upcoming birthday — less than a month away — and the proper conditioner to use on color-treated hair before she finally worked up the nerve to bring up the real reason she’d come over to see me.

“Tess, I need to ask a really big favor.”

I nodded. That was obvious.

“It’s about Cassidy.”

Long pause. “Uh huh.”

“My mother’s been watching her during the week for a while now, but we’re going to stop that. She said some pretty rough things yesterday and . . . well, I don’t want Cassidy exposed to some of my mother’s opinions.”

“I’ll watch her for you. What days do you need me?”

She hesitated, so I gave her a smile. Because she needed to know.

This is no big deal. I don’t even have to think it over.

She smiled back. “Tuesday and Thursday. I work nine till three-thirty.”

“Perfect. All my Tuesday and Thursday jobs are in the evening.” But she knew that. Either because she had a good memory or because she’d talked to Brian already.

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. If Cassidy doesn’t mind hanging out with me twice a week.”

“She’s actually looking forward to it.”

There was no accounting for taste. “Then we’re all set.”

Almost. She wanted to pay, and of course I said no, so we decided on the barter system. The hair. She looked at it the way I always looked at Zeke’s lilac wallpaper, and that’s when I knew that when she’d brought up the subject of conditioner for color-treated hair, it wasn’t as random as I’d assumed. After we were done bargaining, she lingered. Silent. Still upset. So I asked, “What happened with your mom?”

Another silence, one that was so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer the question. But then she asked, “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

It wasn’t exactly the direction I’d expected the conversation to take.

“Sixteen.”

“I was seventeen.” Then she told me her First Time story. Teenage Love. Visions of a thing that is full of Beauty and Fireworks and Romance. Instead, of course, she got Reality. Jeff, well meaning and kind, but with nervous, fumbling hands. There was a little bit of pain, and then it was over. There was relief and guilt and then . . . Cassidy. But still there was Jeff and love, enough of it to keep them going, enough, even, to thrive on.

And, from her mother, a lifetime of If Only You Had Listened To Me. Judgment and condemnation. Lectures about Sin that Never Washes Clean, lectures that never ended, even after years and years. Even when what she’d done didn’t feel like a sin anymore.

I knew what she meant about mothers who just couldn’t let it go, but I didn’t say so. I just said, “Laura, your mother is full of shit. You’re a good person. And . . . you’re a good mom. That girl you’ve got . . . she’s an awesome kid. So whatever it is you’re doing, just keep right on doing it.”

She actually burst into tears and collapsed on my shoulder. It was the first time anyone had ever done that, and I just stood there, patting her head, trying not to get dirt in her hair, hoping it was what I was supposed to do. If it was enough. It must have been, because it didn’t take her long to get control of herself. She thanked me, wiped her eyes on the back of her hands — carefully, so as not to smear her mascara — then looked at me, expectantly. I knew what it was she was waiting for. She’d opened up, and that meant it was my turn. But it wasn’t going to happen.

Fortunately, Brian picked that moment to come home. Unfortunately, he was in a rotten mood. He slammed his truck door, but managed to fake a smile as he walked over to us. He gave me a quick kiss and nodded a hello to Laura. She nodded back, then said:

“Your truck sounds a little better.”

“Yeah, a little. The carburetor was running too rich. It was bogging down the engine.”

I said, “Ah,” just like I knew what that meant. Laura looked like she actually did, which surprised me. She lingered for a few more minutes, gave Brian a quick hug — which surprised me even more — then left.

He followed me upstairs to my apartment, stomping his feet all the way. He slammed the door behind him, then landed hard on the couch while I washed the dirt off my hands. When I was done, I sat down beside him, skipped over the why did you take off without letting me know where the hell you were going? lecture and went straight to:

“Bad day?” He only nodded and rubbed his hands on his jeans so furiously, I thought he might catch on fire. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “I didn’t sleep good last night, and you were sound asleep this morning, so I thought I’d go see Rachel for a little while.”

“How was she?”

“She’s fucking insane. That’s how she is.”

And he told me all about it. He’d caught her home with Fuckwad. And as I listened, I nodded sympathetically and held his hand, just like a Supportive Girlfriend who had absolutely No Prior Knowledge of his sister sleeping with a drug dealer named Tim would do. Until he said:

“He’s thirty-five, Tess. Thirty-five!”

My first thought was, He looks older than that. Rough living sure takes a toll.

Then, of course, there was the other thing.

“Wait a fucking minute. You say thirty-five like it’s just this side of senility.”

He amended his position. “She’s still a teenager, for Christ’s sake! He’s been married twice already, and he’s got a daughter who’s fifteen. Fifteen. That’s only four years younger than Rachel.” He shuddered. “I told the pervert to keep his fucking hands off her and to stay the hell away. So he took off, and Rachel got all pissed. She told me to get the hell out of her apartment and stay the hell out of her life and to leave her the fuck alone. I wanted to go out and find the sick bastard so I could kick his stupid pussy ass, but I went to Jeff’s to cool down instead.”

“Smart move.”

“Maybe. But what the hell am I gonna do with her?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Like it or not, she’s not a little kid anymore. And if you keep coming down so hard on her about it, you’re just gonna push her away. She’ll wise up eventually. Or this guy will move onto someone new.”

“Wow. That’s reassuring.”

I shrugged, pulled a loose string from my shorts and tucked it away in my pocket. “I’m just being realistic. You can’t live her life for her, Brian. She’s got to make her own mistakes.”

“No, she doesn’t. And . . . God, I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” He stretched, suddenly restless, bounced fitfully up and down for a minute. Then he said, “I feel like dancing. Wanna dance?”

His sudden change surprised me. “Dance?”

“Yeah. I’m going fucking insane just sitting here.”

“You know I can’t dance.”

He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me and smiled. “Come on.”

I shook my head. “I can’t dance.”

He hopped up, yanked me to my feet and pulled me towards the stereo.

“Brian. . .”

He ignored me, and said, “I know you don’t have any good music up here, so. . .” Then he turned the radio on and flipped through the stations until he found what he wanted: a loud pop song with an obnoxious beat. “Okay. Ready?”

“Nope.”

He grabbed my hand anyway and pulled me close. The music seemed to fill him, inhabit him, possess him. He was both graceful and funky, like he’d been built to dance. And I couldn’t figure out what the hell to do with myself.

He sighed. “You know, it might help if you’d relax a little.”

“Oh, I am. I’m super relaxed.”

“No, I mean for real. Just listen to the music.”

“I hate this kind of music.”

“That’s only because you think you can’t dance.”

“I can’t dance.”

“Yes, you can.” He lifted me up into his arms and spun me around. “I can see it in there, Tess. It’s just bustin’ to come out.”

“No, Brian. It really isn’t.”

“Come on, it’s easy. It’s. . .” He stopped the spinning and grinned. “It’s just like sex.”

I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist. “Then let’s have sex.”

“Later.”

I smiled and pulled off my shirt.

“That’s not gonna work.”

And my bra.

“Tess, you’re not playing fair.”

“I know.” Then I kissed him. And the dance lesson was over before it had begun.

#

Later that evening, we sat out on the lawn, waiting for the sunset. The world was still and peaceful; the crickets already chirping, the scent of pine needles heavy on the light evening breeze, the sky just beginning to glow.

And that’s when an unfamiliar car crept up the driveway.

It was a big boat of a car. The paint was chipping and rusted, one headlight was out, and the red paint of the driver’s side door didn’t match the green of rest of the vehicle. It came to a stop almost directly in front of the porch steps. I could distinguish that the driver was a man, but he was looking down at something on the empty seat beside him so I couldn’t see his face.

“Do you know who it is?”

“Nope.” Brian stood up, stretched, then walked towards the car, and I followed close behind. Finally, the door opened, and a fairly tall man got out. He closed the door and turned to face us. Brian stopped in his tracks, and I gasped out loud. Even with only the orangey light of the sunset for illumination, I could tell who he was.

“Hello, Brian.”

Brian said nothing. Just stood unsteadily, gaping at his father.

Mr. LaChance smiled at me, took a few steps forward and said, “You must be Tess. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I nodded. Wondered who it was who had told him a lot about me. And I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. Brian looked just like him, except for the eyes. His father’s were hazel. Van Dyke brown must have come from Wendy. . .

“I’m Rick LaChance.”

The words roused Brian at last. He stepped between me and his father. “Don’t you fucking go near her,” he warned. “Tess, get in the house.”

“But–”

He glared at me and I took a step back. I knew the anger was directed at his father, but it still scared the shit out of me.

“I didn’t come to upset you, Brian. I just wanted to see you. To see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing great. Never been better. Now get the fuck out of here.”

Rick pressed on. “I just meant . . . I know it’s probably been a rough day for you.”

Brian folded his arms. “You think today’s been rough? Why would you think that?”

“Well . . . it’s the day your mom died.”

“Oh my God. Brian. . .” Why hadn’t he told me?

He ignored me and took a step towards his father, who didn’t have the sense to back up. “You remembered? Holy shit, how’d you manage that?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh wait, I know! It’s the day she made you a free man, so of course you remember. It must be like a birthday to you, right? If I knew you were coming, I woulda got you a gift.”

“Brian, I–”

“Fuck you. Just get outta here.” He turned towards the house, and as he did, he bumped into me. “Goddamn it, I told you to get in the house! I don’t want you out here with him!”

Before I could say a word, his father said, “Brian, wait. Don’t walk away. Please.”

Brian sighed and turned back around. His hands were clenched into two tight fists.

“I came here tonight . . . I want to tell you that I’m sorry. I know I let you down. I was a horrible father and a worse husband, and I’m . . . I came here to. . .” He took a deep, shaky breath. “I want you to know that I’ve been making some changes. I quit drinking and–”

“Oh, sure. You quit drinking. Of course.” He started back towards Rick, slowly. “You’re taking it one day at a time. Doing those twelve steps. How many days has it been this time? Dad? Huh? How many steps?”

“Brian . . . you. . .”

“Oh yeah, I know all about it, all about that A.A. bullshit. You’re powerless over the demon liquor, aren’t ya? Yeah, I know.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “I know. You poor, poor man. It’s not your fault, right? The booze made you do it.”

His father finally backed away, but Brian kept right on going.

“So what step are you on? Are you still trying to get in touch with your Higher Power? Didja find Jesus or something?” He laughed. “Oh yeah, you must’ve done that by now, because that’s an easy one. Say a few ‘hallelujahs’ and ‘praise the Lords’ and you’re all set. Ready to move onto the next step. You’re good at the easy stuff, aren’t ya? So why would you come here? Why would you wanna come and see me?” He pretended to mull it over. “You wouldn’t do it on your own, because that’s a hard one, and you’re nothing but a fucking pussy, aren’t ya? Dad.”

The mockery was starting to have an effect. His father looked surprised and hurt, which only encouraged Brian to keep at it.

“And that means you got yourself an idiot sponsor to tell you what to do, and he must’ve made you come here. And why would he do that? Let me think. What step could it be?” He started counting on his fingers. “Moral inventory. Well, that wouldn’t take long, would it?” He laughed again. “Jesus, do you even have any morals?”

I walked over and pulled on his arm. “Brian, come on. . .”

He shook off my hand. “No, Tess. This man has the balls to come to my house, on today of all days, and expects me to just welcome him back into my life with open fucking arms? Just forgive and. . .”

He snorted and turned suddenly to face his father once more.

“Oh my God, are you here to make amends? You made it all the way to step nine? You actually hung in there that long this time? Holy shit, it’s time to celebrate. Tess, quick! Run in the kitchen and get this man a drink!”

He laughed loudly, so loudly that it echoed all around us, through the trees and against the house and the shed. He kept at it for so long that he actually had to hold onto his stomach. It scared me and irritated his father, who finally broke.

“It’s real easy for you to stand there judging me, isn’t it, Son? I’m trying to start over. I’m trying to fix what I’ve done wrong. I left you, yes, and that was wrong and I’m sorry–”

Brian’s laughter stopped.

“Sorry? What good does sorry do? Sorry does me no fucking good.”

His father continued as though Brian hadn’t interrupted. “–but I could’ve done worse by you. At least I left you with a home and a good business to run. You didn’t have to start from scratch like I had to do, like I’ve got to do again. You never had to do that, Brian, so you don’t have a fucking clue how hard that is. You had it all given to you.”

“Given to me?” Brian’s anger finally boiled over, and I went suddenly cold, my legs shaking, rooted to the ground. “You gave me nothing! Fuck you! I did better than start from scratch! I had to start from a fucking hole that you dug!” He wiped some spit from his mouth. “I had to start off in debt because you spent all our money on booze and whores. Drinking on the job and losing jobs because of it. Slacking off and doing fucking piss-poor work! Or not working at all, spending all your time screwing around. Fucking your friends’ wives, fucking your workers’ wives, fucking your clients’ wives, just because you could!”

“Brian, please. . .”

“‘Brian, please.’ Fuck you! You know, Mom knew you’d leave us. She said you wouldn’t stick around, and she was right. You took off like a fucking coward, and that’s what I had to start with. That’s what I had given to me, you fucking asshole.”

Brian took another step, shoved his father, shoved him hard, but his father didn’t back away.

“You know, I might not have much, but I worked for what I’ve got! I had to. I didn’t have a choice. I have to work twice as hard as everyone else because most of ‘em are still afraid I’m gonna end up just like you.”

He shoved his father again, this time hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps.

“What do you know about work? You don’t know shit. I coulda run away, too, you know. I coulda run away and left Rach in a fucking foster home and had a life of my own, but I didn’t. I did my job and yours too, raising your kid while you were out getting shit-faced and fucked. ‘I had everything handed to me.’ Who the hell do you think you are, coming to my house and saying that shit to me? Fuck you!”

He had to pause to take a breath, and his father took a turn, his voice shaking. “I know you did a good job with Rachel. I stopped in to see her tonight at Fran’s, and she said–”

He had finally done it, finally pushed the wrong button, and even before Brian snapped, I winced, knowing what was coming. He grabbed his father by the shirt, dragged him over to his car, threw him against it and punched him in the jaw.

“You stay the fuck away from Rachel!” He punched him again. “You’ve done enough to her!” He shook him hard a couple of times, then threw him back against the car. “You’ve done enough! You know what she’s doing? Huh? She’s out there fucking up her life, fucking guys who are old enough to . . . she’s just looking for a . . . God damn you, you fucking bastard!”

He hit him again and again and again, wouldn’t stop, no matter how loudly I screamed. I grabbed his shirt and tried to pull him back. “Brian, stop it! You’re gonna kill him!”

He shook me loose, gave his dad another shove, punched him three more times, then backed off. He stumbled, righted himself, then brushed his hands off on his pants.

His father stood up, too, stunned. He wiped his face with his hands, then his shirt, covering it so I couldn’t see exactly how much damage Brian had done to him.

“I mean it.” He pointed viciously at his father. “You fucking stay away from Rachel. Because I’ll kill you if you ever go near her again.” He grabbed my hand and marched into the house as his dad got into his car and drove away.

I sat down at the kitchen table, shaking violently, too horrified to think, let alone say anything, but wishing Brian would. Instead, he walked to the sink and started washing his hands without a word. I gasped out loud as the water turned red.

“Oh my God! You’re bleeding!”

He shook his head. “It’s not my blood.”

I looked down at my own hand, the one Brian had grabbed on the way into the house, and jumped out of the chair.

He turned around, annoyed. “What the hell is your problem?”

I had never been a witness to an actual fight before, not a real one with yelling and fists and blood. It had left me with a sick, hollow fluttering in my stomach. Made me feel as powerless as a kid. But not so powerless that I was going to stand there and let him take his anger out on me.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Great. Go for it.”

I shoved the chair under the table and marched towards the door, but before I got there, he switched the faucet off and said, “Tess, wait.” He wiped his hands gingerly on a towel. “Please don’t leave.”

He came over and put his arms around me. He held me silently until I stopped shaking, then said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. And I’m sorry you had to be here for that.” He kissed the top of my head, backed up and looked down at my face. “Are you okay? I mean, are you hurt or anything?”

I shook my head. “I’m not hurt. But I need to clean up.” I showed him my bloody hand, and he shrank back from it. I walked around him to the sink without a word, and he took the seat I had just vacated. I washed up, dried my hands on the same towel he’d used and sat across from him. I really didn’t know what to say, and I wanted, so badly, to say something that might help him, even if it was just a little.

I closed my eyes, tried to imagine what life must have been like for Brian after his mom died; how I would have felt if it had been me. Stuck, without any real guidance, to raise someone else’s kid, to be suddenly responsible for her welfare and happiness. I tried to imagine it, tried to feel it, the injustice and unfairness of it all. Losing his mom, having his childhood ripped away, his life ripped away. So burdened with responsibility that he didn’t take any time or pleasure for himself. Living in constant fear that he was going to screw up, hoping that every decision he made was the right one, so he didn’t mess Rachel’s life up the way his had been. And then having to watch, helpless, as she did it to herself.

I opened my eyes. He was sliding the salt shaker from one hand to the other, his eyes fixed on its movements. I cleared my throat. “I wish I knew what to say.”

He blinked a few times, like he was waking up from a trance. “What?”

I felt stupid, but repeated, “I just wish I knew what to say. Something helpful. I–”

He pushed the salt shaker back to the middle of the table. “I gotta get out of here for awhile.”

I reached for his hand. It was swollen. “Where are we going?”

He shook his head. “No, I need to take a drive. I want — I need to clear my head.” He stood up and got his keys from the peg on the wall, shook his head and said, “It’s not you. It’s not you, I swear. I love you, and I’m sorry. I just . . . I just need to be alone right now. Just for a little while.” He walked out and closed the door quietly behind him.

I stared out the window long after he drove away, waiting. As though he’d only gone to the store for milk and was coming right back. Listened to the clock on the wall. Ticking. I finally turned away, looked around the kitchen for something to do, something to clean. There was nothing. Even the supper dishes were done.

I caught sight of the small table in the corner of the living room. Sitting on top of it was a framed five-by-seven picture of Brian and Rachel at the lake. I’d seen it dozens of times, but I picked it up and really looked at it. Brian had told me he’d been about seventeen, Rachel about eleven, and that Jeff had taken it at a party one of their friends was having. Laura was already pregnant with Cassidy, and he’d said that it was the last real fun time they’d all had together as kids. But I saw something different.

It had been a party for a bunch of teenagers, but Brian wasn’t there with a date. He was there with Rachel. She was wearing a pink bathing suit, holding a bright red beach ball, and the camera had caught her laughing. Brian was dressed in a tank top and shorts, his arm around her. Stiff. Tired. Looking straight at the camera. It put a sad, clear face on what he had gone through for her, what he had given up.

I put the picture back on the table. He needed to pack it away. Rachel wasn’t eleven anymore. But I knew, picture or no, that twenty years from now, he’d probably still see her as the little girl in the pink bathing suit.

I walked quietly into his room, like he was in there and sleeping and I might wake him up; fell onto his bed, buried my face deep in his pillow. His scent lingered there, and it released a thousand pieces of memory. Mischief and laughter and sex and love. I hugged the pillow hard, squeezed it, so tightly that my fingers cramped; just like the scared, lonely ache in my heart.

I bolted upright, suddenly needing to feel completely wrapped up in him. I dropped to the floor on my belly, peeked under the bed and — sure enough — found one of his T-shirts and a pair of his old sweatpants. I stripped naked, threw my own clothes onto the bed, put his on. They still smelled like him, just like his pillow. I grabbed the extra blanket from his closet and ran outside, spread it out on the lawn and lay down on my back.

The sky was twinkling with neon stars, the moon just a thin, curvy sliver above me. It looked like a smile, like the cat from Alice in Wonderland. I tried to concentrate on it instead of thinking about Brian, but it didn’t work. He was out on the roads, driving too fast and not paying attention. Or he was out doing something stupid. Maybe drinking too much and taking out his frustration on some innocent, unsuspecting drunk in a bar. But being surrounded by the smell of him was vaguely comforting, and I stared at the sky, at the moon, willing him to come back home to me.

Even at such a late hour, our road, cut off from view by the thick growth of maples and pines, was a busy one. Mostly brainless, horny Lake Kids driving their parents’ expensive cars, leaving their expensive rubber behind on the back roads because they were bored with all the pretty toys they had at home. And why not? Mommy and Daddy could afford to fix the cars and replace the tires. They probably figured it was better than having their Ivy League-bound dearies join the local teenagers in the old gravel pit on the other side of town, smoking, snorting and injecting a wide variety of poisons into their bodies. They knew, of course, that some of those drugs were purchased with money made from selling items that had been stolen from their own precious camps. What they didn’t know, however, was that most of the money came from their own precious little dearies who were more than willing to pay for blowjobs and more from those lowly local girls — and sometimes guys — who were desperate to escape from their own boredom and frustration. The kind that came from not having any pretty toys.

I lay silently, hoping to hear Brian’s truck among the noise. It took another hour or so before I did, and even with everything weighing on my mind, I was proud of the fact that I recognized it well over a mile away. I didn’t move as he pulled into the driveway, or even as he climbed out of his truck and walked towards the house. He stopped when he noticed me, sprawled out on the lawn in his clothes, and asked, with no trace of amusement:

“What are you doing?”

“I’m staring at the sky. What’s it look like?”

He shook his head and looked me over from head to toe. “You’ve got bare feet.” He said it as though it was the oddest thing about my appearance.

