by J. S. Marlo
The lunch invitation she didn’t remember accepting, and forgot to reject, had slipped her mind. “Sorry, but I promised myself I’d take advantage of my lunchtime to go running.”
Exercise fueled her creativity, energized her spirit, and allowed her to avoid lunch with undesirable people.
“But it’s wet outside.”
Unmoved by the dejected puppy face he cast her way, she walked to the window and looked outside. In the park across the street, trees glistened under the timid sunshine. “It’s beautiful outside.”
“This is downtown, Ryle. You shouldn’t be running alone. It’s not safe.”
Annoyed by the tasteless nickname and the scare tactic, she threw a dark look in his direction. No danger would befall her in broad daylight when the park buzzed with activity. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. What about dinner?”
His sudden interest in her unnerved her, but regardless of his motives, she had no desire to accept any of his invitations. “I don’t socialize outside work, Paul. I’ll be back in an hour.”
***
The afternoon shooting, delayed due to a prop malfunction, ran long into the evening, foiling Blythe’s plan for an early dinner with Riley. On the outside chance she might still be in the studio, he ventured into the Pencil Wing. Andy’s door was wide open, and soft music played inside.
Focused on her computer screen, she tapped her foot to the beat of the music. Her suitcase lay under the desk, acting as a makeshift footstool.
If Riley hadn’t fallen asleep in his car, he would have stopped by her hotel on their way to the studio and dropped off the suitcase, but he hadn’t had the heart to interrupt her peaceful slumber. He should have insisted on keeping it in his trunk.
“You’re working late.”
Alone in the office, she looked up. “Blythe? Why are you still here?”
“The victim kept losing his artificial leg. We had to shoot the scene eight times.” If later this evening Martin decided he wasn’t satisfied with the last footage, they’d be at it again in the morning. “Your eyes are still open. Would you like dinner?”
A look of panic flickered over her face. “Paul isn’t in the hallway, is he?”
Baffled by the question, he turned to check. “No. Why? Did something happen?”
“I’m not sure.” She flipped the cover of her laptop shut, and the music died. “Can we not tell anyone we’re having dinner together?”
Something had definitely happened for her to make that request, but he chose not to press the issue just yet. “Sure. Would you like Italian again?”
Chapter Six
Unable to find a closer parking space, Blythe parked a block from Casa Grigia. The short stroll between the car and the restaurant proved invigorating. “Would you mind telling me why my character mentioned his ex-wife today? She’s not going to make an appearance, is she?”
A light shrug shook Riley’s shoulders as she walked by his side. “It’s your third season with the show. You should know better than to ask me.”
“Please, humor me.” The cast wasn’t privy to what lie ahead in upcoming episodes, but Blythe never bought the flimsy excuse that it prevented leaks to the press since all the episodes were filmed months in advance. “What’s the story with the ex-wife?”
“It’s being written—rewritten. I need to finish it tonight.”
Knowing she worked on that aspect of the script boosted his confidence. He disliked Paul’s shallow characterization and how he manipulated Andy into giving him free rein in the development of the series. The show needed new blood, new ideas, and the characters needed deeper feelings and motivation. Riley just might be what the doctor ordered. Despite his many flaws, Martin rose another notch in Blythe’s esteem the day he offered Riley the contract to work on Wild Rescue.
“You’ll make the story line believable, won’t you?”
Fierce determination etched the delicate angles of her face. “It’s my intention.”
“Good.” They stopped in front of Casa Grigia, and he opened the door for her. “After you.”
As soon as they entered, the hostess ushered them to the second floor.
The restaurant had opened during the winter, and Blythe regretted never having a chance to take Claire. Like Riley, his wife would have enjoyed the spicy food and cozy atmosphere.
He didn’t know if this was a coincidence or if the hostess remembered them, but she led them to the same table as last week. To give Riley a different view of the room, he switched chairs with her, showing her the same consideration he used to show Claire. In times like these, he missed his wife more than ever.
A mischievous smile adorned her face. “If we come here a third time, the poor girl will start calling us regulars.”
Unable to reconcile her carefree attitude with the apprehension she displayed when he asked her out for dinner in her office, he leaned forward and modulated his voice to keep it low and casual. “Why are we keeping dinner a secret? Is it your husband?”
“Oliver? Why would he mind if I have dinner with you? Oh…” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of red. “I didn’t mean to imply…” She braced her chin against the palms of her hands and groaned. “This is all Paul’s fault for inviting me to dinner.”
The name mixed with the invitation stirred a cloud of suspicion. The little weasel was a menace, and Blythe wanted to warn Riley about him, but he’d promised Claire not to say anything about what transpired at the studio the night of the Halloween party. “Did you accept?”
“No.” Her voice was tinged with incredulity. “Working with the guy is bad enough without sharing meals with him. I told him I didn’t socialize outside the studio. I didn’t want him to ask for a rain check.”
Relieved to hear the opinion she’d formed of the man, he let out a deep breath. “How did he handle the rejection?”
