by Lacey Black
When I hang up, I head to where I left my son and my ex. They’re not there, but it only takes me a few minutes to find them. Out in the middle of the yard, where it’s flat and bare, ready for new sod, are Max and Kate. Digging.
“Uhh, guys?” I ask as I approach from behind. Speaking of behind, Kate is bent over, her hands buried in the dark earth, and her beautifully round ass on full display. My cock jumps and starts shooting inappropriate messages to my brain about all the things it wants to do to that ass.
Kate is the first to glance my way, just over her shoulder in a manner that doesn’t help talk down my wayward dick. A smile plays on her lips, her eyes full of laughter as she holds up a small clump of dirt. “Hey.”
“Daddy, we’re digging for treasure!” Max yells, furiously moving the soil from its smooth, flat stage to a clumped-up pile.
“Treasure? How do you know there’s buried treasure here?” I ask, smiling at their filthy appearance, yet wondering how in the hell I’m going to get him home and into the tub without tracking mud all over the place.
“Kate said there was!” he yells, returning to his ferocious excavating.
I walk up to where Kate is wrist deep in the ground and whisper, “There is?”
She just grins over her shoulder and quietly replies, “Well, there might have been a few quarters recently dropped out here.”
“Recently?”
“Like…within the last five minutes?” she laughs.
“I found something!” Max shrieks, pulling our attention to where he holds something high above his head and jumps up and down.
“What did you find?” Kate asks, watching intently as Max holds out his palm and displays the grimy, yet somewhat still shiny treasure. “Oh, it’s a quarter!”
“Can I keep it? Like a pirate?” Max asks, turning wide eyes to the woman beside him.
I’m just about to open my mouth and tell him it’s not appropriate, when Kate says, “Of course, you can, Just Max. All good pirates get to keep their booty.”
I can’t help it. I snicker.
She glances my way, her delicate eyebrows arching toward the heaven. “Really?”
Now, I’m laughing hard, but only because of the exasperated look on her face. “You said booty.”
She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t changed at all.”
I take in her somewhat dusty and wrinkly clothing, the dirt now coating her manicured nails and smudged on her cheeks, and the wild strands of blonde hair spilling from the clip at the nape of her head, and I can’t help notice beneath all of that, she’s still the same Kate. “Neither have you.”
We spend the next twenty minutes digging in the dirt together until Max finds four quarters. He’s extremely pleased with his loot, but promises Kate he’ll take them home and put them in his piggy bank. The entire time, she was right there, helping sift through the earth and find the treasures she haphazardly dropped in the dirt. With a smile from ear to ear from my four-year-old, Kate leads Max to the hose over by the garage where us workers have been cleaning up our hands at the end of the day. She helps him scrub up his hands before doing the same to hers. My hands are surprisingly clean, considering all I did was hold the discovered treasures as he was finding them, but I go ahead and wash the soil from them too.
“Well, that was fun. Thank you, Just Max, for helping me clear the buried treasure out of my yard.”
“You’re welcome, Kate. If you need more help, just call my daddy and I’ll come help!”
She glances my way, a warm smile playing on her lips as she replies, “Deal. I’ll be sure to call your daddy if I need more assistance.”
Max seems very pleased by this, even though I’m not so sure about it. I mean, I know Kate is being wonderful with Max and he seems to be eating up the extra attention she’s giving him, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. At the end of the day, she’s a client. A client whom I have a very deep-rooted past with, and I’m just not sure it’s wise to let Max get too close.
Getting close to Kate again isn’t in the cards, but there’s also no denying this strong magnetic pull I feel every time she’s near. Considering it’s only been a handful of times, something tells me I’m in serious trouble where she’s concerned. I’m not the person I was twelve years ago, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to fight it either.
And if the look on my son’s face is any indication, he’s already in too deep.
Chapter Eight
Kathryn
The house is quiet as I make my way down the hallway toward the closed room at the back. My mind has been a jumbled mess of questions with no answers ever since Jensen and Max left. After we dug in the dirt and found the quarters I dropped, things between us got a little awkward. It’s like the easygoing friendship we so effortlessly slipped into suddenly changed when we realized we weren’t friends.
Not anymore.
That’s when I felt the change, especially from Jensen, and when I felt his discomfort, that’s when the shift happened within me. For the first time since I saw him standing in my backyard, anxiety nipped at my chest, threatening to overcome me. I was able to hold off the attack, mostly by focusing on Max (or Just Max as I will now call him). It wasn’t necessarily because of his presence, but mostly because of the feelings he conjured up inside me, and if the way he reacted were any indication, I’d say the same happened to him.
Maybe without the accelerated heartbeat and the slightly labored breathing.
Max was ready to go play baseball by then, and even though he adamantly insisted I come along, he finally relented with a promise from me to join them soon. With Max secured in his child seat, Jensen threw me a wave, a quick “see you tomorrow,” and took off to the park to play with his son.
And I was left alone in my giant house with walls that haunt me.
