by K. L. Kreig
His first wife?
Shit. I’ve known Pat for over ten years. He has four beautiful children and recently celebrated his thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He seems blissfully happy. “I had no idea.”
His smile is thin and wistfully heavyhearted. “Not many people do. It’s not something you lead off with after introductions.”
I nod, not fully comprehending what that will be like for me in a few months’ time.
“On our honeymoon, she found a lump in her left breast. We weren’t too worried because she was so young, but as you know, cancer doesn’t discriminate based on age or your bank account or the stage of your life. She gallantly fought it for four years before she finally succumbed.”
“Shit, Pat. I am so sorry.”
Christ, it’s the script. I am the one now reciting the script.
“It was a long time ago.” He stops to think, and I can see he’s taking a walk down memory lane. “I love Natalie and the kids. I count myself lucky to have found her when I did. I have a wonderful life, mind you, and I know it, but…I still miss my Camilla every single day.”
Now my eyes blister like someone lifted my lids and shoved white-hot coals behind them. I can’t speak. My chest is heavy. I swipe my tongue over my top teeth, wiping off the salty gunk that’s accumulated there.
This will be you, Roth. Missing Laurel every second you have left to live.
“The only thing Cam wanted to do before she passed was to go camping.” Pat’s voice has become softer and more gravelly.
“Camping?” My surprise can’t be missed.
“Yes, camping.” And it isn’t. “Unfortunately, we didn’t get around to it. Life always got in the way. And then it was too late, and she was too ill to travel. That was my single biggest regret, Roth. That I didn’t fulfill my wife’s final wish.”
“I’m sure she understood.” Clichés. We are full them when we have nothing else to offer.
He clasps his hands together. His knuckles turn a dim shade of white. “When I met Natalie, one of the first things I asked her was what was on her life bucket list.”
I smile, then, because I know where this is going. “Let me guess…camping?”
Winking, he says, “I knew I hired you for a reason.”
“I don’t know if we should go,” I confess. “I don’t know how Laurel will do. She seems to be getting worse every day.”
I talked to my parents about this last night after Laurel went to bed early. They were worried, rightfully so. They don’t think we should risk it and when I asked them if we were supposed to just sit around and wait for Laurel to die, they didn’t have a good reply.
“And if you don’t?” he asks me. “What then?”
I shrug, but I know “what then” means. When I look back, I will hate myself.
“If Laurel is in good enough health to go now, go now. If you can make it even a day, it’s a day you won’t regret. Trust me.”
I turn the card over in my hand, still in a bit of a daze. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Thank you, sir. For everything.”
“You are most welcome.”
We rise and Pat tells me, “Call and ask for Justin. Tell him I’m sending you and ask him to get the Songbird ready.”
“Songbird?”
He scratches his head in a nervous gesture. I can tell he’s not sure he should elaborate. “It was Camilla’s and my song.”
“Oh.”
Yowza. He named his motor home after his dead wife?
“And it actually was Natalie’s idea,” he chuckles. “In fact, she insisted. She thought I needed a way to honor Camilla.”
What a woman. Pat truly is a lucky man.
“I like it.” This meeting didn’t go as planned at all. “Thank you, again. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you have done for Laurel and me.”
“You’re family, Roth. Family does for family. Now go soak in as many memories as you can.”
That lump in my chest pulses. “I will, sir.” I’m to the door when I turn back around. “You didn’t ask me.”
“Ask you what?” Pat peers up at me. He’s sitting back at his desk, my resignation letter in his hand.
“How long she has. You didn’t ask me how long she has.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. “The only thing that question serves to do is to satisfy one’s curiosity. Whatever time you two have left, it won’t be nearly long enough. That is all I need to know.”
My teeth click together, hard. I acknowledge his graciousness with a sharp bob of my head.
“And Roth…” He rips the piece of paper he’s holding and tosses the two pieces into the trash. “Your resignation is not accepted. There will be a position here for you whenever you decide to return.”
“I don’t know when that will be,” I tell him honestly.
“Doesn’t matter. Be it a month or year from now, we’ll welcome you back. Don’t worry about a thing in the meantime.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Thank you, sir,” I croak, wholly overwhelmed with gratitude.
And then I leave his office before I do something stupid, like throw my arms around him and weep.
11
Some Kind of Love
Laurel
Ten Years Earlier
June 21, 9:06 a.m.
* * *
“Did you grab the sunscreen?” Roth asks me, leaning into the kitchen from the hallway.
He looks positively scrumptious today in his fitted olive shorts and a navy tee that says Surely Not Everyone Was Kung Fu Fighting. He has the most eclectic, comical collection of T-shirts I have ever seen, each making me laugh more than the last.
We are headed to Rock Island State Park for a weekend of sightseeing, hiking, kayaking, and fishing. Plus, they have the most spectacular twin waterfalls. We borrowed a tent and fishing poles from my friend Yvette, and we’ve loaded the back of Roth’s Jeep with all the essentials we’ll need.
At least I thought so.
