As the Light Fades (ARC)

by Catherine West

  Great. Matt sighed and crossed his arms. Here we go again.

  “I had a kid like that. A few of them. I think.” Mr. Carlisle laughed happily as he put paints away and handed the box to Matt. “They get better with age.”

  Matt pressed the box back toward him. “You keep these. In case you feel like doing some more work on this.”

  “Righty-ho!” The man’s face lit with a grin, and Matt smiled.

  Elizabeth took her father by the arm. “Come on, we need to get you ready for dinner. I left work early today, thought I’d sit with you tonight. Is that okay?”

  “Sit where you like, missy.” He untangled himself from her and bent to pick at a blue spot of paint on his pants.

  She gave an eye-roll. “Well. Looks like this was a good idea, Matthew. Maybe you can tell me more about it later.” Drake was hightailing it to the door. “Gotta go, he’s probably going to try to escape on the bus.”

  Matt watched her run from the room, still a bit bewildered. Well, well, well. Drake Carlisle. He hadn’t expected this. At all.

  sixteen

  Matt arrived home later that afternoon to find his mother in the kitchen, her hands deep in dough. He scanned the room and gave a low whistle. He’d wager she’d used every appliance, dish, and pot he owned. “Mother. What are you doing?”

  She turned his way with a smile and blew a bit of flour off her nose. “Hello, darling. How was your day?”

  Matt raised a brow and went for a beer. He definitely needed to sit down. Never in his life had he experienced this particular scenario. Dreamed about it, wished for it, but not once, to the best of his recollection, had his mother ever been standing in the kitchen when he’d returned home from school, let alone asked him how his day was. “My day was fine. Is Mia home yet?”

  “I don’t think so.” She returned to whatever was happening in that bowl. “I didn’t hear her come in, anyway.”

  The gallery had closed a half hour ago. He’d stopped by to get her, but she’d refused a ride, said she’d rather take the bus. She was probably off someplace sulking. Hopefully she’d show up at some point. “Could you, um, tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Pizza!” His mother pulled her hands from the large, brown, ceramic bowl, washed them at the sink, and covered the bowl with a dishcloth. “There. We’ll let that sit a bit, and I’ll roll it out around six. What time do you think Mia might be home?”

  Pizza. Matt pulled at the collar of his shirt and glanced at his watch. “She should be home soon. Since when do you know how to make pizza?”

  She laughed, patted her hair down, and pulled the apron from around her waist. She wore a baggy white cotton blouse over dark blue jeans. Matt blinked. Had he ever seen her wear jeans? And . . . slippers? “Where’s Dad?”

  “Oh, who knows. Probably walking the beach. Sulking.” She busied herself finding a glass and the half-empty bottle of wine, gave herself a generous pour, and sat opposite him at the table. “Isn’t the internet amazing? I even found a video on YouTube that showed me exactly how to make the dough. And I’ve prepared all the toppings. I went to Bartlett’s this morning. Found some wonderful fresh mozzarella. That place is still fantastic, isn’t it? Oh, your fridge is a little full.”

  “Okay.” Matt suspected his expression conveyed his bemusement, and his mother confirmed it with the scowl she tossed him.

  “I can cook, you know.”

  “Mother!” Laughter shot from him. “I’m thirty-two years old and I cannot remember you ever cooking a meal a day in my life. Remember that time you decided you’d make Christmas cookies? I don’t think they were supposed to be black and bricklike.”

  She pursed her lips and wiped a few patches of flour off her arms. “I’ve been taking lessons. At the community center.”

  Matt floundered for a reply and took a swig from the bottle in his hand instead. “The community center?”

  “Patricia took me.” She smiled sweetly, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

  “Patricia?”

  “O’Donohue, dear. Don’t be dense.”

  “Trish O’Donohue? Patrick’s mother?”

  “How many Patricia O’Donohues do you know, Matthew?”

