by Susan Wiggs
Sometimes, going about his business in town, he encountered his ex-in-laws. While he was married, Sierra’s parents had not hesitated to treat him like family, including him in holidays and traditions, even reaching out to his own unreachable father. These days, when they saw Will, they ducked their heads and avoided eye contact as if they were the guilty ones. Did they know about Sierra’s choice? Or did they think the breakup was caused by something else? Did they think it was his fault? Did they think he’d cheated? Cheating was almost always a factor in a divorce. Will and Sierra were an exception. They had diverged. Wandered away from each other and stopped wondering why. They’d lost each other in the weeds of everyday living. They’d stopped talking about the things that mattered. They’d stopped dreaming their dreams together.
He went outside to tackle the day’s project—replacing some dry rot under the soffit of the garage.
Ladder, crowbar, Sawzall, chop saw. He climbed the ladder and stabbed the crowbar into the soft, rotten wood. A couple of wasps shot out of the gaping hole—a bad sign. And a bad sound—a low, steady, ominous hum. The sound of anger.
He yanked out another portion of the soffit, releasing a storm cloud of wasps. They streamed from a huge dirty-paper hive, their fury rising to a deafening crescendo.
“Fuck,” he said, feeling the burn of a sting on his neck. “Just . . . fuck.”
He swatted at the gathering storm as more stings darted into him. He didn’t panic, though. Once you get shot in the face by a terrorist, not much else rattles you.
The hive was half detached. He made one more swing with the crowbar and missed. The motion took him off balance and he went over backward, arms wheeling, hands swiping at empty air. Every bit of air left him when he landed flat on his back. He lay motionless, unable to draw breath for several seconds. And the furious humming went on.
The hive hung from a few spirals of fiber. The wasps encircled it. Maybe they circled his head like birds over a downed cartoon character.
After a few seconds, he managed to take in some air. Did a mental check for injuries. Everything seemed to be in working order. He glared up at the hanging hive, the hovering wasps. When dealing with venomous insects, you were supposed to call a professional. Wear protective gear. Use appropriate pesticides. There were rules.
“Fuck it,” he said, and levered himself up. He went and got a lighter and a can of WD-40. Warning: Do not expose to open flame. He aimed a stream at the hive and lit it. The homemade flamethrower roared. The hive exploded into flames, the flaky dry material disintegrating, the insects roasting. The whole thing drifted to the ground like remnants of the Hindenburg. It lay in the dry grass, igniting the brush, flames licking the side of the old garage. Will grabbed a shovel and flung loose dirt on the fire until it went out.
Looking around at the mess he’d made, he inventoried several livid stings. Then with one more fuck it, he peeled down to his skivvies and made for the dock, hitting the deep water with a satisfying splash. He floated on his back, gazing up at the sky while the salt water flooded over him, cooling the stings.
It was weird, being on his own. A new situation for him, now that he thought about it. He’d lived in college dorms. Then with his training unit and team in the navy. With Sierra after they married. On base during deployments. He’d never actually lived all on his own like this.
After Sierra left, friends and colleagues had rushed to him, offering comfort and companionship—one of the perks of living in a small community. The women especially had been attentive. An unattached guy, gainfully employed, was back on the market. He’d never consumed so much mac and cheese, so many Bundt cakes. He’d even gone on dates, mainly to distract himself from the fact that his heart was broken.
It really was, he reflected. And a broken heart was a lot worse than a fall from a ladder and a few dozen wasp stings.
A heartbreak can turn the world on its head.
A heartbreak can lay you out.
A heartbreak can change the shape of your dreams.
The clinic on Monday after school was crowded with sniffling children. That was how it seemed to Caroline, anyway.
There were a lot of things about raising children she didn’t understand, and one of them was that kids got sick all the time. They traded germs and viruses like baseball cards, passing them from one to another in an endless circuit. Today, though, both kids were sniffle-free, which was a good thing, because they were due for booster shots.
