Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  I watch as she gestures to the soccer field. She’s all-American beautiful. Delicate features, long eyelashes, and a sprinkle of freckles. Her son is a mirror image.

  “I’m Ava Carson and this is Sam.” The baby lifts his arm in my direction.

  I lean forward, catching Sam’s fingers. With a soft grip, I move his tiny palm up and down. “Graham Thomas. Nice to meet you, Sam. And your mommy.”

  The baby grins and chortles. Ava giggles and nuzzles the baby. “Sam, are you making conversation?”

  “You bet,” I joke, wanting, somehow, to keep the conversation going. “He’s lamenting about junk food calories and the nation’s rising obesity level.”

  “Really?” She raises an eyebrow and grins. “You got all that from my son?”

  “You should hear what else he tells me,” I joke.

  We both laugh as the girl behind the counter calls out Ava’s order. I ask for my own Coke, grab her tray and balance it on one hand.

  “Let me.” I pay for my drink and follow her to a set of picnic tables.

  She pauses on the end of the row and our eyes lock again. Ava looks away quickly, and I catch the flash of a huge diamond on her left hand. Right. Behave, Graham.

  “Want to join us?” she asks, tilting her head and pulling Sam close on her lap. She sweeps a stray strawberry blond hair from her cheek, slips it behind one ear. She wipes her hands on a napkin and unwraps the hot dog. “So, you’re new in town?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I remember the Advil, pop it in my mouth, and sit. Sliding my drink close, I leave space enough for her husband and Big Foot to settle in.

  She flashes an apologetic look. “Sorry. Might as well wear a sign and flashing lights.”

  While we make small talk, I notice Ava watching the parking lot. She begins to look worried, and I shift my eyes in that direction. Next to a black Range Rover, a tall, dark-haired man is on the phone, pacing, deep in conversation. He’s dressed in an immaculately pressed white shirt, red tie, and dark slacks. I glance down at my beat-up khakis, until I realize Ava’s watching me.

  She takes a dainty bite of hot dog, closes her eyes blissfully. “This is so amazing,” she murmurs, smothering a big smile. “Nothing like a big juicy hot dog. Don’t let anyone see.”

  When I move to block her from the crowd, she grins.

  “Thanks. It’s my tiny bit of rebellion.” She pauses and presses a napkin to her lips. Her voice is soft and musical, with a touch of a honeyed southern accent. “You know, anything this good has to be horrible for me. Ladies should only eat lettuce.”

  “That’s a rule?” I play along.

  “For the last two hundred years,” she teases. “So where do you work?”

  “I run my own business. Just getting started.” She probably hates lawyers. No need to spoil this. I hand her a card, face down.

  “Great. Thanks.” Ava tucks it away. A whistle blows, long and loud. Game time again. Her eyes dart from the ball field to the Range Rover.

  She puts a hand to her lips. The next thing I know, the man by the Range Rover opens the door, climbs inside, and guns the engine. The tires dig into the dark red dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust as he drives away.

  What the hell?

  “You’ll have to excuse us.” Pink-cheeked, Ava stands up and hoists Sam to her hip. His tiny foot grazes the popcorn, spilling the contents of the bag. Puffed kernels scatter around her hot dog and Coke as she steps over the bench and hurries away.

  I can’t help but watch her leave. The sunshine on her hair, the curve of her hip, the way her arms wrap around the baby. She’s talking to Sam, tilting her head to look at his face. Then, she steps into the crowd and disappears.

  Damn. My appetite vaporizes. Ava’s husband must be out of his mind.

  CHAPTER 11

  AVA

  FRIDAY, MARCH 26

  Sam, rag-doll tired and fussy, finally plops his head on my shoulder. A dull ache travels down the small of my back. It’s growing dark, and the cicadas greet the evening with a loud, chirping chorus. The final glow of tonight’s brilliant sunset, dark reds and purple, fades into the night through the branches of giant oak trees high above us.