“Shoot, no.”
I wonder what else I’ll forget.
“If you tell me where it is, I’ll grab it.”
“I think there’s a bottle in the linen closet. Thank you.”
He closes the distance between us and sweeps me into his arms, making me feel as if I’m one of those women on the front of a Tessa Dare historical romance that Mother used to read. All I’m missing is an off-the-shoulder, cleavage-bearing ball gown sweeping the floor.
“I wouldn’t want you to burn, you know. It would ruin my plans for tonight.”
“Really,” I pant. Now if I could master the alluring head turn, with pouty lips…
“What are you doing?” Roth asks me on a laugh.
“Nothing.” I snap my face back toward his. “I, ah…I thought I dropped something on the floor.”
My checks burn. Well, that was an epic fail.
“I love you, Laurel.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I mean, I’m glad you do, but I don’t get it at all.”
“It’s this.” He makes sure I’m steady on my feet before he lets me go. “This whimsical behavior of yours. It’s absolutely adorable.”
Whimsical. Adorable. A nice way of saying I’m weird.
“I was going for alluring,” I mutter, hanging my head in shame.
He slides a finger under my chin and lifts it until I am forced to look at him. He has to do that a lot. “Oh, you were definitely alluring.”
“I was not. I was whimsical,” I reply in mocking air quotes.
He brings me in for a kiss that’s passionate and claiming, and I could almost feel as though I’m back there on that cover with Roth, the shirtless village blacksmith who is supposed to be wrong for me but is right in every way.
“You were whimsically alluring.”
I slowly blink my eyes open, my lips still pursed and damp. “That isn’t even a thing.”
&
nbsp; “Of course, it is, Laurel.” He cocks his head as if he’s truly bewildered. “It’s you. You are original and playful and sexy and enthralling. You are whimsically alluring.” His mouth quirks crookedly. “Trust me, it’s a thing. And you’re the only one with it.”
“Well, when you say it like that…” Whimsically alluring. Huh.
“You should listen to me more. I am usually right.”
He is. But it would be a disservice to the female race to agree with him outright.
“I don’t know about that.”
I tip my head again and slightly part my lips in hopes that I’m pulling off my newly coined phrase.
“I do.” He bops me on the nose and shuffles backward out of the room.
I deflate. Looks like I need more practice.
But Roth’s reassuring reply, “Trust me, Laurel,” proves he knows me so well already. It pumps me back up.
“Hey, don’t go,” I beg, liking where we were headed a minute ago. I reach out for him, but he only winks.
“Sunscreen, remember?”
“Fine, be that way.” I pretend to pout and he chuckles.
“You’ll thank me later. I promise.”
Promises. Promises. Roth is full of them. And he’s kept every one so far, I remind myself.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I yell after him as he disappears around the corner.
I go back to packing a cooler with a few waters, sodas, and a couple of bottles of wine. I snag the wine opener before I forget, mentally running through the list I wrote down earlier.
Eggs for breakfast, check.
Sheets for the air mattress, check.
Bug spray, check.
Birth control—
“Laurel, your phone is ringing,” Roth calls to me.
“Who is it?”
“It says…” He walks back into the kitchen, reading my screen. “Candice.”
My mother. I roll my eyes.
“Yaaah.”
“Do you want to take it?” He holds out the phone, but all I see is a king cobra wrapped around his forearm, coiled and ready to strike.
“Not really,” I mumble.
The ringing stops and then starts up immediately again.
“She’s very persistent, this Candice.”
“Yes.” I smirk. “She is.”
I snatch the phone from his hand and ready for the attack.
“Hi, Mom.”
Roth scrunches up his face. Yes, Roth, I have my mother labeled by her first name on my caller ID. Don’t judge, please.
“Hi, dear.”
I lean up against the countertop and start our surface conversation with a benign, “How are you?” Roth watches me warily, arms crossed.
I’ve talked to Roth about my mother, of course. A puzzle piece here and there. Not enough for him to even put the edges together. I haven’t mentioned the abandonment I felt from her after Esther died. The loneliness that has followed me because of it. The longing still for a close relationship I want but know we’ll never have, and the daily disappointment at that stark reality.
When someone you love isn’t what you want them to be, that’s a jagged pill that gets stuck repeatedly on each attempted swallow.
“Last time we talked, you were headed out on a date. How was it?”
I haven’t told my mother about Roth yet, and I certainly never mentioned a date. I rack my brain as to where she would have gotten that idea.
“Date? What date?”
I avert my gaze from Roth’s, ashamed. I have the urge to flee into my bedroom and slam the door shut so he can’t hear the half-truths I tell her.
“Oh, that’s right. You said you were dressed for school or something.”
“The school play,” I mumble, remembering the lie.
I don’t think I’m a much better daughter than she is a mother. And that gives me great pause. Whose job is it to try to mend a broken mother-daughter relationship? The mother’s? The daughter’s? Both? Neither?
“How did it go?”
“Fine, Mom. Thanks for remembering.”
“Of course, dear.”
