by Jen Printy
I smile and push off the bike.
Leah takes my hand without hesitation as she leads me through the deep shade toward the back of the house. We cross the rolling lawn to a small barn positioned on the river’s edge. The glassy surface of the water reflects the building’s weathered gray shingles.
The interior of the barn is cool compared to the mid-afternoon heat. The smell of earth mingles with pine. A petite woman with short strawberry-blond curls sits hunched over a potter’s wheel. Her hands embrace and smooth a small spinning chunk of clay. Each touch changes the lump’s form, and a shape begins to emerge. Around the room’s perimeter are shelves stacked with brightly colored pots in different shapes and sizes.
Leah waits patiently for her mother while breezes blowing through the open door ruffle and play with her hair. Soon the wheel slows, and her mother leans back to examine her work.
“Mom.”
She looks up, and a stunned smile flashes across her narrow face. “Lee-lee, what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming. Or did I forget?”
“Nope. It’s a surprise,” Leah says.
As her mother steps toward us, her gray eyes flick to me, and Leah releases my hand.
“This is Jack. Jack, my mom, Marlee.”
I bow.
“My, what manners.” She grins at her daughter then returns the smile to me. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“And you, Marlee,” I say. “It’s clear where your daughter gets her love of the arts. Your workmanship is impeccable.”
“Thank you.” Marlee grins and looks at her daughter. “Manners and taste. He’s a keeper. I was just going to clean up and have lunch, or is it dinnertime? I never bother to keep track when I’m in the zone. Anyhow, hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, Marlee removes her apron, tosses it aside, and wipes her hands on a towel that was draped over her shoulder. She begins to hum as she heads out the door toward the house.
“You’re loading it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Leah murmurs.
“I want her to like me.”
“No worries there. You got her eating out of your hand.” Her smile looks a bit annoyed.
“Only one thing.”
Leah stops and looks at me. “What?”
“Does she cook like your brother?” I whisper.
She laughs. “Thank goodness, no.”
The interior of the quaint little farmhouse is not at all what I expected. One giant room takes up most of the first floor. Sunlight floods in through large windows that look out over the river, and each wall is painted a different color. Marlee disappears into the bathroom to clean up. “You should show Jack your sketches,” she calls out before shutting the door.
I turn, giving Leah a hopeful grin.
“My mom’s a bit of a hoarder. Upstairs is a sty.” Her excuse seems half-hearted, as if she’s trying to convince herself and me.
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Anyway, I’d love to see your artwork.”
“No! Sorry, but no.” She shifts away as an awkward silence follows.
Her refusal to open up and let me in is like a kick to the gut. Hypocrite. Think what you’re keeping from her. In truth, we’re practically strangers. I curse myself again for thinking we could ever be more. I realize Leah is studying me.
“Have you ever been to Wiscasset?” she asks in a whisper.
“Besides today, no. Never. Why?”
Leah doesn’t answer. She stares out the window, blinking repeatedly while she gnaws on her lower lip as though she’s trying to find courage.
“What is it?”
She shakes her head.
I’m about to press the matter when Marlee breezes through the room, heading to the kitchen. “Lee-lee, I could use a hand.”
“Sure thing.” Leah says, but the sound seems to get stuck in her throat. “I’ll be right back.” She smoothes her clothes nervously, and with a deep sigh, she leaves the room.
When the door swings shut, I hear Marlee mumble, but nothing clear leaks through the wooden door. Curiosity wins over manners. I walk silently to the doorway, where I begin to understand her apprehension.
“Well, he seems like a nice young man,” says Marlee.
I’m amused, despite the tension still hanging in the air.
“Yup.” Dishes clatter.
“So handsome and polite.”
More clanging. “Don’t go there, Mom.”
“I’m just saying he’s nice. What’s wrong with that?”
Leah sighs. “You’re right. Jack is a great guy, but we’re only friends—”
Dropping my head, I close my eyes.
“Honestly, we haven’t known each other that long. By the way, don’t tell Grady that. You know how he can get.”