“He gave me the cold shoulder, which is fine, but I’d appreciate if we kept our dinner a secret. That’s one conversation I’d rather not have with him again.” Her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” She pulled a shiny purple phone from her purse and looked at the screen. “I have to take this.”
“Go ahead.” To give her a semblance of privacy, he picked up his menu and retreated behind it.
“Hello, Ollie.”
Upon hearing her husband’s name, he peeked over the menu. Fine lines creased her forehead as she looked down. “I’m at the restaurant with Blythe. Why? Did you cancel the training session?”
As much as Blythe tried to focus on the list of appetizers, he couldn’t block the sound of her voice.
“Is something wrong?” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “Hunter is twenty-two, Ollie. The decision belongs to him.”
He ventured another glance over his menu and caught the tip of her tongue moistening her lips.
“I’m not saying I agree—Yes, I’ll talk to him—I’ll call you later tonight—Love you.”
When she hung up, he discarded his menu on the table. “Something wrong?”
“Do you have a son, Blythe?”
“No children.” A failed adoption had convinced Claire and him that children weren’t a part of their future. “Why?”
“Just curious to know if every father-son discussion turns confrontational.”
“Hunter is your son?” She looked too young to have a twenty-two-year-old son. “Is he in trouble?”
“Depends how you define trouble.”
A young male server approached their table with two glasses of water. “Good evening. My name is Jess. Would you like something else to drink? Or maybe a few more minutes to look at the menu?”
The time he spent behind the menu should have been enough for him to make a selection, but he’d paid too much attention to her phone call. Whatever she ordered, he’d choose the same. “Riley?”
“For me, it’ll be the daily special with a garden salad, and I’m fine with water.”
Jess pulled a notepad and a pen from his red shirt p
ocket and scribbled her order. “And for you, sir?”
“Same thing, but if possible, could you please skip the olives in the salad?”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.” The young man collected their menus. “It shouldn’t be too long.”
As soon as Jess turned around, Blythe clasped his hands together over the table and gave the woman facing him his undivided attention. “So? What did your son do?”
“He wants to drop out of university and become a firefighter. Oliver is less than impressed. He wants me to talk some sense into him. Why am I boring you with this?”
“You’re not boring me.” For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the details of her life fascinated him. “Why is Oliver opposed to the idea?”
“It’s—”
Jess returned with two salads. “No olives, sir.”
“Thank you.” He waited for Jess to place the plates on the table before resuming the conversation. “You were saying about your husband?”
“It’s a long story, Blythe. Not the kind that will cheer you up.”
A stranger had taken Claire away from him. How bleaker could a father and son altercation be compared to the loss of a spouse? “We have the entire evening, Riley. Is Hunter a lot like his father?”
A bittersweet smile curled the corners of her mouth. “He’s the picture of both his fathers.”
“Fathers?” Baffled, he’d emphasized the “s” at the end before taking a bite of his salad.
“Oliver is my second husband.” She dug into her salad and speared a black olive. “He’s my children’s dad. Chad was their father.”
With two synonyms, she’d illustrated the fundamental distinction between father and dad. “Is Chad involved in their lives?”
“No.” A touch of melancholy softened her voice. “Chad and Oliver attended firefighter school together. They were best friends.” Her eyes lost focus as she looked through him at something only she could see. “Oliver was Chad’s best man at our wedding, and he was Hunter’s godfather. It—it wasn’t supposed to end, not like that.”
It almost sounded like her heart still belonged to her first husband, which Blythe found peculiar since she seemed happy with Oliver. “Why did Chad leave?”
“He didn’t leave, Blythe. He—it was a two-story house. There were two children trapped upstairs. Oliver rescued the little girl, but Chad—he couldn’t find the little boy.” Her voice became as eerie as the wind whistling through a graveyard. “He kept looking…even after he was ordered out.”
Appalled by a dreadful feeling, Blythe dropped his fork before it reached his mouth. It clattered onto his plate.
“The roof collapsed and the fire…the fire engulfed the house. They later found the child’s remains not too far from Chad’s.”
The unshed tears shining in her eyes mirrored the ones drowning his heart. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t.” With the backs of her fingers, she wiped her eyes. “I hate hearing those words. Probably as much as you do.”
A kindred soul, she’d understood his loneliness when he invited her for dinner. “If I may ask, how—”
The young server approached with two plates of pasta and placed them in the middle of the table. “Bon appétit.”
“Thank you.” Two Italian sausages sliced sideways sat over the meat sauce on his spaghetti. It smelled delicious, but his mind was on Riley’s tragedy, not on his food. “How did you cope with the loss, Riley?”
“I don’t know.” Despite the question, she ate another bite of salad, and he was glad he hadn’t ruined her appetite. “I had a three-year-old son and I was eight-months pregnant with my daughter. Life had to go on. You may have a hard time believing this, but one day, sweet memories will coat the pain.”
He’d shared a lifetime of happiness with Claire, but as a young bride and mother, Riley never had a chance to build a life with her first husband. That she found the strength to move on amazed him.
“When did you decide it was time to give love a second chance?”
