Bowie hits the remote to the truck, and to my surprise, walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me. We meet eyes, and I see a flash of something like uncertainty that I will welcome the gesture. But it’s charming and unexpected. “Thank you,” I say, stepping up into the cab of the truck.
He shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. The truck’s interior is roomy, but as soon as he slides in, I’m instantly aware of his sudden proximity and the pleasant tang of a masculine scent.
He reverses out of the lot and turns onto the street where we immediately have to stop for a red light. He glances at me and says, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “It could have happened anywhere. And it could have happened with someone who didn’t know what to do. Or have the medicine you had.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You don’t know how thankful I am for that.”
I think I can guess by the relief in his voice. It’s not hard to understand the responsibility he would have felt. I glance out the passenger side window and sigh as we pass the beautiful white courthouse I remember seeing on the county website when I had been researching the area. “I’m wondering if this is a sign,” I say, surprised that I’ve said the words out loud.
“What do you mean?” he asks, and I feel him glance over at me.
“I forced Evan to move here. He didn’t want to.”
“Kind of got that impression,” he says. “My guess is it’ll grow on him.”
I look over at him and say, “I don’t know. This might as well be another planet compared to L.A.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you must have seen something in it that felt right. I mean that’s a pretty major move.”
“I’m beginning to think it’s not possible to find what I’m looking for,” I say.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
I glance off out the window again, my voice low enough that he might not hear me. “A second chance, I guess,” I say.
But he has heard me because he says, “I have it on good authority that you can indeed find those here.”
I turn my gaze on him again, but this time, he keeps his eyes straight ahead. I want to ask him what he means by that. But I somehow know that he wouldn’t be any more anxious to share his secrets than I am to share mine.
In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
– John Steinbeck
Bowie
WE’RE BACK AT my house in under thirty minutes. I could have gotten her here a little faster, but I felt more inclined to stay with the speed limit because honestly, it felt nice to have her in the truck with me.
As I turn into the driveway, I remind myself that I need to start getting out a little more. Maybe actually asking someone out. I’ve avoided the thought of dating long enough that I’m only now just realizing my own loneliness.
I stop the truck just short of the house, turn off the engine and say, “I really hope he’ll be fine by the time you get back to the hospital.”
“Based on everything the doctors told me, I think he will,” she says, not quite meeting my gaze.
“Would you mind calling and letting me know? I think I’ll sleep better.”
“Sure, what’s your cell number?”
I give it to her, and she enters it in her phone. “All right, then,” she says, opening the door. She starts to slide out, then turns back to me, as if she has decided to say something before changing her mind.
“Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? Or tonight, actually,” she corrects herself, glancing at her watch. “It’s after midnight. So, can you come? As a thank you for everything—”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I should be fixing you dinner as an apology.”
“I’d like to,” she says. “I’m a decent cook. I’ll make it worth your while.”
I shake my head a little, wondering if I’ve fallen asleep and am dreaming this conversation. Keegan Monroe wants to fix dinner for me. Is being rather insistent about it, in fact. I should wake up at any moment.
“Sure,” I say, testing my theory.
“Great,” she says, smiling, and either it’s real, or the dream is continuing. “Six-thirty?”
“Six-thirty,” I say. “You’ll let me know about Evan?”
“I will,” she says, starting to close the door, and then stopping. “Would you like to bring Carson?”
I’m pretty sure this is a stretch for her, and I appreciate it. “We’ll see,” I say, as I open my door. “Can I bring anything for the meal?”
“Just your appetite.”
She walks to the Range Rover, hits the key remote to unlock it. Then she turns for a moment, lifts her hand and gets in the vehicle.
I watch her drive off, thinking life really is all kinds of strange. Of course, she’s just being nice. Because she thinks she owes me. That’s all the dinner is. To let myself start thinking there’s anything other than that behind it would make me . . . naive at best.
That’s not a word that has ever applied to me in any other capacity.
I let Carson out and wait in the yard for him to do his business. I can tell he’s still highly suspicious of the reappearance of bees. I don’t blame him. Being chased by furious yellow jackets isn’t something I care to repeat either.
He’s glad I’m home because once we’re back in the house, he sticks close, following me from the living room to kitchen where I grab a bottle of water and drink half of it before sticking it back in the fridge.
The clock above the sink indicates it’s well past my bedtime, but I’m not in the least bit sleepy. I don’t feel like writing either. Without giving myself time to question the wisdom of it, I pick up the TV remote and flick on the screen. I find the smaller remote and turn on Apple TV, scroll down until I find Netflix. I search the listings for the show. There. Aimless. Season One. Episode One.
I sit down on the couch, and Carson jumps up beside me, putting his head on my leg and dropping off to sleep almost instantly. Me? I’m still awake at 4:30 when I click play for Episode Six.
