by Forthright
Mr. Hunter held his gaze for a long moment. “I can think of no higher compliment.”
Hardly the reaction he was used to. Most people—including Ally—tried to rescue Rose from her big brother. Charles found their concern laughable. Cole was utterly awed by Rose and treated her like his own special treasure. Or possibly a pet. A much-loved, carefully guarded pet.
Cole came into the room, cradling his sister, and walked right up to the lawyer. “This is Rose. She’s ours.”
Mr. Hunter gravely said, “How do you do, Rose?”
“She does good,” Cole proudly reported.
“And you are?”
“I’m Cole Pfeiffer-Cooper, but everyone calls me Coop.”
Charles tried not to smile. “Cole, you’re the only one.”
“Only ’cause Rose can’t talk yet. And you keep forgetting.” The boy addressed himself to the lawyer again. “You gotta call me Coop.”
Mr. Hunter considered the siblings. “May I ask why you have chosen a new name for yourself?”
“Because.” And since that didn’t seem to satisfy their guest, the boy staunchly added, “I’m with Dad.”
Charles studied the floor. As much as he didn’t want Cole taking sides with him against his mother, he appreciated the sentiment. He’d stood up for Cole so many times. Was it any wonder his son now stood up for him?
They changed Rose’s diaper, and Charles no longer hesitated over tucking his daughter into the playpen. In part because Cole stood—or rather sat—guard over the baby, reading to her from a book of fables. The boy immersed himself in the story, adding funny voices and little asides for Rose’s benefit.
Charles almost wished Cole’s old teachers could see him like this. He could focus. He could learn. Pulling him from the confines of classroom had been the right decision. There was nothing wrong with Cole, but school had been all wrong for him. So school would happen at home. They’d learn together.
Again, he half-forgot the lawyer, who was surprisingly unobtrusive for all his bulk. Charles washed dishes, wiped surfaces, and ran to the basement to start a washer load. Which may have been a mistake, since it gave Cole an opening.
When Charles returned, his son was at the lawyer’s side. “What’s that?”
“Utility bills.”
Cole’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
Charles would have intervened, but the lawyer casually raised a hand, as if warning him off. Mr. Hunter asked, “Do you really want to know?”
“I really do.”
“Pull up a chair.”
So while Charles shifted boxes and bundled old newspapers, he listened in while Drew Hunter unraveled the mysteries of wattage and water pipes, power grids and phone lines. If he’d had the wherewithal, Charles would have hired the man then and there. As back-up. Cole and Rose weren’t a burden, but he sometimes felt outnumbered.
Less than an hour later, Mr. Hunter demonstrated the practical application of binder clips and left Cole to secure each stack.
Following the lawyer to the door, Charles asked, “Are you from here?”
“Close. I was born one town over, as the eagle flies.” He pointed toward the back of the house.
“On the other side of Pine Mountain?” When Mr. Hunter simply nodded, he asked, “How long have you been in Pine Hall?”
“Ever since college.”
“Oh. I guess I was gone by then.”
Again, the lawyer nodded. And again, he’d composed himself to listen. Charles had been trying to teach Cole the importance of eye contact. It was hard to get a kid as active as his son to settle down long enough to listen. Usually. Mr. Hunter was notable for being an exception.
“I grew up here,” Charles offered lamely. That much had to be obvious, but he was suddenly reluctant to part ways.
“This is a good place to raise a family.”
Charles hoped so. He had nowhere else to go. “I owe you a meeting?”
“Next time.” The lawyer extended a hand. “Saturday.”
The inflection offered an out. Charles could refuse, but he didn’t want to.
He met and matched the firm grip, sealing the deal. “Saturday.”
Running on Empty
Before Saturday rolled around, Charles was determined to be more prepared for Mr. Hunter’s help. And that meant clearing space on the dining room table. It didn’t take long, but it didn’t really help. Moving a mess wasn’t the same as putting things away. And his things didn’t belong anywhere in this house.