Silence follows, giving me a chance to think. Friends. A twang of disappointment flitters in the pit of my stomach. I should be grateful she considers me a friend rather than a creepy stalker.
“You know, your father and I started out as friends.”
“I know. I’ve heard the stories a thousand times. This would make it a thousand and one.”
“Well then, if you’re only friends, why do my comments bother you, hmm?” Marlee laughs. “Is it wrong for me to want you to find a nice man who will treat you like your father treated me?”
“End of discussion, Mom. What if he hears you? Now drop it. Please.”
Silence blankets the kitchen, except for the occasional clinking dish.
I groan internally and return to my seat. I don’t remember courtship being this baffling. But then again, I have been out of circulation for a long time.
Her mother is still grinning from ear to ear when she and Leah emerge from the kitchen. She sets a pot of steaming soup in the middle of the table and sits. Leah slides a stack of variegated bowls next to the pot. Her expression frozen in an annoyed frown, she slips into the chair nearest mine. I sit mindlessly at the small round table, pretending to be oblivious to the glares shot back and forth between mother and daughter. In my head, buzzing thoughts spin at a hundred miles per hour. Sure, Leah is friendly, welcoming even, but maybe that’s part of her makeup and has nothing at all to do with me. Not liking where my assessments are leading, I shut them down.
Minus a cue, Marlee and Leah bow their heads, and I follow suit.
“Thank you, Lord, for this food. Bless it to our bodies. Amen,” Marlee says, then looks up with a smile. “Now, let’s eat.” She ladles scoops of hot broth and vegetables into the bowls. “Oh, drat, I forgot the biscuits. Could you, Lee-lee? They’re on the stove.”
Leah gives her mother a wary look. “Sure.” She stands, and instinctively, so do I.
Too busy gazing out the window, Marlee doesn’t seem to notice my overly proper manners. Maybe she’s just being polite or storing up material for another mother-daughter chat. Leah, on the other hand, does notice. She stares at me. I try to read her eyes but decipher only a swirling mess of emotion. She doesn’t say a word before darting into the kitchen.
I hesitate before dropping back into my seat. When Leah returns, she avoids eye contact.
“I’m assuming that’s your bike out front.” Marlee nods to the window, blowing on her soup-filled spoon.
“Yup,” I say.
“My husband loved to ride.”
“Leah mentioned something about that.”
“Is that a ’69 Bonneville?”
My eyebrows rise. “Uh-huh.”
“What’s the ’67 exhaust doing on it?”
“I had to replace the whole system a couple years back. It’s all I could find at the time.”
“Too bad. That will kill the resale value.”
“That doesn’t matter much to me. She’s not going anywhere.” I smile. “You know your bikes.”
“My hubby made me a bit of a gearhead. It was his passion, and he unknowingly passed it on to me and the kids. Leah knows more than she lets on. She can change her own tires and oil. She insisted on it before she could drive.”
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Another similarity. In spite of Lydia’s wealthy upbringing, she hated having things done for her. It was a trait that first attracted me to her.
Leah shrugs then grins as if she’s up to no good. “Mom, I was just thinking. Did you get rid of that box of Dad’s stuff in the attic?”
“It’s still there. I know, I know. I should take it to Goodwill.”
“Would you mind if I grab Dad’s old helmet? Jack gave up his for me.”
I shake my head. “Thank you, but I don’t need…”
“Nonsense. You shouldn’t be riding around with your head just asking to become a squashed melon.” Marlee regards me with a motherly eye.
“Besides, if I have to wear one, so do you.” Leah jumps to her feet then dashes up the stairs.
I sigh. No sense arguing now. I’ve been tag-teamed, and neither Leah nor her mother seem like the type to take no for an answer. I chuckle.
Without a word, Marlee heads into the kitchen. I grab the dishes and follow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Winters,” I say, setting the bowl in the sink. “The soup was delicious.”
“You’re very welcome, but only if you call me Marlee. My mother-in-law was Mrs. Winters.”
I smile then nod.