For the next few minutes my mother talks about our neighbor’s ten-year-old German shepherd, Willis, who wandered off and has yet to be found.
“That’s awful. The Hansen’s must be devastated.”
“They are. Blanche is simply beside herself. I think it’s that raunchy tattooist, if you ask me. I’m sure he’s responsible somehow.”
I don’t bother to ask why, but she bothers to tell me. She goes on and on without pausing for a breath. Roth quietly sneaks out, but I don’t think he’s gone far. Not really far to go in eight hundred square feet to be fair.
The longer she talks, the more wound up I get. It’s not because of what she says this time, it’s that when I get off the phone, I’m going to have some ’splaining to do. Roth wouldn’t press me if I asked him not to, but this seems like another one of those natural segways into a part of my life I keep closed up tight. Like Esther.
When we come to an ordinary lull in the conversation, I tell her, “Hey, I have a spin class that I’ll be late for if I don’t get going, but I can call you early next week.”
“That’s fine.” She’s disappointed, which isn’t like her. “One more quick thing before you go. It’s the reason I called, really.”
“Oh?” My Spidey senses kick in. “What’s that?”
“Riverrun Rally kicks off next weekend.”
A churn twists my lower belly into a cluster of knots.
“I know,” I reply with hesitation.
I love the Fourth of July. I always have. I’d count down the days to Riverrun Rally the way one would to the start of a new year. I’ve yet to come across either a small town or the largest city that celebrates America’s independence like Leone, Nebraska. Nashville, while it’s impressive, is missing that warm, small-town, everyone-knows-your-name charm.
The massive celebration spans two full weekends beginning with Founders Day at the end of June. There are tractor pulls and watermelon eating contests and a carnival with a Tilt-A-Whirl. I took my meema on it once. She threw up the minute we got off and refused to go on it ever again.
Founders Day smoothly transitions into a week of Fourth festivities that starts with an antique car parade. Esther and I would ride in one of the cars, wave like we were famous, and throw loads of candy.
Downtown square is where the action is though. The center stage house’s talent shows and the annual Ms. Leone contest during hot summer days. Then after the sun sets, they feature musical acts or comedians suitable for the entire family. People from surrounding towns bring their lawn chairs, blankets, and picnic baskets and make a night of it.
The entire celebration culminates into the grandest of fireworks shows over the river on the evening of the Fourth.
It truly is magical.
But after Ester died, it was never the same, and after PooPa passed away, I haven’t been able to make myself go back.
“You’re coming this year, right?”
“I, ah…” I scan the area for Roth, lowering my voice. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”
Same thing I’ve said for the last several years in a row.
My mother doesn’t say anything. Awkward silence that I want to babble through makes me start sweating behind the knees and on my upper lip. I take a page from Esther’s book and bite my tongue, tasting blood.
I don’t know what I expected. An argument, maybe. A guilt trip, most definitely. But I didn’t expect her to say, “Because he was a pillar of the community for so long, they are honoring your grandfather this year. I was thinking you’d like to be part of it.”
My PooPa is being honored? As much as my grandfather wanted me to flee small-town life, he loved it. He thrived in it. As the mayor of Leone, Eugene Collins took pride in his town, its residents, the community. And he held that most honorable position for thirty-nine years, reelected term after term until the day he passed away, not b
ecause people liked him. They did, but it was his passion, his authenticity. He cared and it wasn’t simply lip service.
It makes sense they are honoring him.
But why didn’t she tell me this before? Surely, she’s known about this for months. This wasn’t something that was sprung on her during yesterdays’ nail appointment. Mayor Burrell would have asked her if it was okay, and knowing my mother, she would have made a big deal of it before agreeing.
Or maybe it was her idea to get me back there.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter, I suppose.
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh, well…” she starts in that nasal tone she sometimes gets, and when she does that, I know exactly what’s coming. Every parent has a line, you see. A verbal gauntlet they throw down with the intent to manipulate you into doing their will. My mother has many of them, but she knows this one in particular works without fail. “Your grandfather would have wanted you to be here.”
Roth chooses that moment to check in on me.
Roth.
Crap.
If I go back to Leone, what do I do about Roth? Take him with me?
God, no. I’m not ready to expose him to my mother yet.
But I can’t not take him, either… Can I?
Double crap.
My PooPa wasn’t simply the pillar of the community; he was the community.
I have no choice. I can’t not go. Double negative, I know.
“Is there an official ceremony?” I ask, still hoping there’s a way I can weasel out of this.
“There will be an award given to the family before the boat show starts at the Harlow Park Amphitheater.”
The boat show happens in the late afternoon of the Fourth. Crowds gather at the banks of Harlow River for an exciting and daring show of skiing and water slalom demonstrations, then wait for the fireworks. Before food trucks became a thing, there were corn dog and cotton candy stands and people selling Cokes and Shastas out of huge travel coolers for twenty-five cents.
Then when it gets dark…thunk, boom…the first starbursts light up the sky.
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it, Mom. I’ll be there.”