Could he change that?
Over cornflakes, he asked Cole, “Have you ever seen an empty room before?”
“Don’t think so. Except maybe … the gym at school’s big and empty.”
Charles nodded thoughtfully. “I guess people make rooms to fill them. Let’s empty one.”
“Which one?”
“The den.” He jerked a thumb toward the house’s back corner, where a bonus room had been collecting clutter for years. “We’ll empty it and clean it top to bottom.”
“How come?”
That was hard to explain. But it was also really simple. “I want to start over. Make it mine by deciding how to fill it. You know?”
Cole took such a big bite of cereal, milk dribbled down his chin as he chewed. He was thinking hard and fast, and Charles guessed the direction his thoughts were taking. He wasn’t surprised by the boy’s enthusiasm or by his question.
“Can I do that, too?”
Charles took a huge bite of cereal and pretended to deliberate. But Cole was as good as his dad at guessing. He was already grinning by the time Charles agreed. “Help me clear the den, and I’ll help you clear your bedroom.”
The house wasn’t large, but it had always been plenty of space for three people. Downstairs, there was a front room, which Mom had called the sitting room. Across from that was the dining room, which led into the kitchen at the back. The kitchen had a pantry and a door leading to the basement. Somewhere along the way, an addition had been built, giving the house a three-season porch—where Charles had spent many a summer night in his sleeping bag—and the den.
“What’s a den for?” asked Cole, who’d propped his fists on his hips the same as Charles.
“Like a family room. We used to watch television in here.” After Mother had passed away, his father had encroached on the space. He’d moved in a potting bench, and gardening tools leaned against the far wall.
The room was boxy, with wood paneling on the walls and a door that led into Dad’s little wilderness. Charles crossed the room—blazing a trail of footprints across dusty floorboards—to prop it open. “Have you seen this part yet?”
Cole came to look. His reaction would have made his grandfather smile.
“Dad, is this for real?” Goggling dramatically, Cole softly added, “Is it magic?”
“Maybe a little. At least, I always thought so.” With a little wave of his hand, Charles suggested, “See where it goes, then come on back to help me.”
The kid bolted.
Charles followed him out the door and stood barefoot on mossy flagstones, letting himself remember a time when this was his favorite place in the whole world. Maybe it still was.
David Cooper had worked all his life at the local hardware store and lumberyard. A professional handyman, a fixer of broken things, a contented putterer. Dad hadn’t expected to raise anything more than trellises when Mother surprised him with a son. Both had been well into their forties. Delighted and doting.
He missed them.
So much.
Cole appeared at the bend in the long green tunnel that curved away from the house and into a labyrinth of covered paths. Dad had built arches, pergolas, and trellises galore, for he loved climbing vines. Especially flowering varieties.
“It’s like a maze!” Cole reported.
“Did you get lost?”
“Only a little.”
All the while they worked, Charles listened to Cole’s raptures about sundials and benche
s and birdhouses and chimes.
“Did you find the bridges?”
“Where?” Cole demanded.
“Over the creek.”
“There’s a creek?” His son’s expression was tragic. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I guess because I wanted to show you.”
“Can we go?”
“One thing at a time,” Charles said firmly. “Today, we’re emptying rooms. Remember?”
Cole was clearly torn. “Tomorrow?”
“I have to go to the bank tomorrow. And we need groceries.”
“The day after?”
That would be Saturday. “Maybe. Mr. Hunter’s coming that morning to help with Grandpa’s papers. I don’t know how long it will take.”
Cole pondered that, then offered what he obviously thought was the perfect solution. “We’ll bring him along.”
No Job Experience
Daroo-fen knew all the reasons why he needed to cultivate a relationship with Charles Cooper, but those weren’t foremost in his mind as he took the turning onto End Street on Saturday morning. Mr. Cooper had no appreciable rank, but there were certainly reavers somewhere in his pedigree. The man’s inheritance was small—hardly a pittance—but Daroo couldn’t deny its appeal.