  “Are you kidding me?” His mother had loathed the O’Donohues. Okay, maybe loathed wasn’t exactly being fair. She’d certainly never exhibited any great pleasure over his friendship with Patrick and all the time he spent with the large Irish family. His parents had attended one Christmas party at the O’Donohues’ when Matt was around twelve. He’d begged them to come, mostly to get Pat’s mother off his back about it. They’d stayed an hour, looking extremely uncomfortable the entire time. After that, he didn’t bother hoping their two families would ever be friends.

  “Since when do you even talk to Patricia O’Donohue, Mother?”

  “Oh.” She sipped and smiled again. “That’s a funny story.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “After your father ‘retired’”—she made air quotes and he tried not to grin—“he drove me crazy being around the house all the time. You know what he’s like. No hobbies. Work was everything to him. So I started finding more things to do. I began volunteering at the Children’s Hospital. I sit on the Board, but you know I’d never actually . . . anyway. I ran into Patricia at the hospital. She volunteers too. Isn’t that a coincidence? We had coffee, and I suppose it went from there. Did you know she sings in the choir at her church? And she . . . oh, I need to roll out the dough.” She popped out of her seat and strode to the counter. Matt watched her lift the dough from the bowl and cut it into sections. “Rolling pin?”

  “Uh . . .” Did he even have one? He went to the drawers and wracked his brain as to where his grandmother had kept the darn thing. And pizza pans. No doubt she’d ask for those next. If he couldn’t find any, he’d run to the store. Because that was a whole lot better than contemplating the alien invasion that had clearly occurred at some point and replaced his mother with this semi-domesticated woman he barely recognized.

  “So, Mom. I heard you were over at Elizabeth’s the other night.” Ah. Way in the back of the cupboard he pulled out a couple of well-used pizza pans.

  “Oh, yes! She’s a delightful girl, isn’t she?”

  Matt put the pans on the counter, straightened, and stared at her. Something in her tone and smug smile set off a warning. “Mother.”

  “What, darling? I’m just saying she’s a lovely girl. Perhaps you should get to know her a little better.”

  He bit back a grin, strode across the room, and put his hands on her shoulders. “And perhaps you should mind your own business.”

  She arched a thin brow. “Perhaps.” Her smile popped out again. “Isn’t this nice, Matthew? Being able to visit, spending time together. I have missed you, you know.”

  He got that knot in his stomach again and wished for the thousandth time that he didn’t feel things so deeply. But she was right. Even when he didn’t want her to be. “Yeah.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek before he could stop himself. “It’s nice, Ma. It’s real nice.”

  ___________

  “Mia! Come out of there, please.” Matt leaned against the bathroom door and squeezed his eyes shut. She’d slammed through the house fifteen minutes ago, refused dinner, raced up here, and locked herself in the bathroom.

  “Leave me alone! I told you, I’m not hungry!”

  “I don’t care. You’re coming downstairs, and you’re having dinner with us. Your grandmother made a vegetarian pizza just for you, and you’re going to eat it if I have to break this door down and carry you to the table.” So he wouldn’t be winning any awards for best parenting style anytime soon.

  Something clattered to the floor and he heard her swear. “Mia?”

  “What?” Her reply was muffled, like she’d shoved a facecloth in her mouth.

  Matt’s heart rate picked up. “Can you open the door, please?” He jiggled the handle and she shrieked.

  “Go. AWAY! I need som
e privacy. I got my period!”

  Matt leaned over his knees and wondered how people did this. “Okay. I’m leaving. But please come downstairs when you’re done. I mean it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Everything okay up there?” Mom asked when he returned to the table.

  “She’s in a mood. It happens. A lot.” Matt shrugged and picked up his pizza. Took a bite. “Hey, this is actually good.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” But she smiled just the same.

  “We’ll make a chef out of you yet, dear,” Dad remarked drolly, like he didn’t believe it for a moment.

  Mom cut into her pizza with a knife and fork, cut his father with her eyes. “At least I am trying to do things with my life. What do you do? Sit around all day reading and doing God knows what on that computer.”

  “I am writing.” Dad took a long drink. “I am writing a book and you know that.”

