by Ev Bishop
“Well, his exact wording was, ‘When’s that brother of yours going to tell me he’s a fag?’”
“Nice, really nice.”
Both Brian and Dave were still studying him.
“I’m not gay. I’m just not in the mood—and there are other things in the world beside sex, you know.”
“There are?” Brian asked, sounding almost serious.
“Are you still on antidepressants? They can do that.”
“Wow, thanks, Dave. I didn’t know you were so up on my meds. Is this what you guys do when I’m not around? Obsess about why I’m not getting any and what kind I would be getting if I was?”
Dave laughed.
Brian feigned horror. “You were on antidepressants? That is gay!”
Callum smiled. Idiots. Good enough guys, but idiots.
Brian was single and played the field in a way that put their old man to shame—but seemed happy enough. Dave was still looking in general, but currently seemed obsessed with some old flame who’d moved back to town. And himself? Well, he was—or had been until half an hour ago—totally disinterested in relationships and the headaches that came with. He recalled Jo’s smiling eyes and the pendant that rested heavily between her firm breasts—breasts he’d seen more than once, lucky him. He wondered if they still felt the same, looked the same. He’d loved the color of her nipples—
His pants were suddenly uncomfortably tight. Damn. So much for being off women. But at least it proved he wasn’t dead yet. Before he could think about what it meant—or if it meant anything—the phone rang. The caller deflated his tenuous libido as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
“So, what’s the deal?”
“Samantha?”
“Who else?”
Who else. Like she was the only client in the world. “The deal? You mean what came of the meeting?”
“Of course!”
“Well, like I said when you called the first time, it would’ve been helpful if you’d shown up, then you’d know already.”
“I knew I’d be missed, but it was unavoidable.”
Callum knew she wanted to be asked what was so important that it detained her, but he resisted. After a breathy pause, she laughed throatily. “I guess you could say I was tied up.”
He rolled his eyes. This was what he avoided staying shy of coupledom—constant, shallow games.
“So you met with Jo in all her eager, wide-eyed earnestness, I suppose?”
Jo. A memory of her naked and laughing popped into his mind. Once they’d taken turns tying each other to the wooden post of his bed with one of the silky patterned scarves she used to wear. He wondered how her sexual tastes had changed with the years, then tried very hard not to wonder—and grudgingly gave points to Samantha again. There was a certain appeal to some kinds of games. . . .
Samantha babbled on, but he was still hung up on the concept, sister. Samantha and Jo were so different it was hard to believe they were related. Back when he and Jo were together, he’d known she had a sister—had even met her once when she was incredibly inebriated. Jo had called him to help her get Samantha home from a party gone wrong, but she’d been curled up vomiting in the backseat—and all he remembered from that night was the huge mess, sympathy for Jo, and relief that her much older, much crazier, sibling lived somewhere else. He, as he’d proven, wouldn’t have known Samantha if she walked right up and introduced herself. He wondered idly if they had the same parents or if they were only half-siblings—
“Callum, are you still there?”
“What? Oh, yeah, sorry.”
“I pay you to listen.”
“Actually, that’s not quite—”
“So what’s next?”
Good question. What was next? “Well, I’m not going to lie—”
“Wait, that makes me think you are going to.”
Callum laughed. “Seriously, Samantha. Jo, I mean your sister—”
“I know who Jo is,” Samantha interrupted dryly.
“Of course.” Callum shook his head, tried to get a grip. “She’s pretty passionate about keeping the place. And maybe she’s onto something. Maybe you’d make more money if you hold off. . . . Write up some agreement entitling you to a quarter of the appraised market value in three years time. If the business is successful, you—”
“Forget it. A lot of people are into that whole ‘delayed gratification’ thing, but I’m not. Definitely not. Jo could sink eons of time and buckets of money into that place, find a way to go into debt with it, and it could be worth squat. You may think I’m a cold-hearted bitch—”
Callum made appropriate “No, no, of course not” noises and realized that in doing so he was lying, just as Samantha had predicted. He sighed.
“But I’m honestly trying to help my sister. She needs to be protected from herself.”
Callum didn’t bother pointing out that Samantha had just used “honestly” the same way he had and that he suspected it meant exactly what she suggested: that her words, unconsciously or not, were less than truthful.
“So I guess you’d be opposed to me visiting the old place tomorrow to hear her plans and to have dinner?”
“What?”
Callum started to repeat himself.
“No, no, I heard you. I just can’t believe it. That duplicitous little sneak! She’s going to try to convince you into talking me out of taking this to court.”
“Well . . . yes. But she’s not exactly being sneaky. She told me that’s exactly what she aims to do.”
“That’s what always makes her plans so diabolical. She fesses up beforehand. Very disarming.”
Callum shook his head, but realized he was smiling. There was something hilarious, if slightly twisted, about the Kendall sisters’ relationship. He’d only known Jo as a teenager. What on earth had they been like when they were kids? Their poor parents—actually, that was strange. Neither of them had brought up their parents, only their uncle. Where were their folks?
*
Jo’s cell phone buzzed the whole drive home, but she never answered calls or texts while driving, much to the complete frustration and ridicule of Samantha.
