by Gerri Hill
* * *
Hannah kissed Jack’s cheek, then pulled the covers to his waist. “Don’t stay up too late, sweetie,” she said.
“I won’t,” he mumbled, but his eyes never left the iPad he was playing on—the same game he’d downloaded to her own device, a game she had yet to master.
At least he was content with that. For now. He hadn’t mentioned the “Playstation” word in quite a while now. James had told him when he turned twelve, they’d get him one. He’d rolled his eyes and said he’d be way too old by then. She watched him for a moment longer, pausing to pet Barney’s head as he lay snuggled against Jack’s legs. At the door, she stopped.
“Good night, Jack. I love you.”
At that, he looked up. “Good night, Mom. I love you too.”
She went back to the kitchen and took the bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and poured herself a glass. She turned the lights out as she walked through the house, taking her wine with her into her bedroom. As Jack had said, the house was old and the bedrooms were small. Her king bed and one end table barely fit against the wall. She took a sip of wine, her eyes going to the picture on the dresser. It was taken only a month before James got sick. James was smiling. Jack was smiling. She was smiling. A month later, there were no more smiles. It was a long fifteen-month battle, one that had taken its toll on all of them. Jack had been too young to really understand at first. Daddy had a headache, that was all he knew. But Daddy didn’t get better and Daddy couldn’t play catch with him and Daddy couldn’t take him to the park and Daddy missed his soccer games. When she’d finally told him the truth, that Daddy would never get better, that Daddy would be leaving them very soon, he’d stared at her with his big, blue eyes, trying to be brave. They’d had a good cry that night…she and Jack. She’d held him in her arms, much like she’d done when he was a baby, rocking him back and forth until they’d cried themselves out.
How long ago was that? A few months before James died? Her glance slid to the bed. She still wasn’t used to sleeping alone. They’d gotten married their third year of college. Jack was born three years later. They’d settled into their new life, their new family with ease. After only two years of teaching, she’d quit her job so she could stay home with Jack. James’s salary afforded them that. Her plan was to go back to teaching once Jack was older and got settled in school. In fact, she’d just started applying for positions when James got sick.
Now? Well, now she’d wait. She had a feeling that after their year here, they might very well be heading back to San Antonio. There simply wasn’t enough out here. Tiny Utopia had only the basic necessities. She could drive to Concan or Leaky, which weren’t far, but they only offered slightly better options than Utopia. She could drive all the way to Uvalde, a nice-sized town that had everything she needed, but it wasn’t a trip she could make on a whim. She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror. She could admit it, at least to herself, that it had probably been a mistake to move out here. She could have simply sold their house and moved closer to her parents. That didn’t really seem like starting over, though. She thought she needed to give Jack this time. Jack didn’t see enough of his grandparents as it was. With James gone, she could see a time where they never saw Margie and Dennis. So she needed to give Jack this time and she needed to give Margie a chance.
She looked again in the mirror, rolling her eyes at herself. James had always been the buffer between them. With him gone, she imagined she and Margie would clash like never before.
And that was going to make for a very long year.
Chapter Six
Lindsey pushed through the branches of a cedar tree, smiling at the sight below. She was surprised at how much she was looking forward to seeing Jack again. She had been afraid he wouldn’t be there…afraid she’d be disappointed. She didn’t even try to restrain Max. He took off down the hill, his large feet flopping out as he ran. Barney met him in the creek and they immediately began wrestling, tails wagging wildly.
Jack stood up, shielding his eyes to the sun as she made her way much more slowly down the hill. She could see the smile on his face.
“You came back!”
She nodded. “Told you I would.” She’d also come prepared. Instead of the hiking boots she normally wore, she’d put on her sports sandals. She paused at the edge of the creek for just a moment, then walked into the water. For early June, it was still a little cold but not nearly as cold as the Frio would be. With the sun beating down, she wished she’d worn her water shorts too.