“Yep.”

He kicked his own shoes off and sat down beside me, crossed his legs and looked up at the sky. He sat like that for a few minutes and then pointed up. “Look at that. The moon looks like the Cheshire Cat.”

“I know.” I sat up and scooted over to him, and he put his arm around me.

“I’m sorry I acted like that. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

“It’s okay.”

He held me tighter. “No, it’s not.”

We sat quietly for a long time, looking at the sky, at the stars, at the grinning moon, and I finally worked up the nerve to ask, “What was she like?”

He was silent for a long time, and I thought I’d made a mistake. But at last he said, “She was a lot of fun. She was really strict about some things, but mostly she was fun. She loved the water. She was always taking us swimming at the lake, back when you could still get onto it. We used to pretend we were on a warm sandy beach, like we were in California or Australia.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. And she loved music. She loved to sing. I mean, she sang all the time, all over the place. Around the house and even out in public, which is actually kind of embarrassing when you’re a little kid.” We both laughed. “But she was young, too. I mean she was only around my age, maybe a little older than me, when she got sick. She was only twenty nine when she died. But before that, before she was sick, it was like . . . she was just so filled up with something, with . . . I don’t know, life and love and just this . . . energy or excitement, or whatever, and she just had to let it out or else she’d burst.”

He looked up at the Cheshire moon and squeezed my shoulder.

“My father didn’t care about any of that. He probably never noticed.” He shook his head. “He didn’t love her, you know. He only married her because he got her pregnant. With me. And he treated her like shit. The son of a bitch was too busy screwing other women to bother with taking care of his wife. ‘Cause that’s all he does, Tess. It’s all about him, all about what he wants. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. He just hurts everyone. It’s all he knows how to do.”

He took in a sharp breath, and I thought he was going to cry. I looked at his face, but he was still dry-eyed, still staring up at the sky.

“You know . . . she never knew what it felt like to be with someone who was in love with her. And she deserved that, Tess. She deserved someone better than him. She–”

His shoulders convulsed suddenly, and I tried to put my arms around him, but he shook his head, held out one hand to keep me away and covered his face with the other.

“Brian. . .”

I crawled in front of him, knelt above him and took his head in my hands. He finally stopped resisting and collapsed against me, threw his arms around my waist, buried his head in my chest, sobbing. Neither of us said a word, because we didn’t have to. I held him close to me as he cried, didn’t let go even long after he’d stopped crying. And still we said nothing. And finally, we slumped down onto the blanket, still holding onto each other, and fell asleep under the stars.

Chapter 17

Brian’s hand was so swollen on Monday morning that he couldn’t go to work. He moped around, watching game shows and soap operas, calling me every half hour or so to see if I was done with work yet. I finally had to turn off my cell phone. Nobody wants to listen to their cleaning lady murmur words of love and comfort to her wounded boyfriend. And when I got home, I pulled him into his living room, pushed him onto the couch and fucked him. Not making love; fucking. Because I knew, of course, that it wasn’t boredom or pain that was making him so restless, at least not the kind of pain we could see and pack in ice and wrap with an ace bandage. It was the other kind, the kind that hurt even worse. Sex doesn’t make it go away, at least not for long. But it’s something. A distraction. And when we were done, he kissed me, very gently. Told me he loved me. Then he fell asleep. And he was still in pain, even in his sleep. Both kinds of pain.

Tuesday wasn’t quite as bad. He still couldn’t work, but it was my first day to watch Cassidy and that, at least, gave him something to do. The three of us played Monopoly and took turns squirting each other with the garden hose, then he and Cassidy made up poems about farting while I made lunch. She goaded him into eating his carrot sticks by calling him a chicken. Afterwards, the two of them picked some Queen Anne’s lace from the back field, and I put the blossoms into three separate vases that were filled with food coloring and water while they watched The Little Mermaid. By the time Laura came to get Cass, the flowers were just starting to turn color. Blue and red and yellow.

Wednesday morning, he still couldn’t pick up a hammer, but he went to work anyway, so frustrated with himself that he spent the morning yelling at his workers. Swearing at them, barking orders left and right, as if they hadn’t done just fine without him for two days. That pissed him off even more, the knowledge that they hadn’t needed him to be there, and he started in on them again, so badly that they all threatened to quit. So he apologized for acting like an asshole, and then he came home, because he was afraid that they really would quit if he didn’t. Even though there weren’t many jobs available locally. Even though they really needed the work. They’d quit anyway. And it would be all his fault.

And then: Thursday. His hand was a little bit better, and so was his temper, and when he left for work, he was actually smiling. At eight-forty, Laura dropped Cassidy off, and they were both smiling, too. But at nine-thirty, Rachel’s car pulled in the driveway; and when she walked into my kitchen, she wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were flashing with the same desperation I’d seen in Brian’s all week long. She slammed the door behind her and said, “Tess, I gotta talk to you about something.”

Then she saw Cassidy, sitting across from me at the kitchen table, surrounded by construction paper and crayons. There were one hundred and twenty colors inside the crayon box now. Looking inside it was just like looking into heaven itself.

“Oh. Never mind. I’ll see you later.”

“No, Rach. Wait.”

I jumped out of my chair and pulled on her arm. I couldn’t let her leave. I knew where she’d go if she did. She’d run to Tim so she could lose herself in sex and in a haze. I knew. I’d been there. And even though the Something I’d been hiding from wasn’t the same thing as hers, the distraction itself was. The only difference was that the sex had come from safer sources and so had the haze. It was the kind that dropped you into a beautiful world full of rainbows and music and gods. And it hadn’t come from a needle.

Even if hers didn’t either, I knew that if she wasn’t careful, pretty soon it would. Tim was a shrewd businessman. He’d ruined the lives of a sixteen-year-old boy and his mother, just so he could rid himself of his only competition; done it without even blinking. And, like a shrewd businessman, he wasn’t going to be satisfied with letting the new clients he’d roped in settle for the cheapest haze available. Not even the clients he was fucking.

“Just stay here and hang out with us.”

Cassidy nodded. “You can color with us.”

“Yeah, right.”

Cassidy sniffed. “What? It’s wicked fun.”

Rachel looked at Cassidy and then at the picture she was drawing. Blinked a few times. Then she smiled — it wasn’t a real one, but at least it was something — and sat down beside her. I sat down, too, and she watched the two of us for a few minutes before grabbing a piece of dark blue paper for herself.

“So, Miss Dyer. What’s the assignment for today?”

Cassidy explained the way it worked. “Tess doesn’t give assignments. She says you should draw what you’re feeling inside of you, because that’s how you make the best kind of picture.”

Rachel laughed. “What are you, Tess, a fucking psychiatrist?”

“Shut up.”

“No, she’s not,” Cassidy said. She hadn’t even flinched at Rachel’s language. That irritated me just a little, because she was always very quick to correct even my slightest lapse. “Tess is a granola.”

I dug out my old standby, Burnt Sienna. “Who told you I’m a granola?”

“It’s what my dad told Grammy last night.” Cassidy examined her landscape — a coastal scene complete with a lighthouse and a spouting whale — and added two more V-shaped birds to her sky. “Last night, she told my parents that they shouldn’t let you watch me anymore because you’re a hippie.”

Rachel snickered. I stopped coloring my tree trunk, folded my hands on the table and tried to hide my own amusement. “Do you know what a hippie is?”

“Yep. Grammy said it’s someone who hates America and smokes mar . . . mara. . .”

“Pot,” Rachel offered. I kicked her under the table.

“Oh, thanks. She said hippies hate America and they smoke pot and they’re very dirty and they have sex with lots of people.”

“Ah.”

“So,” she continued, folding her hands together like mine, “I told her that you’re not a hippie. You don’t hate America because you sing the Star Spangled Banner with me when we watch Red Sox games on Sundays. Even though you have a really bad singing voice.”

“Thanks.”

“And you don’t smoke pot–”

Rachel snickered again, and I kicked her again. I wasn’t about to be condemned, by her of all people, for something I hadn’t done in a long time.

“–and you take a shower every day and your house is always clean, even cleaner than Grammy’s house. And you only have sex with Brian.”

“Oh my God. . .”

“So that’s when Daddy said, ‘Tess isn’t a hippie. She might be a granola, but she’s not a hippie.’ Then he told Grammy that she should mind her own damn business, and that I am his daughter and he could ask anyone to babysit me that he wanted to.”

Rachel gave a brief nod of approval. “Go, Jeff!”

It was fascinating, really, how much I had learned about the Burkes in the brief time I’d been watching Cassidy. In addition to Jeff’s mother-in-law woes, I now knew that he didn’t load the dishwasher properly, that Laura wasn’t a natural redhead after all and that she had recently caught him watching the ‘naked lady station’ by using the channel callback on the remote control. I knew that Cassidy would report on my goings-on just as faithfully, so instead of voicing my wholehearted agreement with Rachel’s sentiments, I merely smiled.

“So,” Cassidy said, “are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A granola, silly.”

I laughed. “Sort of. I don’t know. No, not really. They don’t let you in the Granola Club if you dye your hair.”

She nodded, taking my joke at face value, and I picked up Jungle Green to begin work on my leaves. She watched me for a few minutes. “How come your picture looks better than mine?”

“She’s older than you, Cass,” Rachel said. “That’s why. Besides, yours is really good.”

She smiled. “Do you like it?”

Rachel nodded.

“What about you, Tess? What do you think I’m feeling today?”

“I think you’re feeling cheerful. Your sun is very happy.”

“How do you know that? I didn’t even put a smiley face on him.”

“You didn’t have to. Look at the way you mixed in the orange with your yellow . . . see? Those swirly lines?” She nodded. “They’re all curving up, just like a smile.”

She leaned in closer, gazed at her picture with new eyes. Looked at it for a long time. Then she said, “That’s not orange. It’s Atomic Tangerine.”

It was the best crayon name I’d ever heard.

She put on a few finishing touches and surveyed her picture. Rachel gave it a brief once-over and said, “Don’t forget to sign it. That’s what all artists do.”

Cassidy did so and slid it across the table to Rachel. “That’s for your fridge.”

“Thanks.” She finished her own drawing — a minimalist effort; three stick figures with no faces, drawn in white crayon against the dark blue construction paper — signed it and gave it to Cassidy.

She spent the rest of the day with us. She admired the colored Queen Anne’s lace that I’d hung up to dry, so Cassidy took her out into the back field, and they picked some more together. I put the blossoms in three separate vases with food coloring and water. This time, I mixed the colors together for purple and green and orange. When we sat down for lunch, Rachel ate her celery sticks, but only after she ran downstairs to get Brian’s ranch dressing to dip them in. I spent the rest of the afternoon weeding the garden while the two of them squirted each other with the hose. And by the time Laura came to get Cassidy, Rachel’s smiles were real.

Once Laura’s car was safely away, Rachel and I climbed the fourteen stairs to my apartment. I washed my hands while she traded her wet clothes for some of mine — a T-shirt that fit her and a pair of sweatpants that were about four inches too short — then we sat on the couch.

“So, Brian really beat the shit outta my dad.”

She sounded both angry and worried. I wasn’t sure which of the emotions was directed at Brian and which was directed at her dad. “How bad is he?”

“Well, his nose is broken. He’s got a lot of bruises and cuts, too. Really bad ones.”

I nodded. At least Brian hadn’t killed him.

“I warned him not to come over here, but he didn’t listen to me. Brian was already bitchy, ‘cause he was at my place looking to start some shit earlier that day.”

I smothered a grin. Looking to start some shit. She wanted to talk about Tim, too. But I could only tackle one thing at a time. “You’ve been in touch with your dad for a while, haven’t you?”

That surprised her. “Well . . . yeah. He called me about a month ago, but Saturday was the first time I actually saw him. Well, since he left us, I mean. Then he came in to see me at work again Monday night.”

“How’s that going?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, Tess. Just ‘cause he’s not drinking anymore, he thinks everything’s just fine. Like he never walked out on me. Like he can fucking walk right back in and be The Dad. He wants to take me out to supper and see where I live, and he wants to know what I’m doing and who I’m hanging out with. I mean, he didn’t raise me. He didn’t do shit. Even before he took off, he wasn’t around. And now he thinks he has the right to ask me about my life, give me advice about it? What the fuck does he know about anything? Why should that loser get to come back now and tell me what to do when Brian already did the hard part?”

Brian’s words, all of them, even if they were coming out of Rachel’s mouth. Not that it didn’t make them true.

“What kind of advice is he trying to give you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I know I’m fucked up–”

“You’re not fucked up, Rach.”

“–but I don’t need him telling me what to do. If anyone has the right to tell me what to do, it’s Brian, and I don’t even let him do it.” She pulled down on the pant legs, trying to make them cover her ankles. It wasn’t going to happen. She shook her head and continued. “He did the best he could, you know. ‘Cause he was just a kid, too.”

“I know.”

“And he missed out on a lot of stuff because of me.”

“If he missed out, it’s not your fault. It’s your father’s.”

“Well, whatever. He still missed out. He quit school and he broke up with his girlfriend and he stopped hanging out with his friends . . . except for Jeff, of course. And then when my dad took off, Brian never did anything. The only time he ever left the house without me was go to work. He didn’t get a chance to do all the normal things guys are supposed to do because he was stuck with me.”

“He doesn’t think he was stuck with you. He did it because he loves you, Rach.”

She rolled her eyes and looked at her hands, embarrassed. And it occurred to me that, quick as he always was to say it to me, I’d never heard Brian tell Rachel he loved her. Or vice versa. It probably didn’t mean anything, though. I couldn’t remember ever having said it to Dave.

“Besides, you missed out on a lot, too.”

“I guess. But it’s not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is. Your dad should’ve made your supper and tucked you in and helped you with algebra and . . . all the other stuff that dads are supposed to do for you. Brian had it rough. It sucks that he had to give up his childhood. He had to grow up way too early. But you did, too.”

She hoisted her legs up onto the couch and hugged them tightly against her chest. “So you think I should tell my dad to get lost?”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Rach. I mean . . . I wasn’t here for all that, and I don’t even know your father. I think you’re right that he can’t just waltz back into your life like nothing happened. But it seems to me like the easy thing for him to do right now would be to stay away, and he’s not. If you want him to get lost and leave well enough alone, that’s fine. But if you do want to get to know him, or whatever, it doesn’t mean you’re being disloyal to your brother.”

She rested her chin on her knees and stared at the wall. At Kineo. I took a quick glance at my watch. I had to leave for work in a little while, but before I could, I had to open up the other can of worms.

“So, what’s up with Tim?”

“Not much. I’m just . . . hanging out with him. That’s all.”

I nodded. Cleared my throat. “Why?”

She shrugged. I wasn’t sure how far to push it with her. I could probably get away with saying more than Brian would be able to, so I ventured:

“You’re . . . not doing any–”

“Nothing I wasn’t doing before.”

“Yeah. That’s comforting.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m afraid of needles.”

I looked at her closely, at her eyes. They weren’t easy to read like Brian’s were, but I had to know if she was telling me the truth, and I did my best to find it there. Finally, I gave it up and asked her outright, “You’re not just bullshitting me, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I used to scream my head off whenever Dr. Stephens gave me a shot. You can ask Brian if you don’t believe me.”

And this is how that conversation would begin:

Hey, sweetie. Just wondering — and there’s no reason for this question, other than mere curiosity. Your sister . . . is she afraid of needles?

She knew it, too. Knew I’d never actually ask. And so I had to take her word for it, which wasn’t made of the stuff that inspired confidence. But, since we’d gone so far, I decided to push it a little farther by switching to another uncomfortable topic.

“You’re using rubbers with this idiot, right?”

She blushed, then sputtered wordlessly for a few moments, and even though I was honestly concerned about her, it didn’t stop me from making a mental tally.

Home: 1. Visitors: 2.

“I’m . . . I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen.”

Just like me. My birthday present from my mother that year was a trip to the doctor for the prescription because I know you’re going to need these. It’s just a matter of time. For once, she was right.

“So . . . Brian let you–”

“Of course not. Laura had that talk with me right after Cassidy was born. I was only, like, twelve or so, and I probably knew more about sex than Brian did.” She snorted, then, apparently remembering that she felt bad that he’d missed out on all the normal guy things, stopped. “Anyway, she told me that I should wait until after high school before I fuck anyone–”

I raised an eyebrow, so she amended her statement.

“She said I should wait until I was an adult to have sex–”

I nodded my approval. The idea that Laura would say fuck seemed almost sacrilegious.

“–but she also said that if it looked like I was gonna do it anyway, then I should go talk to her first and she’d take me to Family Planning. So that’s what I did.”

Fifteen. She’d lost her virginity a year earlier than I had. I wanted to go back in time to four years ago, back to the day before she’d let it happen. Take her aside and tell her not to do it. Tell her that Laura was right; tell her to wait. Tell her to wait for someone special, someone who loved her, at least a little. But then if I had that power, I’d probably go back and tell me that, too.

“Okay. But you’re fucking a guy who’s probably fucking other girls, too, and God only knows what they’re into. Don’t you think a little more protection would be a wise thing?”

“Tess. . .”

“Rachel. . .”

But she was spared any more of my lecture by a sound the two of us would have recognized anywhere. The windows were open, and we could hear Brian’s truck long before he even pulled onto the road. I wanted to get a few more words of caution in. To tell her, again, to stay away from Tim. But I knew enough about the stupidity and stubbornness of nineteen-year-old girls when well meaning adults tell them what to do, so I didn’t. I just said:

“Rach. If you ever get into any trouble or . . . if you need anything — and I mean anything — then please come talk to me. Okay?”

“Whatever.”

Brian burst through the door. Rachel looked up and hollered, “Hey, you scumbag. How’s it goin’?”

He cuffed her playfully on the head. “Show some respect to your elders, shithead.” He gave me a kiss and said, “Hey, babe, it’s hotter’n hell, and I think I left my denim shorts up here.”

“Check my middle drawer.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He went into my room to change. As soon as the door closed behind him, I whispered, “I meant it, Rachel. You–”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

When Brian emerged again, he was holding Rachel’s wet clothes. He tossed them at her. “You need to learn to take of your stuff.”

I looked past him, onto my bedroom floor. His dirty work clothes were lying in a heap in front of the bed. I grinned, but said nothing. Instead, I asked Rachel if she wanted a plastic bag to bring her clothes home in so she wouldn’t get her car all wet. She nodded and followed me to the living room closet.

“Holy shit, Tess. What’s all this?”

The closet was filled with all the boxes I’d moved in with — broken down and stacked neatly on the floor — and almost five months worth of plastic grocery bags, stashed inside a garbage bag that was hanging on a hook.

I shrugged. “You never know when you might need a box or a bag.”

Rachel grabbed the bag of wet clothes, then examined Brian’s hand. It was still a little swollen, but the bruises were better; faded yellow instead of dark purple. Then she said, “You fucking idiot. At least you didn’t break any fingers.”

I smiled softly, because that meant the worry had been for Brian, the anger for her father, which is just how it should have been. And it meant that she was alright after all. Or at least that she would be. Just a matter of time.

Chapter 18

A warm front moved in on Friday, bringing what the weatherman called stifling heat and oppressive humidity. I spent the day working in air-conditioned comfort while Brian spent it fixing a roof. Carrying bundles of shingles up a ladder, thirty pounds at a time, for seven hours would have been difficult enough with a sore hand; the weather made it brutal. But he didn’t leave until the job was done. He’d promised the guy it would be finished by three o’clock on Friday and, damn it, he meant it.

When I got home, I found him sprawled out on his bed, naked underneath his ceiling fan, begging me for water. I called Dr. Stephens, who explained the differences between heat exhaustion and heat stroke, told me to keep a close eye on him and to call him if Brian got any worse. I spent a fitful night beside him, staring at his face and chest to make sure he was still breathing. Waking him periodically to force more water down his throat; holding my breath, willing it to stay down. He finally opened his eyes on his own just before nine on Saturday morning. He looked up at me, ran his tongue over his dry lips and croaked:

“It’s fucking hot in here.”

I nodded. “Stifling heat and oppressive humidity.”

That got a small laugh, and it made me feel a little better. Then he begged me to run down to the market to get him some ice cream. First I made him drink two more tall glasses of water, told him to stand up, then to walk around the room, because I can’t leave you alone if you can’t even hold yourself upright. He rolled his eyes, but obeyed. I got dressed and ready to go while he took a quick shower, then, finally convinced that he really would be alright if I left him alone for a whole fifteen minutes, drove to the market.

I nodded silent greetings to my fellow shoppers on my way to the frozen food aisle, tossed three half gallon containers of ice cream into my basket, then marched towards the checkout line. There were five registers in the store, but only two of them were open, even though the place was packed, and it took me twenty-five minutes to reach the head of the line. Agnes explained why.

“Those damn teenagers,” she grumbled. “You’d think they’d be grateful to even have a job. Three of them called in sick today, but I know they’re really headed up to Bangor for the fair.”

“Probably.”

“Kids today. They get everything handed to them. They just don’t know what it means to work for anything.” She bagged the ice cream, then asked, “How does that boy stay so skinny eatin’ like this? I bet he’ll have one of those finished before noontime all by himself.”

I only shrugged, because I didn’t think Brian was skinny at all. He was rugged, solid; just like a tree trunk. But I knew what she meant. He should have been about three times his size.