  “A book? What are you writing about, Dad?” Matt asked. Did he really want to know?

  “The rise and fall of the Roman Empire and what today’s cultures can learn from it. And no, I don’t have a title.”

  “Wasting your time,” Mom muttered.

  “I am not wasting my time, and as for what I do on my computer—” Dad bit off his words as Mia skulked into the room and sat down.

  “Mia. Have some pizza, dear?” Mom stood and removed the foil from Mia’s pizza, gave her a slice, and sat down again. Matt held his breath while Mia stared at the colorful triangle on her plate. She raised red-rimmed eyes and stared at her grandmother.

  “You made this?”

  “I did.” Mom sat back proudly, her smile genuine. Matt fought to stay silent as Mia bit into her pizza.

  “Good.” She mumbled something else and proceeded to demolish the rest of it and helped herself to more. Okay then. Matt breathed relief, resumed his meal, grabbed the salad bowl and the dressing. He wouldn’t get into it with Mia. Not now at least.

  “Well, Mia, how was school today?” Mom asked after a while, her voice too bright. Matt stifled a groan. Oh, that was so not the question.

  “Stupid.” Mia shot him a glare that made him want to shoot one right back.

  “How can school be stupid?” Dad pushed his empty plate away and peered down the table. “Don’t you enjoy your classes?”

  “Some. But we have a dumb art teacher who drags us to dumb places.”

  “Really?” Matt watched his father’s eyebrows inch upward. “That does sound terrible. What kind of teacher would do that?”

  Matt cleared his throat. “Me, Dad. I’m the dumb art teacher. I teach art. Remember?”

  Mia snorted and Matt worked to check his frustration. Why he expected his father to have the faintest clue . . .

  “I’m well aware, Matthew,” his father said quietly. “I was trying to be funny.”

  “Right.” The pizza sat heavy in his stomach, and Matt reached for his water glass. “Mia’s class did a little community service today, spent some time at an old folks’ home.”

  “Total set up,” Mia growled.

  Set up? Matt clenched his fingers and held her angry gaze. “I had no clue Drake Carlisle was a resident there. Believe me or not, I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Drake Carlisle?” Mom perked up. “I have a couple of his paintings. You remember the Carlisles, don’t you, Harrison? We went to their house a few times when we used to come over in the summers, years ago now, but at any rate. As it turns out, Elizabeth is their daughter.”

  His father reached for another slice. “The pretty one next door?”

  There was no hope. “That would be her.” Matt smiled anyway. “Drake’s got Alzheimer’s though. But he can still paint. He and Mia—”

  “Stop!” Mia’s anger filled the room. It’d been building for a while. Matt had sensed that sooner or later something would set her off.

  “Mia, don’t.” Matt knew his warning would be ignored, but he should at least try to prevent the impending explosion.

  “Don’t tell me what to do! I hate you right now!”

  Before Matt could respond, his father spoke. “Lower your voice, young lady. Show some respect for your elders.” Dad set a stern look on Mia, and Matt wished he could clap a hand over his father’s mouth.

  “Excuse me?” Mia pushed her chair back and stood. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “My God, you’re so like your mother! Sit—” His father cut off his words, his face ashen.

  The room fell silent.

  Matt watched Mia’s eyes fill with tears, his stomach churning.

  “I’m done.” Mia picked up her plate, and stormed out of the room.

  Dad blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “Oh, heaven help us.” Mom breathed a sigh and poured another glass of wine.

  “Really, Dad?” Matt put his head in his hands. It wouldn’t do any good to rush after her. She wouldn’t talk to him tonight. He knew enough now to sense when to approach Mia after a meltdown.

  A heaviness smothered the room. Dad picked bits of pepper off his uneaten pizza, Mom rubbed a thumb and forefinger up and down the stem of her wine glass, creating a supremely annoying squeaking noise.

  “She’s right, you know.” Matt waited until they both looked his way. “You can’t barge into her life like you’ve always been there. You can’t tell her what to do.”

