by Ev Bishop
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. You meant your cabin—still great news. Where’s Mo?”
Aisha pointed to a swath of white flannel decorated with tiny yellow ducks, resting between her legs on top of the blue hospital linens.
“No way,” Charlie said, momentarily forgetting his conflicted feelings about running into Sam so soon—Sam who hadn’t gone off with Dave after all. “She can’t be wrapped in that. It’s too tiny.”
Aisha lifted the bundle, the soft fabric shifted and Charlie did indeed catch a glimpse of a little pink face. Mo squirmed and made a mewling grunting noise.
“Poor little tyke,” Sam said. “I hate getting disturbed while I’m sleeping too.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Charlie said, only catching the implications of his comment when Sam’s soft, throaty laugh sounded.
“Gross, Dad,” Aisha added, but there wasn’t any heat in her words. Apparently she’d decided he and Sam weren’t really at risk of getting together, or else she was just too preoccupied with postpartum delight over Mo. Either way. Good.
Aisha shot a glance at Sam that he couldn’t interpret, but then Mo turned her face toward his chest and nuzzled him, captivating them all once more.
“She’s hungry,” Aisha said. “She’s caught onto nursing really quick.”
She might as well have said Mo had already learned to read or climbed Mount Everest, her voice was that proud—and Charlie’s chest swelled too.
“Yep, she’s a smartie all right.”
Samantha’s chair creaked and she got to her feet. “I should go,” she said, approaching Aisha’s bed. “I’ll come by your cabin tomorrow on my way out.”
She moved to Charlie’s side next and stroked Mo’s impossibly tiny hand. “Good-bye little one,” she whispered. Mo’s fingers starfished at Sam’s touch, then wrapped around Sam’s index finger. “Oh,” she said. “Look at that.”
“She doesn’t want you to go,” Aisha said. “And neither do I. Dad, Sam was saying it wasn’t really working for her to stay with you, and—”
“What? I never said that.”
“No, no, he truly didn’t. He’s been very generous, but that doesn’t change the fact. I’m in his way,” Sam interrupted quickly.
“Is she, Dad? Really?”
“Well, no. . . .” But also yes, totally. Charlie studied Mo’s tiny crescent moon fingernails and her possessive grip on Sam’s pretty, French-tipped finger. And he looked at his daughter’s expectant face. How selfish was he? Of course he could put up with some temporary discomfort. If Aisha wanted Sam in her life, he wouldn’t be the one to come between them.
“I’m sorry if I was rude or made you feel unwelcome. I’ve just been . . .” His voice trailed off. What could he say, after all? I’ve just been going out of my mind with desire for you? I can hardly think when you’re around. I want you to see me as relationship material, not just a quick screw? I don’t want you to like that jerk Dave. Maybe he should just be bold and say all those things. Put them out there. Why not? His heart pounded even thinking of it.
“Earth to Dad. Dad.” Aisha’s laugh pulled him out of his head. “He’s in the middle of a book. It makes him even more spacey than usual.”
Sam’s smile was a bit wicked. “Is that so, Charlie? Your writing has you all crazy right now? Poor guy.”
Aisha’s eyes narrowed and her gaze swung from his face to Sam’s and back to his again. So maybe she wasn’t completely appeased after all. But he couldn’t bring himself to obsess about what Aisha might or might not be worrying about. His sole focus was on Sam. He was so aware of her nearness—and the fact that she knew full well it wasn’t his novel making him distracted. Yet he latched onto the excuse anyway.
“What Aisha said.” Charles nodded. “And ditto what she said about you not being in my way. If you can endure it, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need—or want. It would mean a lot, actually.”
Sam gave him a long, considering look. “Well, if you’re sure . . . then, yes, I’d love to stay a few more days.”
“Good, it’s settled.” For some reason, like an idiot, he stuck out his hand. Shaking her head, Sam grinned, slipped her hand into his, and shook firmly.
“Get some chapters done tonight,” Aisha advised as Sam said good-bye once more and slipped from the room. Charlie’s eyes followed her.
“What? Oh, yeah, yeah—I will. Made up a plan and everything, kiddo.”
“Uh huh,” said Aisha cryptically. “I bet you did.”
Chapter 19
Charlie was still at the hospital and the parking area at River’s Sigh was empty. Samantha stood on Rainbow’s porch, keys in hand, but didn’t unlock the door. Instead she turned this way and that, marveling at the greenery that flanked her on all sides in such bright and vivid contrast to the white blanket spread by the freak storm. Everything was so alive here, yet simultaneously quiet and still. It felt annoyingly catching. Since when was she calmed by solitude and fresh air? And speaking of fresh air—the incessant wind had finally let up and the air was warmer as Jo had promised. The gravel was shiny with water running in small rivers from the already melting snow heaps.
Just as she was about to go inside, she caught a trembling movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a glimpse of tan fur disappear under a cedar hedge. She crouched and peered into the bushes, but couldn’t see a thing.
Jo’s beat up old truck ambled into the parking lot, then bee-lined for Rainbow cabin when Sam waved.
“Oh, Sam, great,” Jo called through the open driver’s side window. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Do you want to go fishing?”