She gave a wistful smile. “Seems like just yesterday his mom was in here buying diapers for him. Have I ever told you that I knew Wendy when she was just a little girl?”

She told me every time I came in. “Really?”

“Sure did. She was a spitfire, too, let me tell you.”

And she did. She told me three stories in a row about Wild Little Wendy. She’d told them all to me before, but I listened anyway. Then she handed me my receipt and smiled a little sadly.

“It’s a such a shame that the Lord called her home when she was still so young.”

The idea that God had anything to do with killing young mothers — or anyone, for that matter — just so he could have extra company in heaven, especially when they were sorely needed right here on Earth, had always struck me as blasphemous. But I didn’t say so.

“She surely hated the thought of leaving those kids behind. The last time I saw her was in here, after she started getting real bad. She was weak and in a lotta pain by then, and she was having a hard time just pushing the cart around. When I asked her how the kids were holding up, she said, ‘It’s gonna be hard, but I think they’ll be okay. Brian’s ready now.’”

My voice broke a little as I asked, “She said that?”

Agnes nodded. “And she was right. They turned out okay.”

I nodded back, but didn’t answer, and I drove home with a sad, heavy heart; tried to imagine what those last few months must have been like for Wendy LaChance. How many people had she reached out to before she died, knowing her husband couldn’t be counted on? Had anyone understood the silent pleas behind the brave façade? Had they even tried to listen? I’d never met the woman. She had been dead for fourteen years. But I could hear her.

I don’t want to leave them. They’re so young, and they’ll be all alone. Please keep an eye on them. Please take care of them. Please don’t let life get too hard for them. Please love them.

Please. . .

Why hadn’t someone taken care of them? An absent, alcoholic father. A town full of people who knew it. Someone could’ve taken them into their home. How many people had Wendy begged, and how many of them, like Agnes, had paid attention to the wrong half of her prophecy? Forced her to put all that weight on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old boy.

I pulled into the driveway and, as I looked ahead, slammed both feet down on the brake, stupidly letting up on the clutch. My car sputtered, then tried to lurch forward before it finally stalled. Brian’s truck was gone, and in my usual spot was a familiar blue car; a car I never expected to see in New Mills, let alone sitting in my driveway. The sunroof was open, windows rolled down. And for just a moment, I could feel it again. The salty wind, blowing through my hair. . .

Not today, God. Please. . .

It was a stupid request, of course, because it was too late for it. So I did the only thing I could do. I pulled ahead into Brian’s spot, turned off the ignition and took a deep breath. Then I looked towards the house.

And there he was. Jason Dyer. Waiting for me on the porch steps.

He looked up, looked right at me. Or at least he probably did. I couldn’t be sure because his eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses. I looked away, out towards where the orchard had once stood. There was nothing left of it, not even any stumps. And even though I tried, I couldn’t remember what it had looked like before Brian had torn it down. Not the frozen orchard, not the imaginary springtime orchard. Nothing.

I grabbed my purse and the ice cream. Three double-bagged bundles, and they made me wonder just where the hell Brian had gone. Why he’d left me here alone. Even though, really, I knew exactly why.

I opened the car door. I’d forgotten, because of the air conditioner, how hot it really was, and it felt just like a slap in the face. I kicked the door shut. Gripped the bags. The purse.

Steady now, Tess. Deep breath. Deeper. Now, one foot in front of the other. Just like that.

I didn’t look at his face as I walked towards the house. I couldn’t. I concentrated instead on the sound of my sandals flip-flopping against my sweaty bare feet. I took a quick peek at them, grateful that I’d painted my toenails in the middle of the night. Bright pink. I was even more grateful that I’d put on some makeup and a sundress before heading out to the store instead of donning my usual T-shirt and jeans ensemble. Because the only thing worse than running into your ex-husband unexpectedly is doing it when you look like shit. And I almost smiled — almost, but caught myself in time — because Jason had always loved the way I looked in this dress. The skirt, he’d said, was nice and short and it was tight in all the right places.

Eat your fucking heart out.

He stood up without a word as I approached and opened the screen door for me. I climbed the four steps, tossed my purse and the bags onto the floor, swallowed hard and, finally, turned to face him.

He’d never looked better, damn him. He was tan and trim and healthy. There were faint traces of grey in his beard and in his hair, which surprised me — even though it shouldn’t have — and it looked good. He was dressed nicely, too, casual but neat in a cream polo shirt and green khaki shorts. I didn’t give him any points for it, though. He’d been expecting to see me and had dressed appropriately, so it didn’t really count.

He stood there, staring silently at me, his face completely unreadable behind his sunglass shield. I could never tell what he was thinking without seeing his eyes, and he knew it. It was why he’d covered them up. Not that it mattered. I knew what to expect and braced myself for it. Clenched my stomach, my toes, my teeth as he finally took off his sunglasses. . .

And there they were. Cold, blue eyes. Cold, blue Jason.

He hates me. Still.

And so I did the only thing I could do. I folded my arms and glared right back at him. Shoved all the hurt away, shoved it into another crater and packed it down tight. Because it didn’t matter what he thought of me. Not really. Not anymore.

Except, of course, that it did. It mattered. Still.

What the hell happened to us?

He cleared his throat and opened the conversation, at last, with: “Blonde?”

The first word he’d spoken to me in nine months and it was a dig about my hair. I blew a piece of my bangs from my eyes. “It’s not blonde.”

Not technically, but it was getting gradually lighter with each visit to Laura. He shook his head, reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“You’re smoking again?”

He fished one out. “Observant as ever, I see.”

“Well, you’re not doing it on my porch.” He gave me an irritated roll of his eyes and stuffed the cigarette back into the pack. “When the hell did you start that up again?”

“A couple of months ago, right after my mother died. I guess you and I have different ways of dealing with stress. Although, if you think about it, all we’re really doing is reverting back to our old habits. I picked this up again,” he held up the pack, then put it back into his pocket, “and you started fucking a boy half your age.”

He had baited me into the topic so expertly that I hadn’t even seen it coming. I couldn’t do anything except stare. And that made him smile.

“That’s right. I heard all about your new boy toy. Congratulations.”

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking who had told him about Brian. I didn’t need to. “You came all the way down here just to give me shit about my love life? You’re an even bigger dick than I gave you credit for.”

“No, Tess, I didn’t. Believe it or not, I’ve got more important ways to spend my time.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

He ignored the remark, reached inside his other pocket and pulled out a small white envelope. “I came down here because I need to give you this, for starters.”

I snatched it out of his hand and gazed at my name. Bold block letters. I was almost afraid to open it, even though it was much too thin to contain anything dangerous. And the divorce had been final for five months — or at least it would be five months in three more days — so he couldn’t be contesting anything, could he? After all this time? Wouldn’t my lawyer have called? I took a slow, deep breath and pulled up the corner of the envelope.

“Your neighbor offered to give it to you,” he said, and this time, his voice was almost kind. “But I thought it would be better if I waited for you instead so I could–”

I stopped mid-rip. “He was home when you got here?”

He nodded. “You just missed him.” He chuckled and added, “We had a nice little chat.”

My stomach gave a violent, icy lurch that made me suddenly grateful I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. “A nice chat. Really. What were you doing, Jase, pumping him for information about me? Or filling his head with bullshit?”

“Neither. I did ask him about the . . . boyfriend, though.” He looked at Brian’s apartment, then up towards mine. “Looks like he’s got ringside seats.”

Even without the sunglasses, I couldn’t tell if he knew he’d actually been speaking to the boyfriend and was just screwing with me, or if he really thought that Brian was just a neighbor who would give him the scoop on my sex life.

“What did you say to him?”

He gave a lazy shrug.

“God damn it, Jason, what the hell is the matter with you? My mother didn’t give you enough juicy details? Now you have to come all the way down here and–”

“I haven’t spoken to your mother in months.”

“Well, why do you even care about what it is I’m doing or who I’m seeing?”

His eyes flashed at me, and he lost the smug smile he’d been wearing. “I don’t care, Tess. I don’t give a shit about what you’re doing with your life. You can fuck whoever you want to now. Isn’t that what you wanted? You can spread those cute little legs for every guy you meet if that’s what you want to do and it doesn’t affect me at all. Not anymore.”

How long had he been practicing that speech? He’d probably been itching to use it on me for months. A dull throbbing started in my left temple, and I rubbed it with my free hand, tried to blink back the tears that stung my eyes at seeing the blatant disgust in his.

“What’s this? You don’t have some smart-ass comeback all ready for me? Come on, Tess, isn’t that what you do best?”

It was almost a hundred degrees outside, probably hotter than that on the porch, but I was shivering. Because he hated me. Still. He really did, and even though I’d expected it, at least a little, even though I deserved it, more than a little . . . deep down I hadn’t thought he still would. Not after all this time. Not so much.

I took another deep breath, silent, in through the nostrils. Filled my lungs with heavy summer air, with stifling heat and oppressive humidity, and let it out with:

“Well, Jase, you sure got me pegged. I’m just down here fucking everyone I meet. Spreading my legs for every guy I see. They’ve all helped themselves to a nice piece of this, and I’m busy making the rounds again so they can each have a second helping.” I rolled my eyes. “At least that’s a new one. How many more of those zingers have you got for me?”

He didn’t answer, only shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Oh come on, don’t stop now. Let me have it. All those books you read, all those brilliant literary minds to help you out, and that’s all you got? Tell you what, why don’t I just help you out a little. I mean, really, if you’re gonna come all the way down here to fuck with me, you should at least do it right. I’d hate to see you waste your precious time. Let me think now. . .”

I tapped my chin, pretended to ponder. Just like I didn’t remember every word. Just like I hadn’t replayed the whole scene in my mind, over and over, all winter long.

“I dropped to my knees for the first fresh dick that came along. That was a pretty good one, actually. It conjures up a very vivid image with just a few short words. You should write that one down and have your students analyze it next year.”

I gave him a tiny laugh and shook my head regretfully.

“It’s too bad it wasn’t true, though. Well, it is true that it was the first dick that . . . uh, came along after yours. But would you like to know how many fresh dicks I had the opportunity to play with all those years if I’d really wanted to? No? Fine, I’ll just move on, because I seem to recall a particularly disgusting remark . . . something about my skanky cunt, wasn’t that it? Now, I’ve been wondering all this time so I’m really glad you traveled all this way today to clear it up for me. Especially with your time being so fucking precious and all. Was that a Jason Dyer original, or did you borrow it from someone?”

“Tess, come on–”

“Maybe Shakespeare? Didn’t Othello wax poetic about Desdemona’s skanky cunt? Sure sounds like something your buddy Billy would come up with, that misogynistic prick.”

His eyes snapped, but we’d gone round and round on that subject too many times for him to take the bait. I aimed lower.

“Not that it was too skanky for you to use one last time. I don’t think I ever got a chance to thank you for that, by the way.”

Bullseye. His face turned deep red with what was either embarrassment or rage. Probably both. Because it really was a low blow, and, what was worse . . . it wasn’t really true. The truth was that I’d used it. Tried to. I’d actually thrown myself at him, begged him to stay, begged him to fuck me. I thought if he fucked me again, it would make him stay.

Just once, Jason, please. Just one more time. . .

That’s what I did. I begged him. To fuck me.

And he tried. He gave it a good shot, but he couldn’t do it. He was too hurt and stunned. So he stood up, and I did, too. Both of us naked and sweaty. Both of us shaking. And he was disgusted. With both of us. Beyond disgusted, beyond hurt and stunned. Angry. Finally.

You fucked Chris. You fucked him, and now you want me?

I didn’t answer, because I was too scared. And because, really, there was nothing to say. No way to explain, no words to make him understand, and I’d already begged him. So instead, I gave him silence. Defiance. And I still wondered sometimes — still — if he’d already stopped loving me by that point or if that’s what had killed it. Either way, that’s when he let me have it. Hateful, hurtful, ugly words. And I couldn’t blame him. Still. Because, really, all the words had boiled down to two questions, the two questions he’d never actually asked:

How could you do it? Why him?

I decided, finally, to give him an answer. And, at the same time, to rid myself of at least some of the venom that had been coursing through me for nearly a year.

“You know, it really is too bad you didn’t listen to Coach all those years ago. He tried to warn you about me. The kind of person I am. The kind of girl. You remember, don’tcha?”

He did. He went pale suddenly, and I could see that he was dizzy. Queasy. And it seemed like as good a time as any to put him out of his misery. Or to add to it. At this point, I didn’t care — honestly didn’t give a shit — which it was.

“‘I’m not the girl you marry, Dyer. I’m the girl you fuck and toss aside.’ Isn’t that right?”

He staggered back a step and shuddered. “Tess, no. . .”

“Just think of all the trouble you could have saved yourself, if only you’d listened to him. You could have found yourself a nice girl, a nice wife. The real kind. The kind that wants a house and a yard and dozen little Jason clones running around just so she could have the very distinct privilege of wiping their shitty little asses. Instead, you married the town whore, didn’t you? So now you’ve got nothing.”

“Chris told you? What Coach Poulin said to us that day?”

“He told me all about it. And apparently Coach told you guys all about me. Jesus Christ, Jason, why didn’t you listen to him? I mean, really, you had time to call it all off. Because if you go out and marry a girl who’d fuck her mother’s boss, you gotta believe she wouldn’t think twice about fucking your friend, too.”

I’d done it. I’d shocked him. But it didn’t last long, because then came the anger. He was filled with it, practically reeked of it. And for once, I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

“I always wondered what crowbar Chris used to pry your legs apart. Now I know.”

I let go of all the air in my lungs, just like he’d punched me in the gut. It’s what his words felt like, because they were true. It’s exactly what Chris had done. He knew Jason and I were having problems. Must have known. Dave was Jason’s best friend, but he couldn’t talk to him about it. Not his wife’s brother. So who else was there? The only other person he’d known long enough to trust. And Chris used it to get to me. I knew it even then, but I fell for it anyway.

Oh, I’m sorry, Tess. I thought Jason told you. It was such a long time ago. . .

Jason ran his hands through his hair, then stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I felt myself withering under his gaze, so I folded my arms and squeezed them tight against my chest, then tighter still; so tight that my fingers started to go numb. But I didn’t look away from him. I still needed to see his eyes, to feel connected to him somehow, even after everything that had happened. Still needed that. . .

Finally, he shook his head and said, “It’s true that Coach said that shit about you. He told me all about you and Mike, too — he told me all of it — because he’s an asshole. They’re both assholes. I guess it runs in the family. And Chris is an even bigger asshole for telling you about it. But did you even bother to think about . . . did it ever occur to you, Tess, what that really meant? It meant that I knew everything . . . and I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. I married you anyway.”

Of course it had occurred to me. After Chris was all done with me. After he’d fucked me and tossed me aside. I shuddered, clenched my jaw, my stomach. Closed it all down, everything. Because, finally, I could feel it coming up, the tears and grief and vomit, and I couldn’t give in. So I pulled it all back, pushed it in, shoved it down…

He reached out for me, touched my arm. His hand was gentle and warm, just like it used to be, like it had been for all those years. And for a moment, I remembered how much I used to love it when he touched me. Could almost remember — almost — how it had felt when I loved him.

Tess, I want you to know something. And don’t ever forget. . .

I hadn’t forgotten.

I have loved you forever. . .

But he had. He’d shut the door all of that, locked it tight and then tossed the key aside. Just like love wasn’t a thing that was precious and fragile. A thing that was easier to lose and to break than to find and to keep. All because of his stupid, fucking, goddamn irrational obsession with babies and family. Just like I wasn’t his family.

Just like I was nothing.

“Listen to me, Tess. I–”

I threw his hand off my arm. Just like it was nothing. “I don’t want to listen to you. Don’t you get that, Jason? Don’t you understand? None of your words mean anything to me anymore, so just . . . stop saying them. It’s too late for any of them. You’re just . . . you’re just too late.”

He looked at his hand and then at me. Stunned. Like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was hearing. Then he sighed. It was shaky and loud and seemed to come from some deep, horrible place inside of him. I looked into his eyes, stared hard, and I watched as it happened, as he let go of one burden and picked up another. He didn’t hate me anymore. He’d moved on to the next step right in front of me. I’d actually seen it happen, and the tears came, finally, too many of them to hold back. Silent tears. He saw them, but said nothing. Did nothing. Because he couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Tess, I didn’t come down here to start in with you again. I really didn’t. I just thought that maybe we . . . but when you came up the walk, I. . .” He looked away from me, down at the floor where the envelope had landed. He picked it up, then said, “I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

I kept my eyes down and wiped away the tears. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. I didn’t want to care, not about what he had said or done or thought, not about what he was thinking right now. I looked instead at the half-opened envelope in his hand, straightened my shoulders and grabbed it from him again.

“What the hell is this anyway? I thought we were done with all the legal bullshit.”

“No, it’s . . . it doesn’t have anything to do with the divorce. It’s about my mom.”

“Alice? What about her?”

“She left you something. Well, she left it to us.” He gave a short laugh that had no humor in it at all. “I figure it belongs to you now. It’s a painting, the one you did of her backyard, of my old swing set.”

Another tear slipped out. I didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“You did it when we were little kids. Although . . . well, it doesn’t look like a little kid painted it.” He cleared his throat. “You remember, don’t you? The swingset with the broken slide.”

I just nodded, because I couldn’t speak. There were no words inside of me, just images, flashes of memory. Of a time, a place, when I was truly Happy. And of the day when it all ended.

Dave busted the slide one afternoon shortly after Alice took the three of us to see The Empire Strikes Back. We were acting it out in the back yard. Jason was Luke Skywalker, Dave was Darth Vader, and they were fighting to the death, using wooden bats as lightsabers, just like idiots. I was Princess Leia, of course. I’d even braided my hair for the part. I had no reason to be there, because Princess Leia wasn’t in that scene, but it was fun. They were fun, and I wanted to see the lightsaber fight.

Jason was standing on top of the slide, Dave standing just below it. They were battling away, bats whacking and thudding together, when Jason lost his balance. He grabbed hold of the top of the swingset with his free hand and tried to balance himself with the other. When he did, the bat flew from his hand and hit me on the side of the head.

Everything stopped for a few seconds. The earth, the universe, the three of us. Frozen. Jason, horrified; me, stunned, in pain; Dave, pissed. I thought — I really did, and Jason did, too — that Dave was going to pound the shit out of him with his bat. I held my breath. Waited for screaming and blood and death. Instead, he took it out on the slide. Jason jumped off, landed right beside me, pulled me away where I’d be safe. We watched together as Dave beat the slide, hit it, pounded on it, wood against hot, thin metal. Then he stopped, looked at it for just a moment and hit it two more times. It was all dented up, and there was a huge crack right in the center.

I screamed and ran away from them, ran into the woods to hide. Not because I was hurt — although I was, but not bad; just a little bump that went away in a few days — and not because the slide was broken. But because it was supposed to be Jason’s head, and I knew that. And it scared me. I was scared because my big brother, who always seemed so calm and sensible, had reacted to something so violently. Scared that the two of them would hate each other forever. And that there’d be no more swing set races.

But when I emerged from the woods, the two of them were gone. They’d taken off together down the road on their bikes. Without me. Without Tess the Pest. I sat in the sun, staring at the slide, until Alice found me and coaxed me into the house. She gave me an icepack for my head and a handful of Oreos. And when the boys came back, they were full of apologies. Jason took the blame for the slide as well as my head, so Dave wouldn’t get into trouble. Alice wasn’t fooled — because she had probably watched the whole scene from her workshop — but she didn’t say anything. And she never bothered to replace the slide. Jason was ten years old and getting too big for it anyway.

And there were no more swing set races. Ever.

I blinked a few times, jolted out of my daydreaming. Jason was still talking, and I’d missed most of it.

“. . .thought that . . . maybe you’d want it. I had to sell her house, so it would be a nice reminder of–”

“Jason, I . . . I’d . . . actually feel better if you kept it.”

I didn’t want it. Not the painting, and especially not the nice reminders that came with it.

“Tess, no. I can’t.”

I swallowed hard and started shaking again. I had to make him keep it. I couldn’t let him leave it here. I didn’t even want to look at it. Couldn’t even look at his car, knowing it was in there. But I couldn’t tell him why. So I said:

“Jase, the painting is . . . it’s yours. It was your mom’s, and now it’s yours. The swing set is you and Dave.” I managed a smile, but my heart was shrieking and I knew why. I wouldn’t have to explain any further. He’d know exactly what I meant. Even though, of course, it wasn’t true.

He gave me a smile, the first a real one I’d seen on him in forever. And it made me remember how I used to live to see him smile.

“Well . . . thank you. I don’t know what Mom would have wanted, because she made her will years ago, right after we got married, and she never bothered to change it. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. I can’t really be sure.”

The smile faded, and there was nothing left in his face, nothing in his eyes, except for sadness. A sadness so deep it hurt to look at it, like an open, infected wound. I didn’t know if it was because of his mother or because he was thinking back to that time, when we really had been happy. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like. Somewhere inside of him was the boy who’d been my friend forever, the man I’d once been hopelessly in love with. And now I could hardly stand to look at him.

What the hell happened to us?

I looked again at the envelope in my hand. “So, what is this? Do I need to sign something?”

“No.” He stiffened up again. He was preparing for Round Two.

Oh. That again.

I held it out to him. “We’ve been over this before. This isn’t my money.”

“Don’t do this to me again, Tess. Not again.”

