Always on My Mind

by Susan May Warren

  “Tiger!”

  Ivy touched Darek’s arm. “Stop, honey. He’s just trying to get your attention. It’s the first stretch of time you’ve been home in a long while and he misses you.”

  “He could hurt you, jumping around like that, and he needs to know it.” He started to get up, but Ivy grabbed his shirt, pulled him back down. Framed his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

  Her voice softened. “He would never hurt me, Darek. He is exactly like you—protective and sweet—and he loves his baby brother or sister. At night, right before I tuck him in, he says a prayer for the baby and kisses my tummy. It’s so sweet it makes me want to weep.”

  He could see it, Tiger’s small hands hugging her belly, his son kissing it. And Darek was missing every moment.

  “He could still hurt you without meaning to.”

  She nodded. “I’m fine, Darek. Please, be patient with him. Remember, he was here first, so he’s bound to be feeling a little neglected with all this attention you’re giving me.”

  “I’m not giving you enough attention.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You could have died out there, Ivy! And I wouldn’t have known. What if I decided to stay at the resort all night, waiting for guests? You would have sat there, maybe going into labor . . .” The thought wrapped tentacles around his chest, threatened to strangle him. He stood and stalked away from her, staring at the blue shadows of the late afternoon crawling across the yard. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Silence.

  Then a sigh shuddered out of her. “I’m sorry. I know the baby was unexpected. We never talked about it, and I thought that it would be a good thing, but I . . . Yeah, I should have realized . . .” Another sigh.

  Her words washed over him, then dug in and left him cold. He turned. “Wait—do you think I don’t want this baby?”

  Ivy met his eyes for a terrible moment, then looked away, that same stripped expression on her face from two weeks ago when he’d broken the light fixture in the cabin. When he’d . . . when he told her that Casper had to choose between his dreams and responsibility. Oh no.

  Darek crouched before her, looking into her beautiful green eyes, his hands on her knees. “Oh, Ivy, do you think that somehow I’ve given up my dreams for you?” He ran his hand over her belly. “For our baby? For Tiger?”

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed, wiped her cheek. “I just know that every day the birth of this baby gets closer, you seem more tense, more . . . unhappy.”

  He pressed his forehead onto her knees, looked back at her, his voice wrecked. “Ivy, the only reason I’m tense is because I know I can’t do this—”

  Her jaw tightened, pain in her eyes.

  “This, meaning I can’t be a great dad and a decent husband and take care of Evergreen Resort. We’re sinking, babe, and I can’t figure it out. How did my dad do it? He raised six kids and still managed to leave a legacy. I’m drowning in bills and . . .” He got up. Shook his head. “Casper had to take off work this week so I could be the husband I should be.”

  “Darek—”

  “No, see . . . I’m not good at this. I can barely figure out how to do our accounting, and as for guests, well, my mom had this way of making everyone feel like they belonged, with her homey fires and fresh-baked cookies, but it all feels fake to me. I march guests out to their cabins like a Sherpa, and the whole time I’m actually mad that they’re taking me away from you and Tiger.”

  He turned away, stared at the mess of bills on the table. “When did it all get so complicated?”

  He didn’t hear her move, just felt her tummy bump up against him, her arms go around his waist. She leaned her head against his back. “You’re not in this alone, Darek. You have me and your parents. Casper.”

  He ran his hands over her arms, clasped around him, even as he stared out the window to their stamp-size backyard, buried in snow. Their nine-hundred-square-foot rental house shivered in the cold, the floors creaky, the window frosty.

  She deserved better.

  “The resort is my responsibility. And so are you and Tiger.”

  Ivy rose up and kissed his cheek, then directed his chin so that he met her eyes. “Is it?”

  He frowned at her words. Uh, yes . . .

  The phone rang, and she stepped away as he picked it up. “Casper, what’s up?”

  “Open your front door. Your bell isn’t working.”

  Darek turned and saw Casper waving at him through the sidelight. He hung up and opened the door.

