Dear Ruth

by Kim Fielding

  “She’s a little, um, exuberant.” Noah had an unexpectedly deep voice, the kind that rumbled down low and made Bryce’s heart race.

  Now was not the time for a racing heart, however. “I’m jealous. Not a single thing that has ever happened to me as an adult has made me that happy.” Then Bryce blushed as he realized that was kind of a personal thing to admit to a man he’d just met.

  But Noah only beamed at him. “Thanks, man. That was a really nice offer. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Bryce was two seconds away from saying Aw, shucks and tipping his nonexistent Stetson. “No big deal. I’m usually at the station on Saturday afternoons, if you want to bring her by.”

  “Done.”

  Harper had finished running and leaping and was now turning somersaults instead. Just watching her made Bryce slightly dizzy. He was cooling down from the run, and Noah still stood close to him, eyes sparkling.

  “Do you, um, want some help with the lights?” Bryce asked.

  Which was how he came to spend the next hour working closely with Noah—sometimes close enough to touch—while his nose grew progressively colder and Harper danced and twirled around them. Nobody fell off the ladder, and Bryce made sure the outdoor electrical outlets and extension cords were in good condition.

  “That’s gonna look awesome,” Noah said when they were finished. “I really appreciate your help. I’ve never hung Christmas lights before.”

  “I think we did a good job of it.”

  “Yeah. But Jesus, you must be freezing your ass off.” Noah stole a guilty look at Harper, who apparently hadn’t heard him as she pretended to feed dead grass to the decorative Rudolph. “How about some coffee?”

  Bryce should have refused. Sixty minutes with Noah, and Bryce was already sliding dangerously into Crushville. Not only was Noah handsome; he was funny too, and slightly awkward in an adorable way. And he had that deep voice, and— Shit. One cup of coffee couldn’t hurt.

  The house’s interior was dated, with scuffed paint, threadbare carpeting, and a kitchen straight out of 1972. Cardboard boxes lurked in corners and tottered in piles. “Sorry about the… general state of things,” Noah said as he gestured Bryce to a kitchen chair. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “Moving is rough.”

  “Yeah. Especially with the kid and the holidays. I’ll tackle some of the renovation after New Year’s, when Harper’s back in school.” Noah nodded toward the living room, where Harper had disappeared as soon as they’d entered the house. The unmistakable sound of cartoons wafted through the doorway. With a quick grin in Bryce’s direction, Noah unearthed a coffee maker from a cabinet, plugged it in, and filled the carafe with water. He mumbled to himself as he searched through drawers. “Where the hell are the filters?”

  “If it’s too much trouble—”

  “Nope!” Noah held a box triumphantly aloft. “Found ’em.”

  While Noah fussed, measuring grounds and trying to find sugar, Bryce found himself staring at Noah’s ass, which was beautifully encased in denim. Bryce looked away and cleared his throat. “So where did you move from?”

  “California.”

  “Wow. That must have been a shock.”

  “The weather part, sure. Harper’s still stoked about snow, but I’m not so sure about it. I’m perfecting my shoveling skills.” Smiling, Noah carried a sugar bowl and carton of milk to the table, then returned to the burbling coffee maker.

  “If you want to avoid that particular skill, you can always hire the Patterson kids. They’ll do a decent job of keeping the snow cleared. They can mow your lawn in the summer too.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. For now, though, I could probably use the exercise. You can probably tell that, unlike you, I’m not doing much jogging.” Noah glanced down at his own somewhat squishy belly. It was the kind of belly Bryce would have loved to run his hands over, rub his face over. It was the kind of belly that would have felt good pressed against his back, reminding him he was in bed with someone real and substantial.

  Bryce cleared his throat and gazed up at the ceiling. “The cover on that smoke detector is missing.”

  “What?” Noah interrupted his coffee pouring to glance over his shoulder. “Oh. Yeah. It started beeping in the middle of the night and I haven’t replaced the battery yet.”