“Do I want to go fishing? I don’t know—the thought’s never occurred to me before.”
“Oh, come on. If you’re really leaving soon, you should see a bit of the property. I’ll bring coffee.”
“Well, I was going to . . . actually never mind. Sure, why not? Throw in some Kahlua too and I’m in.”
“Done! I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes—and I’ll bring you appropriate footwear.”
Sam groaned and they both laughed.
*
Sam’s reflection stared up at her from the nearly black face of the smooth deep pool they’d been fishing in and she noted the moisture in the air had ruined her straightening job. Her hair was curling around her face a lot like Jo’s actually—and she didn’t even care that much. “That was really fun.”
Jo laughed and handed Sam the tackle box they were finished with. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. Maybe next time you’ll even catch something.”
“Gross. Let’s not get carried away.”
They headed back the way they’d come, tramping along a path that had knee-deep snow in some places and was mossy green and almost dry in other spots where the tree cover was especially thick.
Their conversation had run the gamut from what it was like meeting little Mo, to Jo’s plans for the next cabins—and Jo’s lack of surprise that Sam had some design ideas fueled by her recent magazine splurge—to how Jo found married life. It had been light and fun and now Sam was more than content to walk in silence. In fact, she would’ve preferred it. No such luck, though.
“So have you figured out what you’re going to do next?”
Shit. Why had she blabbed about wanting a life change to Jo? Now Jo would expect updates.
“Not yet, but some ideas are finally stirring.” Sam made the comment mainly to satisfy Jo, but realized it was sort of true. She paused by an archway created by two huge cedars that had grown up close together, separate and distinct but birthed from the same root system. She rested a hand on each rough trunk and leaned forward. The tree-window offered a spectacular view of a jutting rock face and rushing creek.
Jo pointed up the creek. “There’s a gorgeous canyon beyond that bend. We could hike to it sometime if you’re game.”
“Is it a tough climb?”
“Not too bad, no. And there’s a good trail.”
“Sam . . . ”
A note in Jo’s voice made Sam feel slightly alarmed. “What?”
“Have you talked to Aisha about her dad yet?”
“I talk to her about Charlie quite a bit, yes.”
“Come on.”
Sam picked up her pace, passing Jo. The trail was wide and obvious. She didn’t need Jo to lead her home. “No, but I’ve been ready to. She hasn’t asked.”
“She’s worried it’s a painful subject.”
“It is a painful subject.”
“Yeah.” Jo closed the gap between them again, but stayed shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, matching her stride. “But I think she thinks she might be the product of rape or something.”
“Oh.” Sam stopped moving abruptly. “Oh. Well, yeah, I guess I should clear that up.”
When she got back to Rainbow and said good-bye to Jo, her mind was a jumble of contrasting thoughts and memories from both the far past and the near present. So much for nature clearing your head—but it was a good muddle, the kind that comes just before small epiphanies, so that was all right.
“Sam?” Charlie exited his bedroom and stood near where she was taking off the hiking boots Jo had lent her. “We should talk about some things.”
“Agreed,” she said, making her voice bright and light. “But can I beg a rain check? I need to do some work first.”
“What? Oh, yeah, of course.”
She darted a glance at the stove’s clock in the kitchen. “Let’s say a late dinner, eight-ish, maybe? That’ll give us two hours to work. Half an hour to make food. I’ll cook.”
Charlie’s smile resurfaced finally. “Sounds good,” he said. “Sounds really good.”
*
Charlie typed, oh did he ever—but he wasn’t thinking about a word he wrote. Samantha had settled herself in one corner of the living room after starting a cheerful blaze in the fireplace.
“Will it disturb you if I work in the living room, too?” she’d asked.
Like the idiot he was when it came to her, he’d answered, “No, no, of course not.” He didn’t regret the lie though. Not one bit.
He kept sneaking looks at her, but she was so absorbed in whatever she was doing online that he was pretty sure she didn’t notice. He wanted to ask her what she was working on, something to do with the ambiguous investing she’d referred to maybe? For some reason, he’d assumed she lived on some big divorce settlement or something or the inheritance she and Jo had—but now that he knew her a bit better, she actually didn’t seem like the type to be dependent on someone else’s generosity. Most of her entitlement and princess behavior seemed more like a game or her sense of humor than her legitimate personality.
Every so often she muttered something he couldn’t quite catch in response to something on one of the many screens she was clicking through—and it hit him that he’d heard her on her laptop frequently, usually in the morning. He’d just assumed she was checking social media sites or reading news or something. Maybe she’d been working.
Man, he was curious. But he resisted asking. Just.
All of a sudden, her eyes shot up and caught his stare. His blood thrummed, warming his face, and he glanced away quickly.
He focused hard on his monitor then and managed to get into the story for a while—and then she shifted her position and he chanced another quick ogle. What on earth was so fascinating about her working on a computer nearby in quiet?
Actually, scratch that. He knew exactly what he was enjoying. The cozy feeling of companionship that came with shared quiet and industry. It was a lovely, comfortable thing to sit and work side by side with someone.