“She likes you, you know? You’re the first friend she’s dragged home. She’s kept to herself ever since her bout with cancer.” She pours the remaining soup into a container and pops on the lid.
My brow furrows. “Cancer?”
“Me and my big mouth.” She slides the soup onto the top shelf of the refrigerator. “She doesn’t like talking about it. Who can blame her?”
“How old was she?”
“Thirteen. It was a difficult time, as you can imagine. My husband had died a few years earlier, so it was just the three of us. Grady took it the hardest. Man of the house and all. It was his first year of college, but he came home every weekend to be with me and sit with Leah after her chemo treatments. It made him more protective than the average big brother.”
“She seems healthy now.”
“Oh, yes, she’s cured. Funny thing is, somehow Lee-lee knew she’d be okay all along and kept trying to reassure us. I call it faith. Grady says it’s a sixth sense. But who knows?”
“Mom?” Leah asks from the door, making us both jump. “Whatcha talking about?”
“Oh, nothing important. Jack and I are just getting to know one another. Right, Jack?”
I nod.
“Whatever she’s saying, it’s all lies. I’m perfect with no faults.” Leah winks.
I gawk at the matte-black helmet in her hand. She rotates it, showing off the ridge of spikes down the middle and the tie-dyed skulls and crossbones decals on either side.
“It’s interesting,” I say.
“The stickers were my idea,” Leah says.
“Your father was an understanding man, I see.”
“Yeah, he had a quirky sense of humor. Straight as an arrow during the week, but a rebel on the weekends.” She places the helmet on my head. “It fits.”
Marlee chuckles.
“Fantastic. Maybe you should wear it, and I’ll take mine back.”
“Oh, no. I think it’s perfect,” Leah says with that mischievous grin.
The helmet’s payback for Journey’s jacket, I assume.
CHAPTER NINE
We lose track of time sitting out by the river, skipping stones and roasting marshmallows. Throughout the evening, I ask her many times about why she wanted to know if I’d been to Wiscasset, but every time, she weaves and dodges, never giving me a straight answer.
Adding to my ever-growing list of stupid things to impress a girl, I wear the monstrosity that is her father’s helmet all the way home. Luckily, it’s well past ten when I return Leah to her dorm.
She fiddles with her keys. Again, she stalls. Once she enters and closes her door, I realize what a coward I’ve become. I take a moment to reach deep for boldness then knock on the door. Leah opens it, looking surprised.
“I wanted you to know I had a wonderful time.” I take her hand, and in a nineteenth-century gesture of love, I kiss it.
Her breath catches softly, then she smiles.
“Until tomorrow.”
“Good night, Jack,” she says, closing her door.
The door across the hall cracks open, and Nathan looks out. I nod a hello, and the boy slams his door, almost smashing his fingers in the process.
After another fruitless search for the sapphire-eyed man, I crawl into bed around three in the morning. Exhausted, I slip easily into slumber, and again, I dream of Leah.
In my dream, she leads me through a field of flaxen grasses toward a lone elm. Tall and proud, the tree points straight to the sky. Under its canopy of leaves and branches, Leah stops. She cups my face in her small hands and stares into my eyes. “Who are you, Jack Hammond? And what are you hiding from me?”
I say nothing, but a need for Leah to know everything about me stirs within. Without my permission, scenes of my past burst to life around us, flickering like images from old home movies.
I want to yell for her to close her eyes or apologize for the fact that nothing but darkness resigns inside me now. But my mouth stays frozen shut. When the last image fades, Leah does something I never predicted. She smiles and then says, “See? You can’t scare me away. I’m still here.”
I wrap my arms around her waist and press her body against mine. Closing my eyes to savor the moment, I move in for a kiss. “Leah,” I whisper.
An orange glow shines through my eyelids and invades my dream, waking me. The sun beams through my grungy east window, stretching warm streaks along my face. Streams of dust float and swirl through the rays. Ah hell, only a dream. I lie spread-eagle across my bed, wishing for just five more minutes in that paradise. Alas, I’m wide awake. I jolt up onto one elbow and glance out the window, squinting against the blinding brightness of the world. By some miraculous event, the meteorologist nailed today’s forecast—bright sunshine.
