As I turn to leave, I notice a stack of papers on the chair beside the bedroom door, and the name etched across the top of the paper is familiar—Daniel Morton. The old man included his name and phone number at the bottom of the letter he’d sent me. Picking up the paper, I realize it’s a letter dated almost exactly four months ago—April 13, the day the old man had written my abrupt, last-request note.
Based on the letterhead, I conclude that Mr. Daniel Morton is an estate lawyer in Benton, the next town over. I skim through each paragraph, filled with meeting dates and a list of legal documents enclosed, and the next part grabs my attention:
Per your request, I’ve sold off your 6,343 shares of Northwestern Logging Corporation stock. After paying this year’s property taxes and electric bill in full, your son will have just over $236,395 to do with as he sees fit. I can contact him if you’d like, or I can leave the next steps in your hands. Either way, I’ll brief him in full once I’ve heard from him.
I scan the rest of the letter, though I’m not processing what it says whatsoever. I’m too shocked and confused to think much beyond the fact that the old man had the forethought to do any of this at all.
Massaging my temple as though anything other than a shower and a long night’s sleep will help make this day a little bit better, I let the letter drift back down to the chair where I found it. I study the old man’s room again, looking for another piece of him, anything that would help it all make some sense. John fucking Reilly, the town drunk—my hard-ass, no-good father—waited until I couldn’t stand him so much I left to grow any semblance of a heart.
While part of me realizes he would’ve had to do something with his belongings and stocks, and me being his only son makes me beneficiary to everything he’s left behind, the other part of me knows he’s so infuriating that this goes beyond formalities and lineage. Although the only letter I’ve ever received from this man was postmortem, I know in my heart that this is his way of apologizing for being a shitty father—for ignoring me and doing nothing to show that he ever cared about me—and I want to hate him for it.
“I don’t want your damn money,” I grind out. My hands are shaking, and I grit my teeth.
With a deep breath, I shut the door and step into the center of the living room, peering up at the ceiling that looks rotted through. The old, single-paned windows have done nothing to keep the dampness out of the house, and it’s clear there is a major leak, if not leaks, in the attic. There’s no way this place could’ve gotten so bad in the four years I’ve been gone, which makes me wonder how I missed the state of things before I left. Or maybe I just hadn’t cared enough to notice.
Deciding a sledgehammer to the side of the house sounds good right about now, I head through the living room, ready to start tearing this place apart, when my cell phone rings.
The screen reads “Mad Dog.” Knowing he’s going to give me shit, I brace myself and answer. “I thought you weren’t going to bug me,” I say in greeting.
Mad Dog laughs. “How are you, Corporal?”
“Trying to be on vacation,” I say, poking my head out the back door in search of an axe.
“Yeah? And how’s that going for you?”
Spotting one by the toolshed, I step outside to grab it. “Swell.”
“Sounds like it.”
Bringing the axe inside, I lean it against the cupboard for later and stare at the fridge. Knowing my old man, I’m sure there’s a cold beer waiting for me inside. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?” I ask and open the refrigerator door. I’m not surprised to find a half-empty six-pack of light beer inside. Quickly, I snatch a bottle before the stench of whatever else is inside assaults my nostrils and close it again. Only four strides and I’m out the front door for some fresh air.
“I was just wondering if anything had changed, since I haven’t gotten your reenlistment application yet.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” I say honestly. “And no, nothing’s changed.” Sergeant Matthew “Mad Dog” Mattson was the first guy I ever got into a bar fight with because I’d been the one drinking. It was almost six years ago, one night when me, Nick, and some of the guys from the baseball team were in Benton, having a little too much fun with our fake IDs. We’d become friends after one drunken night of misunderstandings and right hooks to the face. After I graduated high school, he eventually got me to enlist, and we’d stayed in touch ever since.
“How’s Meredith and baby number two?” I ask, realizing it’s been a while since I’ve really talked to him about anything other than reenlisting. I take a swig of beer, sit on the top step, and peer out at the golden brown hills surrounding me.
“They’re both doing really well. Jamie’s almost two now, and I—”
“Two? Wow, time’s going by faster than I thought. You gonna be a free man soon and spend some time with your family, or are you staying in the office for another go-around?”
“I’m still voting for you to be my replacement after my stint here, but . . .”
I laugh, really laugh, for the first time in a while. “Right, because a sterile, air-conditioned room and starched suits fit me so well. I can picture that happening.”
Mad Dog chuckles and sighs.
“But really, how much longer you going to be recruiting?”
For a minute, all I can hear are his deep breaths and the sound of a pencil tapping on what I assume is his desk. I’ve obviously broached an uncomfortable topic. “I’m undecided,” he finally admits. “But I’m calling to talk about you.”
“Me? But I’m so boring.” If he only knew. I peer back into the house, at how sad and dark it is, and wonder if bulldozing the place isn’t a better idea.
“True. But should anything change, let me know. If you decide deployment and artillery mechanic isn’t your thing and you want to try something else out, or if you want to go career or sign up for reserves . . . anything.”