  I’d turned down several rides home, thinking my husband would be back any minute. It’s been almost two hours. Dinnertime, and the thought of grilled steak sets my stomach rumbling. I’m afraid to even ask Jack if he’s hungry, as I have nothing to feed him or Sam. I’m stuck at a dusty soccer field with a baby, an eight-year-old, and no vehicle.

  I am baffled, hurt, and a little scared. For a moment, I think about how easy life used to be before I was a wife and mother of two. People tell you that marriage and motherhood are the hardest job in the world. Naive me, I didn’t believe it.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Sam whimpers, reaches for a handful of my hair, and pulls. I take it as a reminder to be thankful for my blessings despite the mess I’m in. Message delivered. Gently, I untangle the strands from his chubby fingers, rubbing my nose with his and making him laugh. “Love you,” I murmur.

  It’s then I notice that Jack has edged at least three feet away. Shoulders hunched, he’s scuffing the dirt with the toe of his cleat. Biting my lip, I step closer and rub his damp head.

  “Good game today, honey,” I say. “You really tried hard.”

  Jack shrugs and doesn’t answer. The loss was devastating, and his silence pierces my heart.

  I try again. “You’re sure your dad didn’t say where he was going?” I ask.

  He frowns and continues poking the dirt. “Nope.”

  An invisible wall shoots up between us. This is the old Jack. Lonely, lost, and wounded.

  As the school counselor at Mobile Prep, it was my job to know about the kids who needed extra attention, the students who were failing, the teenagers having trouble at home. In Jack’s case, it was simple—he was new to the school—and didn’t quite fit in yet.

  The week school started that year was insane. Over the course of five days, a pregnant teen from a devout Catholic family confessed she’d made an appointment for an abortion. Our salutatorian—with at least a dozen full-ride college scholarships—joined the Marines but couldn’t figure out how to break it to his parents. Worst of all, someone stuffed peanuts into the sandwich of a highly allergic kid. Guess who wielded the EpiPen? That’s right. Yours truly.

  Jack Carson wasn’t nearly as overt. He didn’t draw any attention to himself, walled off the world, and didn’t make friends. He wasn’t adjusting. He wasn’t happy. It was time to check in with his father about my concerns. When I contacted Dr. Mitchell Carson, his cheerful assistant answered on the first ring and put me through.

  “I’m so glad you called,” he said, his deep voice resonating in my ear after listening to a brief explanation. When I asked if he’d like to come by the school and discuss any issues in more detail, Mitchell didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m between meetings,” he replied. “Give me ten minutes.”

  Good as his word, Dr. Carson arrived with time to spare. He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and an air of confidence that commanded attention.

  “Jack is a wonderful child. I love him dearly.” Mitchell sat down and smoothed his tie. His dark eyes were steady. “What I’m about to share should help explain some of his behavior.”

  I listened, intent on absorbing every detail. Jack’s mother died in a tragic car crash. They were college sweethearts. Mitchell’s own father passed away soon after—another huge loss almost too much to bear.

  “When the position at Springport came open, the timing couldn’t have been better,” Mitchell told me, the sparkle returning to his eyes. It was exactly what he’d been searching for. He and Jack moved to Mobile. Since then he’d been valiantly attempting to juggle the new job, a new home, and getting to know staff, students, and community leaders. And of course, taking care of Jack.

  “Life as a single dad,” Mitchell told me, “is more difficult than running a college.” He sat back
in the chair and shook his head, rueful.

  Mitchell did say Jack had signed up for soccer, which was encouraging. They had gone hiking and fishing just last weekend. Anything to help, he explained. Anything to get his mind off his mother and grandfather.

  “It sounds like you’re doing all of the right things,” I told him. “Giving Jack your time and attention means a lot, especially after such losses.”

  When I asked about any specific issues, Mitchell didn’t get the slightest bit defensive. Depression, mood swings?

  On the contrary, his father insisted. And his grades were fine.

  “I’ll watch out for Jack and stay in touch,” I promised.

  “I appreciate that,” Mitchell said and checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “If there’s anything else, just let me know.” We both stood up. I handed him one of my cards. Mitchell took it, and then hesitated.