  Casper pushed his way in, stood in the entryway, hands in his pockets. He wore dress pants, his hiking boots, a leather jacket, his dark hair streaming out of a knit tuque. He looked more like a resort manager than Darek ever had a hope to, with his usual attire of work jeans, tool belt, and a flannel shirt. “Okay, all the guests have checked out, and housekeeping came today and turned two cabins. They’ll be back tomorrow for three more, and by Friday you should be all set. I checked the heat and the pipes on all the cabins, shoveled, sanded, and lit a candle and recited the Irish prayer for travelers over each unit.”

  “Funny.”

  “More than that, I’ve put my phone on vibrate while I go down to Wild Harbor and make sure Ned hasn’t fired me.”

  “Casper, I’m so sorry—”

  “I’m kidding, Bro. Of course Ivy’s more important, and Ned gets that. But we’re clear for me to go back to work, right?”

  Darek nodded. “Thanks again. You . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. I saved your backside. That’s what I do. Fix things. Just call me the helper bunny.” He lifted his hand. “Hey, Ivy.”

  She waved back, and as Casper left, a smile tipped her lips.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. How about some macaroni and cheese?”

  Casper could admit that he loved working on the Evergreen property, knowing his father, grandfather, and even the generations before that had seeded the land, fished the lake, and tromped the same wintry paths, once shaggy with evergreen and whitened birch. He loved the resort, the smell of woodsmoke from the stone fireplace in the lodge, the sound of the wood thrush in the trees, the crisp silence of a snowy night. Most days he’d willingly give up traversing the world to stay home and paint walls, rebuild rafters, and yes, bellboy suitcases to cabins.

  But always he had the priceless, exhilarating option of walking away.

  Until this weekend. Darek’s frantic call Friday night had noosed him into four days of twenty-four hours’ babysitting high-maintenance guests afraid to poke their noses into the subzero freezer that the north shore became.

  He’d even run into town twice for pizza, apparently donning the role of local delivery boy.

  Of course, it only dredged up the memory of finding Raina stuck in the mud last summer, eating a piece of naked, destroyed pepperoni that had slid onto the floorboards. She played delivery girl for Pierre’s about as well as Casper made buttermilk biscuits for their guests.

  After a smidge of coaxing, she’d hopped onto the back of his motorcycle, eventually wrapping an arm around his waist, and he might have fallen in love with her a little right then.

  Oh, see, she so easily ran into his thoughts. Seeing her smile in memory seemed as natural as breathing.

  Easier than trying to remember all the checkout details Darek texted him. The temptation to turn off his phone nearly took him, but then Darek just might pile poor Ivy and Tiger in the car and drive up to the resort—or, worse, call his buddy Jensen to come over and start handing out pointers. Type A, overachieving rich boy Jensen would have Casper chipping ice off the dock or offering snowshoe tours. He didn’t know how Darek coped with the fact that Jensen’s high-end luxury homes had suffered nothing of the devastation Evergreen Resort had faced from the forest fire two summers ago.

  But he didn’t have to think about that. Yeah, walking away held its very attractive merits, and Casper didn’t wish for any of Darek’s legacy.

  In fact, the entire experience made him
wonder if he was cut out for staying. Darek’s words sat like a burr under his skin: How long are you sticking around?

  For the first time since he’d returned, he considered the answer might be no. Maybe he should have returned to Roatán, to treasure hunting.

  “You sure you’re okay to close?” Ned said, slapping the keys into his hand. “Don’t forget to turn the heat down and close the shades in front. And drop the night deposit at the bank on your way home.”

  “Thanks, Ned,” Casper said. “I know I put you in a tight spot.”

  “Nah.” Ned shrugged on his jacket. “With the cold snap, this place is a graveyard. We’ll need to figure out how to get some traffic in the door and move some merchandise before spring shows up.” He pulled on his stocking hat. Stopped at the door. “By the way, my sister said she saw you at the VFW on Valentine’s Day. Without a date.” He pointed at Casper. “We need to remedy that, pronto.”

  Casper held up his hand. “I’m good, Ned—”

  But Ned was already out the door, leaving Casper just a bit cold at the thought of the prospects he might dig up.