But I’m determined to make this house my own. Much of the furniture is being donated, and next weekend I’ll be traveling around to buy a few new pieces of my own. Thanks to the sizable inheritance from my dad, as well as my half of everything in the pending divorce, I have plenty of money to put into this house and whatever else I want. Even though this place holds a few of my worst memories, it also holds many of my best, and those far outweigh the negative.
Home.
That’s what this place is.
My home.
And I’m determined to make it just that.
That means biting the bullet and opening the final door. The one I haven’t had the guts to access yet. I know what stands on the other side of this solid oak door, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it. But it has been two weeks since I’ve been back home and if I don’t do it now, then when?
No, it needs to happen now.
With a shaky hand on the doorknob, I give it a slight twist, only to find it locked. I pull out the master set of keys and try several before the lock releases. The door creaks loudly as it swings, a mocking groan of admittance. It’s dark inside the room as a dank, dusty scent assaults me. I stand in the open doorway, not really seeing anything, yet seeing everything. My past is here. My passion. My love.
I reach for the switch and give it a flip. The room is bathed in light and a cry slips from my lips. The room is a mess; nothing like I remember in my dreams. The books are still on the walls, shelves and shelves of hardbacks and paperbacks. Classics, mysteries, and some romance. Books I used to read cover to cover late at night or under the shelter of shade beside the pool. Books I used to get lost in when my parents went to their many charity functions or some tropical getaway.
Appearances.
It was all about appearance to them, but to me, it was torture. I’d much rather have stayed home, devouring my books and spending time at the easel, and when I was finally old enough to do so, they stopped using me like a flashy new toy to show off to their rich friends.
I also spent time with Jensen. Throughout high school, he became my solace, my one true friend. He knew me better than my parents, better than anyone in the worl
d, and my parents hated that. Especially my mother. He was too…blue collar. A working boy from a working family. While my father busted his ass in the business world, providing for his wife and young daughter, that was different because their circles were different. Not bad (at least to me). Just different.
That’s one of the things I loved most about him.
He didn’t care about the money that backed my family name. He didn’t care how many square feet the house was or how much money was donated to local charities each year. He didn’t use me to swim in the pool on a hot summer’s day or pretend to be my best friend just to get invited over for a sleepover. He wasn’t like the girls I went to school with. No, they weren’t all like that, but when so many of them proved to have ulterior motives, I stopped looking for the real ones.
Until Jensen.
My legs are shaky as I step inside the room. The old desk is there, littered with papers of no importance left behind. An old photograph of me in a tutu adorns the left corner beside an old phone. It’s covered in grimy dirt and cobwebs, but I can still see the faded pink of the outfit I wore when I was five. My father’s desk sits regal and proud, just like the man I remember. Flashbacks of phone calls and contract reviews fire through my brain and it’s almost as if he’s sitting there now, surrounded by his work.
And in the corner, a young girl paints.
I don’t know when the tears start to fall, but they do nevertheless. Big, fat crocodile tears slide down my cheeks, unchecked. My legs carry me toward the place I found so much comfort and joy. The canvas still sits there, covered in more than a decade’s worth of abandonment, the colorful work half-finished.
I cover my mouth as a sob escapes my lips. I had forgotten about this painting, but now that I see it, the memories return. My father was on the phone, arguing with whoever he was talking to, while I sat on my stool, tuning him out completely. My eyes bounce between the canvas and the ocean outside. This room, though technically his, had the best lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows with so much natural light that it was an artist’s wet dream.
When I was nine and discovered my love for painting, I took over this space. Of course, Daddy gave it up easily when he saw the beauty my young, untrained hands could bring to life. My mother, on the other hand, hated my painting. She never understood how I could spend so much time “doodling” instead of using our name for philanthropy all over the state of North Carolina. Not to mention the fact I usually found myself covered in flecks of blues and greens, reds and yellows.
It was my source of escape, of pure joy, until it was ripped away from me.
Like Jensen.
Now, I stare at the piece I started more than twelve years ago, a half-finished piece of the backyard. It is the exact view from this very window, if the backyard would have been maintained over the years. The pool house is there, along with the massive pool. The ocean is in the background, peaceful and calm, as the sun slowly begins to drop and night starts to settle in. And on the beach, a young couple, their hands entwined as they made promises of forever to each other.
Unkept promises.
It was to be his birthday gift. The moment we stood on the beach and vowed to spend the rest of our lives together. I captured it so vividly in my mind, I came home later that evening and began to put it on canvas. I spent two days working on that painting, and had several more to go, but knew I’d have it complete in time for his birthday the coming weekend.
I never got to finish it because the next night, we were gone.
And I never picked up a paintbrush again.
I have to turn away from the painting as the powerful memories it evokes are too painful to bear. My breathing is choppy, partly because of the dust stirred up by my admittance into the room and partly because of the panic attack. I feel it coming, hard and rough. Reaching for the chair, I slowly lower myself to the floor. I try to slow my breathing, but it’s not working. Nothing from the training the physicians gave me is working.
