“Hi.” I walk up to him.
He smiles, picks up his bag. “Hi. Thanks for coming to get me.”
An employee walks by and gives us an odd look. Maybe this isn’t the way it usually works.
I can’t act natural. I just can’t. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’m totally glad to see you, but where are you going? Why do you need a ride?” I stop talking before What the hell? or worse escapes my mouth.
We walk around the outside of the building toward my car. He lugs the duffle bag casually over one shoulder. Wherever he’s headed, he hasn’t packed much.
“Some of the people I work with are going skiing in Sun Valley and invited me to go with them. I wasn’t doing anything, so I said yes. I don’t ski, but it’s important sometimes to hang out with the people in my business—you know, network and all that.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m so sorry, but I have to smoke. I really need it. Filthy habit, I know. I never should’ve started. It’s one of the vices I’ve yet to give up.” He smokes, and we’re almost to the parking lot. I’m still silent, still confused. “Anyway, the longer I sat on the flight with these people and listened to them, the more I knew I could not spend a weekend with them.”
We’re at my car. He hurriedly drops the cigarette and stomps it out. I pop the hatchback and silently cringe. We’ve got the dog’s bed, two pool noodles, and a bag of clothes destined for the Goodwill in the back. It’s a total mess.
He tosses his bag in without a second glance and shuts the door. I don’t even get an opportunity to sheepishly apologize. He’s talking too fast.
“So then suddenly we’re landing, and I realize we aren’t landing in Sun Valley, we’re landing in Boise—some nonsense about wind shears in Hailey, who knows, and we’re on the ground, waiting it out.”
He’s climbed in the passenger side and now scoots the seat way back. Of course it’s up too far because no one ever rides in the front seat. The boys are too young. He’s still talking. “I’m really pissed now, really dreading the weekend, and as I fidget and look through my contacts on my cell, I see your number. And to be totally frank, the sudden idea of seeing you sounded immeasurably more appealing than being with those idiots.”
Now, finally, he is quiet. I sit in my seat, keys poised to turn in the ignition, but I’m stuck. I think what he just said is still bouncing around the inside of my head, waiting for the neurons to fire and make meaning.
Stuff comes out of my mouth that I hope resembles sentences. “So you called because you want to hang out with me? Like, for the weekend?” I’m staring at him, I’m pretty sure.
“Kind of? I don’t know. It was a whim. If it’s a bad whim, just tell me.” His brow crinkles a little above those very blue eyes.
I wake up. “Oh, shit! I have to get my kids.” I start the car and gun it a little, rushing now to get across town.
It’s ten minutes to three—the bell at school will be ringing, and Hunter and Beau will be standing on the curb waiting for me. I need to get my kids, but there’s no way I can do that with a man in my car. Fabulous movie star or no, the boys haven’t seen me with a guy since their dad. I haven’t had coffee with anyone, I haven’t done a single thing with anyone of the opposite sex who was not related to me or one of my friends, and I certainly haven’t dated anyone since their dad. Not that I am dating this person, but still, what will the boys think when they meet him? Will they freak out? How badly will they freak out?
My hands shake all of a sudden. Andrew is still looking at me.
“Okay, I have to drop you somewhere.”
Now he looks really confused. “What?”
“I have to drop you somewhere. I can’t think straight, and I have to pick my kids up, and you can’t be in the car when I get them. Then I have to think of something to say to them about you…” I trail off. We drive through downtown, headed toward the school.
“You didn’t tell them you met me?”
“I didn’t tell anyone about you. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Now I’m blushing.
“I got your number, and you didn’t tell a soul about me?”
“I thought you were just being polite. I didn’t think you’d actually call. Or show up in my town. So, no.”
“Geez. I appreciate you being discreet, but really…”
We’re about to pass my house when inspiration strikes. I turn the car hard into the alley, throwing Andrew against the passenger side door.
“What are you doing?” He looks a little panicked now.