I ran my finger over the bold, block letters. TESS. Just like it was all he could bring himself to write. And it made me wonder, for the first time, if he resented the fact that I’d kept his name.

I held it out to him. “Jason, you know I can’t take this. There’s no way I could spend it and live with myself. Especially not after . . . it’s just not gonna happen.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’m not taking payment for services rendered.”

He sputtered without words for a moment, and his face contorted into an expression I’d never seen before. He looked even more shocked and pissed than when he’d found out about the affair. He finally managed to say, “Tess, you are out of your goddamn mind if you think this is–”

“I don’t need the fucking money. Okay? I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.” I looked at it the envelope again, felt suddenly weak with revulsion, knowing what was inside of it, and tried to give it back to him. To force it into his hand. I couldn’t stand to have it in mine for even one more second. He wouldn’t take it. I tried to stuff it into his pocket, but he pushed it away, my hand, the money, me, so there was only one choice left, really. Ripping it to shreds. I was on the verge of doing it but stopped cold when I heard the rattling, rumbling sounds of rescue.

It was Brian’s truck, pulling into the driveway. I’d been so preoccupied that, for once, I hadn’t heard it coming up the road. The noise startled Jason, and I seized the opportunity to shove the envelope into his hand. Then I stepped back. He stared at it with new eyes, like it was something he didn’t recognize anymore.

I looked past him and watched Brian stroll up the path to the house. I actually felt myself relax, could feel my heart beating again, thumping against my chest, almost as if it had stopped without him here. He was still dressed in the blue tank top and gym shorts he’d been wearing when I left. He never went out in public in those shorts, never. And he was barefoot.

I glared at Jason again. He’d said something. Something that pissed Brian off so badly that he’d taken off half-dressed in the god-awful heat, driven around town in an old, noisy truck that had no air conditioner, when he was already sick and wounded and completely exhausted.

Brian made his way up the steps, opened the door, and Jason stepped aside to give him room to get onto the porch. He didn’t look at either of us on his way through, tried to sneak right by me and into his apartment. I wasn’t about to let him. I wanted to find out if Jason had known who he’d been talking to, if he’d pissed him off on purpose or if he’d just run his mouth without realizing, just to get whatever it was he’d said off his chest. And there was something else, something even more important. A message. To both of them.

I grabbed Brian around the waist before he could open the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He turned to me with a big grin and eyes that were filled with relief, but both faded as soon as he noticed my face. He touched my cheek and wiped the tears away with this thumb. I forgot that I’d been crying.

“What’s going on? You okay, Tess?”

“Yeah. It’s just. . .” I looked over at Jason. He was gaping at Brian, surprise clearly stamped on his face. It almost made the whole ordeal worth going through to see comprehension dawning on his face. It didn’t seem possible that he hadn’t known, or at least guessed it. Or that Gossip had left out that very important detail.

He lives right downstairs. . .

I hid my smile and cleared my throat. “I’m okay, hon. It’s just some old business we need to settle. Right, Jase?”

Jason nodded, still staring nervously at Brian. I turned back to look at him. He wasn’t convinced that I was okay and was glowering at Jason, the same way he had at his father before he lost it. I squeezed his arm gently, and he looked at me again, studied my face, carefully. Studied my eyes. Then he gave me a smile. I recognized it immediately and felt my cheeks getting hot. It was the same smile I’d felt on my own face, just a few short weeks ago, the same smile I’d hidden from him that night in the shower.

Mine. . .

He gave me a kiss — full on the mouth and longer than necessary — pointed to the grocery bags and asked, “Is that my ice cream in there?”

“Yeah. I hope it’s not melted too badly.” What would Agnes think if I had to go back to buy three more cartons so soon after I’d left her?

He grabbed the bags without a word and clomped up the stairs to my apartment, even though it was hotter up there than it was in his. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he’d chosen my door. He was sending a message, too.

When I turned back towards Jason, he had recovered from his embarrassment and was ready to get back to business. “That’s not what this money is about, Tess, and you know it. But it’s too damned hot to fight about it today. I’ll just hold onto it for you until you get over it and change your mind.”

“I’m not–”

I stopped, mid-sentence, and chuckled. Brian had turned on the stereo. He’d been smuggling his music upstairs one CD at a time since our failed first dance lesson the week before. The song he’d chosen to mark his territory with had a particularly heavy bass that vibrated through the walls, and it had startled Jason once again. Somewhere in my apartment, Brian was probably smiling as he tallied the score. Home: 3. Visitors: 1

Jason looked up towards the sound and sighed. “I can’t believe you let him play that shit on my stereo.”

“It’s my stereo. Birthday gift. Remember?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I remember.”

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m not gonna change my mind, so you might as well–”

“Goddamn it, Tess, would you–”

“Jason . . . stop it. Okay? I’m not gonna do this. I . . . I’m just so tired of it. Aren’t you? I mean, I know too much has happened for us to be friends again, and I know that’s my fault, but can’t we at least be . . . pleasant to each other, and . . . can’t we just put it all behind us? Can’t we just move on and . . . wish each other the best?”

And there it was again. Sadness, sorrow, something even deeper than sorrow. It was Realization. The same one I’d had the morning before Matthew was born. When I’d buried my head in my pillow. After I’d spent the night wishing it was Jason.

I hope you find someone soon. I really do. I hope she’s beautiful and funny and kind and that she can give you the family you always wanted. And I hope it makes you happy. You deserve happiness, Jase. You really do. . .

I wanted it more at that moment for him than I did even for myself, and the words were on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to say them, and I almost did. But there are some things you really can’t say.

“Well,” he said at last. “I’d better get going.”

I only nodded, because there was only one word left to say, and I couldn’t bring myself to say it. So he nodded back. Then he took a long look at me, at my face, my eyes. One more time. One last time. And his eyes were filled with something that was deeper than sorrow.

Then he turned away. Opened the screen door, walked down the four porch steps. And he left. Just like that. Leaving nothing behind. Just like he’d never been there at all. I sent up a quick prayer:

God, please help him to be happy. . .

Because he deserved it. And it wasn’t until the sound of his car died away that I finally remembered what it had felt like when we were happy. When we were in love. I closed my eyes, and it was almost real. For just a moment I loved him again. And in that moment I was his. I was still Mrs. Dyer. Jason’s wife.

My wife.

I used to love those words, especially the way he said them. Two little words and they sounded like a song, like a poem. Because they meant that he loved me. It seemed like so long ago since I’d heard them, but it really wasn’t. Just a year, and what was one year compared with all the years that had gone before? And yet here we were, months after the ink had dried on the divorce papers, and we were still bitter enough to resort to yelling. To playing mind games with each other.

I climbed the fourteen stairs to Brian so I could start the repair work. He had turned off the music and was leaning back against the counter, drinking melted strawberry ice cream from a glass. I kissed him gently and told him why Jason had come. Told him that the tears were about the painting. About Alice. And it wasn’t a lie, because some of them had been. I told him about the money, too, and he shook his head. Told me that I was an idiot not to take it, that the money really was mine. It wasn’t, of course, but I didn’t say so. And I didn’t tell him about any of the anger and bitterness between Jason and me, or about the sadness, because none of that mattered. I did tell him that I loved him and that I was over Jason, for real. Because I was. And because those were the things that did matter.

Then I waited for him to speak, to tell me what it was Jason had said to him; but he didn’t. And he looked exhausted. So we went downstairs to his bedroom and lay down on his bed, naked underneath the fan. It was too hot for sex, so we just lay there, silently immersed in our own thoughts. I didn’t know exactly what his were, although I could guess. And as for me . . . I was trying to push away bleak images of what the future had in store for Brian and me.

Because even though I loved him, more than anything, it was going to happen. It was just a matter of time. There would be a day, there really would be, when there was no more Brian-and-Tess. There was nothing I could do to stop it, either. But right now, I couldn’t think about it, couldn’t bear to imagine what it would feel like when we moved onto the next step. The one that came after the love ran out.

Instead, I reached over and grabbed hold of his hand, held onto it all afternoon. Concentrated hard on how it felt in mine so I’d always remember it. Rough, warm, calloused palm, long thick fingers. I held it tight as he drifted off to sleep, as I drifted off, too. Even in my dreams, I was holding his hand. And even there, I knew.

I couldn’t hold onto it forever.

Chapter 19

By Sunday morning, the humidity had subsided, but not the cloud Jason left behind. We didn’t talk about it because, really, there wasn’t much we could say. Instead, we found solace in the comfort of routine. There was sex and a shower together and breakfast. Brian rambled on about foreign policy and fair trade while we did the dishes, then I worked in the garden while he mowed the lawn. And by then, it was time to go to the Burkes for penny poker and pizza. Just like every Sunday. Jeff won, just like he did every Sunday. When we got home, Brian and I had sex again. And afterwards, lying in his arms, drifting off to sleep with his heart beating against my back, it felt — it really did — just like any other Sunday.

Then came the work week which kept us busy enough — for the most part — to forget that we’d ever had another unwelcome weekend visitor. And by the time Brian’s birthday rolled around, the third Saturday of August, he was back to his old self once again. Even my own anxiety about The Future had faded. Exhaustion and heat and emotional turmoil can make a person paranoid, and it’s not wise to dwell on those types of feelings. It’s better to immerse yourself in cleaning and sex and work, to immerse yourself in how good it feels being in love right now. Because those are the things that are important, the things that matter. Not semi-conscious doubts about Somedays that follow you into your dreams.

And then, during the last week of August, Brian and I attended two funerals.

The first was for a local boy who’d been killed in the war. Twenty-three years old. Roadside bomb. The minister talked about heroism and patriotism and sacrifice and honor. We all nodded because no matter what we thought about the war, we all knew that the soldier had been a hero. Then he talked about God’s Will and about Keeping Faith. He said the soldier was now Residing In The House Of His Father, and we all nodded again, even Brian who didn’t really believe it. And after the funeral was over, the soldier’s mother talked about her son.

He liked to play the piano and work on cars. He had a big heart and a good sense of humor. He was intelligent. Focused. He wasn’t going to waste his life. No sir. He had a goal, and he knew how to achieve it. Computer engineering, and that meant college. No way to pay so he signed up. Experience and Army College Fund. Because times are hard and money is tight and you do what you have to do. But he was her only child. And now he was gone.

The second funeral was for one of Rachel’s friends who died in the gravel pit on the far side of town. Nineteen years old. Heroin overdose. The same minister talked about Not Losing Faith and about Taking Comfort in The Lord during these Difficult Times instead of turning to drugs. This boy, too, was Residing In The House Of His Father. It was all that the minister said, because what else can you say? And after the funeral, the boy’s mother talked about her son.

He was smart and funny, too, but not Focused. He was tired and discouraged. Because times are hard and sometimes people deal with their problems and sometimes they hide away in a haze. He wasn’t her only child, but he was the second one she’d buried. Same reason. And now both of her children were gone.

After the funeral, Rachel came home with us, and Brian started to give her a lecture, another one, about Having Focus and Using Your Fucking Brains; but she left before he could get too far. Once her car was out of sight, he took off in his truck, and he was still gone when I got back from work three hours later. When he finally got home, he walked quickly past me without a word and headed straight for the shower. He wouldn’t tell me where he’d gone, and I didn’t push the issue until I was picking his clothes up off the bathroom floor. And saw the blood on his shirt. So he said:

“I kicked Tim’s ass. Me and Jeff did. Now maybe he’ll stay away from Rachel.”

I just nodded and said, “Okay.” And after he kicked the wall three times, he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard. Because even when you have Focus, sometimes you still need the haze. So I grabbed the blanket from his closet and the pillows from his bed and set us up outside. We drank too much and laughed a lot, and before he fell asleep, he muttered something about the stars, but I was too drunk to understand it.

In the morning when we awoke, we were both shivering and covered with dew. I was hung over but he wasn’t, and that didn’t seem fair. But neither is life sometimes, and we both still had to make a living. Busy Friday. And I survived.

On Saturday morning, Dave arrived bright and early. Labor Day weekend. Fishing. My father had begged off at the last minute, claiming sickness. Dave’s tone made it obvious that wasn’t the real reason, but he didn’t let me in on what the real reason was. I knew him well enough to know that the matter was not open for discussion, so I let it go. I watched him silently while he transferred his gear into the back of Brian’s truck. He had offered to take his, but the back roads were rough and Brian’s truck was so old that a little extra damage wouldn’t even be noticed.

“You be nice to him this weekend. He’s had a rough time lately.”

Dave seemed surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be nice to him?”

I shrugged. He was right, of course. This time around, it was easy. Brian was just the guy my sister is seeing. If it worked out with us, then great. If it didn’t, then he could say something like, that’s a shame, Tess, he was a nice guy, but I’m sure you’ll find someone new before you know it, and that would be the end of it. Not like it had been when Jason and Tess became Jason-and-Tess.

He hadn’t reacted well. He wouldn’t have even if the news had been broken to him gently, but gentle is exactly what it wasn’t. He’d come home unexpectedly from Boston College one fine Sunday morning in April because he’d broken up with a girlfriend, made a beeline right for Jason’s apartment to talk about it, or whatever it is men do after they’ve just broken up with a girlfriend. He walked in without knocking — because what’s more natural than a guy having a key to his best friend’s apartment? — and found us sitting together on the couch eating breakfast.

Initially there was shock. All of us. Jason and I sat silently, cereal bowls shaking, waiting for Dave to speak. He stood in front of us for a horrible eternity, his mouth wide open, trying to process exactly what it was he was seeing. Because he’d just walked in on his little sister and his best friend. Sitting on his best friend’s couch. Eating breakfast together. Early in the morning. And his sister was wearing nothing but his best friend’s Def Leppard concert t-shirt.

And that’s when the shock wore off. Next step: anger.

You and . . . Tess? You’re fucking my sister? What the hell is wrong with you?

Jason set his bowl down and stood up to face him, tried to speak, to explain. He got as far as It’s not like that . . . before Dave took a swing. Jason ducked, and before Dave could try again, I ran over and stood between them. Dave tried to go around me, tried to move me out of the way, but I clung tightly to Jason’s pajama bottoms while he tried to shake me loose, to get me out of the way. So I wouldn’t get hurt.

Dave finally stopped struggling, just stood there, breathing heavily, looking at us, first me, then Jason. Like he still didn’t really believe it. And then he left without another word. He wouldn’t talk to either of us for weeks after that, despite a constant barrage of phone calls. And when he finally did, he’d moved from anger to apprehension.

What’s going to happen when it doesn’t work out? Did you ever think of that?

By the time he came home for the summer, he’d come to an acceptance of sorts.

Whatever makes you guys happy. Just leave me out of the mess.

We hadn’t, of course, and it had been a huge nightmare for him when Jason-and-Tess began to unravel into Jason and Tess. A painful exercise in compartmentalization. Compartments with thick walls and no doors or windows. It had worked for a little while. But then, of course, came the affair and the separation and the divorce. And no walls were thick enough to contain the mess.

Brian came towards us, struggling with a giant cooler full of beer, and Dave trotted over to help him. After they loaded it into the truck, he asked Brian, “Is that everything?”

“Now it is.”

Dave nodded to me. “See you on Monday, Tess.”

I nodded back.

Brian came over to me. “I feel guilty about leaving you alone all weekend.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be able to carry on without me?”

“I’m sure I can manage for a few days.”

He grinned. “And now I’ll get to find out what a horrible kid you were.”

“I doubt it. Dave doesn’t run off at the mouth like some people I know.”

“I bet if I funnel enough beer into him, he’ll tell me everything.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. And I loved it. Passion and heat and. . .

Fire. This man is fire. . .

He gave me a kiss. And I watched them drive away.

I’d told him I could carry on without him for a few days, and it was true. But it was boring as hell. The garden was weeded, the house already clean, my place and his, and I’d read every book in the house. I flipped through my sketch pad, but the muses were still silent. There wasn’t anyone for me to visit. Rachel and Zeke were working, the Burkes were out of town. And the lake was still swarming with Flatlanders. Only two more days until most of them went back home for the winter. I’d be happier about the prospect if they weren’t going to be taking half my pay with them.

I settled for a Star Wars movie marathon, bored enough to include the prequels, wasting a perfectly beautiful day and evening and night indoors. By the time Darth Vader cut off Luke Skywalker’s hand, I’d polished off two bottles of wine, to ward off images of swingsets and bats and slides, but I still managed to stay awake until the second Death Star was destroyed. I fell asleep on the couch and spent the night dreaming of Alice’s workshop. . .

Sunday morning dawned bright and sore. I couldn’t face another day alone, so after breakfast, I drove down to Rachel’s apartment. I’d only been there once before. It was the smallest apartment I’d ever seen, a one-room studio above a gift shop that was only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day. It didn’t open until noon on Sunday, so there were only two vehicles parked in the lot, Rachel’s clunker and a freshly waxed red sports car. I knocked on her door anyway.

Tim answered. He was still bruised and battered, but not enough to keep him away. There was something creepy about him, something that went beyond the age difference between him and Rachel. Beyond the asshole drug dealer thing. That feeling. The one you sometimes get from a guy, that sort of spider-crawling- down-your-neck feeling that makes you want to squirm and wiggle and scrub yourself all over with a dozen Brillo pads.

He grinned. “What can I do for you, Tess?”

“Not a thing. I came to see if Rachel wants to go see a movie or something. You know,” I added, “girls day out.”

A day without you, you stupid asshole.

Tim looked over his shoulder, then back at me, “Rachel’s in the bathroom right now. She’s not feeling that good today.”

“What’s the matter? Is it a flu? Or a–”

He shrugged.

“Does she need anything? I can run to the drugstore or–”

“No. She’s all set.”

His grim eyes set off every alarm in my body. “You know, I think I’ll stick around anyway. Just to make sure.”

That’s right. I’m not going away. I’ll camp out here all fucking day.

He rolled his eyes, backed up a step and let me in. I looked around. Everything seemed okay. Normal. Nothing broken or out of place — no more than usual, anyway. Laundry in a heap in the corner. Dirty dishes and food still out on the counter and table. Sofa bed unmade, sheets and blankets draping off of it.

“Well,” he said. “I’m gonna take off.”

“Good.”

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “Real nice, Tess.”

After the door closed behind him, I shuddered. I hated the way my name sounded in his voice.

I heard the shower start in the bathroom and looked around the apartment again. It was disgusting. I couldn’t do the dishes, because it would probably cut off her water. There was no way I was going near the bed. So I settled for picking up the kitchen.

Dishes in the sink. Good food back in the fridge, spoiled food in the trash. Wiped up the counter and table.

A little better at least.

The shower was still running. I braved a trip into the living room area, avoided the bed, sorted through the mess on the coffee table. More dishes, pizza crust, beer bottles. Rolling papers and a lighter.

And a bag from the pharmacy.

I looked at it. Pondered. The shower was still running, so I picked up the bag. There was no bottle or container of any kind inside it, but there was a paper, printed with instructions and warnings. I took a deep breath. Examined my conscience. Then slipped it out.

Doxycylcine.

It was an antibiotic. And I knew what it probably meant.

The shower stopped. I shoved the paper into the bag and tossed it back on the coffee table. Covered it up with the trash. Scooted back into the kitchen and waited for Rachel at the table. She got two steps into the living room before she saw me and stopped abruptly.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too.”

She looked around. “Where’s Tim?”

“He took off. Did you guys have plans?”

She looked at the coffee table. The sofa bed. Back at me. Shook her head.

“Wanna go see a movie?”

She thought it over. “Sure, I guess. Gimme a sec.”

She headed back into the bathroom and shut the door. I drummed my fingers on the table. Tapped my foot against the chair leg. Traced the lines of my palm with my fingernail. Noticed, for the first time, that the line that went from the webbing between my thumb and pointer to the bottom of my hand was quite long, and I wondered if that was normal. Wondered if it was my lifeline or something else. . .

Nearly twenty minutes passed before she came back out again and sat across from me. Hair and makeup just so. More makeup than usual. And I knew why.

“You know,” I said, “concealer and foundation don’t cover up bruises.”

On her left cheek. Big and dark, even under the makeup. She shrugged.

“What the hell are you doing with him, Rachel?”

“What? Haven’t you ever got a little rough in the sack before, Tess?”

“I’m not stupid enough to think that’s what happened to you. He did that to you because of what Brian did to him.”

She shrugged again. “What should I expect? I’m fucking a drug dealer.”

“You need to stop doing that.”

“Don’t worry. He’s done with me anyway. This morning was his last . . . whatever it was.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s bored with me, and now he’s moved on to another girl. She’s seventeen. So I probably won’t see him around here again.”

Thank God. Little Miss Seventeen’s family could worry about her. But.

“Does that mean he’s gonna cut you off?”

“Tess, I told you. I’m not into that shit.” She held out her arms.

“I’m a lot of things, Rachel, but I’m not an idiot. And there’s other shit you can do that doesn’t involve needles. So how about this. I promise not to give you any lectures if you promise to tell me the truth for a change.”

She sighed. Scratched her arms vigorously for a few seconds and rolled her sleeves back down. Then she told me the truth.

She’d tried just about everything Tim had to offer that didn’t need to be injected. But she’d been careful, she said, because she knew that he wasn’t going to stick around forever. And once it was over, the free ride was, too, and then where would she be? The same place half a dozen of his other throwaways were right now: selling themselves to the Lake Kids in the summer and to Tim and his sick friends in the winter.