White dots pepper my vision as I reach for my phone. I don’t know why, but my hands are moving before I even have time to realize what I’m doing. I pull up my contacts and find the newest entry that was added when I began the remodel phase of the house. New View Landscaping. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know who’d be on the other end of that call, but now that I know?
I hit connect.
It rings twice before his deep voice filters through my cell phone. “Hello?”
I don’t reply. I try, but the words just won’t roll off my thick, heavy tongue. I suck in a breath, but it’s strangled and refuses to inflate my lungs.
“Kate?”
The way he says my name causes tears to prick the corners of my eyes.
“I’m here, Butterfly,” he says, the distant sound of something falling to the floor echoing through the phone. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?”
“Tr…tr…trying,” I gasp, finally able to get that singular word out. The memories of the childhood nickname come back, both painful and catalytic. He said it represented me, a butterfly ready to spread her wings and fly. Be free. Unfortunately, freedom wasn’t exactly what my life had entailed.
“Good. Are you sitting on the floor?” he asks, making me nod my head. “I can’t hear you, Butterfly, so just listen to my voice, okay? If you’re not sitting on the floor, make sure you’re seated. I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on my voice. Deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth.”
I focus on his words and do as he instructs, just the way he did last week in the backyard. The first deep breath into my lungs is like a cool dip in the pool on a hot summer day. He must hear my gasp and lungs fill with sweet oxygen, because I can practically feel him relax on the other line.
“Good job, Kate. Keep taking those deep breaths, okay? You should have seen Max today after we left your place. He smacked that ball off the tee every time he got up there, but his favorite part is running the bases. He likes to pretend the catcher is hot on his heels as he’s running to first, a huge smile on his face. When he gets there, he just rounds the base and keeps going. He makes it all the way home, where I’m waiting to try to tag him out. I never get him though,” he says, a small chuckle spilling from his lips.
He paints a beautiful picture of a boy and his father playing baseball on a Sunday afternoon. I can visualize the scene as it plays out, Max giggling as he tries to beat his dad to home plate to score the winning run. Before I realize it, my breathing is back to normal and the panic has subsided.
There’s even a smile playing on my lips.
“Are you there, Kate?”
“I’m here,” I whisper, exhaustion starting to rake through my body as I lean back against the wall.
“You okay?”
Exhaling deeply, I answer honestly. “Yeah.”
I will be.
“What happened?” he asks, the sound of a chair scraping on hardwood filters through the line.
I open my eyes and glance around. The hauntings of my past are there still, watching and waiting for me to fall. My eyelids are heavy, but I keep them open—force them to stare down my past, instead of fleeing the room like I’d prefer. I sit, and stare, and eventually, I talk.
“I came into the library.” I knew just saying those words aloud would probably be a good indication of why I ended up calling him in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.
“Had you been in there before tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head, but then catch myself again. “No. The door was locked and I stayed away.”
“So, you opened the door and what did you see?”
I close my eyes again and picture the room as I entered. “Everything. The books, his desk, my…my painting. It was all there, exactly as it was when we left.” He’s quiet for a few moments, and I start to wonder if he’s still there. Instead of asking, I keep talking. “When I saw it, it was like a splash of cold water on my face. Everything came back so vividly, so painfully. The shock, the sadness,
the anger. The entire room was as if we’d only left for a few days. Well, except for the substantial amount of dust and grime all over everything.”
“There’s a lot there, Kate, that I won’t pretend to understand. Maybe, someday, you can explain it to me, but I don’t think that’s a conversation for tonight,” he says, and I have to admit, I’m appreciative I don’t have to rip off that particular Band-Aid tonight as well. “Is there something you can do to relax? Maybe you can finish that painting,” he offers easily, making my heart clench in pain.
Before I even realize it, a tear slips down my cheek. “I can’t.” The voice sounds so raw, it barely sounds like my own.
“Why not?” His own words are guarded, as if he wants to know, yet is preparing himself to receive the blow.
I glance over at the dirty canvas, sitting on the easel, the hurt so close to bubbling to the surface once more. “I haven’t painted since the night we left.”
Jensen’s startled inhale comes through loud and clear. “Seriously? Kate…how…why?”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. Getting into this deep conversation isn’t something I’m interested in doing right now. All I can think about is climbing into a hot bath and soaking in as much lavender bath salts as I can safely use. “I guess, I guess I just never had anything worth painting.”
That was the truth. When we left, I left my muse behind. The one who brought me joy and laughter. The one who held me close and kissed me as if I were the only woman in the world. The one who loved me with his entire heart, and then some.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You were a brilliant artist, even at such a young age. I guess after you left I pictured some big-time gallery person stumbling upon you and insisting you sell your work in sold-out shows across the state of New York.”
I can’t help it, I snort a laugh. My mother would have been so mortified. “There was no gallery or shows. Everything was just…different after I left.”
Again, I’m met with silence. “Maybe someday you can tell me about it.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, someday.”