  “Well, it’s probably harmless,” he replied. “But Jack’s developed this fascination—with superheroes.” Mitchell confided this like we’d shared a secret. “I wanted to mention it.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” I said and paused for a moment. “It’s not unusual, you know,” I said.

  Mitchell nodded.

  “It’s natural for kids to look for heroes; real or imaginary,” I added. “Everyone needs a little hope when life gets rough, don’t you think?”

  We both fell silent.

  “It’s like Jack wants to save the world,” Mitchell finally said, looking thoughtful.

  I smiled. “Don’t we all?”

  We’re still waiting for Mitchell. Clink! Clunk! Jack kicks at loose stones, head down. Puffs of dust cloud his ankles. I don’t press Jack further about the game or his father. If he needs to talk, I’ll be ready to listen.

  Sam stretches and babbles. His voice echoes across the empty soccer field, just as Mitchell’s Range Rover rolls into sight. Thank God.

  Jack double-times it to the truck and jumps inside. I heave the door open with one hand and buckle Sam in tight. The crickets chirp a farewell song as we drive off into the silver-edged moonlight.

  The truck rumbles toward home. Usually, Mitchell reaches for my hand, gives my fingers a squeeze. This time the distance between us is wide and cold. I trace the outline of the window with my finger, trying to decide what to say.

  Finally, I break the silence. “Want some?” I offer my pack of gum to Jack. He grabs a stick, unwraps it; I do the same. When things get stressful, it’s our reminder. A simple trick Jack and I share. The 5 on the package says it all. Take five minutes. Breathe. This too shall pass.

  Jack picks up his iPod, sticks in his earphones. Sam dozes in the back.

  Mitchell stares straight at the black road ahead.

  “So, honey, where were you?” I finally ask. “You didn’t pick up when I called. The kids are exhausted. Jack has school tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I tried a few times,” I continue. “We were getting worried.” I let my finger graze his arm. “You didn’t forget about us, did you?”

  Mitchell snaps back, forceful and sharp. “I’m off managing a major incident at the college, and you want to complain about me being late? That’s perfect.” He grips the wheel.

  Shaken, I pull down the sun visor and check the boys. Jack slams his eyes shut. He’s listening.

  “Sorry. Let’s not argue.” I bite my lip and lean back. “The kids are still awake.”

  Mitchell nods and slides his arm across the seat. He squeezes my hand tight, his version of a peace offering.

  He clears his throat. “Spoke to the contractor today.”

  I swing my head to look over at my husband. “Really? I thought he was gone.”

  Mitchell manages a small grin. “Never underestimate the power of determination. And payment in full, up front, for pushing our job to the front of their priorities. I just made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  I suck in a breath of air to calm the fluttering in my chest. “Oh, that’s great!” I say, a little too brightly. “When will he start?”

  “Monday.” Mitchell doesn’t offer any other details.

  And I don’t ask.

  We’re almost home. The canopy of trees opens wide to reveal a black velvet sky. In the distance, stars sparkle like diamond dust.

  Our home seems to rise up from the ground as we round the corner, its white pillars glowing in the moonlight. The porch, wide and long, sprawls across the front of the manicured lawn. It’s lovely, and too large for my tastes, but the zip code and country club location are necessary for his position at the college, Mitchell insisted.

  We pull into the long driveway and the Range Rover settles to a stop.

  Thirty minutes later, kids asleep, I steal into the kitchen on tiptoes, uncork some wine. When I peek around the corner, I see Mitchell buried in a section of newspaper. “Want something to drink?”

  He shakes his head, straightens the page. Mitchell rarely indulges; always been the type of man to grab beer at a barbecue and carry it around an entire evening. He says he doesn’t like to lose control.

  I pour myself a glass anyway, take a sip to calm my quivering nerves, then position myself in the chair across from my husband and stroke the knee of his pressed khakis. “Would you tell me what happened, please?”

  Mitchell takes his time answering. He directs his gaze at me, then the window. “I’m hurt you’d insinuate I’d ever, ever, forget to pick up you or the boys. That’s not me. Never.” He clenches his fist. “My father may not have been around much. My mother . . . she couldn’t—”

  “Mitchell, don’t,” I say softly. I’m not certain if the army or his father get more blame for his unhappy childhood. His mother ended her loneliness by taking her own life.