I brake hard and stop the car behind our garage. It used to be a standalone one-car, but the owners before us built it out with a loft above, which is connected to the house by a catwalk to the second-story deck. Peter used it as his man cave—watched TV and tuned skis in it. Since he’s gone, I put a bed in there so guests can stay, but it’s not a place I can spend much time in yet. It’s still Peter’s room.
“Wait here.” I grip the steering wheel and smile at him, take a deep breath and blow my bangs out of my face. I’m kind of proud of myself for thinking of a solution.
“In an alley?”
I nod.
“You’re ditching me in an alley.” He chews on his lip.
“No, no, this is the back of my house. It’s our garage—a guest room, not just a garage. There’s a guest room over the garage. It connects to the house. Just wait here. I’ll get the boys, and I’ll figure out a way to introduce you. We can hide you in the guest room while you stay for the weekend.”
“You do know I’m not wanted by the law, right?” He smiles a little.
Thank God, because I’m pretty sure this is the worst hostess behavior I’ve ever exhibited in my life. There have to be thousands of Andy Pettigrew devotees who would skin me alive at this moment. Or offer to take my guest off my hands in a heartbeat.
“I just don’t know about you staying in the house. Since Peter died, I just…” I seem to be running out of words a lot with this man.
He breathes in. “No, I understand. Your boys might jump to conclusions. You don’t want to weird them out. I get what you’re thinking.” He swings the door open and nods. “Go get your boys. I’m fine. I’ll hang out back here and try not to look felonious.”
“I do want to hang out with you. I think you’ll like Boise. I just need to figure it out.”
“Go get them.”
“I’ll text you when we get back to the house.”
So I pull away, leaving my apparent friend, the international movie star, in an alley while I drive to the grade school of my two children. Life has officially become completely absurd. Maybe this is some French movie.
And there they are. They’re fighting about something—I can see that as I pull to the front of the line to pick them up. Both are loaded down with coats and lunch bags and backpacks. I stop, and the door by the curb swings open.
Maybe they can tell I’ve been behaving like a maniac for the last fifteen minutes or so, because they get quiet as they enter the car.
“Hi, guys.” I may sound a little out of breath. Good Lord.
“Mom, tell Hunter the orange thermos is my thermos. He keeps taking it, and then I have to pack the green one with the crack in it, and by the end of the day the bottom of my backpack is soaked.”
I want to kiss Beau for being so normal. “I will buy you each a new thermos if that would help. Listen, guys, I need your help with something.”
Hunter looks at me in the rearview mirror. He’s gotten so tall. When did that happen? “With what?”
“I need you to make a swing through the house and straighten up when we get home. We’re having someone over for dinner tonight.”
A plan forms in the frenzied recesses of my brain. I can feed Andrew dinner, and then we can find a place for him to stay, or I can hide him in the guesthouse, but it will all be good.
“Who?” Beau’s curious.
“A friend of mine from Indio.”
&n
bsp; “Who do you know in Indio? We just see Granddad and Gran.”
“Well, Mr. Know-It-All, I met a friend down there last time we visited. We met at the coffee shop.”
Which is partly true.
Hunter’s already lost interest. “Fine. I’ll help, but I’m not doing laundry. I just did mine on Sunday, and Beau won’t put his in the hamper so I shouldn’t have to handle it.”
“No laundry. Just straighten up a little. And he flew in early, so he may be there pretty soon after we get home.”
Or not. Since he’s standing in back of the garage where I ditched him. Andrew’s never going to speak to me again. I’m an idiot of epic proportions.
We get home, and both boys whine a little more about the unforeseen straightening. I turn in circles, trying to get my bearings. I text Andrew:
We’re home. Come knock on the front door.
Then I try to practice breathing like a normal human being.
There’s a knock. Ditto the dog goes crazy, barking and jumping. The boys materialize from upstairs.
I take the deepest breath I can. “He’s here. Come and meet my friend, you guys.” I grab Ditto’s collar.