“Sure. Okay. Hey, email me the application this time, will you?”
“Yeah, like you even know how to use a computer.”
I chuckle, knowing my typing skills are lacking. “And you wanted me to take over your job?”
Finally, we’re finished goading one another, promise to grab a drink when I have some time, and I end the call.
I take the last sip of my beer and stare out at the overgrown, dead grass that needs to be mowed, then at the old man’s beat-up 1967 electric-blue El Camino covered in cobwebs and bird shit. Two of the tires are flat, the windshield is cracked, and by the looks of it, the car hasn’t been driven in ages. For the dozenth time, I wonder how sick the old man was and for how long. Although I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d died of liver failure, I hadn’t known he was sick.
Without thought, I dial Nick.
It only rings twice before he answers. “You’ve barely been home a day and you already miss me,” Nick says, his breathing laborious. I wonder what I’ve interrupted.
“What can I say, I missed your beautiful smile.”
Nick chuckles and sighs dramatically. “They all do, my friend. They all do. But we can whisper sweet nothings later. What’s up?”
Stepping back into the doorway, I peer around the living room, taking stock of all that needs to be done. “I need a drink and the name of a recommended hauling company, to start with.”
“Oh shit, that bad, huh? You clearing out the house?”
“Yep. It’s too much for a few dump runs. It needs to be gutted.”
“Demolition? Alright, I’ll call Steve, a regular at Lick’s. I’ll see if he’s got any guys available this week.”
“Perfect. As soon as possible would be great.” I lean against the doorframe and run my hand over my hair. “I was originally thinking a month, but this—I’m going to need a lot of extra hands to make this place even remotely saleable.”
“You got it.”
Knowing I still have a friend in all the chaos and uncertainty brings a warmth to my heart, and an emotion I don’t want to think too muc
h about tightens my chest. “Thanks, my man.”
“Anything else?”
I stare at the walls that box the house up, making it small and dingy. “I can find a dumpster company, but if you know any contractors that you trust, I could use their names.”
“I know a few people. I’ll talk to them and see if anyone’s available.”
“Great. I think that’s it for now, unless you want to swing a sledgehammer with me. I’m going to start the demo as soon as I get the garbage out of here.”
“Smashing things? I love that shit. I’m at Lick’s tomorrow, but I’m free Sunday to help with whatever.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You should stop by the bar tonight, see some of the old crew.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It will be.”
I chuckle. “Alright, it’s a date. I’ll shower and head into town. Stay out of trouble,” I say.
“No guarantees.”
“Later.”
It’s heartening to talk to someone from that other part of my life, but everything still feels off. It’s like I don’t belong here anymore. I realize how much I miss my brothers-in-arms back in Japan. I had thought I’d missed the comfortable clothes and ability to plan out my own day, but now that I’m here, I miss having a purpose, a rigid schedule to adhere to, and my brothers to work with and shoot the shit every day. Although I know coming home was the right decision, I’m already counting down the days until I can go back.
After another hour passes and all the garbage cans I have are filled to near busting, I decide it’s time to get cleaned up and head into town. When I turn on the shower, my plans change.
“Great.” The water barely dribbles out of the showerhead. Sweaty, hungry, and beyond irritated, I shut the faucet off, stomp through the house, grab a crusty rag off the floor, and head out the front door and up the slight incline, toward the water pump. Silently, I pray the pump is simply corroded or covered in grime, an easy fix to getting it up and working again. I might not have a decent place to stay, but I’m convinced that everything else will be easier if I can at least be clean.
Unlatching the pump house door, I stare in at the small pump covered in cobwebs and ant trails. I crouch down, unsurprised to find ants and debris covering the connections. I dust the pump off with the rag, making sure I wipe every dead bug, web, and speck of dirt off the connections, hoping I’m saving myself from having to come back up. I’m about to call it good when I hear a muffled voice outside and I still, listening.
“ … my girl.”
I stand up and peer through the open door, out at a white and gray horse with a petite, blonde angel sitting in the saddle a couple dozen yards away. She stares down the hill at my house, her expression curious and assessing. One hand holds the reins, the other rests on her thigh, tapping it anxiously, a telling quirk of hers I remember from before.
What Sam is doing here, I have no idea, but I’m curious to say the least. I have questions I want answered, things I want to say to her, but right now, watching her seems to be all I can do.
Sam wipes a loose strand of hair from her face and gives her horse the reins as it pulls for room to nip at the weeds.
I don’t like how the line of my sight follows the bronzed curve of her legs resting in the stirrups. Or the way her tank top hugs her chest in the breeze. Her hair floats around her face, under her chin, and rides the current out behind her. If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being in control, and around Sam, I’m confused and angry and hopeful, like I’m grasping for it instead.
I’m about to step outside and ask her why she’s staring down at my house, but then she clicks, Shasta turns around, and they ride off, like they were never even here.