“Have you been in the water yet?” she asked as she moved closer to him.
“No. It’s too shallow. And Mom…well, I don’t think she’d want me getting in.”
She sat down on one of the larger rocks. “You could take your shoes off and hang your feet in. Like this,” she said, dipping her feet under the water.
“Okay.” He had on dirty, scuffed Adidas shoes and he tossed them and his socks aside, wiggling his toes before sticking his foot in. He jerked it back out. “It’s cold.”
“Not too bad,” she said. “Now the river…that’s cold.”
“What river?”
“The Frio. It’s over on the other side of our…of my property,” she said. “Frio is a Spanish word.” She smiled at him. “What do you think it means?”
His brows drew together in thought, then he smiled. “Cold?”
“Yep.”
“Do you go swimming there?”
“Sure do.” Her smile faltered a little. “Haven’t this year yet.” She looked over at him. “You swim?”
He nodded. “I took lessons when I was six. My grandparents have a pool.” He shrugged. “We moved, though…so…”
“Where from?”
“San Antonio.”
She nodded. “That’s where…where my parents used to live.” She cleared her throat. “I recently moved here too. A few months ago.”
“We’ve only been here a week,” he said.
“Because your daddy died?”
He nodded. “He had a brain tumor. My Grandma Margie said that Jesus called him home.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said.” He looked at her seriously. “What do you think?”
Man…how did they get off on this subject? She shook her head. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
He chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds, then looked up at her. “I don’t know either.”
They sat there quietly, side by side, their feet dangling in the water as the dogs splashed around them. Then Jack looked over at her.
“Can you teach me how to skip rocks?”
“Sure. You need some small, flat ones.”
* * *
Jack and Barney came bursting into the house, dirtier than normal.
“Take your shoes off,” she called from her spot on the kitchen floor. He kicked them off and she noticed the wet spots that his socks made across the tile. Why were his socks wet? She shook her head slowly. Because he had gotten into the creek, that’s why. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She got up, shoving the box aside that she’d been unpacking. She found him in the bathroom, washing his hands.
She gave him what she hoped was a stern motherly look. “Your socks are wet.”
“Oh.” He looked down at the dirty socks on his feet. “Yeah.”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah? That’s all you have to say?”
“I didn’t get in the creek, Mom. I just…put my feet in. It was hot. Besides, it’s like this deep,” he said, holding his hands a foot apart.
“I know it’s shallow, Jack, but you could slip on a rock and knock yourself out.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “You’ve been listening to Grandma too much.”
She sighed. “So I have. But I don’t like you being out there by yourself. I know you think you’re all grown up, but—”
“I’m not by myself.”
She frowned. “You’re not?”
“No. I have a f
riend.”
She stared at him. “A friend?” Who could this friend be? They were miles from another family and according to Margie, most of the nearby residents were older with grown children.
“She’s nice. Barney has a friend too.”
She? Oh, no. She had been afraid this would happen. Her mother had warned her that this might not be the best move for Jack. He would be out here alone. Of course he would make up someone. Kids had imaginary friends all the time. Yeah. Young kids. Not a nine-year-old. Not her son.
With those thoughts running through her mind, she wondered what she should do. Should she call him on it? Should she just let it go and hope it goes away? Was this his way of coping with James’s death? Before she could settle on anything, he walked past her and back into the kitchen, with her following. He opened the fridge and stared inside.
“Can we have hamburgers for dinner? And some of those big fat potato wedges that you fry?”
She smiled and nodded. “Only if you help me.”
She pushed his imaginary friend to the back of her mind while she got him started on peeling potatoes. There was nothing better than hamburgers and fries to get things back to normal.