“I’ll tell you what. If you’re good at the doctor, I’ll take you for ice cream.”
“Ice cream is not as good as a shot is bad,” Flick said.
He was getting so smart.
“Fine, then tell me something that’s as good as a shot is bad.”
“A dog,” Flick said.
“What?”
“I want a dog. Like Ribsy in the book you read us.”
“Oh, Flick.”
“A dog! Let’s get a dog!” Addie jumped up and down.
Although the children didn’t know it, Caroline had already talked to her parents about getting a dog for the kids. They were on board, even excited. Ever since she’d arrived, they’d been urging her to live with them on a permanent basis. The house was so big, they’d said. Way too much house for them. It was a house meant for kids and dogs.
Caroline couldn’t deny that the arrangement was helping her beyond measure. To have a place to live, loving people to look after the children while she was reorganizing her life, was a gift, to be sure. Yet in the back of her mind, she also couldn’t deny that she regarded this as a temporary arrangement. She refused to be that boomerang adult child who came running home to lick her wounds after a setback.
She had plans. She was making a go of it. If her line of apparel succeeded, she could move to the city once again, make a name for herself, and resume the life she’d envisioned so long ago—only this time on her terms.
Getting a dog felt permanent. It was another line on the anchor embedded so deeply into the yielding ocean floor of home. Another knot in the apron strings.
An assistant called their name, and the three of them stepped into a small exam room.
Addie went first. The little girl sat on the paper-covered table, staring ahead with admirable stoicism. With her free arm, she hugged Caroline tight and clutched Wonder Woman in her hand. The nurse introduced herself as Connie. She managed the syringe with a clever sleight of hand, practically concealing it.
“You’re going to feel a quick pinch,” she said. “Can you hold still for me?”
Addie nodded. Then she looked at the needle and went completely slack, collapsing on the table like a dropped marionette. Wonder Woman hit the floor.
Caroline gasped. “Addie! What the—”
“Fainted,” the nurse murmured. She quickly laid Addie on the table and checked her breathing and pulse. The nurse was preparing to shine a scope into the little girl’s eyes when Addie blinked and sat up, glancing around in confusion.
“You fainted,” Flick said, seeming delighted. “That was cool.”
“I’ve never seen anyone faint before,” said Caroline. The sight of Addie going down, even for mere seconds, had rattled her. It was frightening to see how utterly vulnerable a little child was.
“Fairly common,” the nurse told her. “We’ll keep an eye on her. So she hasn’t done this before?”
“Did I get the shot?” Addie asked, blinking.
The nurse checked her pulse and pupils. “Not yet. You’re doing really well. Let’s try again.”
Addie’s chin trembled. “Okay,” she whispered.
“I’ll hold you tight.” Caroline slid her arms around the little girl, and her heart warmed with sympathy and affection. “I’m proud of you, Addie. Let’s look at each other while Miss Connie does the shot. She’s super quick.”
The needle darted in. Addie yelped but held still, and within a split second, it was done. Then it was Flick’s turn, and he made a horrible face but endured the shot.
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“You were brave,” she told Flick. “I’m proud of you.”
He watched the nurse expertly apply a cowboy Band-Aid.
The nurse inspected a rash under Flick’s arm. “You’ve got a bit of dermatitis. You can get some cream from the pharmacy next door,” she said, writing down the name of it.
“Thanks,” said Caroline. Her kid had dermatitis. Jeez. “We’ll do that right away.”
The nurse stepped out. Caroline helped the kids straighten their clothing.
“Mama was chicken,” Flick said. “She was scared all the time.”
Caroline froze. “What do you mean? Scared of what?”
The little boy shrugged. “Of everything. She was scared to talk.”
“To talk? About what?”
“She just was. She’d tell us, ‘Don’t talk, don’t say anything.’”
“Flick, do you know why?”