The boys actually do as I say. They realize there’s a stranger at the door. I swing it open.
Andrew stands there, smiling. “Hi, Kelly.”
“Hi. Come on in.” This is odd beyond odd. Andrew has to pretend he came from somewhere when in reality he’s been stuck waiting for me by the garbage cans out back. Good thing he’s an actor.
He walks in, and Ditto breaks away from me to try to get a lick. Andrew bends down to pet the dog for a minute. I realize he’s not wearing his sunglasses and remember that extra thing here: he’s a new friend of mom’s, but he’s also a movie star.
“This is my friend Andrew from Los Angeles. I met him in Indio on our last trip.”
There is quiet. I can feel panic rising in my throat. This is a terrible idea.
“It’s nice to meet you, boys. You’re Hunter, is that right?” Andrew stands and reaches out to shake Hunter’s hand.
“You’re Andy Pettigrew! No way!”
Andrew smiles. “Yep.”
Beau looks confused. “Why would you want to come to Boise? How did you ever meet my mom?”
“She and I ran into each other at the coffee shop by your grandma’s house. She told me how great Boise was, so I thought I’d come see for myself.”
Beau speaks up. “Boise.”
“What?” Andrew looks confused.
“Boy-see. You said boy-zee. It’s pronounced boy-see.”
Andrew smiles at me. “Well, your mom said you two might show me around Boy-see a bit.”
Beau looks satisfied. He and Hunter elbow each other. Hunter adopts a very hip sound to his voice all of a sudden, kind of SoCal skateboarder by way of eleven-year-old. “Yeah, we can show you lots of stuff.”
I’m worried. “Now, guys, Andrew’s stay is not something to tell everyone about. He won’t have a lot of privacy if the news gets out that he’s in town.”
Beau speaks up. “Are you staying with us?”
I panic. “No, he’s not.”
Beau looks perplexed. “Why not?”
That’s not the reaction I expected. “Well…” I can’t think of anything to say.
Hunter speaks up. “Because he can rent out the whole top of a hotel or something. And besides, our house is a mess. You should stay somewhere swank.”
Andrew shoots me a look and stifles a grin. “Well, I want to keep a low profile this go-around, so I won’t be renting out a penthouse.”
“We’ve got a guest room. Over the garage. You could stay there.” Beau’s a problem solver.
Hunter brightens. “Nobody would ever think to look for you at a house like ours.”
Beau’s got a better idea. “You could stay in our room if you don’t want to be by yourself. We’ve got bunk beds.”
The entire conversation is a runaway train. I’m not in any sort of control. Andrew’s smile keeps getting bigger and bigger.
I must speak up. “You both need to slow down. Andrew doesn’t need to stay in your room. The guest room would be fine. Andrew, would you like to stay with us while you’re in town?” I can’t believe this is happening.
Andrew looks at me, and his eyes twinkle. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Thanks, boys, for the idea.”
Hunter, my perceptive one, speaks up again. “Mom, you call him Andrew. Is that what he goes by?”
I don’t even know.
Andrew smiles very broadly. “Andy’s my acting name. You can call me Andrew. Your mom could tell I prefer that right from the start.”
So the short story gets a bit longer. Maybe this is the beginning of something. But what?
7: A Little Dose of Reality Would Make Sense Right About Now
IT’S SO WEIRD having him in the house, I kind of freeze. It’s exciting. I mean, he’s this amazing guy—at least that’s how he comes off in his films. I haven’t said anything about that yet, not out loud, but he does tend to play the kind of character who makes an entrance in slow motion accompanied by lots of power chords. He’s good-looking, though standing here in the kitchen, near the pot that still has the burned chili in it, that might be tempered a bit.
It’s odd how relaxed the kids are. Beau brought in his rock collection to show Andrew, but Hunter reflexively turned on the TV and opened up his notebook to start his homework. Andrew sits now at the kitchen table next to him.
“So what’s the job for tonight?” Andrew seems content to be here.