When she finally pulled into her driveway, she checked her call history and cringed. Wow, that hadn’t taken long at all. Against her better judgment, she hit 1-1 to listen to whatever Samantha had to say.
“You’re not serious,” her sister’s message shrilled. “You’re dating my lawyer? This has got to be a conflict of interest!”
Jo hit reply. The phone barely rang.
“I don’t believe you!” Samantha yelled.
Jo laughed. “Well, hello to you, too. And I’m not dating your lawyer. I’m just trying to get him to see sense—and then hopefully to pass some on to you.”
“It won’t work.”
“You’re that sure you won’t be able to have sense?”
“Very funny.”
Jo climbed out the truck and patted her thigh. Hoover jumped down and plodded after her. “Come on, Sam. Can’t we manage this without lawyers? You know I won’t rip you off.”
“Don’t call me Sam—and no, I don’t know any such thing. Money does funny things to people.”
Jo snorted at the unintentional irony in Samantha’s comment, but refrained from retorting further. Samantha’s tone softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you. In a lot of ways, your vision is wonderful—and I know you loved Ray and that old dump.”
“But?”
“But it won’t work—and you already know how devastating it is to have a dream go south. Why would you put yourself through that again? Let’s sell, put money in the bank. Cold, hard cash is a beautiful thing, little sister. A lovely, safe cushion.”
Jo sighed. She knew all too well where Samantha was coming from: the same place she was. And they wanted similar things, just had very different views on how to attain them. “I don’t want safe.”
“And see! That’s why I’m not going to wait around and have you lose the property and have both of us get
nothing.”
“Well, this was another productive conversation.” Jo rummaged under the worn welcome mat for the house key and almost missed Samantha’s next comment—almost. She straightened so quickly she got a head rush. “Kiss him? Of course I won’t kiss him. It. Is. Not. A. Date.”
“Uh huh—been there, said that. Are you making him dinner?”
“Yeah, but only so I can show I have the culinary skills needed to provide edible meals to future guests.”
“So there you go.”
“So there I go what?”
“The lighting in that hovel is low and golden, what some poor dopes who don’t know better would call romantic—”
Jo scoffed and let herself into house, shutting the door behind her.
“You’ll feed him a ton of good food.”
“Kind of the point of dinner.”
“You’ll eat a whack of delicious tidbits yourself, and you know men. They love that whole woman-who-actually-eats thing.”
Jo rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious. Don’t get all hot to trot with my lawyer. He’s cute and I want him.”
“Well, you can have him, weirdo. To quote you, been there, done that. Not interested. I only want him to get you to see the light.”
There was an awkward pause.
“It’s not going to happen, Jo. You need to prepare yourself. We’re selling.”
Jo sighed again and her heart kind of twisted. “I’ve missed you. We’re going to be okay whatever happens with this place, right?”
“I’ve missed to you, too—even though you’re driving me totally crazy with your insane selfishness—but yeah, we’ll be okay. I just don’t want you to be sad.”
“Okay . . . well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree, yet again. I’ll get your lawyer to call you when he’s done being wowed here.”
“Jo—”
“Look, I’m sorry to cut the conversation short, but I’m putting dinner in the oven. I have to go.” Jo hung up before Samantha could say anything else.
Chapter 5
Aisha pushed back from the computer table. Six for six and no luck.
“Are you eating with me?” her dad called.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” And with that they were on speaking terms again.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt, to be disappointed,” he said when they were halfway through a large pepperoni, mushroom and green pepper pizza—heavy on the sauce and double-cheese.
Aisha took another big bite, closed her eyes, and savored the spicy deliciousness. One praise point for pregnancy: it sure made eating an amazing experience.
“It’s too late,” she said when she’d finished enjoying the mouthful. “I’ve been hurt. I am disappointed. So have you. It’s called life.”
Her dad looked sad. And tired. She reached out and punched his arm lightly. “Oh, buck up, Chuck. It’s not all doom and gloom—and I’m not looking for some big family reunion or a new mom or something like you seem to fear. I . . . I’m just still slightly shocked to find myself in similar shoes to those my birth mom walked in. And I want to know how things worked out from her perspective before I decide what to do.”
“Don’t call me Chuck,” her dad said, refilling his glass of milk. “But yeah, I get where you’re coming from. And for a dumb kid, you’re pretty smart.”
A demerit point for pregnancy: it makes you so damn weepy. She brushed at her eyes angrily. “I think we both know the last bit’s a lie, or I wouldn’t be captain of the baby bus, right?”
Her dad patted her shoulder. “Can I help you out, captain? Make calls too or anything?”
“No,” Aisha said too sharply. She forced a softer tone because none of this was her dad’s fault, for crying out loud. “Thanks though.”
There was a lull in conversation as Charles drank his milk and wolfed down another piece of pizza. Aisha realized, pun intended, the silence was pregnant.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her dad shook his head.
“Tell me.”
“I guess . . . well, I was wondering if there’s any news on the Evan front.” Charles hung his head, apologetic for even asking.
Aisha pushed her suddenly unappetizing plate away. “I get why you ask, but you need to stop. No. The answer will always be no. And you, me and the bean might as well get used to it, okay?”