Chapter Seven
Breakfast had always been a major production out here at the big house. Well, dinner most nights too. Lindsey’s father and her grandfather both loved to fire up the grill for steaks or chicken or sausage that they’d gotten at the German smokehouse in Fredericksburg or Kerrville. Her grandfather especially loved to barbecue on the wood smoker, tending to a brisket for ten hours or more while her father contributed ribs that were so tender, they’d fall off the bone. The deck would be full of conversation and laughter and cold beer. Fun times, for sure. But it was the breakfasts that she was most fond of.
The breakfasts were her grandmother’s specialty. They were never simple and they always involved eggs. Waffles and pancakes, breakfast sausage and ham, homemade hash browns, fresh blueberry muffins, eggs that were sometimes fried, sometimes scrambled, and always a bowl of fruit to “settle it all,” as her grandmother used to say. There were the mornings when her grandmother would make biscuits like her own mother had taught her and they’d smother them with a creamy sausage gravy. Some mornings she’d make elaborate breakfast casseroles that were oozing with cheese. Or omelets that were light and fluffy, made to perfection. Or her quiche that would have so much bacon in it, the kids weren’t able to pick out the broccoli and mushrooms.
Breakfast was a time they’d gather here at the big house, she and her parents making the trek from their little cabin at the river. They’d have coffee and visit and make plans for the day, then linger over breakfast and all complain about how full they were. Lunch would usually be skipped as they’d spend the afternoon in the water…playing, relaxing, and visiting some more…and planning dinner.
Lindsey admitted that when alone, at her own apartment, she rarely, if ever, took the time for breakfast. She would dash off to the office, in a hurry to meet a client or finish a project.
She’d been living out here since late March. Not once had she considered making breakfast. That’s not to say that she didn’t think about the many mouthwatering meals her grandmother had provided. She did. She couldn’t go into the kitchen for coffee without glancing to the breakfast bar, remembering the countless dishes that had been placed there over the years. She simply couldn’t bring herself to cook. It was almost sacrilege to be in her grandmother’s kitchen, using her pots and pans, to try to whip up something that resembled the delectable dishes she remembered.
That’s why now, this morning, she was shocked to find herself rummaging in the fridge, trying to find enough stuff to make an omelet. On her last trip to the grocery store, she’d actually bought bacon and eggs. The eggs had sat unused. The bacon she’d used on a hamburger and then, once, wrapped around shrimp when she’d attempted to grill one of her father’s classic meals. The shrimp had turned out good. Nearly perfect. But sitting alone at the table had brought such grief to her she wasn’t able to stomach the meal.
She had onions. No peppers. She had some mushrooms that were just this side of good. They maybe had one more day left before she’d have to toss them. So she pulled out one of her grandmother’s pans, one she’d seen her use for omelets before and went about the business of “whipping one up” to use her grandmother’s line.
It wasn’t perfect, no. It broke apart when she attempted to fold it over. It still looked good enough to her, though. She poured a glass of orange juice, foregoing a third cup of coffee, and took her plate outside to the table. It was still early and cool, the ceiling fan helping to stir the air. Max sat drooling beside her, his eyes on her meal. She peeled off the crust of the bread she’d toasted and handed it to him. He nearly took her finger off as he chopped down.
“We’ve got to work on that, Max,” she said. She pointed to the floor of the deck. “Down. Lay down.” He looked at her and tilted his head. “Why is it when Jack tells Barney to lay down, he does?” Another tilt of the head, but his eyes were on her plate. “Okay, we’ll work on it.”
She actually moaned at the first bite of her omelet. The only cheese she’d had was cheddar and she’d used a sprinkle of that. Her grandmother had always mixed Swiss and cheddar for her omelets. She made a mental note to add Swiss to her next grocery list.
In fact, she could probably take the time to drive into town this morning and do some shopping. She needed the makings for sandwiches. She thought it’d be fun to pack a little picnic basket to take to the creek. And for some reason, she’d been in the mood for a good steak, something that hadn’t crossed her mind in months. Maybe she’d even pull out one of her grandfather’s bottles of wine. A baked potato. Some easy veggie to go with it.