  However, if Raina could move on, date someone new, so could he.

  The thought pressed a fist into his gut.

  Another reason to leave the moment winter eased its grip.

  He vacuumed the store, checked the stock, printed and filled the online orders, then closed the till and ran the final report for the day.

  At eight o’clock he shut the door, the wind like knives against his flesh. He ducked his chin into his jacket, pulled his hat down, and hustled to the truck. Tossing the money pouch onto the seat, he climbed in, shivering as the engine turned over and blasted frozen air from the heaters.

  He should get home, check on the cabins, but four days away from the historical society had his brain conjuring up a slew of what-ifs about Duncan Rothe and Thor’s letter. Which would probably only lead to a dead end and, worse, possessed the terrible power to rouse the image of Raina and her surprise as he met her at the door. Those widened amber-brown eyes, not unlike the moment on the shore last summer when he’d shown her the sunset over the lake. Or when he’d finally scrounged up the courage to trace his hand down her cheek, pull her close, catch her lips with his. She’d tasted of soda, and the little sound she made of delight, of surrender, could still find him, deep in the night.

  Or any time of day.

  Yeah, maybe he should steer clear of the mystery of Duncan Rothe.

  The truck began to warm, blasting out tepid air. Casper shook himself from the memory and drove to the bank. He parked and dropped the pouch in the night deposit slot.

  From across the street, the smell of baking pizza crust and garlic stirred his hunger. It wasn’t like he had anything at home waiting for him. He left the truck parked and jogged to Pierre’s.

  Only a couple patrons lined up in front of him. He pulled off his gloves and ordered a pizza to go.

  He was turning to wait when Monte Riggs walked into the lobby.

  The man wore a fancy black wool coat, a suit and tie, like he might be a big shot from the Cities instead of a local junk dealer. His gaze fell on Casper for a moment, settled, something cool in his expression, then slid away.

  Just walk away. Casper didn’t know if the thought was for him or Monte, but he let it steel him, keep him moving forward.

  Except Monte’s voice slithered over Casper, low and dark. “I know all about you and Raina last summer, Casper.”

  Casper stilled, turned.

  For a split second, he was taken back to high school, to that day when he’d found Monte and Beth Johnson alone in the weight room, Monte pressed up against her, his hands under her shirt.

  He might never erase the look in Beth’s eyes when she saw him or the way she ducked under Monte’s arm and dashed out past Casper, not looking at him as if embarrassed.

  Or . . . afraid?

  Nor would he forget the gleam in Monte’s eyes, something of triumph or perhaps power. Or the way he watched Beth flee, a smile twitching his thin lips.

  Casper had stood there, unable to move as Monte swaggered past him. “Girls. They never know what they really want.”

  That smile was seared into his brain, and Casper saw it now, inching up one side of Monte’s pale face. “And in case you get any ideas, she’s over you. She’s mine now.”

  An anvil landed on Casper’s chest. “Raina doesn’t belong to anybody.” But his hoarse whisper gave him away and he pushed out into the night before he did something stupid.

  Except he couldn’t leave, not with that memory reminding him that back then, he’d done nothing—nothing.

  The door jangled as Monte exited, holding a pizza. Casper’s patience escaped in a hard exhale, and he rounded on Monte.

  Who probably expected him because he betrayed not a hint of surprise in those cool hazel eyes. “What?”

  What? Oh, he could give him what, longed to show him exactly what by delivering the answer right here on the frozen sidewalk.

  No. He took another breath. “Raina’s . . . she’s fragile, okay? She’s been through a lot and puts up a good front, but she’s been hurt—”

  “By you?”

  Casper’s mouth closed. He heard the word meddling—it perched in the back of his brain. But he refused to listen. “There’s history you shouldn’t start digging around in. Just walk away, Monte. She’s not the girl for you.”

  The smile appeared again. “I think she’s exactly the girl for me. And don’t you worry about her being fragile. I promise I’ll take very good care of her.”

  Then he winked.