  “You should check all your detectors monthly and replace the batteries yearly. I’d recommend picking particular dates so you don’t forget. Or you can get newer detectors that run off lithium-ion power. Those will last ten years. Have you checked your carbon monoxide detectors?”

  Carrying over a pair of mismatched mugs, Noah shook his head. “I’m not sure we have those.”

  Bryce scowled. “You need to find out right away. Especially at this time of year, when you’re running a gas furnace nonstop.”

  “Okay.” Noah set the filled mugs on the table and took the chair opposite Bryce.

  Unsatisfied with Noah’s cavalier attitude, Bryce shook his head. “Seriously. Look, the station usually has discount coupons for detectors. Stop by for that tour and I’ll find you some.”

  Noah gave him a sunny smile. “Really? That’d be great. Thanks.”

  The coffee burned Bryce’s tongue, but it also thawed him a little. He wrapped his hands around the cup and, for a few moments, enjoyed the homey company. But when Noah’s quiet, friendly presence became almost too much to endure, Bryce ventured a question. “I bet you miss Starbucks, huh?”

  “Sometimes,” Noah said with a chuckle. “But I’m pretty sure I can survive without it.”

  “If you don’t mind me prying, how the hell did you end up in Bailey Springs?”

  “Everyone keeps asking me that, like Bailey Springs is the second level of hell or something.”

  “Not hell. Purgatory, maybe.”

  Noah laughed again and sipped his coffee. “It is a little chilly for the inferno. And I’m surprised Mrs. Foster hasn’t given you my life story.”

  “Only because I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. I’m sure she’ll fill me in once I do.”

  “Well, I guess I can beat her to the punch.” Noah glanced toward the living room doorway and dropped his voice slightly. “I got fired from my job in California. I was marketing director for a winery.”

  “That sounds like a very California kind of job.”

  “Hella California.” Noah walked to the counter, grabbed the coffeepot, and refilled their mugs. “It wasn’t a bad job,” he said after sitting again.

  “Not a lot of wineries in Bailey Springs. Or marketing directors, for that matter.”

  Noah leaned forward over the tabletop, excitement making his eyes gleam. “I know! I’m doing something different. The thing is, my boss and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on politics. Which was bearable for a while, but when the election process got into full swing, well, not so much. He showed up one morning in a red MAGA hat and I sort of lost my shit. He canned me.” He sat back in the chair with his arms crossed, looking pleased with himself.

  “Um, if you’re looking for a bastion of progressive politics, Bailey Springs ain’t it.” Bryce was out—had been for years—which hadn’t caused him any problems beyond a few sour looks and mumbled slurs. But he’d adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell approach to his neighbors’ and coworkers’ voting preferences.

  “Yeah, I got that. But this town has one really good thing going for it. It’s dirt cheap to live here. Marketing was just a way to earn a living, you know? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I make a little off magazine articles and some other freelance work, but not enough to make a go of it in California. So I decided to take a risk. Sold my house there, bought this lovely estate here, and I still have enough to support us for a few years at least. I’m going to give full-time writing a shot. Plus this way I get to spend more time with Harper.”

  As if on cue, his daughter bounced into the room. She’d shed her winter outerwear and now sported mismatched fuzzy socks, torn yellow leggings, a sparkly
tutu, and a red Fire & Rescue tee. Bryce wondered if the last item was in his honor. Harper zoomed over to the table and gently head-butted her father until he kissed the top of her head. Then she skipped to the fridge, pulled out a string cheese, and hopped back into the living room. Noah shook his head fondly.

  “Your, um, family didn’t object to you moving so far away?” Bryce asked. Which was nosy of him, but he hadn’t heard or seen any indication of a Mrs. Costa, and he couldn’t be blamed for wondering.

  Expression unreadable, Noah gave him a long look. Then he stared down at his mug, turning it between his hands for a time before looking up. “It’s just me and Harper.”

  Bryce’s heart twinged in sympathy, probably because his own loss was so fresh. Instead of acknowledging that, though, he pasted on a smile. “Well, welcome to Bailey Springs. It does have a few things going for it besides cheap real estate.”