After painting at Rare Books, I park in front of Leah’s building at noon sharp. As my foot hits the curb, the door flies open, and Leah bounds out. A small backpack hangs over her shoulder, and her white jean jacket swings over her arm. Coral bathing suit straps peek out from the collar of her pale-yellow T-shirt. Her braided hair leaves her neck exposed.
“I finished. I finished. I finished,” she chants as she hops down the stairs.
“Brilliant.”
She fiddles with a stray lock of hair, twisting it around and around her finger, releasing it, then repeating the process again. “I have you to thank.”
“Me?”
“Okay, maybe not you. I owe Bessy the thanks.” A trace of humor appears across her lips then disappears.
Mesmerized, I step forward. The inner voice begs for a kiss. I resist, stride back, and lean against the motorcycle’s smooth leather seat. “Who’s Bessy?”
“The bike, silly.”
“You named my bike Bessy?”
“Yup.” The smile she’s been restraining breaks through and expands across her beautiful face.
Leaning back, I cross my arms over my chest. “No way. You can’t name a guy’s bike something like Bessy. You’ll get me beat up for sure. Rocky or Bud.” Or even Tank. “But not Bessy.” I mean to sound horrified, but the suppressed laugh that bubbles to the surface betrays me.
She blithely ignores my rejection of her naming choice. “A ride on Bessy made all the difference. After we got back last night, I stayed up late and finished.”
“You could’ve gone to the beach this morning, then. You didn’t have to wait for me.” I hold the helmet out to her.
“I wanted to.” She quickly slips the helmet over her head. No apprehension. No doubt.
Her response surprises me. Just friends, my ass. But is it possible Leah’s developing real feelings for me? I grin and straddle the Triumph. With a turn of the key, the bike rumbles to life, and Leah climbs on. As before, when her arms tighten aro
und my waist, my heart quickens into a frenzy.
Thank you, Bessy! I pull away from the curb.
As we head out of the city, the stifling heat surrenders to cool ocean breezes. Concrete buildings give way to sprawling fields and curvy roads with glimpses of the sea. Leah points. A crescent-shaped beach emerges through a grove of tall pines, stretching pale yellow along the shoreline. I drive into a dirt parking lot. Dust billows around us. I park alongside a row of cars lining a weathered split-rail fence.
We walk down the trail of wooden planks. The salty scent mixes with the sweet fragrance of the deep-pink sea roses that border the path. The dune grasses flutter and bend with the light gusts, submitting into waves of apple green. The beach is not as crowded as I would have thought. Just a handful of groups dot the sand.
When we reach Rachel, Grady, and others I don’t know, Leah flops down onto one of the large multicolored blankets, leaving a spot open next to her, which Rachel takes. In front of me, a curly-haired boy crashes into a boy with fiery-red hair, causing me to step back. As Curly Head rams a guy’s face into the sand and tears the Frisbee from his grasp, he says, “Oh, good. Now we have even numbers. What’s your excuse now, Grady?”
“I said I’d play later, Tom. I’m finishing my lunch first.” Grady looks at me, at Leah, then back to me. “Hey, Jack. Nice day, huh?” He grins.
“Yeah.” I avoid eye contact. I can imagine the parade of questions marching through his head—Why are you here with my sister? What are your intentions? When are you planning to snap and kill us all? I grimace.
“You know what they call a day without sunshine? Night.”
I shake my head and chuckle.
“Speaking of night, I called Leah yesterday. She was out late, for her anyway.”
I nod, watching the heated game of tackle Frisbee.
“She’s never out, even on Saturday nights.”
“Oh,” I say, still not looking at him.
“Bike ride, huh?”
I allow my eyes to stray in Grady’s direction. “Yeah.”
“Uh-huh.” He looks at his sister again.
If I were a betting man, I would venture that the big-brother speech is on the horizon. I wheel around and look out across the sparkling ocean—out where blue meets blue—hoping the action buys me more time. I don’t want to have the talk with an audience, if I can help it.