by Rebecca Ryan
"Travis says to blow in his nose," Cory says.
"Gently though," I say fast, low, as he puckers up. I don’t want to step into the ring and make the gelding feel overwhelmed, but I have no choice. Slowly and with a matter-of-fact attitude, I duck back into the paddock and walk slowly over to where they stand.
Cory lifts one small hand and rests it on the horse's white star on his chest.
"Follow me, Cory," I say, clearly, as if directing traffic.
"Okay," he says, then turns and follows me.
I don’t turn around, I just keep moving, and I hear his little feet in the sand. I crawl through fast, turn around, and pull him out.
The gelding just stands there, pricks his ears, and then slowly—very slowly—comes over.
Cory hops up on the bottom rung again and this time I watch, ready to jump if the horse looks like he might startle. He could trample a little kid and not even know it. But he wants to smell Cory. He brushes against him and turns his head, looking at the boy with one eye.
Cory gazes at the horse and rubs in the chocolaty fetlock between the horse's ears. "His name is Salty."
"What?" I ask.
"Salty," breathes my nephew, and he closes his eyes. In this moment, he looks as relaxed and at peace as any other child.
"Well, let's tell Salty Happy Thanksgiving," I say.
"Happy Thanksgiving," he repeats, opening his eyes. Then he hops down. "Time to eat."
***
I’m just hanging Cory's little red coat on the peg when I realize I left my gloves outside. I open the door, and there, arm cocked and ready to knock, stands Finn Colton.
Instantly, my face grows warm.
He's just standing there with an old L.L. Bean canvas bag resting on the ground, and everything about him comes into focus.
"Am I late?" he asks.
That's a loaded question. Maybe if I'd met him three years ago before all that Jimmy Whitehead mess, I'd be able to look at him without being frustrated with myself. Often falling in love with the right person is a timing issue.
Unfortunately, he's here now, standing tall, with his olive complexion, wide hands, strong forearms, and I catch a whiff of something—his smell, almonds and salt with a twist of lime. Something you might lick before a shot of tequila. His coat, a collarless beige pilot's jacket, hangs on him, open, a plain dark green cotton shirt open at the collar. He leans over to grab the straps to the bag on the ground and I can feel the heat from the depths of his collar. There's chest hair, enough to make me want to slide my hand down his shirt and see where it leads.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
I shake myself. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." As I step back from the doorway to let him by, I babble on with, "You startled me. I left my gloves out by the horse and I was—"
"You mean these?" he says, setting my leather work gloves down on the side table by the door in the wooden key bowl. Looking at me—staring, really— with those gray-green eyes he says simply, "I saw them by the hose."
"Oh, thanks." I feel his hand at the small of my back. An intimate touch, I shiver, and I feel my crotch suddenly wet.
Jesus.
He leans forward slightly so he can whisper in my ear, "Great job with Cory. That was amazing to watch." His breath caresses my ear while goosebumps rise in a wave down my forearm.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
As we start up the stairs, I stop. I just stop. When I turn around, he's two steps behind me. I retrace one step back.
"Did you forget something?" he starts to ask, and I stop him, just like I did on the stoop—abruptly.
This time, I lean into him and kiss him. His head is a little below mine, his chin tilted up, his collarbone visible. I feel his body heat on my neck, and his lips—full and warm, soft—and a bit of stubble against my cheek. And as I breathe in, he breathes out like we are one being. It’s a simple kiss—quick, fleeting, secretive, and delicious.
I exhale when we part and he inhales my breath. And though his expression is unreadable, I’m not embarrassed.
"That was unexpected," I say, which is the truth, turning to finish the climb to the second story.
For a moment, I'm afraid he isn't going to follow me, but he does. I can feel him behind me. I can feel him inside me, changing me.
I watch him introduce himself to everyone, the candlelight playing on his face. There is his slow smile when Cory comes up to shake his hand. His odd familiarity with Geo makes me realize I need to get away—away, and downstairs.