“Okay.” He frowned. “But just so you know, that guy, that little piece of shit . . . he was never good enough for you.”
Aisha pressed her hand against her lower back and got up slowly. If it already ached this bad now, what would it be like in a few more months? “That’s kind, Dad. Thanks.”
She turned away to hide more stupid misty tears and headed upstairs to hibernate in the princess cave, a.k.a. her froufrou bedroom. The hardest thing about this whole mess was how her dad never got mad at her—angry at the situation, yes. Frustrated by her inability to make a concrete choice about adoption or motherhood, yes . . . but never angry with her. She wished she could be so forgiving and understanding, but come on, birth control wasn’t rocket science. What was she, a complete moron? Maybe stupidity ran in genes, like eye color or middle toe length. Maybe, if she ever found the Ms. Kendall, that’s how she’d introduce herself. “Hello, nice to meet you. I only want one thing: answers to a couple questions. First can you tell me if the stupidity I’ve inherited is on the paternal or maternal side of my bloodline? Both you say. Oh, perfect. Second—”
“Are you talking to me?” her dad called.
“No, just mumbling to myself.”
Chapter 6
Jo pushed a low-hanging Hemlock branch out of the way, bringing a cascade of rain droplets down on her and Callum. “Dead,” she said.
Callum stopped walking, struck momentarily mute. “Both of them?” The words clawed at his throat. “Ah, Jo—I’m sorry.”
Jo studied him for a long moment, beads of water shining in her hair and on her cheeks, like someone had wept over her. Fitting, he thought.
Her voice was soft as the moss beneath their feet when she spoke. “Yes, both. The sperm donor who aided in my creation was taken by pancreatic cancer just months after you and I . . .” She looked down. “My mom was killed in a car accident in Uruguay about five years ago.”
They were trekking toward what Jo had described as “the prettiest spot in the world,” but the wild jungle of northern B.C. rainforest was doing its best to halt their progress. Callum’s leather shoes squished and squelched with every step, he was soaked up to his knees from the long grass, and he sorely regretted his stupidity. He’d worn his suit, thinking it would help him maintain a level of professional decorum—something his brain wasn’t doing at all. But it was just one more bad decision, making him, as ever, ill equipped for the terrain he found himself in.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. It seemed that was all he ever said to her, but he couldn’t help himself. He wished he could roll back the years and fix all the things that had caused Jo pain when they were younger, things that obviously hadn’t healed with time—and then he realized he was being selfish again. Because he was one of the things that caused her pain, and he wanted that fixed most of all—for her, yes—but even more, if he was honest, for himself.
Jo continued forward, without looking back. It was like she floated above the rough ground rather than walked, and she seemed oblivious to the snarled roots that kept making him stumble. “Unless you killed them, it’s not your fault, so don’t say sorry.”
There didn’t seem to be a good response to that so he said nothing. A few minutes later, she glanced over her shoulder. “It was a long time ago, but apparently it still stings. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
He grinned. If that was her biting someone’s head off, it was pretty funny. She smiled back, and he remembered how much he used to love her dimple—just one, on her left cheek.
“Are you wet?” she asked a moment later.
“Drenched.”
That stopped her. “Should we turn back? I just thought—”
“That since I’d agreed to come for a tour of the property, I’d have dressed for the occasion?”
Her nose scrunched and her eyes twinkled. “Yeah, sort of.”
“I wasn’t thinking. It’s been too long since I went hiking—but I’m good. I meant what I said at the house. I’m game to see whatever you want me to.”
The beloved dimple appeared once more and Jo continued the nonstop flood of description that he’d interrupted with his question about her parents. He followed her gestures and found himself genuinely caught up in the bits of information she imparted about the various types of trees and plants they passed.
“A lot of people didn’t know it, but my uncle was quite the horticulturist. He planted and preserved a variety of indigenous plants—and cultivated other, non-invasive, species that thrive here. I’d like to create little sitting areas where guests can sneak away and write or draw, work with their laptops, or even just picnic. And I thought I might put up small plaques, made from cedar or something, filled with information about the various things growing around here.”
“Sounds cool,” Callum said. And it did. But her plans, if one could even give them so concrete a word, also sounded more like fun, dreamy what-ifs than a firm, practical here’s the market, here’s the profit margin, here’s the room for growth over time, business model.
They came to the end of the trail. Two ancient Cottonwoods formed a golden-leafed archway. Jo ducked to avoid a low branch and pushed a prickly pine bough out of the way, then beckoned to Callum.
Another curtain of water showered down on them as they walked through the arch, and Jo’s curls glistened. He reached out to touch her hair—and stopped himself just in time. How quickly he forgot all the years between them. How quickly his body remembered the time he could touch her whenever he wanted to.
His melancholy sigh died on his lips, however, as they stepped out of the forest and into a dream.
The dense greenery gave way to a soft blue-gray world of rock and river. They stood on a sandbar the color and texture of raw brown sugar, sprinkled here and there with huge white rocks. Marshmallows in light cocoa. Butter in cookie dough before it was beaten in. . . .