by Katie Powner
He pulled his arm away. “You were just telling me how bad you were craving the stupid cake. I want to do this for you.”
Bea frowned. “If it’s so stupid, then just forget about it.”
Mitch looked between them, feeling a bite of remorse over the trouble he’d stirred up.
“That’s not what I meant,” Jeremy said.
Moose Creek served up an ace, and the crowd shouted encouragement.
“Let’s do this, Spuds.”
“Comeback time.”
Bea frowned and nodded at the court. “Then let’s just watch the game. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal”—Jeremy raised his voice to be heard over the crowd as they cheered for a miraculous dig—“is that I should be the one”—a collective gasp swept through the gym as Moose Creek’s star player fell to the ground, hitting her head with a thunk—“taking care of my own pregnant wife.”
Jeremy’s words spewed forth just as the entire crowd grew quiet, anxious over the fallen player’s fate. As his words reverberated throughout the abruptly silent gym, the entire home side of the bleachers turned to look up at them.
Mitch froze. Oh, great. Everyone was staring. Jeremy was making a fool of himself.
Hold on a minute.
Did he say pregnant?
FIFTEEN
Bea lay flat on her back in bed, her eyes clenched shut.
“I said I was sorry.” Jeremy covered her hand with his. “It was an accident.”
“Now the whole school knows. Which might as well be the whole town.” It was melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t pull herself together. It was like she’d lost all control of her heart and her mind and her mouth. Like a tiny alien had invaded her body and taken over, which wasn’t far from the truth.
“I know. I’m sorry.” Jeremy kept his voice low. “I don’t know how many times I can say it. But they were all going to find out eventually.”
“That’s not the point.” She hated how whiny she sounded. Hated the tears springing from the corners of her eyes yet again. “I wanted to tell him myself. When I was ready.”
That was the worst part about the whole thing. She hadn’t had time to prepare herself for the look on Dad’s face. The one that held more than just hurt over learning such important news at the same time as everyone else. It had also been chock-full of disappointment.
“I’m sorry.” The regret in Jeremy’s voice matched the regret in her heart. But no amount of sorrys could take back what had happened. She sighed a heavy sigh and opened her eyes.
“Okay.” She rolled toward him. “But it’s not just that. The whole thing with the cake was—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.” Her sharp words struck Jeremy, and she could see the hurt take root on his face, yet her possessed mouth forged ahead. “Stop being sorry. And stop touching me.”
She pulled her hand out from under his and rolled away. A strained silence filled the room like the lingering fumes from Earl’s four-wheeler. Choking her. What a rotten night. She just wanted it to be over.
After Jeremy’s unfortunate announcement, the injured player had been helped off the court, the Spuds had lost the game, and everyone had gone home. She hadn’t spoken a word to Jeremy in the car and hadn’t allowed either Jeremy or her dad to so much as look at her cake. They didn’t deserve to partake in its goodness. She’d blown off Dad’s attempts to talk and left Jeremy to explain the whole pregnancy thing while she’d hidden in the kitchen and eaten almost a third of it by herself.
She closed her eyes. Was all this really about what happened at the volleyball game? Her mother’s face sprang to mind, and new tears began to form. Would she ever stop crying? Would she ever stop missing Mom? Would she ever be qualified to be a mom? How would she know what was best for her baby?
When would she start acting like she had a handle on her life?
With all her strength and will, she held back a sob, afraid if Jeremy noticed he would put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she would give in to his comfort and weep in his arms until the morning light. And she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to be angry.
Her thoughts moved to Grandma June and what Dad had done. Grandma must’ve been angry, too. Furious that he dragged her to the neurologist for no reason. What could’ve gotten into him?
Bea stiffened. Maybe he was keeping something from her just like when Mom was sick. If he would’ve been honest about how little time Mom had left . . .
She focused on making her breathing even so it would look like she was asleep. Her dad wasn’t going to get away with that again. She would get to the bottom of this.
SIXTEEN
Mitch paced the kitchen Saturday morning, stewing. Why hadn’t Bea told him she was having a baby? And what were they thinking, starting a family when they didn’t even have their own home?
He didn’t feel old enough to be a grandpa. He wasn’t ready for this. And speaking of grandpas, he needed to call his dad. They hadn’t been able to talk about yesterday’s neurologist appointment with his mother in the truck.
Steve watched him stride back and forth with a wary eye. Mitch reluctantly acknowledged the cat with a slight nod. Who would’ve thought that out of everyone in his life, Steve would be the one causing him the least amount of trouble?
After eating chocolate cake for breakfast, Bea and Jeremy had gone for a walk, the temperature an unseasonably warm fifty degrees. He wanted to talk to her, wanted to find out more about the baby, but she was avoiding him. Something had changed between them since she got married.
He tapped his knuckles on the counter and frowned. Okay, maybe it had changed before that.
Caroline always used to tell him to give her time. When he would want to jump in and pester Bea with questions—solve her problems—Caroline would pat his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Give her time.”
After Caroline died, he’d given Bea nothing but time. Time and space. More than any teenage girl who’d just lost her mother could ever need.