I quickly excuse myself, trying not to earn a look from Devon, and then I trip downstairs to the clinic bathroom and shut the door. My heart is beating so fast that when I shut the door, I have to make sure I don't slam it behind me.
What is it about him? Why is my body doing this?
First the kiss, now this?
I run the spigot then lean over and splash cold water on my face. After grabbing a bunch of paper towels, I blot myself dry and stare in the mirror. I'm flushing. Me. Bright red. Not a cute, rosy pink—red. Pulling back my hair, I look in horror at the tips of my ears. Also bright red. I am conscious of some part of me deep inside starting to ache with a tug that makes me splash more water on my face.
I quickly finger comb my hair back into place and toy with just staying down here forever when I hear Geo's big laugh amidst the murmur of conversation and decide enough is enough. I look carefully in the mirror and note that my eyes look terribly heavy-lidded and I'm still too pink. Laurel will notice. I put my hand on the doorknob and sigh.
I’m ready to meet the enemy—the one I apparently want to fuck. And then, my heart skips a few beats. The one I really did just kiss.
I open the door and head on up.
Chapter Eight
Finn
Devon, the one with the slick board of straight hair, whisks the pie pan from my hands and the cheesecake is nestled in the fridge, next to two bowls of cranberry relish. Geo strolls over to take a peek and gives me a thumbs up. Cory, who finally shook my hand like the little man he is, has me follow him to meet his mom, a young thing with dark brown curly hair. I can almost place them for the picture Geo had in his wallet. The tall brooding Chloe, the intense blonde Claire, the kinetic Devon, and languishing Laurel.
When I glance at the tall young man standing by the gravy boat, I’m surprised Geo has a son. I would have thought he'd have shown me that photo too at the lawyer's office. The older couple, in the corner chairs, I recognize from across the road. She always waves; he never makes eye contact. I shove my hands in my pockets, aware that I’m the odd man out. I can feel the distance from these people while they laugh and talk. I am not connected, yet I am.
Because there was that kiss.
It caught me off guard. Claire had turned around so swiftly, so smoothly, and without touching, touched me. I felt her hair brush against me first, and then smelled her—sweet and warm like honey and lavender—and then before my heart could engage, she pressed her lips to mine with such confidence, such care, and I felt her breathe into me. Her standing a step above me left us nearly eye to eye and the softness of her mouth, her taste, wasn’t weighted by gravity. She was all there. I felt it.
Then it was over. As suddenly as it started, and I couldn't say a word. She didn’t look at me. There was no flirtation. She just turned and kept walking up the stairs. I never had a chance to ascertain the number of egresses or clearance on the stairwell—all my powers of assessment were blown.
And now she's MIA.
Probably embarrassed, I decide and try to push what happened on the stairs from my mind.
Geo comes up from behind and lays a hand on my shoulder. "Have you spoken to her yet?"
No—but I kissed her.
"No, I haven’t had the chance."
"Well, you might be the Thanksgiving Day Hallmark card if you play it right."
Approaching with a glass of cold, pink shrimp curled over the rim and cocktail sauce in the middle is Laurel. "Where's Claire?"
"Here," Claire says, and she comes up out of that stairwell, just radiant, her skin flushed, her hair slightly damp. I see where it's curled tighter from sweat.
I want to kiss her, kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth, devour her, and there is a surge beginning deep at my core.
And then I think of Allison.
Betrayal, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. This feels like betrayal, and that thought—that reality that my wife is not here to enjoy this, not here to see the ocean, to help raise our child, to eat and sleep and do all the things she could do in a single day—guts me.
Claire lost her parents and unconditional love.
I lost my partner and a chosen love.
I can't look at Claire, and for a moment I think maybe I should just leave, but in a weird way, that would make that kiss seem like more than it was. I need to stand my ground, get a grip on myself. Feeling a nudge, I turn and see Devon motioning me down the hall.