You want your mom to be happy, but it can’t be just any guy. Right? Right.
– Teenage Boys Everywhere
Evan
“I LOOK LIKE I’m trying to swallow a basketball.”
Mom laughs, and I don’t even blame her. I look that funny.
“It’ll go away pretty quickly the doctor said,” she says.
“It’s the next morning, and I still look like this,” I complain, even as I feel guilty for it. Honestly, I’m just happy to be alive.
“I, for one,” she says, “am practicing gratitude.”
“I know. Me too,” I admit, taking a sip of the hospital’s rather pitiful excuse for coffee. I don’t think I’ll even give the food a chance. The eggs look like a plastic imitation of eggs.
“I invited Mr. Dare over for dinner tonight,” she says, busying herself with fixing my blanket. “As a thank you.”
“Oh. Yeah. I’ll call him on the drive home.”
“He might have saved your life,” she says.
“He probably did. But you don’t need to use that as an excuse for inviting him to dinner.”
She leans back and looks at me with widened eyes. “Evan.”
“What? I saw the way you looked at him. The way he looked at you.”
“He did not—”
“Mom. How many times do you think I’ve seen men look at you like that? I mean, at least he curbed the lust.”
“Evan Monroe.”
“Sorry. Most of them don’t.”
She starts to say something, but stops, and a look crosses her face that I’ve seen a lot in the past few months. Like she’s realized, really realized, she’s failed as a mother. I instantly regret being the one to bring the realization to the surface again. Even if it’s not something I agree with.
“It just blows to see someone look at your mom like that.”
“I could wear a bag over my head,” she says, regaining her sense of humor.
“I’m not sure it would help. They’d just look at—”
“Evan,” she says, her voice sharpening.
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“Despite the basketball cheeks, I think you’re ready to go home,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “Not fair.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” she says, giving me the eye that means she’s one-upped me.
“How long before I can get out of here and get some real food?”
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
– John Donne
Keegan
REAL FOOD IS a stop at the Rocky Mount McDonald’s drive-through. Evan won’t hear of going in with his face still swollen, so I order enough for three men and drive toward the lake while he eats.
I honestly do not know where he puts it, but he’s six-two and hasn’t quit growing yet.
We’re only a few miles from the house when I spot a white tent off the right-hand side of the road and a red sign that says FRESH VEGGIES in white lettering. I flip the turn signal and swing in, parking beside a white Denali with a magnetic sign on the door that says “Hayden’s Marina – Gas, Picnic Supplies and Fine Dining.”
“I’m staying in the car,” Evan says, as if I’ve just pulled up to a science fair, and he’ll be forced to attend a lecture on atoms.
I decide I’m going to enjoy the stop anyway. I get out and walk to the white tent fifteen or so yards away where a beautiful spread of produce has been artfully arranged on long wooden tables.
A woman stands in front of one, examining the tomatoes. Another woman is working behind the tables, sorting through yellow squash. She’s dressed in a long dress with a cape around the shoulders. Her hair is covered by a white bonnet. I recognize the dress as belonging to the German Baptist community of Franklin County.
The woman looks up and throws me a welcoming smile, her face devoid of makeup. She is refreshingly pretty, and I find myself giving her back a genuine smile.
“Let me know if you see anything I can help you with. The potatoes are fresh out of the garden. Actually, everything you see on the tables will be from our own gardens, except for the tomatoes. These are coming out of South Carolina.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for a brown paper bag and picking up a cucumber.
“They’re still beautiful,” the woman a few feet away says, holding up a tomato. “Yours will be better, Mary, but these should pass Kat’s inspection.”
“What did she and Myrtle whip up for your lunch crowd today?” the woman named Mary asks.
“When I left this morning, Myrtle was working on black-eyed peas and cornbread. I think Kat was making gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce. So we’ll need some more,” she says, holding up a big red tomato.
“Those two are some kind of cooks,” Mary says.
“They keep each other entertained,” the woman says. “I know Kat’s looking forward to having a little brother.”
The woman places a hand on her stomach, and I see then that she’s pregnant. “Congratulations,” I say, smiling as we meet gazes.
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes all but glowing with happiness.
“When are you due?” I ask.
“Before Christmas,” she says. She tips her head to the right and looks at me for a long moment. “Have we met?”
Before I can answer, she says, “Oh, you’re . . . you play on that show . . . Aimless?”
“I did,” I say. “My son Evan and I just moved here.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Gabby Tatum.”
“Keegan Monroe,” I say, not wanting to assume she knows my name.
“Yes,” she says. “You were what made that series so interesting. I really enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to accept the compliment without negating it.
“My family and I run the marina down the road,” she says. “You should stop by when you’re out on the lake.”
“We will,” I say.
“Mom?”