“You don’t decide, Blythe, and you don’t stop loving your first husband, or wife. One day you wake up and realize you’re in love again. It may take a few weeks, a few months, a few years, or it may never happen.”
While he couldn’t imagine ever loving another woman like he loved Claire, he envied her serenity.
“After Chad’s death, Oliver stepped in and helped with Hunter. He was the one holding my hand when Rowan was born.” Passion sparked in her voice. “Friendship grew into love, and five months later, we were married. He’s the only dad my two children have ever known.”
It must have taken her lots of courage to start anew with a fellow firefighter after losing her husband to a fire. “Is Oliver still on active duty?”
“He’s a fire inspector, but he sometimes lends a hand…and a hose.” With one last mouthful of salad, she emptied her bowl, pushed it aside, and reached for her pasta meal. “Hunter wants to follow in his fathers’ footsteps. What right do I have to dissuade him?”
“Only you can answer that.” Hunter had a strong ally in his mother. “Tell me about your daughter.”
“Rowan is nineteen. She’s a geology student, and she’s in Iceland for the summer, studying volcanoes.”
“You have an interesting family.”
“This week, interesting is overrated. Would you like to talk about your wife?”
After listening to her life story, he didn’t feel pressed by the question, and he wasn’t worried about offending her by refusing. “Claire was a social worker. She was shot last November, the same day she took a young boy away from his abusive stepfather. It’s a long story, and it lacks a cheerful ending.”
A knowing glint lit her beautiful green eyes. “We have the entire evening, don’t we?”
***
Seated with her laptop on her knees, on one of the loveseats in her hotel suite, Riley logged on to her Skype account. Her son was online. She clicked on his name.
On the second ring, his face appeared on her screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Hunt.” His short blond hair was spiked on top of his head. In normal times, she would have teased him about losing the battle with his comb, but not tonight, not when he sported such a wounded look in his eyes. “What’s up?”
“Did Dad talk to you?”
Seeing no point in lying, she nodded. “He called while I was having dinner with Blythe.”
“He’s furious, isn’t he?”
“No, he’s not. It’s just…” To tell her son that his dad’s anger concealed his disappointment wouldn’t help the situation. “You have amazing talent, Hunt, and he just doesn’t understand why you’re giving up your dream of becoming an architect to be a firefighter.”
“Of all the people, Dad should be the one who understands me.” His voice quivered, and she silently hurt alongside with him. “I thought I wanted to design better houses, so people didn’t get trapped in hellholes, but I realized buildings aren’t the problems, people are. I want to educate people, Mom. I want to talk to little kids, tell them not to hide under their beds or inside a closet—like the little boy Father couldn’t rescue.” He took a long breath, and she waited for him to continue. “You have to believe me when I say I’m not thrilled about the idea of storming into a burning building, but if someone is trapped, it’s someone’s job to try to save them. If I’d been that little boy, you would have wanted someone like Father to come get me.”
She fought the tears stinging her eyes. The same youthful passion that had once consumed Chad’s and Ollie’s hearts burned inside her son. “Have you tried explaining this to your dad?”
His jaw hardened. “He doesn’t want to listen.”
“It’s not that he doesn’t listen, Hunter, he’s scared of what he hears. He doesn’t want to lose you like he lost his best friend.” Like she’d lost the father of her children. “It’s not easy for him to watch you follow your father’s path.” Nor was it easy for her.
“It’s his pa
th too, Mom.”
A path shaped as much by nurture than nature. “I know, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather finish your degree first?”
“I’ve been in university two years already, it’s not like I didn’t give it a chance.” And it wasn’t like her son didn’t excel in his classes, either, but he was his fathers’ son. “What am I supposed to do, Mom?”
His future belonged to him, not to her. “You follow your heart, Hunt. It will never steer you wrong.”
***
After his dinner with Riley, Blythe visited Claire at the hospital, but on his way back, a construction detour led him through his sister’s neighborhood.
Knowing his brother-in-law was away for the week on a business trip, he drove by her house. The lights inside the living room were on. He parked in the driveway and walked to the front door. At this late hour, his nephews should be in bed, fast asleep, so he knocked instead of ringing the doorbell.
Hurried steps resonated from inside the house before the door opened.
“Blythe?” A green blob matted his sister’s rebellious golden brown hair on the left side of her head.
The same shade of green as Riley’s eyes. “Is that paint or icing in your hair?”
“Paint.” A sigh shuddered through her small stature, which she’d inherited from their late mother. “Come. I need your help.”
He’d stopped by for a short visit, but he had the uncanny feeling Beth had just drafted him for some dreadful job. After removing his shoes, he followed her into the kitchen and froze. “What happened here?”
Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Paintbrushes and cans of paint lined the counter. And a replica of an Inuit village, down to the fish racks and canoes, rested on the kitchen table.
“The dishwasher broke down, and the boys needed to finish the model for school tomorrow. It’s been a busy evening.”
“Noah and Adam built the village?” For a pair of eight year olds, his nephews had done an amazing job. “I’m impressed.”