"Do you want to see more pictures of The Inn?" she asks. She glances at the table where there's a flurry of activity, and overrides my concern that food is imminent. "We have time. Look." She points to an entire hall wall decorated in eight-by-tens of the property I bought.
The pictures are blurry but beautiful. The Inn, in its heyday, was quite an establishment. White with black shutters, hanging baskets of flowers, large porch furniture. In every one of them, there are the girls working, holding pans of sweet rolls or muffins, or with a bundle of sheets nearly as big as they were at the time. Well, three of the girls. Claire is hardly in any of them. She must have been helping her dad in the clinic.
As I move down the hall, Devon flips on the light. A black boy appears in the photos, running and, in one shot, with something lumpy and large on his head. I point and peer closer.
"Mom had just bought us a package of new underwear and Travis decided to put every pair on his head. That's my brother." She grins. "If only his girlfriends knew."
For a split second, I'm confused, and then I get it. Travis is not Geo's son. A bit embarrassed, I realize this must happen all the time. Trying to change the subject so she won't see my blunder, I veer into uncharted territory. "What happened to Chloe?"
Devon's grin disappears. "We don’t really talk much about it."
That's when the wall comes down. I've learned not to push people when they aren’t ready, and this family is still dealing with the trauma of losing both parents. Not going there. Mine are both still alive and living in Sheffield, England.
Cory's head pops around the corner of the hall. "Time for Thanksgiving."
Geo sits at the head of the table, an honor he clearly enjoys. Lucky for me, Travis has been gone long enough that most of the conversation is about his first year at vet school.
The Burkes talk a bit about their grandchildren, and I try not to look at Claire. She sits across from me, but it’s not a strategic move on her part. Cory had told everyone where to sit, so it wasn’t up to her. But I can barely stay focused on my food.
Travis and Devon carve the turkey, mashed potatoes are served, gravy passed around, green bean casserole, relish, sweet potatoes, and then, I am overcome with grief. Everyone seems so happy, so ready to listen and be listened to, and I can’t even really picture Allison here. She was shy and introverted, someone who needed things. Needed people. Needed me.
Pretending to get a phone call, I rise and go into the bathroom for privacy. After placing both hands on the sink, I lean down and take a deep breath. Nic keeps saying I have to let her go. But how can I? She died because of me. Because of what I could not see. I can’t love like that again, it’s just too hard. Maybe giving up on this piece of land is part of letting go. Letting her dream and the dream of her both go.
I wipe my face and head back out. Everyone is on seconds and now Claire is watching me. I can feel her gaze.
"I have an announcement," I say, still standing, lifting a knife to my water glass. Everyone is quiet. "Your friend, Geo here, and I met a few weeks ago. And he explained a few things to me, things I didn’t really understand until then, and really until now."
Laurel holds Cory very still. I guess he hadn’t liked the chiming.
"I don’t want the land," I say, and there's an audible gasp from someone. Not Claire. "Or the building. I just want good neighbors." I shrug. "To be a good neighbor."
I keep telling myself that’s the right thing to say. "Neighbor" seems like a commitment at this point.
The rest of the evening goes by in a blur of bad jokes, one burned finger on the woodstove when Geo tries to toss in another log, a long discussion of where the lobster have disappeared to, what restaurants would stay open on the mainland and how they'd rotate, and then it turns back to me.
"When do you want to open?" asks Emily, holding a forkful of mashed potatoes up to her mouth.
"I'm not sure. It's pretty much just me, so not this summer I don’t think. Maybe fall."
Devon shakes her head. "Can’t open in the fall."
And Claire, for the first time this evening speaks directly to me, "You gotta open in May. With the advertising cycles and everything, you have to time it for late spring. Otherwise, you'll never get any beds."
I must look perplexed because Devon adds, “People with reservations.”
"I’ll work there," says Cory.
Laurel laughs. "What will you do?"
"I’ll work there," he says more strongly, his entire little body tense as Laurel moves to lock him in a tight embrace.
Autism. He's autistic.
I hold my breath for a moment. "You will work there Cory, " I say. "And you will work hard."