The funeral had scared her, too, and that’s when she decided to stop. Even before Brian’s lecture, even before he beat Tim senseless. She missed it already, especially Oxycontin — she liked that more than anything because it made all the hurt go away, and she needed that — but it wasn’t as bad as it might be. It was hard, but she had it under control now. She had enough left to wean herself off, and then she’d be all set. I nodded, just like I knew what she meant, even though I didn’t. Because I’d never used it. But at least it wasn’t heroin. I’d never done that, either, but I knew enough. Knew that once you get started on That, you just can’t quit. And then she told me one more thing.

“Tim gave me the clap.”

I tried to seem shocked. It wasn’t too hard, because even though I’d figured it out, it was a different thing altogether to hear the words.

“Dr. Stephens gave me something for it. But I was stupid and let Tim fuck me again, so I probably oughtta go back and get checked out. Again.”

I nodded. And I repeated, “Rach, you need to leave him alone.”

“I already told you. He’s done with me.”

I ran my hand through my hair. Tapped my foot on the table leg. And I said it, even though I’d promised no lectures. “I don’t give a shit. You need to be done with him.”

She glanced over at the sofa bed again, and I recognized the look on her face. Because I knew the feeling. When the sex isn’t about love or connection, when it isn’t even about being horny or about having fun. When it’s about hiding away. Burying and forgetting. When it’s almost a compulsion.

I stood up. “Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

“What?”

“Seriously. It’s a pig hole. And you’re not a pig. You’re too decent a person to live like this. And you especially don’t need that. . .” I nodded at the sofa bed, “. . .staring at you all day.”

She rolled her eyes, but stood up. And we cleaned. I made her change the sheets while I finished up the kitchen, and we tackled the rest together. It took us almost two hours. And when we were finished she asked me about Having Focus.

“Did you start your cleaning business right out of high school?”

“Nope.” I stretched slowly, concentrated on each vertebrae as it snapped and popped. “I worked at a convenience store, a Qwik Stop, until right after I started living with Jason. I guess you could say he inspired me to start my business.” She seemed interested, so I told her.

I moved in with him shortly after Dave found out about us. I hadn’t even been there a week before he’d had enough of my constant cleaning. Toilet, carpet, sink, fridge, floor. Over and over, even when they didn’t need it. Rewashed the dishes after he’d already done them, remade the bed after he’d already made it. Because it wasn’t Quite Right. The final straw came one morning when I grabbed his coffee cup right out of his hand before he was actually done with it.

“Goddamn it, Tess, give that back. If you have to clean something, go clean my mom’s house. Or your mom’s house. Or anybody else’s house. The superintendent is looking for someone to clean her house twice a week. Jesus, go do that and get it out of your system.”

And so I did. Just to get it out of my system. That led to another job, and then another. After three months, I was able to quit the Qwik Stop, but I didn’t get the cleaning out of my system. Because nothing, ever, was going to be quite clean enough.

I didn’t say that to Rachel. I told her instead that she could make some changes in her life if she put her mind to it. But she said she didn’t have any skills. Not like me or Brian or Zeke. Laura had tried to talk her into going to hair cutting school, but that didn’t interest her, either. And before I could say something that was encouraging and appropriate, she changed the subject. I didn’t push it, because, after all, I had all day. Longer, even. Rachel wasn’t quite twenty, and that meant that I had plenty of time to help her. That she had plenty of time for making changes. For doing lots of things.

We went out to see a movie, a stupid chick flick that made us both cry, then we ate supper out at Friendlys. We even shared a huge hot fudge sundae with extra whipped cream and nuts, something I hadn’t treated myself to in forever. And on the way home, I talked to her some more about Focus. About going to school. Not a lecture, just something to think about. Because she had lots of options open to her. There was a big demand for nurses in the state, anything in the medical field, for that matter. Or secretarial work. Or . . . whatever she wanted, really. The sky was the limit. Even if times were hard and money was tight. There were ways to get help for things like tuition and books.

She said she’d think about it, then she changed the subject again. Talked about her dad. She hadn’t seen him or heard from him in weeks, even though she’d decided not to tell him to get lost. But it was okay, she said. Because it’s what she’d expected. Brian was right about him after all. And so . . . it was okay. I knew that it wasn’t okay, but there wasn’t anything either of us could do to change it. Then she said:

“You won’t tell Brian about my little problem, will you?”

“I won’t tell him about you getting the clap.”

She sighed. “What about . . . the other thing.”

I looked at her face, at the bruise that was visible even through the makeup, even with only the headlights of oncoming cars for illumination. I probably should tell him about it. But what if I did? He couldn’t unbruise her. Nothing he’d do would make it fade any quicker. And there would be Guilt. The kind that came from knowing that instead of protecting his sister, he’d pissed Tim off enough to take it out on her. And now that Tim had found a new Sweet Young Thing to corrupt, he probably would leave Rachel alone.

“I’ll keep the rest to myself as long as you stay away from Tim.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

And by the time I dropped her off at her apartment, she looked happy. Looked like she might be okay. And I knew she would be, someday.

Just a matter of time.

And then came Monday afternoon, Labor Day. I ate lunch at Zeke’s because I knew the place would be almost empty, and that meant we could talk. The ballgame was on, bottom of the eighth, but it wasn’t holding the attention of the only two other customers in the place. They were too busy making out, hot and heavy, right there at their table, oblivious to the rest of the world. I lowered my voice anyway.

“Zeke, can you do me a favor?”

“Probably.”

“I need you to help me keep an eye on Rachel.”

I waited, watched him closely. He was usually pretty good at the poker face, unless he wanted to be discovered. This was one of those times. He knew something about Rachel and wanted me to know that he did. Still, I’d have to be careful. I started my digging this way:

“You know . . . when I was a kid, I loved Oreos. If I was left on my own, I would’ve eaten them for every meal and for dessert, too.”

He nodded.

“But I started getting fat. So . . . my mother put me on a diet. No more Oreos. And it worked, because I lost the weight.”

Another nod.

“And now that I’m older, I get the fact that I can have an Oreo every so often as a nice treat, but that if I eat too many of them, my ass is gonna get huge. And everything is fine.”

He rubbed his nose. Cleared his throat.

“There are some people who love Oreos so much . . . that they can’t stop eating them. Even if it makes them fat. Even if it makes them sick. Sometimes they’ll go on a diet and they’ll do well for awhile. But . . . their friends have to keep an eye on them to make sure that they’re not cheating on their diet.”

It was my turn to nod. “You know, Zeke . . . Brian’s been a little stressed out lately.”

“He’s been a little stressed out for a long time.”

“Exactly. So the next time you see any cookie crumbs around Rachel’s mouth . . . can you call me first? Instead of him?”

“Sure thing.”

I stuck around long enough to watch the Red Sox lose. On my way out, I kicked Make Out Guy’s chair. He and his girl jumped, and that made me smile.

Brian and Dave got home a few hours later. I helped them bring the gear into the kitchen, and when we were done, Dave said, “So I’ll see you guys at the end of the month.”

Brian nodded. I wracked my brain, but came up with nothing. “Why will we see you then?”

Dave just smiled. “Bye, Tess.”

I watched through the window as he drove away, then turned to Brian. He was unloading what appeared to be a dozen foil-wrapped trout from a small lunchbox-sized cooler into the freezer. “We’re going to Dave and Kim’s at the end of the month?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“To spend the night.”

“Why?” He was still concentrating on the fish. “Hello?”

“We’re gonna watch Matthew so they can go away for a night.”

“What?”

He closed the freezer door and smiled defiantly. “Yeah. They haven’t had a night alone since he was born, and they need one. It shouldn’t be too difficult, Tess,” he goaded. “You watch Cassidy, so what’s the difference?”

I didn’t want to talk about Cassidy. She was starting school on Wednesday, so tomorrow would be our last full day together until her next school vacation in November. Only an hour or so twice a week until then, barely enough time for crayons. It sucked big time, but it wasn’t the point, so I got back to it.

“There’s a huge difference between watching an eight-year-old and a — wait a sec. Don’t close that cooler yet.”

“Why not? It’s empty.”

“Let me bleach it first or you’ll never get the fish smell out.”

He shrugged and closed it up anyway. “So? The only thing that ever goes in here is fish.”

I sighed and continued. “I don’t know the first frigging thing about babies.”

“Maybe not, but I do. That’s why I said we are going to watch him. Besides, you should know about them.”

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus Christ, Tess, back off. I just think you should get to know your nephew before he gets to be eight years old and doesn’t know who the hell you are. If you keep this up, he won’t even know your name by then. There’s nothing to be afraid of, you know. He won’t bite. Well, he might if he’s teething. How old is he, again?”

“He’s. . .” I did some quick backwards math. “He’ll be six-and-a-half-months old at the end of the month. And I’m not afraid. I’m just. . .”

He waited for me to answer, but I wasn’t sure ‘just what’ the problem was. And when he realized I wasn’t going to finish my sentence after all, he smiled, came over to me and put his hands on my arms. His touch said, I’m trying to reassure you, but his eyes told me he really was getting a kick out of my apprehension.

“You’re not going to hurt him. Or break him. Babies are pretty easy. All you gotta do is feed him a bottle and probably some mashed carrots every so often and play with him a little. And change his diaper–”

“If anyone’s changing a diaper, it’s you.”

“Fine. I’ll change the diapers. At least the shitty ones. You can deal with the rest.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t even say I’d do it.”

“Then pick up the phone and call your brother.” He laughed. “‘Gee, I sure am sorry, but you can’t get away with your wife because I’m afraid of your baby.’”

“Oh, bite me. You two set me up. That sucks.”

He smiled at me again and didn’t deny it. I let him pull me closer anyway, because he smelled like campfire. And because he was right. The kid was my nephew, and Dave and Kim really did need to get out. It had been longer than Brian knew since they’d had any time alone together. They’d taken me into their home — mopey, lonely Tess — months before Matthew was born. Dave had made me stay with them so I could get over Jason by filling my face with Kim’s snack cakes. Instead of filling my bed with a different kind of snack. I owed them at least one night to themselves.

“You change the shitty ones,” I said to his chest.

“Yep.”

“And you get up with him if he bawls in the middle of the night.”

“Yep.”

I was silent for a minute, trying to figure out what other irritating or disgusting things babies did that I wanted no part of. “I don’t do boogers.”

“Fine.”

“Okay, then.”

He laughed. “Cheer up. It’ll be great.”

Chapter 20

Dave had already packed their suitcase in the car and was ready to go, but Kim was dragging her feet, obviously nervous about leaving her son in my care. I certainly didn’t blame her. I shared her apprehension, and for three full minutes, I held onto the hope that she was going to change her mind. But Dave intervened, literally pushing her towards the front door.

“It’s just for one night. He’ll be just fine with Brian and Tess.”

I knew Dave had invoked Brian’s name first on purpose; it inspired much more confidence than mine. He was holding Matthew, blowing bubbles on his belly to distract him from his parents’ departure.

I piped up with an almost convincing, “Don’t worry, Kim. We’ve got everything under control.”

She nodded. Almost convinced. And they left.

Brian set Matthew down on a blanket in the living room, on his belly, then lay down on his own directly in front of him, the beginning of some sort of male bonding ritual that involved squeaky animal toys. I watched them silently from the safety of the couch for a few minutes before turning my attention to Kim’s collection of magazines. It was pretty impressive. I chose Newsweek, completely ignoring the stacks of parenting journals she’d left out in plain sight. I didn’t need them. I had bought a book about baby development just the week before, and flipping through it had left me feeling prepared for whatever my nephew wanted to throw my way.

Until it was time to change my first diaper.

I plopped him down on the changing table. Everything I needed was within reach. Baby wipes. Powder. Lotion. Fresh diapers. I held my breath, unfastened the dirty diaper and stared, mortified, for what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few seconds. Then I covered him right back up again.

“Brian! Quick! Get in here!”

He ran into the room, wide-eyed and out of breath. “What is it?”

I slipped the diaper open slowly and fixed Matthew with a guilty, sympathetic gaze. He blew a lipful of drool at me. Brian took a step closer and examined the contents for maybe five seconds.

“What’s the problem?”

“What do you mean? Look at it!” I pointed at Matthew’s little wiener. “I think I waited too long to change the diaper. Will it dry out and go back to normal? Or should we call his. . .”

I didn’t finish the question. Brian was clutching the crib with one hand and his stomach with the other, laughing so hard that he actually started to snort. Matthew was apparently in on the joke and joined him, pealing merrily until he pissed again, a steady, curving stream that made it all the way to the crib. He sprayed the sheets and, I was happy to see, Brian, before I bothered to cover him up again.

“What the hell is so funny?”

He finally got control of himself. “Jesus, Tess. There’s nothing wrong with his penis. He’s just not circumcised.”

I pulled the diaper down again and looked a little closer.

“That’s what they’re supposed to look like before parents let the hospital mutilate ‘em. I guess Dave and Kim wanted to spare him.”

“Oh.”

I felt a little creepy staring at my nephew’s penis, so I averted my gaze and got on with the business of cleaning him up. I gave him a liberal dose of baby powder, just in case. It smelled odd, but familiar. I looked at the container. It had aloe in it. So did the lotion.

Brian dried his eyes, grabbed a baby wipe and dabbed at his sleeve. “You’ve, uh, never seen a. . .”

“No.”

“And your book didn’t cover the subject?”

I figured it was better if I came clean. I’d actually only read the section in the middle; five-to-eight month olds. It made me wonder what else I’d missed. I rarely read the directions for anything, and when I did, I usually just skimmed through. I’d only needed two sentences out of a twelve-page manual to get my new coffeepot to brew automatically at 6:00 every morning.

“Well,” he said, still laughing, “I guess I know more about your ex-husband than I ever wanted to.”

I kicked him hard and handed him the baby, changed the crib sheets, washed up, then slipped back to Matthew’s room and rubbed some lotion onto my hands. When I joined them in the living room, they were lying on the floor again, still laughing. I ignored them and combed through the first part of my book. Sure enough: The Pros and Cons of Circumcision. More than I ever wanted to know. And it made me more grateful than ever for my own double X chromosomes.

After almost an hour, Brian looked up at me and said, “Would you put that fucking thing down and come play with your nephew?”

“No, I wanna finish this chapter. Then I’ll be all caught up.”

He scooped Matthew up off his blanket, grabbed the book from my hands and plopped the kid down in my lap. “There. Catch up that way.”

“But . . . what am I supposed to do with him?”

He only shrugged and headed for the kitchen, taking my book with him. Matthew smiled and blew a spit bubble in my face. I wiped it off, and we spent a few minutes staring at each other, sizing each other up. Finally, I got up off the couch, deposited him on the blanket, on his back, and hovered over him, on my hands and knees.

“So, drool machine. What do you feel like doing?”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved it into his mouth. I let him chew on it for a minute or so, until I remembered that I’d been to see Laura a few days earlier, and that hair dye wasn’t a healthy snack for a baby. I disentangled it from his grasp and tied it back in a knot at my neck. He felt the loss of his new toy very keenly and started to cry.

“Oh, come on, kid.”

I grabbed his squeaky turtle and waved in in front of his face. It didn’t work. None of the squeaky toys did. Neither did his soft Teddy bear or Kim’s old stuffed elephant.

“Brian!”

“Nope.”

“God damn it!” He cried even harder. I tried to remember what my book had said about calming babies down. I drew a blank. I looked at his face, all puckered up and red and miserable, then closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself in his place. Lonely, scared. My only means of comfort and fun ripped rudely away from me. It wasn’t hard to imagine. I picked him up and held him closely. Whispered in his ear:

“Shhhh . . . it’s alright. It’s gonna be alright.”

I held him against me until he finally stopped crying, waited until his grip on my shirt loosened up before I set him back down on his blanket, this time on his belly, like Brian had done. Then I lay down right in front of him. Like Brian had done. He smiled at me, and I smiled right back. I gathered all his little squeaky toys together and picked up where he and Brian had left off. And when my grip on his blanket loosened up, Brian joined us.

Matthew was an easy baby to keep entertained. We discovered that he liked Kim’s elephant best out of all his toys, that his knees were extremely ticklish and that his favorite thing in the world was for us to pretend to eat his fingers and toes. He took a quick nap right after lunch. Brian and I spent it hovering over his crib, watching him sleep. When he woke up, Brian changed his diaper. We played a little more, and then I read aloud from Dr. Seuss’ Hop on Pop. I made all my p’s pop because the sound made Matthew giggle.

Brian fed him rice cereal and peas for supper with peaches for dessert, then gave him a bath. I dried him off, rubbed his arms and legs and belly with some of his aloe lotion, then dressed him in cute, fuzzy blue pajamas, the kind with feet. By then, he was getting cranky, but we couldn’t get him to go to sleep. We took turns cuddling him and rocking him, and Brian sang him lullabies, but it still took well over an hour for him to settle down enough to drift off. Once he finally did, I sat down with him in the rocking chair in his room, snuggled him in close. After forty five minutes of rocking and humming and smelling his hair, I figured it was safe to put him in his crib. By that time, Brian and I were both too exhausted to do anything except crash in the spare room, the room that had been my home the winter before.

Even so, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I thrashed around, twisted the blankets into a huge, messy knot. I got up three times to unravel them. Each time I did, I checked on Matthew, and each time, I woke Brian up. Finally — at quarter of three — he muttered, “Dammit, Tess, either stay in bed or go sleep in the baby’s room.” I grabbed a pillow, untangled the top blanket, scuffled over to Matthew’s room and camped out in the rocker.

It was dark, but my eyes adjusted to it quickly, and I could see Matthew’s form through the rails of his crib. I rocked for a long time, just looking at him. It seemed strange that those were the same little feet that had kicked at me when I used to poke Kim’s belly. Someday soon, he’d use them to take his first steps. I thought about how his giggles and cries had sounded, just hours earlier, and wondered what his first word would be; tried to imagine how it would sound in his voice. I pictured him learning his ABC’s. Reading Hop on Pop aloud to his parents. Waiting for the bus on his first day of school, holding Mommy’s hand; little red backpack and a lunchbox. Baseball games with Daddy. Help with homework. Prom. College. Wedding. Kids of his own. . .

I stood up, tiptoed over to him. Watched his chest rise and fall, each breath a light, precious sigh. I closed my eyes and saw his smile, his beautiful blue eyes shining up at me, and I was overcome by a strong, sudden yearning for him to wake up. Tried to will the sun to come up just a few hours early, anxious to hold him, to play with him. Talk to him. To hear his laughter again.

In the next day or so, I could probably come up with a hundred different reasons why I hadn’t been able to sleep, and I might even succeed in fooling myself with some of them. By the time the week was out, I’d believe that it was the uncomfortable bed that had kept me up. Or the fear that Matthew would wake up alone and scared; that I wouldn’t hear his cries. But in the clarity that came with a kind of exhaustion I wasn’t accustomed to, I knew the real reason I was standing over my nephew in the middle of the night. And for a brief moment, the image of him shifted in my mind, changed, and he was reborn. Smiling up at me with soft, dark eyes.

Van Dyke brown.

. . .

His parents got home shortly before lunch. Kim grabbed Matthew right out of my arms and spent five full minutes examining him to make sure he was still in one piece. Dave watched in silent amusement, then turned to me and asked:

“Are you guys hungry? We were thinking of going out to eat.”

“Out?”

“Yes, that’s right, Tess. Out. To a restaurant. One of those buildings where you sit down at a nice table and a waitress brings you your food.”

“A server,” Kim corrected.

“No,” Dave said. “Coach only hires waitresses.”

“You want to go to the Café? Can’t . . . we just eat lunch here?”

Dave rolled his eyes and gave Kim an ‘I told you so’ look.

Brian looked from me to Dave and then back again. “Why don’t you wanna go out?”

“Because I don’t feel like eating greasy, shitty food. And . . . besides, I’m too tired to go out. Maybe we should just head home now. We can grab something for you at a drive-thru once we get into–”

“Forget it, Tess,” Dave said. “I’ll just order something from Qwik Stop. What’s the number there?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Didn’t you work there?”

“Yeah, Dave. Back in my slacker days. Thanks for the fucking reminder.”

Kim intervened. “Honey, the number is in the book by the phone.” He didn’t move. Just stood, staring at me. I stared right back. Kim cleared her throat. “The phone in the kitchen.”

“Forget it. I’ll just drive down and order it there.”

Brian grabbed his jacket from the armchair. “I’ll go with you.”

Dave nodded and followed him to the door. He shot me another dirty look before he left, slamming the door behind him.

Kim sat down with the baby in the rocking chair, and I plopped down on the couch across from them. Matthew rested his head on his mother’s shoulder and gave me a drowsy smile, put the full force of his eyes behind it. They were liquid blue and tranquil, like a summertime lake.

“You know, Tess,” Kim began, startling me. “You’re going to have to go in there and face Coach one of these days.”

I crossed my legs and looked at my sock. Ten stripes, three colors. An extra green stripe. I’d never noticed that before.

“We heard about what he said to you after your . . . after court that day.”

I looked up. “Dave heard about it?”

“Yes.”

“And the shithead wanted to take me there anyway.”

“Tess, he only wants to help you–”

“Well, I don’t want his help. And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t have to face that asshole. That’s the beauty of moving away. I never have to deal with him or see him again. Not Coach and not any of them.”