He stared off into the distance for a moment. “She was just a scaredy-cat.”
“Now, I don’t happen to agree with you. Your mama was very brave. Let me tell you about the first time I met her.”
Both children came to attention. Despite their confusion, they were hungry for stories about their mother. Caroline was determined to keep Angelique alive in their memories. “I was just getting started, and I had one of those rolling racks with my very best designs to show. Some guy grabbed my bag and ran off—and guess who stopped him?”
“Mama,” Addie whispered. “Maman.”
Caroline nodded, remembering the extraordinary moment. “I had no idea who she was at the time. She was walking toward the venue with a group of models, and when I yelled out, she took off after the guy. She was as tall and fast as Wonder Woman. She caught up with the guy and grabbed hold of my bag. He was so scared, he dropped it and kept running. And that was the moment your mom became one of my best friends in the world.”
“You’re making that up,” Flick said.
“Nope. It happened just like I said. I’m not making it up.” Caroline touched his cheek. “And that’s the mama I want you to remember.”
In the pharmacy, she picked up the lotion and stood waiting while a pair of women huddled behind the counter, ignoring her. “He’s so hot,” one of them said.
“So freakin’ hot. I have such a mad crush on him.”
“He’s the high school football coach,” the first woman said. “Did you know that?”
“No. God, that makes him hotter. Is he dating anyone?”
“Honey, he’s dating everyone.” She fanned herself with a pharmacy bag. Then she filed it on a rack marked J and finally turned to Caroline. “Can I help you?”
She flushed, wondering if it was true, if Will Jensen was dating everyone.
“Will!” Flick piped up. “Hey, Coach Will!” He and Addie rushed to see him as he entered the shop. Caroline’s flush grew warmer. She ran into Will all the time, but for some reason, she was surprised to see him whenever it happened. Particularly looking the way he did now, his face alarmingly rashy and swollen.
She peered at him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Does it look bad?”
“You’re all swollen.”
“You should see the other guy. And by other guy, I mean wasp nest.”
Addie and Flick studied him with wide-eyed, sober expressions.
“Oh. A wasp nest? Yikes.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I need to pick up a prescription for the swelling.” He turned to the kids and hunkered down close. “It’s gonna take a lot of medicine to get me back to my usual beautiful self.”
Addie put forth a hesitant hand, gently touching his chin. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“We got shots and I fainted,” Addie said.
He regarded her solemnly. “Wow. But you’re okay now.”
“I got germatitis,” Flick said.
“Dermatitis.” Caroline patted her bag with the lotion. “These kids are a new adventure every day.”
“We were good at the doctor, so we’re getting a dog,” Flick announced.
“I said ‘we’ll see,’” Caroline corrected him.
“That’s code for a reluctant yes,” Will said. “Trust me, I know these things.”
Both kids rounded on her. “Yes means yes,” Addie said.
“And ‘we’ll see’ means we’ll see. How about we go to the shelter and see if there’s a dog that might work for us? Because we might not—”
“We will! We will!” Flick danced a little jig.
“See what you started?” she asked Will.
“I know. I’m awesome.”
“Come with us,” she said, an impulse taking hold. “I need a second opinion.” There were quite a few moments, she realized, when she wished she had a partner in this parenting gig. Her sister Virginia often said as much. She didn’t miss her cheating ex, but she did miss having someone to talk to about Fern.
“Yes! Come with us, come come come.” Flick danced around him.
Caroline sent Will a pleading look. “The pet rescue place?”
“I’ll meet you there,” Will said. “Let’s hope my ugly mug doesn’t scare the critters.”
Outside the Peninsula Pet Rescue Society, Caroline tried to temper the kids’ expectations. “Listen, we might not find the right dog today. Sometimes you have to keep coming back until you find the best match.”
“Did you check out other kids before you picked us?” asked Flick.
“What? No.” Christ, she thought. “Why would you even think such a thing?”