I turn to see Evan with his head sticking out the window of the Rover. “Yes?”
“Your phone is ringing. It’s Bowie Dare. Want me to answer?”
“Sure,” I say. He ducks back in the vehicle, my phone to his ear.
When I look back at Gabby Tatum, she’s assessing me with a soft smile. “You’ve already attracted the interest of our mysterious Mr. Dare?” she says, a note of teasing in her voice.
“Oh, no,” I say. “Not like that. My son stopped at his house late yesterday and got into a yellow jacket’s nest. He had a pretty severe reaction. Mr. Dare—I mean, Bowie, was able to treat him with an EpiPen—”
“Oh, goodness,” she says. “I’m sorry. That’s so scary.”
“It was,” I say. “He’s never reacted to anything before.”
“I’m glad he’s okay,” she says, her expression reflecting concern.
“Me too,” I agree. I know I’ll be adding fuel to the fire, but can’t resist asking, “Why mysterious?”
“Mr. Dare?”
“Yes.”
She smiles. “Given how he looks, half the county’s single women have tried to snag his interest. No telling how many coconut-cream pies the man has had left on his doorstep.”
“Ah. Hope he likes coconut.”
We both laugh.
“To my knowledge, none of them has actually worked yet. I do see him in town with his dog, and at the marina occasionally too.”
“You don’t think he’s married or anything, do you?”
“Rumor has it he isn’t. But you can’t really rely on rumors around here,” she says with a smile. “The grapevine can get a little tangled.”
“Yeah. I don’t think small towns have a corner on that.”
“Were you in L.A. or New York?”
“L.A.”
“I guess you’re expecting some culture shock,” she says.
“Maybe a little. But I think I’m ready for it. A quieter pace, I mean.”
“Ummm,” she says, and I can tell she’s wondering if I truly understand the difference between there and here.
“Well, if anyone can turn our intriguing Mr. Dare’s head, it will be you,” she says. “My gosh, you’re beautiful. I love being pregnant, but I already feel like I’m being slowly inflated every day.”
I laugh. “You’re gorgeous. You have that glow that only pregnant women who are very loved have.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I am that. And so grateful for it.”
I have the feeling that if we knew each other a bit better, she would elaborate on what she means. I decide that I like her and realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a real friend.
“We’re supposed to have our boat in a couple of days,” I say. “We’ll come by the marina. I hope you’re there.”
“Me too,” she says. “I’d love to introduce you to my husband and daughter.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Great,” she says, handing her bag to Mary who rings up her purchase and takes her money.
She steps back from the table then and smiles at me, before saying, “And I’ll look forward to hearing about your dinner with Mr. Dare.”
She’s teasing me again, but I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice to be talking with a woman who isn’t sizing me up to see how we compare as competition for a role or a man.
I hand my produce to Mary, and she starts ringing it up, waving as Gabby Tatum backs out and pulls off.
“She’s so nice,” I say, looking at Mary.
“She is,” Mary agrees. “Been through some rough patches lately, so it’s nice to see that.”
I’m not normally prone to curiosity about people’s personal lives, but I find myself wondering what kind of rough patches. I don’t ask though, and Mary doesn’t elaborate.
/>
She bags my produce, thanks me for my business, and says, “Hope you’ll come back soon.”
“I will,” I say. “I like to cook. Fresh always makes it better.”
I’m back in the car when Evan asks, “Why is she dressed so funny?”
“Evan,” I admonish, pulling back onto the main road. “It’s part of her belief system. There’s a German Baptist community here that practices living in a non-showy way.”
“It would be hard to have to dress like that every day.”
“Not if you were raised that way, and it was what you were used to.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t raised like that,” he says, his tone indicating it would have been the worst thing ever.
“It’s okay for people to be different, Evan. To live differently.”
“Oh, like you would be happy to wear a long dress and a bonnet every day?” he scoffs.
“She looked happy, Ev. As if she likes her life. More and more, I’m beginning to think that’s all that matters.”
“Who are you, and what did you do with my mom?”
I shake my head and smile a little. “I’m the mom who chased a dream at the expense of all else.”
“That’s not true,” he says, his voice softening. “No matter what Reece has said to you, you’ve given us a good life, Mom. A great life. Maybe we could have seen you a little more, but hey, you don’t have to be a bona fide adult to realize life is about choices and compromises. We don’t get to have it all.”
“How old are you?” I ask him, feeling a surge of love for his unexpected empathy.
“Old enough to know.”
I reach across and put my hand over his. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t pull away.
I care not for a man’s religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it.
— Abraham Lincoln
Bowie
IT’S RIDICULOUS. I never care about what I wear. I buy clothes that make sense for whatever it is I’m going to be wearing them for. And pull them out of my closet based on practicality.
Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Page 5