  “Yeah?” Head cocked, Noah was charming. Dammit.

  “The schools are surprisingly good. We keep some dedicated teachers chained to their desks. Louella’s Café makes the best pies you’ve ever tasted. Walmart never discovered us, so there are still some decent shops left downtown. When the weather turns warm, you can go down to the river and have a nice swim, maybe do a little fishing.”

  “And the local fire marshal takes his job very seriously. That’s good too.”

  Smiling, Bryce stood. “I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Thank you for the help with the decorations. Having them up means a lot to Harper.”

  Together they walked through the living room, where the walls were still bare and a modern sectional sofa looked out of place. Harper, sprawled on the floor and distracted by whatever was on TV, waved briefly. Bryce put his outerwear back on. Then he and Noah stood in the little entranceway, a slight awkwardness hanging between them.

  “I mean it about the firehouse tour,” Bryce finally said.

  “Good, because I’m taking you up on that offer.”

  Bryce ached to offer a lot more than that, but he had nothing else Noah wanted—except fire safety tips and the ability to hang Christmas lights. Instead he took Noah’s bare hand in his gloved one and gave it a brief shake. “It’s good to meet you,” he said with slightly false cheer.

  “You too.”

  His pace as he ran home was a lot faster than a jog.

  THREE

  Dear Ruth,

  After getting married, my wife and I moved in with her parents, who have a big house. My wife and I are still paying off my college loans, so this made sense to everyone. Mostly we all get along. But a year ago our first child was born, and it turns out I have a very different child-raising philosophy than my in-laws. My wife agrees with me. But my in-laws keep insisting that since it’s their house, we should follow their rules. I think this problem is only going to get worse as our son gets older. What should I do?

  —Frustrated Father

  THE THING about the Dear Ruth letters was that they… niggled at him. It had been only two weeks since he’d taken over his mother’s column, yet he found himself preoccupied with the letters during much of his spare time, thinking about the dilemmas and how to answer them. It was a relief, really, because mulling over other people’s dramas kept his thoughts from straying to Noah Costa, to his warm smile and ready laugh, to the solid thereness of his body, to the way his eyes crinkled when he—

  Danger, danger, Bryce Reynolds! Here be dragons!

  So, yeah. Letters.

  The thing was, after sweating through the first two or three, Bryce had found his groove. Maybe he’d simply gained some false confidence because nobody had come pounding at Alma’s door, threatening lawsuits or blood retribution, crying that he’d ruined their lives. In fact, Alma told him that once people realized the column had been resurrected, readership had spiked to new highs. She hadn’t revealed the identity of the new Ruth, so curiosity was probably a major factor. But in any case, no disasters. Yet.

  Today he’d worked a day shift, during which he’d done a final inspection on the newly refurbished United Methodist Church, mediated a payroll dispute between one of the firemen and the department’s accountant, and helped extinguish a fire in someone’s garden shed. The cause of that call was easy to find—a teenager who’d thought a wooden structure filled with oily rags and a decade of old newspapers was a good place to sneak a joint. At least the kid wasn’t hurt, although his parents looked like they wanted to murder him.

  In the last of the day’s light, Bryce jogged home, carefully not looking at the house with the purple lights and front-lawn reindeer. When he got to his own place, he showered, nuked a potato and then some frozen broccoli, and pan-fried a steak. His belly full, he cleared the kitchen table and settled in with his laptop.

  He’d developed a routine for this. He kept a beverage near at hand—coffee or beer, depending—and he played mood music on his Bluetooth speakers. Tonight it was Robert Johnson because most of the Dear Ruth letters could easily have inspired Delta blues lyrics. With his feet warmed by thick socks his mother had knitted and with his mother’s favorite pen nearby, Bryce closed his eyes and thought about the letter.

  Dear Frustrated Father, he typed. It was a little like a séance. Not that he believed in those things. But when he set everything up just right and put himself in the correct frame of mind, it was almost as if he could channel his mother. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, using tact and common sense to unknot the personal problems of the citizens of Bailey Springs.