Eight
Sam
Four years ago
The sun is lowering in the sky and the breeze turns fierce and cold. I move to sit closer to the bonfire and wrap my jacket tighter around me. It was dumb of me not to bring pants, or at least something warmer to shrug into. Even the sand has cooled beneath me, no longer heated by the sun. How Mac can run around in a tank top and shorts right now I have no idea, but I smile as she attempts to throw a Frisbee to a group of friends, only to have it jet downward and lodge itself in the sand a yard or so in front of her. I laugh out loud and hold my hands to the flames for warmth, thoroughly entertained. It’s nice to have these weekend beach parties. It helps me keep my mind off of Reilly and gets me out of the house, away from Papa and Alison.
“Here.” A male voice drifts down from above me. I peer up to see Mike standing there, offering me a blanket. “Please,” he says, “use this.”
I smile, shivering at the mere thought of being warmer. “That’s really nice of you,” I say, “but aren’t you going to use it?”
Mike shrugs and plops down in the sand beside me. “I’m okay right now.” He holds the blanket out again. “Here.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. “I should’ve brought one. I knew better.”
He shrugs again. “I always have one in my car, it’s no big deal.”
I can feel Mike’s eyes on me as I wrap his blanket around my shoulders. This is the first time he’s tried to talk to me since we were introduced earlier. I shiver again, my teeth chattering.
“What’s your name again?” he asks, and his gaze narrows on me, then flicks from my eyes down to my mouth and back.
I blush. “Sam.”
“Well, Sam, I’m—”
“Mike,” I finish for him. “I remember.”
He smiles. “So, Sam, you’re not into Frisbee?” He puts another log on the fire.
I shake my head. “Not today. It’s getting too cold.”
“Lucky me, then,” he says. When I look at him, he’s still smiling. I instantly look away, unsure if he’s just being nice or if he’s flirting with me.
“You don’t play?” I ask, and I watch as Mac laughs and gives Nick a victorious high-five.
“Nah. Not really, and especially not when there’s a pretty girl sitting all by herself—and I don’t mean that in a creepy way. You looked a little lonely is all.”
My defenses rise a bit, and I wonder if he’s kidding or if he can really tell how alone I feel.
He must see something in my expression that worries him. “I didn’t mean anything by that, sorry. I was just making conversation.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair and looks away, a little embarrassed, I think.
I shrug his apology away. “It’s okay. You’re right, actually. I’m feeling a little down today.” I’m not sure why I bother saying anything to this guy who’s mostly a stranger, but the fact that he’s talking to me, showing an iota of concern when he could be out having fun with the others, warms my heart a little. Not even Mac has seemed to notice that I’ve been struggling lately.
“So,” I continue, not wanting to talk about me. “You’re here with Bethany?”
Mike lifts a shoulder. “I’m new in town, so I’m sort of clinging to people.” It’s a joke, and it makes me smile because I know what it feels like to have to cling and hold on.
“Are you actually moving here or just passing through?”
Mike lets a handful of sand fall between his fingers, and I notice how different his hands are than Reilly’s—softer looking, even more than mine. “I’m not really sure yet. My parents just had a house built here. I’m from the east coast, but my mom’s trying to get me into the family business—property development stuff. She wants to expand the business around the area.”
“Yeah? That’s good.”
He nods toward Bethany, who’s prancing around in the sand, playfully running away from another guy I’ve only just met today. “I met Bethany the other day, and she invited me to the bonfire.” As he says this, she looks over at us and her gaze narrows.
“She doesn’t look very happy that you’re talking to me,” I say, amused. “Are you two dating or something?”
Mike balks. “No, we’re not dating.”
Mike tosses a splinter of wood into the fire and looks at me. “You are though, aren’t you?”
I meet his gaze.
“Rumor has it that your boyfriend left, went overseas.”
I nod, and I feel my features fall a little. “He didn’t just leave, well, not really.” I frown as I catch myself hesitating. “But yes, he’s in the Army.”
Mike pulls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them. “I don’t get it—why he’d leave when he has you here.”
“He has his reasons for leaving,” I say, defensive, though at the moment I can’t think of any that justify the distance and silence that’s been spanning from days into weeks lately.
Mike shakes his head. “I should really learn to keep my mouth shut. I know it’s none of my business.” He smiles regretfully and my tension eases a little bit.
It’s my turn to shrug this time. “It’s fine, it just sucks, you know. I didn’t realize it would be this hard.” Mike sits there quietly, listening, and for whatever reason, I can’t stop the months’ worth of thoughts from pouring out of my mouth. “I don’t know why, but I thought it would be easier, you know? I thought that if you loved someone so much it would work itself out. But it feels like it’s getting harder every day, and I don’t know what to do about it. The thoughts that run through my mind when I don’t hear from him . . .” I let out a much-needed breath. “Sorry, I’m over-sharing, aren’t I?” I groan.
Mike’s face lights up in a half smile. “You’re pretty cute,” he says, but then his expression changes. He just watches me with what looks like sympathy shadowing his eyes, and his brow creases.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 8