“Math. We’re doing factors.” He glances up at Andrew, then at the TV, and back at his paper.
“How many problems?” Andrew leans over the paper with Hunter.
“Just ten. I got most of it done in homeroom at the end of the day. Mr. McAllister was distracted by Robby, so we had extra time.”
Beau loves hearing about the trials and tribulations of students in Hunter’s class. “Oh, Robby. What did he do today?” He wants nothing more than to fit into his older brother’s world. Hunter used to have no patience for it, but since Peter died, he seems to have softened. Or he’s gotten used to the attention telling stories brings.
He launches into some story about Robby sharpening pencils down to the nub in homeroom. I take the opportunity to make a wild swing through the house. There’s no way I will get to vacuum. It’s not a chore done in secret. I do take a minute to pull off the bedspread in the guest bedroom, put a clean blanket on, and run the bedspread down to the laundry room. Then I’m back up to the boys’ bathroom to wipe the pee from the toilet seat. We have three bathrooms in the house, and I have surrendered one to the destruction that is the male gender. If I can help it, I usually don’t even go in there.
I come back downstairs. Hunter’s done and has his feet up on the chair across from him at the table. He and Andrew are watching some annoying sitcom rerun.
Beau stands at the fridge, staring into it. Letting all the cold air out.
“Beau. Shut the door.” I’m annoyed.
“Mom, I’m hungry!”
Hunter perks up at this. “Me too. What are we eating?” I groan inwardly. I haven’t gotten that far. And we have a guest. I told the boys we were having him over for dinner, but we have no dinner. We don’t even have milk in the house.
“I wasn’t sure what Andrew would like, so he and I are going to pick something up for dinner. Can you two stay here while we run out?” My brain can’t process all this quickly enough. I turn to Andrew. “I guess we’ll risk the grocery store. Someone will recognize you, I bet.”
“I doubt it. Grocery stores are a relatively easy place to keep a low profile. And I’ve got skills.”
“Okay. Boys, you stay here.”
Both boys are busy watching the TV now. They don’t even turn their heads as they comment, “Yes, Mom.” They sound faintly robotic.
It strikes me as odd that the boys are so normal, so unimpressed. I keep waiting for the shit to hi
t the fan. Maybe they’re trying to be cool. Who knows. It’s puzzling.
In the car, I worry more about the store. People will spot him, and then he’ll be mobbed. “What if people freak out over you? Doesn’t that happen?”
Andrew is back in the passenger seat. He’s scooted it all the way back, but his long legs are still not able to fully extend. My car is too tiny. Peter never rode in it either. His car was the family-trip car. Mine was the I-drive-myself-and-the-boys-around car. I sold Peter’s car. Way too many memories in there. It smelled like him. I couldn’t climb into it without wanting to faint from his sheer presence. It was worse than his clothes in the closet or his razor on the bathroom sink.
“If we act normal—you’ll see. People might do a double take, but they’ll talk themselves out of it. We just keep moving and act normal, and it’ll be fine.”
“What do you want to eat? I’m a lousy cook. If I want to make something more than just edible, I have to come with a recipe. Peter used to be able to shop without one. Not me.”
“Is that your husband?”
I realize it’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud in front of Andrew. “Yeah.”
“I like that name.”
I guess he said that because, really, what do you say when a widow brings up her husband?
He puts his hand on mine for just a second when I shift into third gear. It’s a pat, or a touch, just an it’s okay kind of checking-in gesture. I like it.
I’m insane. None of this is going to work. Why is he here?
“Why are you here?” Oh, it just came out of my mouth. We pull into the store parking lot. This should be interesting.
He smiles, kind of closes his eyes for a minute, and then looks right at me. “To be honest, it just feels like the place I’m supposed to be right now. Beyond that, I have no idea.”
“Me too.” I smile at him and park. “I mean, it feels like this is the right thing. You feel like the right thing. No, not that. Oh, you know what I’m saying, don’t you?”
He squints a little, still smiling. Maybe not.
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