She shook her head, but didn’t press the issue. She changed the subject instead.

“So, you survived the weekend.”

“Yep. And, more importantly, Matthew survived.” We both looked at him. He was already asleep, his face squished against her shoulder. It made his mouth looked like a little pink heart.

Kim laughed. “I know what’s happening to you, Tess.”

I groaned. “Nothing is happening to me.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t care. Just because I like my nephew doesn’t mean I want one of . . . my own. I never have. You know that.”

“I know you never did, and there was nothing wrong with that. Just like there’s nothing wrong with the fact that you might have changed your mind.”

“Well, I haven’t changed my mind. Besides, Brian and I have already talked about it.”

She looked surprised. “You talked about having kids?”

“No. We talked about not having kids. Because he doesn’t want any either.”

I already raised one kid. I don’t wanna do it all over again.

I cleared my throat. “It’s actually a relief to know that this time I’m not with someone who’s going to nag me about it constantly or try to talk me into something I don’t want.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Brian was right that day, you know . . . what he said to your mother. Jason knew you didn’t want kids before you got married. It’s too bad he didn’t deal with it then.”

I let my gaze drop to Kim’s belly. She still hadn’t lost all her baby weight, and for a moment, I considered asking if it bothered her. Because if we were going to spend some time rubbing salt into open wounds, I might as well get my shaker out, too. Instead I countered with:

“Yeah, well, we all know he wasn’t thinking right at the time. He married me because I was different and quirky and fun, but that’s only good for so long, isn’t it? Pretty soon, a man wants something a little more real. He wants a normal life. He wants a normal wife and kids and a huge house with a big, fat fucking yard with lots of green, green grass to mow. Who knew it would take the idiot a whole fucking decade to figure that one out.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what happened, and you know it. Jason married you because he loved you. He just got a little antsy when he turned thirty-five because. . .” She sighed. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“I guess not.” I said it, even though I had no idea why turning thirty-five had made Jason so antsy. I’d never thought to ask. “Besides, just look at him. He doesn’t seem like he’s in any rush to settle down again and start his little family. Last I heard, he was still screwing everything in sight.”

“Just listen to yourself, Tess. You get so indignant when everyone gossips about you, but you believe everything they say about Jason without question? After you, there was just one woman, and that was . . . well, you know about her.”

I sure did. The Ex. The woman he had dated before me. A few days after he walked out on me, he went running right back to her. It lasted all of two days.

“He did just start seeing someone recently, but I don’t think it’s serious yet.”

“Then I guess he’s all set, isn’t he? You know,” I’d finally reached my breaking point, “that’s the great thing about being a man. Here he is, thirty-six years old, hell, he’ll be thirty-seven in a few more months. If he was a woman, right now he’d be freaking out. He’d be thinking about hormone shots and in vitro fertilization and shit like that. But he can have his cake and eat it, too. He got to screw around with lots of girls in high school and lots of women in college, then he wasted all those years with me. Now he can screw around again, and he still has plenty of time to have kids. All he needs to do is find himself a fertile young chicky once he’s through having his fun, and he’s good to go.”

“Tess, that’s not fair. Do you really think he planned for his life to turn out like this?” She sighed. “Look, I don’t want to get into any of that. Just . . . whatever issues you and Jason had about it, don’t let that stop you from starting a family with Brian if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want that. And . . . even if I did, I’m too old now. It’s my turn for thirty-five in November. Isn’t that when everything starts shriveling up?” Is that what had freaked Jason out?

“Not necessarily. I’m only a year younger than you. Dave and I plan on having one more.”

“That’s fine. For you.”

“All I’m saying is . . . you might want to figure out how you really feel about it. What if you wake up five years from now wishing you’d started a family when you had the chance? It probably will be too late by then.”

“Maybe. But that’s a hell of a lot better than waking up five years from now wishing I hadn’t.”

She didn’t have a reply for that one, and I rolled it around in my brain a few times. It sounded good, sounded right, and I repeated it, out loud. Because Too Late really was better than If Only I Hadn’t. I looked at Matthew again. Studied his sleeping face. He still looked just like Dave. Just like my dad. And then I thought about my own mother, who looked just like me, and I said it out loud one more time. And found myself actually believing it.

Nobody spoke all through lunch. Not even Brian. The only sounds at the table were chewing and crunching while they ate their pizza and I ate my veggie Italian. And by Dave clearing his throat. He did it five times. Each time he did, I looked over at him only to find that he was already looking at me, and I’d wait for him to say something. Each time. But each time, he looked away and went back to his lunch. Back to pepperoni and mushrooms.

And I was sick of it. Sick of being around grown men who were suffering from PMS; sick of the awkward silence. So I brought up a topic for conversation that would take advantage of the first problem and cure the second. Dave’s work. He was defending a man accused of killing his wife. I only knew about it because I’d seen him on my television screen in his Lawyer Suit a few weeks earlier, talking to reporters about Fair Trials and Changes of Venue; because they had very kindly let the public know that the guy was guilty. That he had a bad temper and that he’d beaten his wife for years and years. So I asked Dave if he had trouble sleeping at night. If he was haunted by the ghost of a Viciously Abused and Brutally Murdered woman.

It was a rotten thing to do to him, because he hadn’t actually volunteered to handle the case. He was the court-appointed attorney, the kind that television cops told suspects they had the right to if they couldn’t afford one on their own. But the question didn’t even phase him. He just smiled and said, “No, Tess. I sleep just fine.”

“Because of all that innocent-until-proven-guilty bullshit?”

The silence was over, but the awkwardness remained. We were all treated to a nice long lecture about Justice and Injustice. How the Presumption of Innocence is the foundation of any moral society. How the media influences prospective jurors’ opinions even before the facts of the case have been gathered. And, especially, about how shameful it was that, even in a democracy, wealth — or a lack of it — still had such a bearing on whether or not a person gets a fair trial.

I listened intently to every word, held his gaze steadily throughout the entire lesson. I didn’t look away when Brian interjected from time to time to ask a question or to give his opinion, or even when Kim — obviously irritated at me for irritating her husband — got up to get a crying Matthew from his crib. I nodded and shook my head and made appropriate replies, which pissed Dave off all the more, because he thought, of course, that I was just being condescending.

The truth was, though, that I agreed wholeheartedly with every word he said. I really did think that the Presumption of Innocence was the foundation of every moral society. I thought that most reporters were inhuman bloodsuckers, more interested in money and ratings and notoriety than in The Truth. I agreed that the poor deserved competent legal representation. That they deserved a voice. And that, too often, they didn’t get it. The truth was that I was proud of my brother for being that voice. And even though I’d gotten him going on the subject partly for the fun of watching him rant, and partly to end the awkward silence . . . the truth was that I loved listening to him speak about the Evils of Injustice. It made me feel safe knowing that he was out there battling those evils. There was something about hearing those words in his voice that made me feel like I was home.

He ended his discourse with: “Believe it or not, Tess, juries usually get it right.”

And I said the only thing I could say. “Good.”

We stayed for a few more hours, long enough to watch the last Sox game of the season. There would be no players wearing red this October, at least not the Red that any of us cared about. But there’s always next year. And then it was time to go. Hugs and kisses for Matthew, nods and brief goodbyes for Dave and Kim. And still Brian was silent. Even after I pulled out of the driveway.

I knew he wouldn’t be for too long. His jaw and fists were clenched, and his legs were bouncing up and down so fitfully that, if I was a mechanic, I could have rigged a wire from them to my engine and increased my fuel efficiency. He waited until I came to a stop at the end of the road before he finally spoke.

“Why didn’t you want to go out for lunch?”

“You’re pissed because we didn’t go out to eat?”

He persisted. “Why didn’t you want to go out?”

“I told you. I was too tired. You know I didn’t sleep good last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said. You’re too tired to sit down in a restaurant but you’re not too tired to drive home? That’s bullshit.”

I rolled my eyes, pulled the shifter into neutral and yanked on the emergency brake. I could tell this one was going to take a while. “You obviously think you know the reason, so why don’t you just let me have it.”

And he did. He took a deep, deep breath, and the words shot out of him, flew out of him; because he’d been holding them back for a long time. He’d held them back on a catapult, just waiting for the right time to hurl them at me.

“I think you were too embarrassed to let your old friends see you with your little boy toy.”

Sharper than an arrow, and they hit their target. Hurt twice as much in Brian’s voice than they had in Jason’s.

“God damn it, Brian, why the hell didn’t you tell me he said that to you?”

“Gee, Tess, I don’t know. Why didn’t you ask me? You knew he said something, you were just too chickenshit to find out what it was.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, I suppose not. I guess it really isn’t fair for me to expect you to actually talk about something, is it?”

I swallowed the fuck you that sprang to my lips, gripped the steering wheel hard and focused on the real problem. “You know that Jason’s full of shit, right? I mean . . . you don’t actually believe I think that about you.”

“Most of the time, Tess, no. I don’t. Then something happens like today. Or I walk into Zeke’s and have to put up with your little fan club there giving me shit about how much you like playing with dicks. Or — don’t look at me like that. Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about it?”

Of course, the guys had told him. It was too juicy a thing to keep to themselves. No wonder they cheered me whenever I walked in. I kept the oven going day and night. They only had to hang around, waiting, plates licked clean, to see what I’d dish ‘em up next.

“Those assholes are worse than a flock of old maids.”

“Maybe. But it sure would’ve been nice if you were the one who told me about it instead of them, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t know there was anything to tell,” I lied. “I ran into your ex-whatever-she-is. She was being a drunken bitch, and she covered my lucky shirt with beer. So I . . . told her off.”

“Well, you sure did a great job of it. Do you have any idea of the shit I had to listen to from those guys? Huh?”

“It can’t be any worse than what I have to put up with from them.”

“Oh, really? ‘Hey Brian, aren’t you lucky,’” he mimicked. “‘If she’s been playin’ with dicks for that long, she must be real good at it by now.’ Fuckin’ Andy and his big, fucking mouth.”

“Andy was just pissed because I didn’t let him–”

“Yeah, I know why he was pissed, and I know what you didn’t let him do. Good for you, Tess. But the only reason I didn’t beat the shit outta him is because Jeff was there with me, and Jeff’s bigger’n I am.” He slammed the door with his elbow. “God damn it, Tess, you should’ve told me what happened that night. And you should’ve told me what Ashley said to you. I would’ve told you all about it, and then you’d know that you’ve got nothing to worry about. But no, you come home and maul me in the shower instead, just like I’m a fucking piece of livestock you gotta brand.”

I turned away from him and looked out the window, looked at the clear, pale blue sky. Just that morning, it had been filled with fat grey clouds, wave after wave of them. They hadn’t brought any rain, though; just a chill. For a moment, the landscape turned grey, even though the clouds were long gone, and I had to close my eyes against it. To make it disappear. If I looked at it for even one more second, I was either going to vomit or cry. But even behind closed eyes, the whole world was grey.

“Look, Brian, I’m tired, okay? I’m fucking exhausted. And I really don’t want to get into this.” I opened my eyes, finally, and looked at him, but couldn’t quite bring myself to focus on his face. “I don’t want to talk about Jason or your sweet little Ashley, or any of the rest of them, either. Not now, and not ever. Because. . .” I forced a smile. “Brian, none of that has anything to do with you and me. Anything that happened before we got together doesn’t even count. So why go into it? We’ve got a clean slate here.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I twisted in my seat to face him, focused on his eyes this time, ready for battle. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“If you actually believed any of that bullshit about clean slates, then I’d think you were, but I know you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t still be bothered about Ashley. You know, I’m not proud of being jealous of your ex, but at least I’ll admit it. But whenever something comes up that you don’t wanna deal with, you’re happy just to close your eyes and pretend like it doesn’t exist. Let me tell ya something, Tess,” he pointed a finger at me, something I’d always hated, “it doesn’t work that way. Sooner or later, it’s gonna come back to bite you in the ass. And it ends up hurting a hell of a lot worse than if you just deal with it as it comes at you.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re goddamn right it is.”

“And you wanna know why I didn’t want to go out with Dave today.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Fine.” I released the brake, shoved the car into first gear and peeled out onto the main road without really looking. I nearly hit an orange VW Beetle.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I didn’t answer, looked straight ahead at the road, barely aware of the blurry trees whizzing by either side of the car; even less aware of whatever words were coming out of Brian’s mouth as I sped along. It took less than three minutes to get to Hillside Café. It should’ve taken eight.

I turned the engine off, shoved the keys into my purse and opened the door.

“Well? Are you coming in with me or what?”

I slammed the door without waiting for an answer and walked over to the sign beside the road. It was an ancient roadside marquee, the kind that lights up so travelers can read it at night. It was just after four, so there was still well over two hours of daylight left. The sign, thank God, was lit up anyway. Bright, glowing yellow. The message never changed. Never.

Don’t leave wit out visiting our bakery.

Brian finally joined me. He looked at the sign. It meant nothing more to him than the possibility of fresh baked goods. I grabbed his hand, held it tight. Held it like it was all I had left. Then I pulled him inside.

The place was packed, just like I knew it would be, just like it was every weekend. Packed with staring people. Curious. Angry. Smug. Most of them didn’t even bother to conceal it. My first instinct was to ignore them. Instead, I gave them all a big smile and a friendly wave.

“Hey, guys! How’s it going?”

Fuck you and the horse you rode me outta town on.

Still nothing but stares, except from a small group of Jason’s former freshmen students — seniors by now — who were sitting at a booth in the back corner. They returned my greeting with a hearty, “Hey, Mrs. Dyer!” I wasn’t sure if it was honest affection that made them do it or the thrill of pissing off the older patrons, but I rewarded them with a real smile, as real as I could muster, and waved again. Then I turned to face Brian. He was through surveying the crowd and was waiting for an explanation.

“It’s like this, sweetie,” I began in a low, bitter whisper, “Jason Dyer has a fan club, too. It’s a little different from mine, though, because his is actually more like a cult.”

I was only slightly exaggerating. Brookfield High School had a football team, like most schools, but nobody really cared. It was basketball that mattered here. The town ate and breathed and lived it. And Jason Dyer had ruled the courts. Led the school to the tournaments for four straight years. State champs each time. He was so popular in school that Dave — one of the neglected and ignored football players — had called him Jason, Patron Saint of the Basketball.

Our Jason, whose number’s seven, hallowed be thy game. . .

And after college, the hero returned so he could fill eager young minds with knowledge. Even more important to the townsfolk, he took over coaching the basketball team and led them to even further glory.

“In his defense, I have to add that Jason is a very reluctant idol.”

He’d certainly enjoyed his status in high school, but it had worn thin by the time college was over. Even though he loved playing basketball, he’d never actually sought glory on the courts. It was a means to an end for him. It paid for college so he could teach, just like he’d always wanted to do. Like his dad had done.

Brian nudged me. “Tess, maybe we should just get out of here.”

“Oh, no. We can’t leave yet. You haven’t met their fearless leader.”

I strode over to the counter, trying to look braver than I felt — which was not at all. Brian stood close beside me, tense and alert. I whispered, “Promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“Whatever this guy says, you let me handle it.”

He nodded, even though he had no real idea of what he was agreeing to. Then I turned towards the counter once again. And saw him.

Coach Poulin.

He probably had a first name but nobody knew it. He had coached Brookfield’s basketball team for twenty-two years. After his third heart attack, he handed the reigns of command over to Jason — he would have done so for nobody else — but even his own children still called him ‘Coach.’ He was in his early sixties. Nearly as tall as Brian, but hard and tough. Quick temper. Vietnam vet. He smelled of fry grease and Old Spice. He hated me more than the rest of them did, but for different reasons. To him, I was the worst kind of enemy. Insidious. Deceptive. Domestic.

I smiled up at him sweetly. He hated that. Then I began the introductions.

“Brian, this is Coach Poulin. Coach. . .” I pointed beside me, “. . .this is my boyfriend, Brian LaChance.” Boyfriend. It really was the stupidest word in the English language. “I’m sure my mother’s told you all about him.”

He nodded without even looking at Brian. He kept his steely eyes fixed right on mine.

I chuckled lightly. “Well, don’t you believe a word of it. You know how my mother is.”

That got him. I knew it would. But he said only, “Is there something you want, Bellows?”

“Well, there’s a lot of things I want, Coach. Like world peace and lower gas prices and a woman president.” I considered for a moment. “On second thought, I think I’d like to see Bill Lee in the White House first, ‘cause his first act as president would be to outlaw the designated hitter rule. After that, we can elect a chick. But I think for now, I’ll have to settle for a cup of coffee and maybe a snack. I can’t leave wit out visiting the bakery now, can I?”

I rested my hands on top of the glass counter. Smudged fingerprints on glass bugged him even worse than they bugged me. He narrowed his gaze, leaned in close and ground his teeth. For a moment, I honestly thought he was going to growl. I leaned in closer, too — so close I could smell his sour breath — and rubbed my fingertips along the glass until they squeaked. Then I smiled again, still looking him squarely in the eye.

Say it, you asshole, you fucking bastard. Say it again. What am I? Say the word. Say it.

I wrapped my brain around the words, tried to wrap them in some sort of electrical, cosmic energy field so I could fling them at him. I wanted him to say it. Wanted to hear him call me a whore. Again. He wouldn’t have done it if I’d come in here earlier with Dave, because Coach was actually scared of him. Dave knew it, too. Probably it was the reason he’d wanted to bring me here. So he could feel like The Man. The Big Brother. The Protector. But Coach just might say it in front of Brian, and I wanted him to. Brian needed to know:

I’m not ashamed of you. I’m ashamed of me.

Even if it meant he’d know other things, all the things Coach had told Jason, the stuff that most people didn’t know about, not even Dave. But I didn’t care anymore, didn’t care if Brian knew, if everyone knew. I had a slingshot of my own waiting to snap.

My experiment with telepathy worked. Coach took in a sudden sharp breath, like he was ready to go, and I braced myself for it. Waited for it. Smiled. He noticed the smile and closed his mouth, looked over instead at Brian. Sized him up.

Brian’s whole body clenched like a fist and he was ready for battle. He thought Coach was looking to start some shit, and he was right. But it wasn’t the kind of shit he thought. And that’s when I knew. He deserved to know the truth. He really did. And if Coach wanted to give it to him, the same way he’d given it to Jason and Chris all those years ago, then he was welcome to do it. Get it over with. It was bound to happen. Sooner or later.

He finally looked back at me again, that cold, silver man, and I could see it in his eyes. Even before he said it. His voice was so low that it was barely audible, but the words echoed in my brain just like he’d shouted them inside an empty gymnasium.

“I don’t know this kid, Bellows, and you’re not worth the trouble or the energy. You’re just not worth it.”

It was a slap in the face, another one. He’d chosen the words on purpose. Not. Worth. It. He watched my face as it fell, then he grinned; because he’d won again and he knew it. I could actually see him tallying up the score.

Coach: 3, Tess: 0.

“I’ll just send Deb over to help you two.” Then he walked away without another word.

I knew Brian was looking at me, wondering what had actually just happened, but I stared straight ahead. Stared at blueberry muffins and chocolate donuts and lemon pie and fancy pastries with pretty pink frosting. I relaxed my eye muscles and let them all swirl together, into a colorful sugary haze. Then I brought them into focus once again, gazed up at the menu and actually smiled. The code hadn’t changed since I’d first used it, right after high school, and that was good. The prices hadn’t changed as much as I’d anticipated. And that was even better.

Deb Poulin walked out from her kitchen to help us. She was in her early forties and quite tall for a woman. Her figure testified to her profession of baker, but she was better known in town for her remarkable gardening abilities and the excellent crop that resulted. Her dislike of me wasn’t as strong as her father’s, but she wasn’t my warmest admirer, either. She managed a smile, though, and even made her, “Hi Tess,” sound almost chipper. Her gaze fell on Brian, and I got the introductions over with so we could finally get down to business.

“You’d better get his order first. I’m still deciding.” It was a lie, of course. I knew exactly what I wanted. She looked at me a little closer, and her eyes gleamed. Because she knew, too.

It had been so long since Brian had actually spoken above a whisper that his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. He finally managed, “Um, coffee — extra cream, extra sugar — and . . . a double chocolate donut.”

She dispatched his order, then turned her attention to me.

“The Usual.”

She nodded. “Dozen?”

“Half.”

“You sure just half will do ya?”

“Yep. I’m sure.” It had been a long time. Best not to overdo it.

She reached underneath the counter and pulled out a box.

“I need some rainbow sprinkles with that, Deb. If you’ve still got ‘em.” Because it had been an even longer time since I’d had that.

“Yep. Those are still real popular.”

“Good.” I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Brian’s head turn to me with what was probably confusion, because none of the donuts or pastries had any sprinkles on them. But I didn’t look back at him. “Oh, and Deb. Can you throw in some extra . . . tissue papers for me? I, uh, don’t want the donuts sticking to the box.”

She nodded and went to work. Half a dozen glazed donuts. And before she closed the box, she looked outside, then back at me and asked, “Getting chilly out there. Are you guys all set for firewood this winter?”

“You know,” I said, “we’re not.” Brian had caught on by now, and didn’t bother to tell her we had an oil furnace.

She nodded again, reached down underneath the counter and slipped the donut box into a large paper bag. “Anything else?”

“Actually, yes.” I glanced behind her, at the door that lead into the kitchen. “Does your dad have any of his coffee going back there?”