What a mistake.
He slapped his phone against the palm of his hand. Bea and Jeremy would be back soon, so he should head to his room before calling his dad. If Bea were to come home and hear him discussing her grandmother’s condition, it would only upset her more, and she was plenty upset with him already. He opened his bedroom door and stepped in, glowering as water seeped through his sock. He eyed the carpet. Another puddle. What on earth was going on in here?
He’d inspected the attic and found no leaks. He’d felt around the carpet in other areas, even under his bed, and found no dampness there. Only by the door. He’d blame Steve, but he never left his door open. Ever. And cats couldn’t turn doorknobs, last time he checked.
It was an infuriating mystery but one that would have to wait.
Since cell service at his parents’ place was unreliable, he dialed their landline. His father answered right away, his voice low.
“Mitch?”
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me. How’s Mom this morning?”
“I don’t know. Kind of in a daze.”
“Is she mad?”
“Worried, I think.”
Mitch mulled that over. Was she worried about what might happen to her? What further testing might reveal?
“I’m worried, too,” Rand continued. “The doctor’s talk about that hereditary stuff’s got me thinking about you. And Bea.”
Mitch furrowed his brow. “And Bea’s baby.”
“What?”
“Bea’s expecting. I found out last night.”
“Well, don’t that beat all. What if—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Mitch rubbed the space between his eyes. “The doctor said the kind of Alzheimer’s that can be passed down through genes is very rare. The familial early-onset kind.”
“And isn’t it early?” The fear in his father’s voice was unmistakable and unsettling.
Mitch sat on the bed. Dr. Wilson had explained t
hat anyone developing Alzheimer’s-like symptoms while under the age of sixty-five could potentially be considered for the early-onset variety, but he had encouraged them not to jump to any conclusions. In fact, he’d only spoken about it after Mitch pressed him about his mother’s relatively young age. The doctor had assured them there were many other steps to take before considering such a drastic diagnosis.
Yet that didn’t make Mitch feel any better. He remembered well the feeling of helplessness—the temptation to assume the worst—when Caroline had first fallen ill. The doctors had said the same things: “It’s too soon to tell.” “Don’t jump to any conclusions.”
He’d tried. For his wife’s sake, he’d worked hard to think positively and convince himself he was overreacting. He’d nearly succeeded, too . . . just in time to find out she had three months to live.
“We’ll figure it out, Dad.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, the same words he’d spoken with confidence three years ago. “We’ll talk again soon.”
He hung up and marched to the front door where he’d left his boots. He shoved his feet into them, wet sock and all, and grabbed his truck keys. As much as it galled him, there was only one person he could talk to about this stuff. Sure, he’d burned that bridge, but he was a decent swimmer. He’d find a way across. He was already wet anyway.
The Take Your Best Shot guns-and-ammo store was not located on the same strip as the rest of Moose Creek’s small businesses. It sat a little apart from town on the road leading to the gun range, and it had the rugged look of a log cabin. Inside, it was well-stocked with all the latest in hunting gear and technology, as well as the old, classic favorites.
Mitch was not surprised by all the vehicles parked in front of the store. Open season was only two weeks away. He pulled into one of the last empty spots but left the truck running as he stared at the store. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Frank might not be too thrilled to see him after the way they’d left things the last time they spoke. But Mitch didn’t know where else to turn, and he was starting to feel a mite desperate.
A loud quack sounded as he opened the door to the store. That had been his idea, to replace the chime on the door with a duck call, way back when Frank first started working here to supplement his meager pastor’s salary two decades ago. Mitch had suggested it as a joke, but Frank had taken him seriously. That’s kind of what Frank did. He took things seriously.
Several men greeted him with a nod as he worked his way around the store looking for Frank. He found him deep in conversation with Jeff Bates, one hand on Jeff’s shoulder as he nodded empathetically along with whatever Jeff was saying. It was a familiar pose. Frank’s pastor pose.
Mitch hung back until Frank’s conversation with Jeff ended, then he approached, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the Carhartt vest Caroline had given him the Christmas before she died.
“Hey,” Mitch said.
If Frank felt any shock at seeing him, it didn’t show. “Hey, Mitch. Good to see you.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“You know, I was just about to take an early lunch break.” Frank gestured over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you out back in five minutes.”
Mitch nodded once and turned away. As the door quacked on his way out, he chuckled to himself thinking about inviting Jeremy to go hunting with him. That would be something. If the kid could barely handle a two-hour football game at twenty-eight degrees, he’d never survive a ten-degree morning up Brackett Creek.
He took his time circling around the store to the metal picnic table where he and Frank had had many a talk. His friend was already waiting. Or should he say former friend? Frank was definitely his former pastor, but the friendship thing was still up in the air as far as Mitch was concerned.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Frank paused while Mitch sat down, then gave him that probing, concerned look Mitch had seen a hundred times. “How are you?”
This was not the kind of man who would accept fine as an answer to that question.
Mitch shrugged. “Got a lot going on.”