  “I know. I apologize.” Dad did look contrite. “But she is so much like Rachel.” He gave a beleaguered sigh. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

  “How do you manage her?” Mom asked warily. “She’s so . . .”

  “She’s had a rough go, Mom.” Matt kept his voice low on the off chance Mia was lurking, but he’d heard her bedroom door close a few moments ago. “She’s fifteen, and she’s never really lived in a stable environment. She doesn’t trust anybody. If you were expecting to waltz in here and establish a relationship overnight, it’s not going to happen.”

  His mother pinched her lips together and stayed silent.

  “A child needs discipline, structure. What does she intend to do with her life?” Dad gave the look Matt had always hated. His steady gaze scrutinized, measured, and came up wanting. And Matt couldn’t take a minute more.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I think just making it through the day is a pretty big deal right now. And what she needs most of all? Love. That’s what she needs. But I’m not sure you know the first thing about that.” He stood and marched from the room and headed for the back door. The plates needed clearing and the kitchen was a mess, but Matt didn’t care. They could deal with it.

  seventeen

  Thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. Thump.

  Liz looked up from her laptop and frowned. The incessant noise had been bothering her for the last fifteen minutes. She hadn’t heard it when she’d gotten back from the nursing home. She’d made her supper, pasta with tomato sauce and bell peppers tonight, pondered the surprise of seeing Mia and Matthew Stone in her father’s environment, and eventually decided it was probably a good thing. He’d certainly seemed happy at dinner. Ate everything without a fuss, and even commented that the stew was edible.

  She’d made her coffee, settled on the sofa the living room, and then the noise started. At first, she’d thought it was the wind banging a shutter, but she’d scoured the cottage and found nothing. Sat down again and went back to what she was working on—Liz’s Life Plan. Pathetic as it was.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump. It had to be coming from outside. Liz grabbed a sweater, slipped into a pair of loafers, and unbolted the front door. Across the dark courtyard, behind the main house, sat a garage. Light shone through the slats of the window that faced her. She ventured into the cool night and followed the sound.

  The side door to the old structure was open, giving her full view inside. Back toward the corner of the cluttered room, a punching bag hung on a rusted chain. Matthew Stone danced around it, gloves on, pounding
the thing as though his life depended on it. The guy had a pretty mean right hook. His jaw clenched as he concentrated on his punches, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, eyes flashing. Muscular arms dealt their blows with deft precision, a thin cotton tank top plastered to his chest.

  There was no denying it. Matthew Stone was an extremely attractive man. Much as she’d told herself that didn’t matter as she’d signed the lease, moved in, perhaps she’d been wrong. Because the familiar feeling that curled in her stomach and sent heat rushing through her was dangerous. She recognized it for what it was. Desire. A longing to be held, touched, needed. Her old enemy, back again.

  Liz pressed her hands around her hips, inhaled, and took a step backward. But the thumping had stopped, and she’d been spotted.

  “Elizabeth?” Matthew moved away from the bag, hands in midair, waiting, she supposed, for some explanation as to why she stood there staring at him as if she’d never seen a man before.

  “Sorry. I just . . . didn’t know what the noise was.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” He ripped the Velcro tab off one protective glove with his teeth, pulled it off, and went to work on the other. He tossed them aside and reached for a towel and a water bottle.

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything important. Just attempting to figure out my life, and that never goes well.” She stayed in the doorway, but his pained expression stirred curiosity. “Are you all right?”

  He gave a half laugh and leaned over his knees a moment before nailing her with his eyes. “You ever feel like you’re doing everything you possibly can to make it all work, but it’s falling down faster than you can put it back together?”

  She took a tentative step forward. “All the time, actually.”

  He wiped his flushed face with the light blue towel. “Mia thought I set her up. Taking her class to the old folks’ home today, having her paint with your old man. Truth is, I didn’t have a clue he was Drake Carlisle until you walked in. But I don’t expect she’ll believe that.”

  “I see.” Liz had wondered at the girl’s abrupt departure that afternoon, but had been too busy with Dad to give it much thought. “So you’re taking out your frustration on the punching bag.”