She laughed — it was the first time I’d ever heard her do it — and considered for a moment. “Let me see what I can do.”

She wandered out back, and I finally braved a look at Brian. He looked towards the kitchen a little suspiciously, then back at me, so I said, “Coach was a Navy man. He makes his coffee good and strong.”

“Ah.”

Deb snuck back with a large, steaming styrofoam cup. She looked a little guilty, probably the first time that particular emotion had crept into her bosom in years. She appeared to be enjoying it. “Black?”

“Better give me some cream and sugar. Even I’m not that brave.”

“Anything else?”

I shook my head. Brian reached for his wallet, but I waved him off. “I’ve got it.” I reached in behind my driver’s license and pulled out my emergency fund; slid the folded bills across the counter as she punched the price of the coffee and donuts into the register. I told her to keep the change, even though she’d already slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

“Good to see you again, Tess. I hope you make it back into town again soon.”

I took one last look towards the kitchen. Coach was in the doorway, glaring out at me. I raised my cup at him and then said to Deb, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Chapter 21

I popped my bag of treats in the trunk, covered it with my sweatshirt and closed the trunk again. Then I turned to Brian. “Do you mind driving?”

“I don’t mind.”

I tossed him the keys and took my first sip of coffee. Coach was a first-rate asshole, but he did know how to make a decent brew. Brian finished eating his donut just as we reached the interstate. He waited until my coffee was gone before he spoke again. It took me fourteen miles.

“Poulin. Was that shithead back there your mom’s boss?”

I shuddered. His memory was too good. “Nope. Her boss is Mike Poulin. Coach Poulin is his older brother.”

He nodded. “And Coach Poulin hates you.”

“Yep.”

“All those other people in there do, too?”

“Yep.”

“Because your ex is their sports god and you divorced him.”

“Because I had the nerve to marry their sports god in the first place. And then I cheated on him.”

I’d said it. It was out there, and there was no taking it back. All I could do now was close my eyes and wait for the reaction. Because I knew how he felt about that particular sin. He rarely referred to his father as anything other than That Cheating Bastard, and he always put and extra dose of venom in the Cheating.

“Oh.”

That was all he said. Oh. And after a few more minutes, he cleared his throat.

“That can’t be the reason that coach asshole hates you, though. Seems to me like it went a little deeper than that.”

It was my turn for The Great Debate: An easy lie or the difficult truth. Because there was only one way for that story to begin:

When I was sixteen years old, I fucked my mother’s boss. . .

And it would end with that word. The one I’d dared Coach to say. Less than half an hour ago, I was too tired and too defeated to care if Brian knew the truth, if he knew everything. Now I was even more tired and more defeated than I’d ever been in my life. And that’s why I had to keep it from him. And so I lied.

“That’s the only reason.”

Then there was more silence. Three miles of it. Three miles and a half.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Tess.”

Let me help you. Let me fix it. Fix, fix, fix. Like it was a hole in the wall or a leaky roof. “There’s nothing for you to do. You asked me a question, and I answered it for you. That’s all that happened back there.”

“That’s all.”

“That’s. All.”

He was silent again, but not for too long. Just two more miles. Because he couldn’t just leave it at that. “You know what? Just fucking forget them. People like that, they’ve nothing to do so they stick their noses in other people’s shit just so they can tell them how bad it stinks. Believe me, Tess. I know those kind of people.”

I nodded. I knew he did. Small towns were all the same. Filled with small people who spent their time waiting for leftover bits of other people’s misery. A scrap of truth here, a dollop of assumption there. Stir it together in a mixing bowl, stuff it inside a flaky crust, bake until golden brown, and you’ve got yourself a tasty gossip pie. Serve it hot and fresh, and you’ll be the star of next Sunday’s potluck supper.

Eight more miles of silence. I wanted to know what he was thinking, but I didn’t dare to ask. I looked at the radio and almost turned it on, but we had a rule. The driver chose the station. So I looked ahead at the black tar, tried to count the white lines coming at us, but they were too fast, so fast that they looked like dots. I tried counting anyway and got to fifteen before nausea forced me to give it up. I looked out the window and saw a big sign.

Rest Area Ahead. 2 Miles.

One-point-seven miles later, Brian hit the blinker and clicked off the cruise control. He drove up the long ramp, parked in a spot far away from the restrooms, turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. We were the only car there. I still couldn’t look at him. I was afraid he’d know the truth, that he’d be able to see it in my eyes. That I was a big fat ugly liar. That I really was a whore. But I was more afraid of what I’d see in his. What I wouldn’t see there anymore.

“Do you, uh . . . need to use the bathroom?”

I nodded, still looking straight ahead. “Yeah. But you go first.” We couldn’t go at the same time. I didn’t want to leave the trunk unguarded. He left without a word, came back a few minutes later, still silent. I opened the door. Hesitated for a few moments. I wanted to say something to him. Something. But I didn’t know what to say. So I left. Without a word.

The bathroom was covered with cold, white tile. Ceilings, walls, floors, counter. I did my business, washed up, fixed my makeup and turned to leave just as another woman walked in. She was probably my age. She had big hair that was stiff with spray and a warm smiling face. It was the friendliest face I’d seen in a long time, so I nodded a greeting.

She shook her head. Confused, indignant, almost hurt. “Y’all don’t do much talkin’ up here,” she said.

Southern accent. And that’s when I knew why she seemed so upset with us all up here. Dave’s roommate in college was from Georgia. He’d always talked a blue streak whenever I called, whether Dave was there or not. Not to flirt. He just liked to talk. Open, chatty, warm. Apparently, Southerners were all like that. I envied them.

I couldn’t say that to this strange woman, of course, but I managed a smile and tried to reassure her. “Nothing personal. Just New England reticence.”

She heaved a sigh and headed for a stall.

There was a green minivan with North Carolina plates parked directly in front of the restroom. Kids wrestling inside, husband standing outside the closed driver’s door. Smoking. Ignoring the commotion. Accustomed to it. I made a point of walking through the smoke that blew towards me on the breeze. . .

Brian was leaning against the passenger door, apparently tired of driving already. I held out my hand for the keys, but he shook his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. I stifled a groan and braced myself for a long’un. He opened his eyes and began it this way:

“Here’s the deal, Tess. I hooked up with a lotta girls after Rachel moved out. A lot. I was horny and tired of being alone and . . . mostly I did it just because I could. It was actually pretty easy. I know how that sounds, but it’s true. I’m not gonna bother you about most of that because most of those girls don’t have anything to do with us. But the whole thing with Ashley is different. I should’ve told you about her a long time ago, because I knew she was bugging you. I knew it all along, and I was just waiting for you to–”

“I told you already, Brian. I don’t want to hear about her.”

“Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway. Because you seem to think it was this big deal, and it wasn’t. Not the way you think, anyway. I was at a stupid party I had no business being at, and I saw her there. She was cute, and I knew she had a crush on me so I went home with her. And the sex was horrible. It was just . . . really quick and really bad.”

I almost laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. Of course the sex was bad. She hadn’t known what the hell she was doing. He’d helped himself to the poor girl’s virginity . . . and he didn’t even know it.

“I woke up the next morning in bed with a girl I barely know who’s a fucking dingbat to boot. And then I had to tell her that I used her, ‘cause she thought . . . well, you know what she thought. I felt like shit about it. I still feel like shit about it, and I wish it had never happened. Whenever I see her now . . . I’m not thinking about the sex or about how cute she is or anything like that. I think about how she got hurt because I acted like a stupid, selfish asshole. And I think about Rachel, about how she’s been treated just like that. And it makes me remember that nobody deserves to be treated that way. Nobody. Okay? See, that’s what I would’ve told you if you’d ever asked me about her. But you never did.”

North Carolina finally started to pull away, and I looked over. Friendly Lady stared at Brian in obvious confusion as they rolled past. She was probably making herself a mental note to double-check the definition of ‘reticence’ when she got back home to the land of cotton.

I turned back to him and let him continue.

“See here’s the thing, Tess. I believed in clean slates once. But it’s bullshit. You know it, too. We bring our old shit with us. Okay? All of it. Whether it’s an ex-girlfriend or an ex-husband or a dead mother or . . . whatever. It’s all there, Tess, all of it. And I’ll tell you, I didn’t give it a thought until your ex showed up at my door looking for you. Up until that moment, I thought just like you did. That whatever happened to us before we got together didn’t really matter that much. That it was just ancient history and didn’t have anything to do with what’s going on now. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and you know what? I think he was always there. He was always right outside, just waiting to knock on my door. Since the day you moved in. Just like Ashley was waiting there to corner you. And I’m not bringing all this up because I want you to . . . I don’t give a shit about. . .”

He stopped and seemed to consider his words. Whatever it was, it was ripe.

“I don’t care about how many dicks you played with before you met me. That’s not it. It’s just that . . . It’s him, Tess. It’s him. You loved him once. You loved him enough to put on a white dress and stand in front of your family and friends and a priest and God and promise that you’d spend forever with him. I’m not saying that I’m ready to run out and get married tomorrow. Or in a month or. . .” He shook his head. “Hell, that’s not true. I’d do it right now, right this second, if I thought you were up to it. And I’m not saying that you have to feel that way right now, too. I just need to know that what we’ve got here is . . . real. That it’s not just about you using me to get over him. And–”

“Brian, please–”

“No, Tess. Let me finish. And as far as what happened with you and your ex, about you cheating on him? With whoever the guy was? I don’t really need to know anything about it unless you want to tell me. But there’s one other thing I do need to know, Tess. Just one, and it’s this. What else have you got out there that’s waiting to knock on my door? Is it that other guy? Because . . . I don’t know who it is or what it is, but there’s something there. That much I know.”

He wasn’t angry. Just a man gathering intelligence. Preparing for a possible frontal assault. And, of course, he was right. And he really did deserve the truth. After all, I’d brought him into that place. He didn’t ask to go. I’d grabbed him by the hand and pulled him inside, expecting someone else to do my dirty work for me. But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Not everything. So I took a deep breath and told him what I could.

“His name was Chris. He was one of Dave and Jason’s friends. They were all buddies in high school. Last fall, I was lonely and scared because my marriage was going to hell and Chris was . . . there. He was convenient, I guess, and it just happened. Just once. And it was my fault because I made the first move.”

I actually couldn’t remember if I’d made the first move. I couldn’t remember if I’d planned my seduction before or after he spilled the beans about what Coach had said to him and Jason. Or if I’d planned anything at all. All I could remember was reaching for him. A sudden, desperate, nameless Need. Like when you’re working outside in the heat and you realize — all of a sudden — that you’re thirsty as hell, that aching, light-headed thirst that borders on dehydration. So you run to the garden hose and just start sucking the water right out of it. And even though it’s lukewarm and tastes dirty and metallic, it’s exactly what you need, so you don’t notice the taste. It was just like that.

“Chris left Brookfield, too, just like me. I don’t know where he is right now, and I don’t care. But he’s not gonna show up at your door. Or my door. Not literally or figuratively. Because it was nothing. I ruined his friendship with Jason. And with Dave. That’s all I am to him, okay? I’m nothing to him but a fuck. A stupid, worthless fuck.”

She’s the girl you fuck and toss aside.

“Just like I was to all the rest of them. Everyone except for you.”

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t even blink. He only said, “And except for Jason.”

It was the first time he’d ever said the name, and it sounded like it hurt him to do it. Because he was right. Even after Jason finally noticed me, once he wanted me, he didn’t do anything about it. I would have let him make a night of it, or even two or three if he’d wanted to, because it was the only way I could think of to get him. And he knew it. But he had waited, just like Brian had waited. Even if it was for a different reason.

He waited partly because of Dave, because he was afraid of him. But mostly he waited because of Us, the three of us. Because of summer vacations we spent running through the grass in his backyard and rolling down hills and fishing for trout in the brook. Eating Alice’s special tuna sandwiches with the pickles cut up so, so tiny, and Fritos on the side. Swing set races, pumping our legs furiously, higher and higher until one of us said, NOW! let go! Then flying through the air, the best feeling in the world, the best feeling ever. Pushing the air aside like it was water, trying to use it to push ourselves farther forward, just a little bit more, to stay in the air just another moment longer. Then landing hard on the ground.

An entire lifetime of friendship and love. And I was content to lump him in with the rest of the nobodies and nothings who all thought of me as a nobody and a nothing. As just another worthless fuck. I had to. Because I couldn’t bear it otherwise.

Tess, I want you to know something…

The evening before we got married. Standing alone outside the restaurant after the rehearsal dinner, standing there underneath the stars. He kissed me, so gently, with his beard tickling my lips. My cheek. The way I loved it.

. . .and don’t ever forget. . .

He held me so close, with strong arms, stronger than they had ever been. And he said it, the most beautiful words in the world, the most beautiful words that he’d ever spoken.

I have loved you forever.

He said it because he knew. Because Coach had told him about Mike.

. . .and I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. I married you anyway.

And I wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he’d told me he knew. Right then, at that moment.

Flying. Falling. Landing hard.

But it didn’t matter. Because now there was Brian, and it was just as real to me with him as it had been with Jason. That feeling of being Almost There. And he really was right there, waiting for me to talk again.

“Jason is . . . nothing now. Not anymore. And you’re not my boy toy. Okay? I don’t give a shit what he said to you. If all I wanted from you was sex, I would’ve just grabbed you that night in my apartment and made you stay with me. Maybe for a night or maybe for a little longer. We would’ve had a good time, and . . . that would’ve been it. But, Brian, that’s not all you are to me. You . . . you’re. . .” I sighed. “Listen to me, Brian. I love you.”

I put as much feeling and power behind the word as I could, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Because what I meant, of course, was that he was fire and music and life. That he was everything that was good and decent and strong. That his heart was so big and full that I couldn’t understand how his body could possibly contain it, why it didn’t just burst open and spill out all over the place, all that passion and wonder and heat.

Because love is a weak word. Just four little letters. But it was the only word I had, so I said it again, because I really did love him. Even though what I meant was all those words I couldn’t bring myself to say, all the emotions I didn’t even know the names for. The ones that meant even more.

“I love you. And I know you want more from me, and you deserve it, all of that. And I’m trying, Brian, I’m trying so hard not to be scared of it. So . . . please just be patient with me. I’m trying.”

It was all I could say to him, because I couldn’t promise him the white dress. Couldn’t even wrap it up in a Someday. Even though I wanted to. Even though the worst thing I could imagine was being without him. Living without him. I couldn’t actually bring myself to imagine it, even though I knew that I would be. Someday. Because I knew something that Brian didn’t. There really is no such thing as forever.

“I know you are, Tess.”

“And that whole thing back there was . . . I’m sorry I made you go in there and see that. I just didn’t want you to keep thinking I was ashamed of you. Because it had nothing to do with you. It was something I should’ve taken care of months ago, before I moved away, and I couldn’t. But I just did, so now I’m fine. I’m . . . better. It’s all better now.”

“Really. All better now. You’re just feeling so happy and in love with life and the universe.” He gestured towards the trunk. “So your little snack in there is for . . . what? For kicks?”

“No, that’s just. . .”

He waited. “Just?”

Just a cloud, Brian. A cloud and a rainbow. One Something to help me float away and another Something to bring back the colors. Because they’re all gone, and I need them back. Even if it’s just for one night. Even if it’s for just a few hours. At least enough to help me get through the rest of the day and night and make it into tomorrow. . .

“I just need to unwind. It’s been a fucking long weekend. Hell, it’s been a long summer. And I worked hard to squirrel away enough money to get me through the winter and . . . I just needed to use some of it to unwind a little.”

“Unwind.”

“Yeah. And it’s been a long time since I’ve had either of those . . . snacks. Let alone both. And I’ve got sugar in there, too. Real sugar and deep fried fatty dough and–”

He laughed at that, so I did, too.

“One night won’t kill me.” I put my arms around his waist and pulled him close. “Or you. If you want.”

He waited before he answered, and I knew what he was thinking. Rachel. Because I was, too. Thinking about all the advice I’d given her and what a hypocrite it made me to be going down this road. But even though it was almost the same thing, it wasn’t really.

He sighed. “Alright. It’s been awhile for me, too. But I don’t want you to think that we’re done talking about this.”

“I know.” I said it even though I knew I’d do my best to see that we really were done talking about it.

When we got home, it was already dark. There was no moon, only a skyful of stars. Brian grabbed the donut bag from the trunk and met me on the lawn. I didn’t bother to go inside for a blanket, even though it really was chilly; we unpacked our little picnic right on the grass. And when our snacks were finally ready, he had a warning for me.

“This shit makes me . . . well, I’m gonna talk your frigging ear off.”

“And that’s different . . . how?”

It didn’t take me long to find out. He became the Philosopher of Everything. It seemed unreal to him that love, a thing that was so chaotic and irrational, could even exist in a universe that was, at its very core, so orderly and precise, let alone keep that universe in motion. He heard music in the gently swishing pines, and it was the same music he remembered hearing once in the ocean’s white, frothy waves as they crashed on glittery, stony shores during a childhood trip to the coast. I could actually hear the musical waves as he spoke, just as if I’d been there with him, and it washed away the lonely, empty ache inside of me, better than the trippy haze alone ever could have done. Because his voice was deep and sweet and rich and slow, and the words that poured out of him sounded just like poetry and honey.

I begged him to keep talking, to just talk and talk and never, never stop, so he told me all about the stars. They were winking at us, he said, because they knew something that we didn’t. It was a secret they were forced to hide, a secret so great and wondrous that they wanted to shout it out so the whole world would know, but they had to keep it buried deep inside. Even so, he knew what it was, because someone had told him a long time ago. The stars, he said, were actually souls, all the souls that were too restless to be locked up in heaven. They were so restless that God let them stay outside at night to play.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard him say, that I’d ever heard anyone say, and I forgot for a moment that he didn’t even believe in God. And when I did remember, I still believed his words, and I was thankful that He had chosen tonight to let so many restless souls out to play. I smiled up at them, and they smiled right back. Giant prism smiles that shattered the white light into a thousand colors. They dripped all over the sky, slowly, just like hot candle wax. I tried to whisper to them, wanted to tell them that I knew their secret, but no words would form. They heard me, though, or at least heard my thoughts, because they came in a little closer, so close I could touch them. I reached up, stretched as far as I could stretch while still lying on my back . . . and I swept my fingers across the cold, wet, colorful sky.

Brian reached up, too, but not for the stars. He grabbed my hand, brought it back down to Earth, and I think he knew, even though I didn’t tell him. I think he felt it all in my fingertips. Because he kissed them, each one, so gently, with precious, tender lips. And when he kissed my mouth, I could taste the night on his lips and his tongue. Sweet honey words and neon stardust, and we made love, in slow motion, naked underneath the mischievous stars.

The night was chilly and the ground was cold, like I was lying on January’s carpet. But it soon melted away, the cold, the grass, the ground itself. It all evaporated, and we were enveloped in its steam. Because Brian was burning with a heat more intense and pure than the sun. He was heat, the source of everything warm, and in that night of mist and haze and waxy skies, his body was the only thing that was real, our love the only thing that was solid. The only solid thing in the world, in vast expanse of the universe. For a brief moment, lucidity flickered, and I begged the starry, restless souls that it was true. That it would still be true even after the mists were gone and the haze wore off and the ground returned.

That it would always be true.

Chapter 22

October always begins with a promise. Color and flavor and fragrance. Movement and beauty. Change. A crisp lovely chill. And so I dug inside my closet for my lime green sweater bin and was surprised to find, packed in behind it, a box that held three bottles of bleach. All summer long, I’d been buying it for home and for work when there were three perfectly good bottles right there. In my closet. Behind my sweater bin.

I closed the door, unpacked the sweaters and refilled the bin with my summer clothes. Swim suit and tank tops and shorts, all neatly folded and layered with dryer sheets. I opened the door and set the summer clothes bin on the floor, in front of the box that held three bottles of bleach. Then I closed the door.

Because it’s not like bleach goes bad if it’s stored in a closet behind a bin of summer clothes. Not like if I wanted to store a box of crackers or Slim Fast bars or even a case of Brian’s Chef Boyardee in there. After about thirty years or so, even canned ravioli goes bad, regardless of how many chemicals and preservatives they stuff inside the pasta. But bleach? That would keep forever. It would certainly be fine until summer, until I unpacked my swim suit and tank tops and shorts. Summer. That’s when I’d need that bleach. Work picks up in the summer, so that’s when I use more of it.

Summer sounded great.

But all night long I heard it. Very faint. But I heard it.

Tess, wait. . .

I snuggled in closer to Brian, my head against his chest, hoped that his snoring would block out the sound. But it didn’t. I hid my head under the blanket. Underneath my pillow. But still it was there.

. . .this will change everything.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tried self-hypnosis. Imagined Hawaii, white sand and foamy white waves; pictured fluffy white clouds, soft and billowy; counted sheep, and they were white, too, all white, all of it. Just like it had all been scrubbed with bleach. . .

The next day, I cleaned, all day long. First my apartment, scrubbed every inch of it, from ceiling to floor. Then Brian’s. I called Laura at work, begged her to let me watch Cassidy at her house after school instead of mine so I could please clean something there, even if I only had time to do the bathroom. Afterwards, of course, there was work. And when I was done, I burst through Brian’s door and pulled him into his bedroom.

“But, Tess . . . supper is–”

Threw him onto his bed.