  “Well, I wouldn’t do that.” He shakes his head and shuts his eyes.

  “All right. So what happened?”

  Mitchell sits up, puts both elbows on his knees, takes my hand in his. Heaves a sigh. “Elijah Marston pulled out of the campaign.”

  Shock tingles through me. This is a huge blow. “What?” Elijah Marston is a Springport grad with more money than Bill Gates. Mitchell had been certain about Elijah. His ace in the hole. The savior of Springport, he’d joked.

  Mitchell nods, then taps his chin with two fingers. “He called me tonight. Said I had to drive over so that we could talk.”

  Elijah lives an hour or more away on a sprawling horse farm. No wonder Mitchell had been gone so long; though it didn’t explain not calling me.

  My mouth can barely form the words. “And now what?”

  “That’s it. He wanted to tell me right away.” Mitchell frowns.

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” Tears sting my eyes. “That’s terrible news. What will happen with the sports complex? There’s no way to make your deadline now.”

  Mitchell pushes off the sofa. He draws himself up to his full height, stares down at me. “It’s not over, Ava. I’m not giving up that easily. You, of all people, should know that.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  And just like that, he turns into a stranger. “Forget it.” He stalks into the kitchen. “I think I’ll have some of that wine after all.”

  “Okay,” I murmur. Good idea. I pick up my glass and tilt it; watch the wine swirl, and tell myself Mitchell’s mood has nothing to do with me. It’s stress, just a bump in the road.

  A cabinet opens and shuts. A drawer.

  “By the way,” Mitchell calls to me, offhand. “Can you pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow? I need that blue shirt. The one with the point collar.”

  I make a mental note. “Sure thing. Before I get Jack.”

  The faucet runs. A glass clinks on the counter. I hear Mitchell curse under his breath.

  “Need something?” I get up and walk into the darkened kitchen. I flick on the lights, bathing the room in a soft glow. It’s my favorite room in the house, with its high ceilings, crown molding, and gleaming stainless stee
l appliances. The boys love to hang out here while I cook, Jack sitting at the counter doing homework, Sam in his high chair eating Cheerios.

  When I see the look on Mitchell’s face, though, the charm and nostalgia of the space disappears. He glowers at me. “Did you have to drink it all?” He gestures to the bottle, fingering the cork.

  There’s a beat or two of deafening silence. What? I examine the container. Empty.

  “Or did you have some help?” Mitchell narrows his eyes. “That guy at the soccer park. I’m sure he’d love to share a glass or two.”

  “Mitchell, what are you talking about? That’s not even reasonable.”

  “Right.”

  “You don’t trust me?” I’m tense, and bewildered. Gone is the calm, collected guy who can charm even the grumpiest tollbooth operator. The man who buys flowers for no reason from city street vendors. Who loves me.

  “You’re home all day—you can do what you want.”

  I resist the urge to throw the comment back in his face. You’re the one who wants me home. The one who wrote the resignation letter, signed it, and mailed it without asking me.

  “Mitchell,” I level my voice. “Listen. You’re upset about the sports complex. You’re worried about finding another donor. Keeping the project on track.”

  He stiffens. “Is that so? I’m glad your telepathy’s working.” Mitchell takes the wine bottle, rinses it. “It’ll sure come in handy.”

  I lean closer, try to reach his hand.

  With a menacing look, he shoves me away. My hip jams into the edge of the counter. I’m so shocked I nearly lose my balance.

  He tosses the bottle. It crashes into the recycling. “Maybe I’ll just ask your mother for a big donation. She and George certainly have the money.” He muses darkly. “And Ruth might support me. More than her own daughter.”

  Glowering, Mitchell reaches above my head. He rummages a hand toward the back of the cabinet. He grabs a thick, dark, squat bottle, pours enough for just about anyone to exceed Alabama’s legal limit of intoxication. Hendrick’s Gin, straight.

  “And while we’re at it,” he hisses, “stay away from Mike Kennedy.”