“Sometimes you gotta take what you get.” He ducked his head, but she caught his mischievous grin.
“Cheeky,” she said.
As soon as Will arrived, they all went in together. Flick and Addie were nearly beside themselves as Caroline filled out an adoption form on a clipboard.
“Be still,” she said to Flick. “I need to finish this before we can visit the dogs.”
“When we adopt our dog, does that mean we get to keep him forever?” asked Addie.
“Sure,” said Caroline. “Forever and ever. That’s why we need to find just the right match.”
“We’re not gonna be the foster family?” Addie asked.
“No, if we find the right dog, we’ll be its forever family.” Caroline felt Will watching her. She focused on filling in all the blanks.
“Rutger Peters said we’re foster kids and you could give us back anytime,” Flick said.
Caroline stopped writing. She glanced at Will, then back at Flick. “That’s not so. I’m your guardian. That’s the same as a parent. I’m going to keep you with me, safe and sound, forever.”
Will watched her thoughtfully. She could tell his prescription was already kicking in, easing the swollen wasp stings, and he looked ridiculously sweet.
“But it’s not the same as adopting,” Flick stated.
The statement was like a punch to the gut. Here they were getting ready to adopt a dog, and yet her kids were still foster children. “It’s . . . Okay, it’s the same,” she said, fumbling a bit. “Trust me, there will be no givebacks. That’s a promise. Do you trust me?”
“Are we the right kids for you?” Addie asked.
“You’re the perfect kids for me,” Caroline said. “What a silly question.”
Flick said, “Can we go see the dogs now?”
She caught Will’s eye over the kids’ heads. “Welcome to my world,” she muttered.
“I like your world just fine. Come on. I want to see the dogs, too.”
The inner sanctum of the shelter was a gauntlet of wagging tails, pleading eyes, and “look at me” yips and yaps. There were scruffy coats and smooth, big dogs and small ones, gray-muzzled seniors and agitated pups.
A volunteer introduced them to a few dogs, and they narrowed the choices to a friendly chocolate lab mix with one blind eye and a small black-and-white dog that was cautious and shy, bowing low with her tail quivering. “She was abused,” the volunteer to
ld Caroline and Will. “But she’s come a long way, thanks to 4-H students who have been working with her every day. We think she’d be a wonderful pet for your family, Mr. and Mrs.—”
“Oh,” Caroline said, startled. “We’re not a fam—I mean, Will’s just a friend who came along . . .” She fumbled with her words, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks.
Will touched her arm. “How about we take both dogs out to the play yard with the kids and see how they get along?”
A few minutes later, Flick and Addie were in heaven. They petted the dogs and tossed balls and toys for them, the kids wriggling and wagging every bit as excitedly as the dogs. Caroline stood watching with Will, and her heart swelled with affection.
“You’re having a moment.” Will touched her shoulder.
She let herself lean into him, just for a second. “I love seeing them like this.”
“I bet it feels great. What’s better than making a child happy?”
“That’s the question that keeps me awake at night. How can I make them happy? How can I keep them that way? I’m so scared of screwing this up.”
“It’s called being human, Caroline. Parenting’s not an exact science. You’re good with them, and they’re crazy about you. Sure, you’ll make mistakes. You’ll also get it right a lot of the time.” He gestured at the happy tangle of kids and dogs in the yard. “Like now.”
“Thanks. God, I hope you’re right.” She paused, sent him a quick glance. “I’ve been thinking of adopting them. Making it legal and official. Am I nuts?”
He bumped against her, a teasing nudge. “Yeah, I’ve always liked that about you.”
“Seriously, am I?”
“No, you’re awesome. You took in these kids and made them your own and gave them a life after the worst possible thing happened to them. And that makes you awesome, not nuts.”
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it came out as a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. These kids . . . God. They’re the best, hardest thing I’ve ever done. I wake up every day, scared I’m going to screw up, but somehow we seem to be making it.”