She glanced down at Max. “What do you think? Feel like a steak tonight?” She took a bite of her toast, then handed him the rest, smiling as he ate it in one bite. “You didn’t even taste it.” She reached out and rubbed his head, scratched behind his ear like he liked, then went back to her omelet. She took a bite, then stared off into space, wondering if she dared to try to make her grandmother’s biscuits. She’d taught them all and she knew where her grandmother kept her recipes. It might be fun to try. She’d add biscuit ingredients to her grocery list too.
* * *
Lindsey was running late and instead of parking the Mule at the crossroads where the trails met and walking, she took it all the way to the creek. She had too much to carry, anyway. Besides the smaller cooler, at the last minute, she’d grabbed a fishing pole and a can of corn. As a kid she’d caught plenty of perch with corn.
There was no official trail going down to the creek here. When they were kids, they only came this way to irritate Old Lady Larson. Other times, they’d go farther upstream to splash around. Truth was, they mostly stayed on the river side. The Frio wasn’t really very wide in most places and parts of it were rather shallow. But deep holes, good for both swimming and fishing, were found in many places. The last few days, she’d had an itch to explore the river again. Maybe it was the summer heat that was settling over them—settling down like it planned to stay awhile, as her grandmother would say—that was making her long for a dip in the cool waters. Or maybe it was being at the creek, splashing in the water with Jack and the dogs that made her want to actually get in the water.
She was surprised at how quickly she and Max had established a trail. He ran ahead of her, knowing exactly where they were going. A bark from down below told her that Jack and Barney were already there. Jack waved at her when he saw her, and she waved back, a silly grin on her face as she reached the water.
“You’re late,” he accused.
“I brought stuff,” she said, holding up her fishing pole and the cooler.
“Are we going to fish?” he asked excitedly. “I thought it was too shallow.”
She walked across the creek, her sandals gripping the rocks easily—the rocks they’d piled up to make a little bridge across the water. Sh
e didn’t put her stuff down, though. She looked upstream, past the fabric marker that his mom had put out.
“I know your mom said not to go past there,” she said, pointing, “but there’s a deeper spot upstream. We can fish there.” She paused. “Or do you think your mom would get mad?”
His face turned serious as he contemplated her question. “I guess if I’m with you, she wouldn’t get mad.”
She pointed to his watch. “How much time before you have to get back?”
He held up his wrist showing her the digital watch. “At 1:15 it’ll beep at me.”
She looked at her watch. It was almost twelve thirty. “Okay, we’ve got a little bit of time.” She started walking and he came up beside her, his own fishing pole in his hands. The dogs ran ahead of them, excited to be exploring a new part of the creek. “You eat already?”
He nodded. “Mom had egg salad. I don’t like it very much, but I don’t tell her that.”
“I’ve got sandwiches. Turkey and cheese.”
He smiled and nodded. “That sounds good. I gave Barney most of mine at lunch when Mom wasn’t looking.”
“Now listen, you don’t come out here by yourself. You stay back there where your mom told you.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay. And don’t tell her I took you out here, either,” she added. “Don’t want us getting into trouble.”
She’d scoped out this part of the creek yesterday, after Jack had gone home. She’d walked both upstream and down, trying to find a place where they could fish. This spot had a couple of deeper holes and she’d seen a few bluegill sunfish and some yellow perch. She thought Jack would have fun catching them.
“What are we gonna use for bait?”
“Corn.”
“Corn? No worms?”
“No. I think I know where we could get some, but today we’ll use corn.” They used to get their worms from her grandmother’s garden in the old compost pile. She hadn’t yet been out to the garden. That was something else she’d felt guilty about. Her grandmother prized her vegetable garden. Lindsey hadn’t had the will to even walk in it. Maybe she’d go out there and clean it up. It was too late in the year to plant anything, but maybe by fall she could do something. Her grandmother practically had a garden year-round. Surely she could find something to grow.