  It’s important that you and your wife act as your son’s parents and raise him the way you think is right. Now is the time to settle this dispute, since waiting will only confuse him and cause more havoc in the family. You have a few courses of action you can take, but whatever you do, you and your wife must be on the same page.

  First, you might—

  A bell rang, startling him so thoroughly that he leapt from his chair. It took a moment for him to realize it wasn’t a fire alarm but rather the doorbell. He swallowed hard. The last time someone had come unexpectedly to his door at night, it had been the local police chief, there to inform Bryce that—

  Pushing the memory into the depths where it belonged, Bryce marched to the door and yanked it open.

  Noah Costa stood on the front porch, holding a plate covered in foil and looking startled at Bryce’s abrupt demeanor. “Hi,” Noah said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Hi.”

  “Sorry if I interrupted. I can—”

  “You didn’t.” The frigid air made Bryce shiver. “Come on in.”

  Appearing relieved, Noah stomped his feet a few times on the doormat before entering. Bryce closed the door and switched on the living room light. “No sidekick tonight?”

  “Not yet. Harper and a friend from school are at the movies. Coco, I’m told. This is the first time Harper’s been to a theater without me, and it’s very exciting for both of us.” He smiled wryly. “It’s also slightly traumatic for me, so I’ve compensated by baking. But then I figured that Harper doesn’t need any more sugar, and I don’t… well, I don’t need any of it. So I’m sharing as payment for services rendered.”

  Bryce’s mind immediately went naughty places. He shifted his footing. “Services?”

  “Decorating.”

  “Ah. That.”

  Noah raised the plate. “Chocolate chip.”

  In truth, Bryce tried to avoid sweets at home. Food was always lurking around the fire station—donuts, cake, some cheese-and-dough things the chief’s wife liked to make—and those temptations were hard to resist. Almost as hard to resist as the sexy man standing so very close, a light dusting of flour in his hair.

  “Do you have some time before Coco ends?” Bryce asked. Damn. He hadn’t meant to.

  But Noah grinned. “An hour.”

  They ended up on Bryce’s couch, munching on cookies and sipping beer. The combination was surprisingly good, even though the cookies were a bit overbaked. “Does you
r house have the same floorplan as mine?” Noah asked curiously.

  “Mostly. Mine has an addition on the back.”

  “So this was some kind of primitive subdivision?”

  “Not exactly. A hundred years ago, folks used to order their house plans from catalogs. You and I have one of Sears’ popular low-end models.”

  “Huh.” Noah gazed around the room. “Yours is in way better shape.”

  “It was a dump when I moved in, but I’ve had some time to improve it.”

  “I understand you left Bailey Springs for a long time but moved back a couple years ago.”

  Bryce managed not to sigh. “Mrs. Foster?”

  “Of course. Although the guy at the hardware store…. What’s his name?”

  “Delmer Stolz.”

  “That’s right. He gave me some details too, mostly about what you did to your house. The official word is that you’ve improved it considerably.”

  It felt a little weird that so much discussion had gone on behind his back. Not that the locals didn’t gossip; he was pretty sure gossip beat football as the most popular sport in these parts. But why him? Noah had plenty of other people to learn about, most of whom were probably more interesting than Bryce.

  “Do you want a quick tour?” Bryce asked. Again without intending to.

  “I’d love one.”

  They spent quite a bit of time in the kitchen. Noah was intrigued by Bryce’s reworking of the floor plan, which allowed more efficient movement as well as a more open feel. He also liked the idea of the half bath tucked between the kitchen and back door. “That would be a handy place for Harper’s premeal washups,” he mused. “And guests wouldn’t have to use the hall bathroom. It’s Harper’s, so it’s full of bath toys and stuff.”

  “I only have the master bath besides this one. But that’s fine since it’s just me.”

  They peeked into the small addition that the previous owners had used as a bedroom but Bryce used for storage. They trekked down the hall to a former small bedroom now kitted out as a home gym.