  Casper nearly lunged, nearly tackled him and his large pepperoni onto the sidewalk. He had a very satisfying vision of slamming his fist into Monte’s pretty face, correcting that nose, maybe emptying some of his frustration into the man’s jaw.

  Except, no. Because then he’d be the man he’d fled six months ago.

  So he stood there, again watching Monte walk away, feeling like he might retch instead.

  He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat thunder inside. Let it go. This was why he shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t be so desperate to fix things.

  He crossed the street, got in the truck, and drove to the historical society, parking a half block away, which seemed silly, even to him, but he had to have a moment to sit in the car and just shake. Stare for a second at the stars poured out overhead in the crisp night and hang on to Darek’s words: You gotta stop acting as if she belongs to you.

  No, she didn’t belong to him, and yes, hanging on to her could devour him. Be patience. Be light. . . . Let all this anger and darkness go.

  He took a breath, trying to cling to his prayer. But how could he let her go when he saw the danger ahead?

  Tonight, right now, he needed a distraction. He got out and crossed the street, unlocking the door to the historical society, flipping on the light, and heading to the back.

  He’d deliberately waited to plow through the boxes of clothing in the storage room until he’d feasted on the trinkets, mostly to understand what manner of people he discovered. It helped him assign clothing to the right owner, even if it might be a guess.

  He found nothing of historical significance in the first box, the contents more Goodwill clothing than artifacts. No formal tuxedos or, for that matter, voyageur wolf-tail caps or worn leather mukluks.

  He closed the box, set it by the door, marked it for the Salvation Army, and opened the next. Baby clothes. A layette—a white knit christening gown with blue trim, a matching swaddling blanket, an embroidered cotton sleeping sack, but with it, a pair of bell-bottoms, a cowl-necked sweater, a plaid vest. He took out the layette, closed the rest up to donate.

  The third box netted the same—contents that could be placed as far back as the eighties, things he might find in the depths of his mother’s closet. Nothing of value.

  He took another box, opened the top, saw a ratty brown wool sweater, and closed it again. Then he glanced quickly
into the final box, lifting up one side.

  Clearly whoever donated the collection hadn’t stopped to sort the valuable from the trash, just handed it all over to the society.

  He checked his watch and groaned. Pierre’s had closed twenty minutes ago, his pizza now cold and locked inside.

  A wasted, hungry night and his encounter with Monte still churning inside him. He’d dropped the boxes by the front door and was going back to the storage room to turn out the light when he heard a voice in the lobby.

  “Yoo-hoo!” the voice sang. “Casper?”

  He pulled the string to the overhead light and returned to the showroom. “Mrs. Draper, what are you doing here?”

  She came in holding her keys, eyes wide. “Oh, goodness, it is you. I hoped so when I saw the light. I just finished a chamber meeting and was driving by and thought, my, my, that boy works late.”

  She wore a purple parka and a ski hat with pom-poms dangling around her ears. “Did you find anything of value tonight?”

  He ushered her toward the door, turning out the light in the display room. “No. Just a bunch of throwaway clothing. I am starting to fear that the Linnell family considered us the local Salvation Army drop-off.”

  She stopped at the boxes. “No mysterious tuxedos?”

  “I found a christening gown, but mostly a lot of plaid jumpers and bell-bottom jeans.”

  “I remember those days. Had myself a pair of paisley pedal pushers I still can’t bear to give up. Ah, memories.” She turned to the top box, tugged at it as if wanting to relive the past.

  “I think my mother kept her entire wardrobe from the seventies—hey, is that a wedding dress?”

  Edith had tugged silky white fabric out of the top box—the one he hadn’t opened fully. “It certainly looks like it.” She put her purse down, and he helped her release the dress, rolled up and shoved down the side of the box.

  “It’s immaculate,” Edith said, holding up the skirt of the dress while Casper gripped the shoulders. “And looks lovely on you, by the way.”

  “I’ve always looked good in white,” he said, winking, and draped the dress on the glass display of pictures for a better look. “I can’t believe I missed this.”