He should have kept his distance—for both their sakes—but that brought Daroo-fen back around to all those reasons why he needed to gain Charles’ trust. Those reasons made it easy to justify prolonging the association. Drew Hunter was being neighborly. And Charles’ other legacy was of interest to the cooperative.
This was business. Plain and simple. A bit of shine wouldn’t matter one way or the other.
Daroo-fen made his way past long hedgerows of holly, a paper shredder braced against one shoulder, his satchel in the other hand. Even before he reached the Cooper’s residence, he was picking up the scents of oil soap and window cleaner.
Cole knelt on the front porch, busy with bucket and brush, scrubbing away his chalk artistry. However, when he spied Daroo-fen, he jumped to his feet and barred the way. “I’m inviting you,” the boy said, all insistence and confidence. “So come with us later. It’ll be a reward for doing a good job with Grandpa’s papers.”
“You want me to accompany you somewhere?”
“There’s a creek, and Dad’s gonna take us to see.” Cole magnanimously added, “You can carry Rose.”
Daroo-fen had little doubt that most businessmen in Pine Hall—even the most forbearing of souls—wouldn’t have appreciated being volunteered to play attendant to a babe-in-arms. But he was touched. “Thank you for inviting me, Coop.”
The boy grinned and turned to holler through the open door. “Dad! You’re friend’s here!”
Charles hurried forward, beckoning him inside. “Mr. Hunter. Sorry. You know how it is with kids. If you’re not a stranger, you’re a friend.”
He murmured polite assurances, all the while wondering at this young man’s apologetic quirk.
Quite a few things had changed over the past few days. The front room was clogged with assorted furniture, lamps, piles of seed catalogs, bric-a-brac, and leaning picture frames. Rose was out of sight, but somewhere nearby. He could smell diaper ointment, baby formula, and bananas. And … was that tea? Something herbal with anise.
“We made room for you.” Charles waved broadly at the dining room, which had been cleared of boxes and carefully cleaned. “Is this okay?”
“More than adequate. Thank you.”
Today, he gained the necessary permission to go through David Cooper’s files, which amounted to a two-drawer filing cabinet and a fire-proof strongbox. Daroo-fen uncovered a host of personal information about Charles—birth certificate, heath checks, report cards, school photos, certificates of achievement, newspaper clippings. All the milestones of Charles’ boyhood, which hinted at a wealth of paternal pride.
An only son.
Loved, yet left behind.
Daroo-fen swallowed hard and moved on to the items he was supposed to be more interested in. Legacies involving deeded land.
All the while he worked, he was still very much aware of Charles’ presence somewhere in the back quarter of the house. Whatever he was doing, it involved a stepladder and furniture wax, which was outmoded in this decade. Then again, times changed slowly in Pine Hall, and Charles’ parents had been old-fashioned, even by local standards. He certainly wouldn’t complain. The wax had a pleasant scent, vastly preferable to the harshness of modern cleaners.
Charles was in a better mood today. Lighter. Perhaps even brighter. Unclouded, at least. Daroo-fen’s focus shifted both inward and outward as he tightened his focus on that slip of starlight that touched Charles’ soul.
It was easy to imagine that his great-great-great-grandsire or marm had been some enclave’s cosset. The generations had diminished the strength with which he shone, but quality bred true. It reminded Daroo of the distant echo of wolfsong, carrying across many miles, still pure and sweet, but forcing the listener to prick his ears and hold his breath.
More than once, Daroo was embarrassed to realize that his hands had fallen still, his breathing caught, his focus pulled tight. Charles was a reminder of what he’d given up. And Daroo-fen couldn’t afford to dwell on feelings best left buried.
He cornered Charles in the kitchen, where Rose slept peacefully, despite the mechanical whirr of the paper shredder in the next room, where Cole was cheerfully feeding it a stack of junk mail.