Saying nothing, Cory starts trying to butt his head against his mom. She tries to hold him back with one hand while clasping him close with the other in a very real yin and yang parenting moment.
I think back to the stable. "You can sweep the porch and make sure there's no sand."
He stops gearing up for headbanging and holds very still, and then his eyes clear and he returns to himself. He relaxes a little, and as she does too, he turns to his mom and kisses her cheek. A little hard peck.
"You will work hard, very hard. I love you," she says calmly, slowly.
Watching her rocking him quietly in her arms, I realize she has probably never heard him say that to her.
Geo turns to Claire when he reaches for the pepper. "So tell me more about that horse."
"You mean Salty," pipes up Cory.
The evening feels normal. Like it’s normal to hang out with real people who know one another, who have history, who can laugh and drink and end up talking politics and gardening tips, wood stacking and wood stoves, hull scraping and hauls. Ralph turns out to be a ship captain who retired two years ago. I knew then, as he told some long tale of a harrowing storm and a nearly capsized ship, that the reason he hadn’t looked at me was because he wasn’t focused on the road. Ralph was still out on the sea. A storm. A haul. I found myself looking at his hands a lot. Gnarled, scarred, and missing a ring finger, the stub of which he rubbed occasionally with his thumb, he unconsciously made a speckled "O" with his hand by touching his thumb to the stump. Jackson, one of the guys from the office, a kid really, would probably love the guy. Jackson once told me he grew up on a lobster boat.
By now, Cory and Laurel are setting out the pies. Cory brings me the cheesecake. Devon announces that the coffee is done and we all clear our own plates, then the food, and lift our mugs for coffee or tea.
My mom's cheesecake is off the charts amazing, easy to make, and it’s gone fast. I’m oddly pleased that Claire has two small slices. Emily's fudge pecan pie is amazing. I feel I might have to loosen my belt. When I compliment her on it, she asks me about the roof. There’s a big blue tarp stapled to the roof strategically placed to protect the already thin and rotted sheathing from getting even damper. I had ripped a hole and was getting ready to do a patch job before winter set in.
"It's got a few places where water's seeped through
," I tell her.
Geo, who’s sitting across from me and next to Claire, reaches for another slice of apple pie and asks, "Any more ideas around that ultrasound machine?"
Glancing at me, Claire shakes her head. "Nope. They're pretty expensive."
"And you're sure I can't help you out?" he says.
She sets down her pie fork. "No, Geo. No. You've done so much already. I'll figure this out."
So, she does need help with her clinic. She does need the money. The light from the candles leaves her face smooth and warm, and caught in the tendrils from her forehead, those tightly curled and soft locks throw gold into the air.
After dinner, both Russo sisters—Laurel and Devon—pull me aside and tell me privately how glad they are that I let the whole thing go. I nod, unable to enjoy my own altruism. They don't know that letting the land go means a small piece of me is gone as well. Geo gives me a hug, a quick hug because I pull back so fast, and Cory falls asleep on the couch, exhausted by his near tantrum and overloaded on tryptophan.
After clasping my pie dish in a hand towel, Claire hands it back to me clean and dry. I thank her for washing it, then turn and leave. I was the last to arrive and now I’m the first to go, just the way I like it.
The stars outside shine brilliantly, little asterisks of light, so bright their light dances on the water. Salt spray, cold and pungent, proves almost abrasive and I’m taken aback by how much ice the breeze carries. It’s scrubbing, cleaning, and the ocean crashes a little rough for the shallow bay. I slip the pie dish under my arm and stuff my hands into my pockets. I hear the horse nicker in the stable and think of him in there—in the dark, cold. Though his coat has grown thick and tufted in places he must feel this, this knife stab of cold. I walk out to the granite ledge pictured in the photo I saw, the flat piece between our places with the vein of quartz as thick as rope, and stand, looking at the dark sea.
“Life is for the living,” Nic always told me, and he tells me again when I’m home and talking about my evening over the phone.