Frank nodded. “I heard about Bea. I can’t believe you’re going to be a grandpa before me.”
“You can’t win every time, Frank.”
“It’s not a competition.”
A small spark of anger lit in Mitch’s chest. “Don’t use your pastor voice on me.”
Frank sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit.”
The sincerity of his apology threw sand on Mitch’s internal fire. He let his shoulders relax and leaned his arms on the table. “Here’s something else you won’t believe. Bea’s baby is the least of my worries right now.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose. “Tell me more.”
“You know Marge? She keeps showing up. At my house. Bringing food and checking in and asking about my birthday.”
“That’s nice of her.”
Was that a twinkle in his eye? Mitch frowned. “And then there’s my mom. She’s not doing well.”
Frank visibly deflated at that news. “That explains why I haven’t seen your parents at church in a while.”
“Yeah.” Now that the floodgates had been opened, Mitch couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I thought Dad was crazy at first when he told me something was wrong. She seemed the same as always, except for the pies. But when we took her to the neurologist for a consultation, she turned into a completely different person. Confused. Belligerent. They’re going to do more tests. I think Dad’s really struggling.”
Frank tilted his head to one side. “The pies?”
“If they end up diagnosing her with Alzheimer’s or something, what will happen? I don’t know if Dad can take care of her all by himself, and you know there’s no one else up there. Not for a mile on every side. And I work every day. But can you even fathom trying to get Juniper Jensen to move out of her house? I wouldn’t be surprised if she chained herself to the stove. Bea thinks I’m being mean, making Mom go to the doctor. She won’t believe there’s anything wrong with her. And they have a cat. Bea and Jeremy. There is an actual live cat living in my house.”
When Mitch finally ran out of words, he lowered his gaze to the table and began picking at a spot where the black paint was chipping away. It had been easier than he’d expected, unloading on Frank like he used to do. It was almost like no time had passed since the last time they sat at this table.
Almost.
Frank took his time responding, as was his way. Even in high school, years before Frank got the call to ministry, as he put it, he’d been the kind of guy to carefully deliberate before rushing into anything. Even words. Maybe especially words.
“You have a lot on your plate,” he finally said. “Including pie, apparently.”
One corner of Mitch’s mouth lifted. “I guess you could say that.”
“I’m good, by the way.” Frank tapped his fingers on the table. “Hannah’s doing great at the university. Seth graduates this year.” His fingers stilled. “Dorothy and I are very proud.”
Mitch looked up from the table, his face burning. He hadn’t even thought to ask after Frank or his family. Had only been thinking about his own problems. And he was the one who had promised Frank all those years ago when Moose Creek Community Church had chosen to hire a well-intentioned but naïve twenty-five-year-old as their new pastor that he wouldn’t let the ministry—the church—change things between them. He swore Frank would always be his best friend first. Pastor second.
Mitch scowled. “You don’t have to rub it in.”
“Rub what in?”
“My callous self-centeredness.”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
Mitch met Frank’s eyes with a challenge but didn’t rise from the table.
“Then why did you?” Frank asked.
Mitch threw up his hands. “I don’t know. Who else am I going to talk to about all this stuff? Ralph?”
A mischievous smile for
med on Frank’s face. “How about Marge?”
Mitch huffed. “That’s not funny.”
Frank fought a grin.
Mitch felt a tickle in his gut. “It’s not.”
Despite his insistence, or maybe because of it, a chuckle escaped.
Frank’s shoulders began to shake. “I bet she’s a good listener.”
Mitch fought for breath as laughter overtook him. “She’s got to be a better listener than a cook. Her sloppy-joe casserole is terrible.”
“I know.” Frank pulled up his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “She brings it to every single potluck.”
“But the enchilada casserole’s not half-bad.”
“Muy bueno.”
It took several minutes for their amusement to abate. A sharp pang of grief touched Mitch’s heart when he realized he hadn’t laughed that hard since Caroline had passed. She’d always been able to make him smile. Even lying on her deathbed, she would look out the window and say, “That fat magpie must’ve eaten a gopher,” knowing the only thing Mitch hated more than magpies was gophers.
Darn it all to heck, he missed her.
Once a certain amount of soberness had returned to the table, Frank wiped at his chin with the back of his hand and gave Mitch an unflinching look. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
Mitch should’ve seen that coming, of course.
His shoulders drooped. “I didn’t want to hear about how I needed to come back to church. How I was setting a bad example for Bea.”
“That wasn’t—”
“Don’t.” Mitch held up a hand. “Don’t try to tell me that wasn’t what you wanted to talk to me about.”
Frank sat back with a sigh. “That wasn’t the only thing.”
“I needed a friend, Frank. Not a pastor.”
“You needed both.”
Mitch made a fist with one hand and softly hammered the table one, two, three times. Just like he’d promised Frank he wouldn’t let the ministry change things between them, wouldn’t ever see Frank as only a pastor and not a man he’d known his whole life, Frank had promised he’d never preach at Mitch. Never make Mitch’s relationship with him dependent on Mitch’s relationship with God. But after Caroline died . . .