“May I ask a personal question?” Daroo watched sadness steal into the young man’s expression and mourned the dimming of his soul. But there were details he needed to know.
“Go ahead,” said Charles.
“Are you planning to stay?”
“I was hoping to, yeah. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” He fidgeted. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I simply need to know which direction to take, which documents we’ll need to file.” Daroo-fen asked, “Are you currently employed.”
Charles’ jaw tightened, but he answered calmly. “I’m a homemaker, Mr. Hunter.”
“And your spouse?”
“Seems like I’m no longer a husband.” A deep breath. Another. “Ally’s always had plans. I’m not part of them anymore.”
“I see.” Daroo hated uncovering this pain. “You have separated from her.”
Anger. Fear. “No, sir. She separated from me.”
“Will she be providing support for her children?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Charles’ gaze strayed to the playpen in the corner, to the daughter he so clearly loved. “When I told Ally I needed to come here to take care of things, she told me not to come back.”
“She is divorcing you?”
“Yeah.”
“May I look at whatever papers she sends?”
His lips trembled, then firmed. “I’d be grateful.”
“Charles.” Daroo-fen waited for the man to lift his gaze. “This is a good place to raise a family.”
The young man’s eyes watered.
“Dad!”
Charles bit his knuckle and blinked hard, desperate to hide the hurt. Perhaps he hadn’t yet told Cole? So Daroo placed himself between father and son, hiding Charles’ distress. “Yes, Coop?”
“Did you talk to Dad? Are you coming with us?”
“Certainly.”
“Did he tell you Grandpa’s back yard is magic?”
Daroo-fen supposed that was true, in its way. “Your father and I were unable to discuss the plan in any detail. Perhaps you should tell me more?”
A hand touched Daroo’s back. From his hiding place, Charles said, “Why don’t you show Mr. Hunter what we’ve done to the den. You can take him out back, but wait for me. I’ll need a few minutes to get Rose ready.”
“Okay!” Cole charged out, calling, “This way!”
“Coming,” assured Daroo-fen, though he turned to face Charles first.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “You don’t really have to ….”
Big Back Yard
“We’ll need a rake and a broom and a blanket. And a bucket and towels. Diaper bag, too.”
Cole ran to the shed, hand hovering over the handle. “There’s rakes and brooms in here.”
“I’ll get those,” said Charles. “Can you bring two towels and one of the big blankets from inside?”
“Got it!”
His son was off like a shot, leaving Charles with Drew. “We’re going a ways into the woods. Almost a mile. Would you rather carry equipment or …?”
Drew smiled faintly. “Let me free your hands so you can run with your son.”
“You … have kids?” Charles ventured. He knew almost nothing about his new friend.
“I live alone.”
Charles pocketed a small set of shears and reached for the canteen, which he filled at the spigot. Familiar routines, half-forgotten over the years. He eyed his companion. “You seem okay with her.”
“Yes.” Rose looked tiny in the lawyer’s big hands. She gurgled. Drew’s gaze softened in a way that reassured Charles. He murmured, “I come from a big family.”
Cole came barreling back, and Charles found his old pack, which still hung from its peg. Like Dad had kept it ready. In case he ever came home and wanted another ramble. It hurt and it helped, both at the same time.
“Charles?” He dragged his attention to Drew, who inclined his head toward the distant bulk of Pine Mountain. “Are you aware how far this property extends?”
“Pretty far.” He had to smile. “Dad used to joke about having the biggest back yard in the neighborhood. Why?”
But Cole was bouncing from one foot to the other, canteen sloshing against his hip. “Which way, Dad? I want to see the creek!”
“Do you know what wisteria looks like?”
“Show me!”
So Charles shouldered the pack and led the way along the same paths he’d walked with his father. To the seam between tame and wild. Where Dad had built sturdy supports for rampant plants, encouraging them to take over and taking pleasure in the resulting thicket.