“Here’s your supper.”

And we fucked forever. Rough, wild, loud, in every position I could think of and a few we made up. I came three times, came so hard that I could barely move, and when we were finished, he fell into a deep, sound sleep. Even though it wasn’t quite seven forty-five. Even though his supper was cold and untouched on the table, and I lay down beside him. Waited for sleep to claim me, too. Because I knew it would. I was fucking exhausted, completely worn out from a night awake and a day of work and an evening of back-breaking sex. So I waited. Waited. Spent hours. Just waiting. . .

. . .he was there, the whole time, just waiting to knock on my door. . .

The evening after that, I got home before Brian did, and when he walked in half an hour later, I snapped at him.

“I clean all day long, I clean other people’s messes, and I sure as fuck don’t need to clean up after you, all the time, and it’s always the same. Breakfast dishes still on the table and the toothpaste cap in the sink and the shaving cream cap on the floor and your dirty goddamn underwear in front of the hamper instead of inside it and–”

He walked right back out without a word, and I knew where he was going. He was going to Zeke’s, which is where he always went when I was being a complete raving psycho bitch. I had the nerve to stay downstairs in his apartment, because I was afraid of mine. I lay down on his couch and watched his television, watched old movies because black and white always put me to sleep. When he came through the door two movies later, my eyes were closed but I was only pretending to be asleep. And I watched old movies all night long. Black and white. All night long.

Tess, wait. This will change everything. . .

When the sun came up, I cooked him a big breakfast, with toast and eggs and bacon, even though the smell made me want to puke. I said I was sorry I snapped at him, and he said it was okay, even though it wasn’t. He ate in silence, then put his dishes in the sink. He brushed his teeth and shaved, then twisted the caps on tight. After his shower, all of his dirty clothes were inside the hamper, not in front of it, and the wet towel was hanging on the towel rack. Then he kissed me, and he went off to work.

I ran up the stairs, opened the closet and pulled out the box that didn’t really contain three bottles of bleach. Then I carried it out into the living room and started sorting the pictures. And I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who had closed it up without really looking. Jason couldn’t possibly have gone through them before he’d packed them. There were too many that were his, Jason’s life before Jason-and-Tess. And there were mine, too. The Me before Him. And so there was only one thing to do. I started three piles. His. Mine. Ours.

The Our pile grew quickly. Bar Harbor Anniversary. Our apartment, The Love Shack. Holidays and birthdays. Candid shots of everyday life, and all of it happy. I was close to tears again, and just about ready to give it up until summer, when I began to find lots of Young Jason. Childhood: His parents, a family barbecue, cub scouts. High school: Saint Jason in his basketball uniform, a dozen of those at least. Candid shots of perky cheerleaders whose faces I barely recognized from a million years ago. Jase and Dave and their buddies on their way to a rock concert. There was a picture of Chris in the group, and I crumpled it up, chucked it into the kitchen.

But lots of them were of just Jason and Dave, the two of them, and I came across one that I’d never seen before. They were standing in Alice’s living room, and she had probably taken the picture. They looked about seventeen or so. Handsome, smiling, cocky, flexing their muscles for the camera. I focused on Jason, wondered why I hadn’t had a thing for him back in high school. I was probably the only girl who hadn’t. He really had been a good-looking guy, even back then. Blond, fresh-faced, confident. But, of course, the answer was obvious.

“He can throw a ball into a hoop. Why the hell is that a big deal? It’s just . . . Jason.”

Because after Dave busted the slide, Jason became the boy I hated. The boy who took away swingset races. The tall, stupid dork with the goofy-looking grin who packed ice in the snowballs then aimed for my head. The big shot basketball hero who strutted the hallways like he owned them. Alice’s son who was so busy with girls and his buddies that he frequently forgot to spend time with his mom.

And then he was gone, away at college, and I never gave him a thought. There were too many other things to think about. Worry about. Deal with. Avoid dealing with. Bury.

Until a cold, February morning.

I’d been about ten or eleven years old the last time he’d noticed my existence — Tess the Pest — so he didn’t even recognize me as he walked into the Qwik Stop, just gave me a brief nod and headed towards the coffee. He looked more like an absent-minded professor than a former basketball hero, with his crooked tie and scuffed shoes, groping clumsily for the styrofoam cups. And when he stumbled to the counter a few minutes later with his coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich that should have been marked Hazardous Waste, I asked:

“Rough night?”

He pulled out his wallet and mumbled, “Mmm hmm.” Then he finally looked at me. There was a vague spark of recognition on his face, a momentary uneasiness.

Don’t I know her?

“I . . . overslept. I was up late grading term papers.” And it was there again:

I know her.

His discomfort amused me. He could tell, and it irritated him, so I switched gears. “You teach high school here in Brookfield?”

He nodded. “This is my first year.”

“Brave man. In that case, the coffee’s on me.”

He examined my face even more closely, still trying to place me. Probably wondered if I was one of the many nameless girls who had obliged him back in high school. I thought about letting him suffer for a little while longer, but decided instead to let him off the hook; off of one and onto another.

“Did Dave ever tell you that I beat your Space Invaders score on our Atari?”

He smiled, obviously relieved. “The hell you did, Pest.”

Then there was a flicker of guilt. I saw it but didn’t understand it. He told me later — much later — that he’d noticed my tits in my tight uniform the second he’d walked through the door and that he’d been trying to imagine me naked. Until my mention of Dave wiped all that away and replaced it with a very different image, a memory of a long-forgotten summer afternoon. Jason and Dave, both age eight, and Tess, age six. Jason was sitting on my back, holding me down, so Dave could give me a noogie.

I didn’t know that at the time, naturally. I only knew that the arrogant boy who had aggravated me for so much of my life was gone and that I wanted the handsome, intelligent man who had taken his place. I didn’t want him in the way I’d wanted and taken so many other boys and men. Not just as something fun to put between my legs for a little while — although he certainly seemed like something that would be great fun to put between my legs. There was something else, a Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The only words I could form in my mind that fit the need — the Something — inside me were:

I want him.

And I only had about a minute to get him.

I had no clear plan of action, so I continued on, praying for inspiration. “It’s true. It was three in the morning, January seventeenth, nineteen eighty–”

“Wait a minute. You remember the date?”

I gave him a wink. “No. I made that part up. I did beat your score, though.”

He shook his head, handed me a five and did a remarkable impression of Jason Age Twelve. “I don’t believe you. You can’t prove it.”

“Proof? I don’t need no stinking proof.”

He laughed. Laughed. That was all. It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. And the moment I knew what the Something was. There were no bells or lightning bolts or fireworks, no angelic chorus from heaven singing Hallelujah. I just knew, in the same way I knew that I had to pee. It was that primal and that obvious. I wanted him, yes. It was Want. But a want of all of him. His mind and heart and body and laughter, his words and smile and soul and life.

His life.

I wanted the rest of his life.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight — hell, I didn’t believe in love at all — but in that moment, I fell in love with Jason Adam Dyer. Love. A glimmer of forever, the first I’d ever known. And of something else. Elusive, familiar, a whisper of childhood. . .

Motion. Momentum. Letting go. Flying through the air, suspended in time, floating in air.

Landing hard on the ground.

Panic. Shaking hands. Too many coins to choose from. . .

I know how to make change; I’m not an idiot. Count backwards, back up to five dollars. Three pennies, a dime, two quarters, two Georges. But he’s a teacher. Math? Maybe. No, he said he was up late grading term papers, and there are no term papers in math. But still, what if I counted wrong? What if he thinks I’m an idiot?

I glanced up. He didn’t even notice my discomfort. He was too busy with his coffee.

It’s change. It’s no big deal. It’s only change.

Change.

Then I smiled.

Motion.

I slid the bills across the counter, and he looked up at me again. He was smiling. Hand out. Waiting for his change.

Momentum.

I dropped the change into his hand.

Letting go.

I slid my fingers over his open palm. Slowly. Softly. Let them linger on his for a few hot seconds of eternity before finally pulling them away.

Flying through the air. . .

His head snapped up.

Did you just. . .?

I gazed steadily into his eyes and raised my right eyebrow just slightly.

Yes. I did.

He swallowed hard and his face flushed, deep red, from the top of his forehead all the way down to his collar. He shoved the change in his front pocket, the bills in his wallet, the wallet in his back pocket. Took a shaky breath. Grabbed his breakfast. Muttered a stunned goodbye. Couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

Landing hard on the ground.

But he was back the next morning.

Coffee and cigarettes. I slid the pack of Camels across the counter.

“You really should quit. Those things’ll kill you.”

I said it to him because I was honestly concerned about the state of his lungs. I honestly thought he should quit, honestly wished that he would. But — honestly — I loved the way they made him smell.

“I know. I’ll quit one of these days.”

“They’ll make your face all wrinkly, too, which is even worse.”

“Getting wrinkles is worse than death?”

“Definitely.”

He laughed. And my heart started beating again.

“What’s the matter, Tess? Don’t you have any bad habits?”

“Nope. Not me. I’m perfect.”

“Naturally.”

He stopped in every morning after that, even throughout February vacation when he had no real reason to be anywhere near the store. We’d talk a little, about school or books or politics or movies, any topic that didn’t make us think of Dave. Then I’d flirt with him. And he’d flirt right back. It was all very light. Casual. All just friendly, all in fun. And all the while, he’d let his eyes linger on my lips or my breasts. Or, best of all, he would stare directly into my eyes.

Then he’d leave.

And then came the first Thursday of March, rainy and cold. He strolled up to the counter like he always did, and I slid his pack of cigarettes across the counter. Just like I always did. Except for one thing.

“What’s this? No lecture from the surgeon general this morning about the evils of smoking?”

I was hoping he’d notice, and hoping even more that he’d ask. I cleared my throat and quoted, from my recent research: “‘I haven’t a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices.’”

And then my smile faded, because his reaction wasn’t what I’d been hoping for. He wasn’t mildly surprised or impressed, or even touched that I’d been reading a book about a man whose words I knew he loved. He was shocked. Open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock. And I thought I knew why.

“What? Just because I didn’t go to college, you think I’m some sort of fucking idiot? You think just because I work in this shithole that I can’t pick up a book and read it?”

“I . . . no, Tess. Jesus, no. It’s just that you . . . you. . .”

And that’s when I knew. I’d blown it. For real. Because it wasn’t shock I’d seen on his face, not amazement that the slacker standing before him had a brain. It was Realization. I’d gone out and bought a book about a man whose words I knew he loved. Read it. And then I’d let him know it. I’d punched a hole right through the We’re Just Friends Having A Few Laughs Every Morning façade and forced him to face what was really going on.

I’d acted like A Girl.

He blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes, trying to piece together what he should say. Not that it mattered. Whatever the words were going to be, they’d boil down to the same thing, even if he wrapped them up in a Sorry.

It’s not going to happen, Tess.

I waited for them anyway.

“I’m sorry, Tess.” Then he opened his eyes. They were bright blue and perfect, like a clear summertime sky. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. You’re not an idiot. I’m just not used to hearing anyone quote Mark Twain at seven in the morning. Not just at a convenience store. Anywhere. Not even at school.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. I just took his money, his grubby ten-dollar bill, and slid his change — bills and coins — across the counter. Watched him put it all away. Watched him walk out the door. Neither of us said goodbye.

And when I got home from work, I lay down on my couch and cried all afternoon. Because even though he hadn’t said it — not yet — I knew that he would. All he’d done was buy himself some time to think of the right words. Kind words. Let-her-down-easy words. Then, after the tears were all gone, I made a phone call to a girl from work, the one who worked the overnight shift. Gave her a bullshit story about an important appointment I had in the morning, and could she trade shifts with me, just for one night? Of course, she said yes. Because no one really wants to work from ten at night until six in the morning if they can work from six in the morning until two in the afternoon.

No one except for the idiot woman who doesn’t want to face the mess she’s made. Who doesn’t want to face having to hear the man she loves — more than anything — tell her: It’s not going to happen, Tess. Because if he went into the store on Friday at seven in the morning and I wasn’t there, then he’d know: Don’t worry, Jason. I get it. He’d have the weekend to recover, and on Monday, he could start going somewhere else for his coffee and cigarettes. Or else go back to wherever it was he used to go before I’d given him his Change. That way, I’d never have to see him again. And then I could forget that I loved him. More than anything. I could just go back to doing what I’d always done. I could hide away in a haze and fuck guys I didn’t care about.

And so I went into work, in to face middle-of-the-night customers. Rowdy men who bought liquor and stared too long at things they shouldn’t. Truck drivers who needed twenty ounces of coffee to keep them going until their next stop. Teenagers who snuck out of the house to hang out in the parking lot, because there was nowhere else to hang out in Brookfield in the middle of the night. And finally six o’clock came. Early morning, but no sun. Just dark, grey clouds and pouring rain. And so I went back home and slept.

It was still raining when I woke up at noon, a cold and windy rain that let me know that I’d never be warm again. Not after a hot, twenty-minute shower or underneath a heavy red sweater and itchy wool socks. Not even lying down on the couch, wrapped inside a thick log cabin quilt. I shivered through every layer. I shivered for hours.

Until I heard the knock at my door. Because I knew it was him.

He was breathless, wet, nervous, still in his teacher’s clothes. It took me a moment to process it all, but once I did, I smiled, because I knew what it meant. He hadn’t gone home to change; he’d come to see me directly from work. I’d never told him where my apartment was, not even the street name. He’d actually asked someone where I lived. But most of all, best of all, was the look on his face. It wasn’t telling me, It’s not going to happen. . .

“Tess,” he began. Then he shivered.

“Shit. Come in here, Jase. Get out of the rain.”

He nodded, walked in and shut the door behind him. Then he stood there, looking at me with no words. Just hot breath in my face, breath that smelled like smoke. I looked at his dripping coat and then at his tie. Touched it. Slid my fingers along the soft red silk. And still he said nothing. I looked back up at his face, right into his eyes, and slipped my hands underneath his coat, where it was warm. It was an intimate gesture, probably too intimate, but it felt natural, touching him like that. He was supposed to be there, to be with me. It felt right. He felt right.

He felt like home.

I pushed his coat off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, pulled gently on his tie, pulled him down to me and kissed him. He tasted hot and smoky, and his beard was rough; but his lips were tender and his eyes were open and they were so, so blue. It was all perfection and beauty and big exploding heartbeats, because it was the first time I’d ever kissed someone I was in love with. He finally gave in, kissed me back, his hands in my hair, on my face, my body. They were everywhere, touching everything I’d waited so long for him to touch, and so gentle that I almost cried; just like it was the first time I’d ever been touched. Because, really, it was.

He pulled off my sweater and kissed me again, urgent this time. I struggled with his tie while he unbuttoned his shirt, because the clothes couldn’t come off quickly enough, until finally we were naked, finally, and please, Jason, kiss me again, just never stop kissing me. Then walking back, back towards the bed, stepping over clothes, towards the bed, finally at the bed. . .

And then he let go of me, uneasy again. He was shaking.

“Tess, wait. . .”

“No.”

I pushed him onto my bed, climbed on top of him, straddled him, but didn’t take him inside me. Because he was looking up at me, into my eyes. Into my eyes. Even though I was naked. Even though my breasts were naked for him. Even though they were right . . . there. They were his.

Into my eyes. And I looked right back into his. They were glowing.

So. That’s what it looks like.

Twenty-one years old. And I’d never seen that look before. Never.

Letting go.

“Tess, wait. This will change everything.”

I shook my head. “Jason . . . this won’t change anything.”

“But–”

Not inside me. Not yet. But I knew. And so did he.

“Everything has already changed.”

I have loved you forever.

And I had loved him that long, too. Somewhere down below the hard, packed ground. Even before I knew what it was.

I looked at the picture again, smiled again at Jason and Dave, then tossed it onto the My pile, right on top of Golden Haired Jason. It took the rest of the morning, but I looked at every one of the pictures, every single, painful memory. Separated them, sorted them out. Remembered. Cried.

And when I was finished, I put the piles into three large manila envelopes. I put Mine on my bookshelf. Ours went into the trash with Chris. Then I wrote a brief note, dispassionate but nice, and slipped it inside Jason’s envelope along with Windy Haired Tess. I sealed it, addressed it in bold block letters and drove to the post office. Watched silently as the young brunette stamped the package, dropped it in the Out Of Town bin and wheeled it away.

Chapter 23

I checked my hair in the bathroom mirror, then headed downstairs to say goodbye to Brian. He was making himself some lunch. I watched, nauseated, as he pulled a bowl of ravioli out of the microwave, poured on Tabasco sauce, salt and Parmesan cheese, then he leaned back against the counter and actually took a bite.

“Want some?”

“Uh . . . no thanks.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“When’s the last time you had your blood pressure checked? Or your cholesterol?” He shrugged again. “And how the hell do you not weigh five hundred pounds?”

He took a huge gulp from a glass of milk — whole, not skim — and smiled. “Would you still love me if I weighed five hundred pounds?”

“Nope.”

He laughed. “You’re an evil woman.”

“That seems to be the general consensus.”

He wiped his mouth on a paper towel. “What time are you meeting your dad?”

“I’m supposed to be there at twelve-thirty.” I checked my watch, then fiddled around in my purse and pulled out a tube of lipstick.

“You’ve already got some on.”

I walked over to him and kissed him firmly on the cheek. It left pink lips behind. “Whaddya know. You’re right.”

He smiled and touched his cheek, but didn’t wipe it off. “What’s up with your dad?”

“Beats me.”

“What do you think it is?”

Bad news. It had to be. My father had never invited me out to lunch, just the two of us. Never. Probably he was sick. Cancer, or something worse, but what was worse than cancer? I didn’t want to think about it or worry about it until I had to, and if I didn’t say it out loud, then it wouldn’t be true. He’d be just fine, and the reason he’d invited me to lunch would be that he missed his daughter. It’s perfectly natural to miss your daughter. Especially when she lives so far away and you only see her once every few months. That’s when you miss her.

“I think he misses his daughter. Isn’t it perfectly natural that he’d miss his daughter when she lives so far away? And when he only sees her once every few months?”

“Yep. Perfectly natural.”

I gave him another kiss — lighter, on the lips this time — and said, “I’d better go.”

He nodded and kissed me back. He tasted awful, but it was still a good kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Dad was waiting for me inside the restaurant. He looked fine, better than fine, actually. He looked like he’d been sleeping well for a change. Our waitress — a pretty woman who looked to be in her late forties — must have picked up on the father-daughter vibe, because she flirted brazenly with him while she handed us our menus and rattled off the specials. I had never thought to wonder whether my father was attractive to other women. Hell, I’d never even wondered if my mother thought he was attractive. I studied his features while he studied his menu and decided that he was. He was very distinguished with his silver hair, had a rather worn, outdoorsy look about him and, away from my mother, actually seemed relaxed and confident. It’s what Dave would look like eventually.

He set his menu down, and I looked at mine so he wouldn’t know I’d been staring at him. Then he cleared his throat and dropped the bomb:

“Tess, there’s no easy way to say this. Your mother and I are getting divorced.”

“Divorced?”

I had nearly shouted the word, and several lunchers stopped their conversations to look our way, probably in the hopes of witnessing a pleasant family drama. I scanned the crowd, mortified that I had put my shy father at the center of such a scene, and singled out a pucker-faced elderly woman. Her hair was a reddish mahogany color, so inexpertly dyed that it looked almost purple. It was butt-ugly and irritated me even more than her blatant curiosity. I shot her a dirty look — one that the rest of the crowd correctly interpreted as being directed at them as a whole — then turned my attention back to my father.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have broken the news to you in public.” He lined up his silverware so that the bottoms were all touching and even. The redness in his face eased a little, and he continued. “I’ve already told Dave.”

It occurred to me that he would have had no problem breaking the news to my brother in a crowded restaurant. Dave probably would have blinked a couple times, nodded, then asked Dad to please pass the salt.

“Um . . . when? When did all this happen?”

“It’s been coming for a while, but I left last week. It was my decision,” he said, taking, as usual, all the blame, “so your mother is keeping the house. I’m renting an apartment in town until . . . well, until everything is settled.”

He reached beside him, into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small piece of white lined paper. He looked it over before sliding it across the table towards me. I stared at his new address and phone number for quite awhile, long enough for the numbers and letters to blur and mingle together. Then I slipped it into my purse.

“Why the hell should she get the house? It’s your home, too.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a home, Tess. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

I nodded, although — to me — it had never been a home.

I wasn’t sure what to do next, what to say, so I watched his fingers drumming silently on the table. The waitress returned to rescue him, asked if we were ready to order, but I hadn’t really looked at the menu. My appetite was gone anyway, and all I really needed was half a dozen strong, stiff drinks. It wouldn’t be particularly kind to make my dad eat his meal in front of his fasting, inebriated daughter, so I opted for the soup of the day — without bothering to find out what that was — and a diet soda. Dad smiled nervously as the waitress wiggled away. It would be up to me to get the conversation going again, but I couldn’t do it. He surprised me by taking over.

“There is something I want you to know, Tess.”

He paused to take a sip of water, and I had the feeling I knew what the ‘something’ was. Another woman. It had to be. He’d found someone normal and loving who wasn’t a manipulative psycho bitch from hell. But he seemed so nervous, probably expected me to get upset, to scream accusations, to play the part of the stunned, betrayed daughter. He didn’t know I’d been praying for him to leave m