A rustling sound caught his attention again. Sam opened a foil-wrapped candy and popped it in her mouth, then closed her laptop and picked up a spiral bound notebook.
She wrote steadily without pause and Charlie found his flow in her rhythm and the soft shhh of her hand moving across the page.
Eventually she stretched her lovely arms above her head and sighed. Charlie did the same. “Time’s up already?”
“No, you still have fifteen minutes or so—actually, you could keep going until dinner’s ready, if you want.”
“You don’t need help?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I’m good. Did you get anything done?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Why?”
“I don’t know. For a little while there it was almost like I was being watched.”
Her grin said she was joking, making light of earlier.
“Ha ha,” he said, though what he wanted to do was hug her. Which was ridiculous.
“So what were you working on anyway?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just a scene in the story.”
Sam’s head tilted slightly. She seemed to be waiting for something—and then she laughed. “Oh, that’s it, your full answer. I get it. Well, it sounds . . . very compelling.”
Charlie laughed too. “Sorry. I didn’t figure you wanted details.”
“Well, I asked, didn’t I? I only ask things I want to know or do things I want to do.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so.” She nodded her head with emphasis.
“Do you want to read what I have so far?” He couldn’t believe he was asking, even as the words poured out. He never offered that. And he was even more alarmed when Sam stood up, looking delighted.
“Really?” she asked.
He winced. “I guess. If you actually want to.”
“I’d love to—but aren’t you starved?”
“No, I’m okay. I can wait.”
“Great.”
He handed her his laptop, knowing it had finally happened: he’d lost his mind.
“I’m not very far in and it’s early stages and—”
“No disclaimers needed.”
“It won’t take you long.”
“What if I’m a really slow reader?”
“Well, yes, I guess, but even then—”
“I’m joking. I’m joking, and hey, if you’ve changed your mind or don’t feel comfortable. . . .”
“No, no. Go ahead. I’d like to hear what you think actually.” It horrified him to realize that was true.
She shrugged. “Great, but don’t expect any deep comments. I love to read, but I don’t know anything about stories. Numbers are more my thing.”
He handed off his laptop and headed to his room, planning to grab a shower before dinner. He liked watching her work, sure, but it would be agony observing her read his work. He’d drive himself crazy trying to decipher whether or not she was enjoying it at all.
He shaved, showered, and threw on jeans and a clean T-shirt. Then he read two chapters in a paperback he’d grabbed at the hospital gift shop. Finally he got to his feet and paced his small bedroom. It was taking too long. She’d hated it, absolutely hated it, and didn’t know how to tell him.
He couldn’t bear it another second. He trucked out to the living room in bare feet.
She was motionless on the couch, staring down at his laptop as if in a trance. She literally jumped when she noticed him. “I . . . I really have no idea what to say.”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. First drafts are always terrible. It’ll change a lot—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I loved it. I was . . . surprised how much, actually.”
“Surprised how? Why?”
“It’s feels very real and sweet. They’re both so broken in different ways. I want them to fix themselves—or maybe not, maybe just somehow find happiness together as they are.”
“Really? You’re not just being nice? You’re truly rooting for them?”
She nodded and lifted the laptop up to him. “Absolutely. And Gil is totally hot. I love him.”
Charlie wanted to ask a hundred questions, bu
t Sam was shaking her head and adding something else. “Only one thing with Simone. Don’t overdo the whole cold bitch thing is merely a cover up for a mushy heart. I’ll buy it to a point but the two qualities aren’t mutually exclusive. Don’t make her toughness a flaw. And also, now I’m just being silly though, don’t make her a brunette. I want her to be a blonde like me.” She laughed. “I know. Ego much?”
Charlie blanched, but Sam had already turned away. Surely she couldn’t have recognized herself in Simone? No, that would be beyond mortifying.
“But enough. You shouldn’t care what I think anyway. Like you said, the book will change a bunch before you’re through—and now I am making dinner because I’m starving.”
He nodded to her retreating figure. “And you’re sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m sure—actually wait. I have one more book-related question.” She turned back to him. “The couple of times things started to get steamy, you put triangle brackets around the word ‘action.’ Is that your weird writer slang for sex? Everything’s so fluid to that point. . . . Do you freeze up or something?”
He’d totally forgotten about those notes to himself. “Uh, well, there are only two—”
“So? I wanted to know what happened.”
Charlie’s whole body warmed. It was like he was in a state of constant embarrassment around her—and a constant state of something else too, come to think of it.
She was looking at him expectantly. What the heck, he thought. I let her read a first draft. I might as well go for full humiliation. “I don’t freeze up writing sex scenes, no. The opposite actually. I really enjoy them.”
Sam’s pupils dilated slightly—or maybe that was just his overactive imagination again. “Oh, you do, do you?”
“I do.” He cleared his throat. “But I have this thing I like to do, sort of a practice thing, to see if something I’m visualizing would work in real life and be remotely sexy or plausible or whatever.”
“Well, well, well,” Sam said. “You naughty boy. And just who, for the sake of literary integrity, do you practice these moves on?” She froze. “Oh, no—wait. Your wife, right? That’s what you meant when you said you told her stories. I’m so sorry.”