by Nicole Deese
“Ooh! Is it pizza time?” she asked.
“You obviously got your smarts from your mother.” With arms bent like a bulldozer scoop, he swept a squealing Savannah into the air, gave me a wink, and carried her toward the shop’s exit before letting her slide back down to her feet.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from calling them back or offering to tag along. Restraint was not my greatest strength.
For the last two weeks, Weston had backed off from his little-brother patrols, believing I’d made good headway in all the areas of life he’d claimed I’d stalled out on—which were most of them. But denying him a pizza date with my daughter because I was simply too afraid to let her out of my sight for a second longer than necessary would pique his suspicions that I wasn’t, in fact, quite as okay as I seemed.
“Um . . . Wes? Aren’t you forgetting your little bet?” Georgia’s singsong voice halted his steps toward the door.
“Bet?” I asked, momentarily distracted.
Her eyes widened. “Wait—he hasn’t told you about his new bromance?”
Georgia’s excitement grew tenfold as she read the confusion on my face.
“Bromance, really, Georgia?” Weston repeated in a tone that could dry paint.
“About a month ago Weston went to play basketball at the gym and every morning since has set his alarm to play one-on-one with this guy who apparently should be the world’s next Discovery Channel superstar. All I’ve heard about for days is Ricky said this, Ricky did this, Ricky wants to do this. But a-n-y-w-a-y”—she stretched the word out as if to derail any more potential protests from my brother—“they made this stupid bet that if Weston didn’t lose twenty pounds by our wedding day—well, let’s just say he won’t be in charge of picking his wardrobe for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Wait,” I said. “You have a bet to lose weight? When have you ever cared about losing weight?” I eyed my never-out-of-shape brother carefully, noticing for the first time the extra padding around his midsection.
“Since Nan’s cooking,” he said, patting his belly and glaring at his fiancée in jest. Nan was Georgia’s beloved grandma and the town’s most acclaimed cook. “I’ve got three months to get back down to my college weight. Not gonna be a problem.”
And with that, Savannah and Weston were headed down the block to Jonny’s Pizza. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to leave the frills of this feminine pastry shop. A high-end bakery covered in paisley wallpaper wasn’t exactly the most fitting establishment for my brother. He was better suited for restaurants that catered to rowdy groups of children and served soft drinks in foam cups rather than tea in fine china. As Lenox’s most adored high school teacher, he’d likely know two-thirds of tonight’s patrons.
Georgia’s lovesick gaze lingered out the shop’s picture window, even after the chimes on the door had stopped tinkling. Their relationship had always been full of teasing and banter, their childhood competitiveness a legend in our small northwest town. But truly, there was no woman better suited for my brother. He’d pined over her when she’d left Lenox for the bright lights of L.A. and compared every available woman he encountered to the impossible standard of the one and only Georgia Cole.
After seven years of distance, he’d finally won her heart. For the second time.
Georgia blinked hard, blushing when her gaze found mine. “He’s such a little boy sometimes.”
I couldn’t agree more. “How’s everything coming together for the wedding?” The teal-and-white wedding binder took up half the antique table.
“Let’s just say, trying to plan a wedding near Christmas while scripting for the spring production has been less than ideal.”
Georgia hadn’t owned the community theater for long, but her vision to give the youth of Lenox and surrounding areas a place to belong was beyond admirable.
“Oh, that’s right.” I’d forgotten about the script she’d been working on, just like I’d forgotten the details of so many other things over the last year. In some ways, Savannah’s cancer clearance was like a green light on a busy highway. I’d simply forgotten how to merge into traffic.
Weston’s challenge from Savannah’s school parking lot replayed in my mind. “I bet you can’t name a single time in the last year when you’ve done something for the sake of being social. Without Savannah.” Suddenly this moment felt a little less like pure spontaneity, and a little more like a setup, courtesy of Weston.
Georgia waved her hand as if to clear the cobwebs of my relational neglect. “But we don’t need to talk about wedding details or the fact that I’m in over my head trying to direct a show I haven’t even finished scripting yet. Tell me about the new job?”
The new job. My new job. “It’s going pretty well.” I took a sip of my tea to avoid the inevitable hard swallow that was my signature lie buster.
“You’ve adjusted well, then? To Savannah being in school and you working part-time? That’s a big change.”
Understatement of the world.
I nodded.
If lunch-break school drive-bys and daily check-ins with the school secretary could be considered adjusting well to Savannah’s absence, then, yes, I was doing exceptionally well at my new job. And in life.
“Good. Weston was pretty happy when he told me about the position. It’s hard to find something that will allow for a school schedule. I’m not the biggest Sydney Parker fan around, but I have to admit her fitness center is pretty remarkable. Especially for a town the size of Lenox.”
True, the building had every possible upgrade—a piece of architectural art on the east border of town. Weston had drawn up the original design plans for the building.
I dragged the end of my pointer finger along the rim of my rose petal teacup. “He’s a good brother. And I’m confident he’ll be an even better husband to you.”
The dark-haired beauty beamed at my words and then deflated with a long, drawn-out exhale. “The next three and a half months are going to be the longest months of my life.”
I laughed at that—her innocence, her ability to dream of a future with such tangible desire and reverence. I’d been the same way in the months leading up to my wedding day. I had graduated from high school just weeks before I’d walked down that church aisle and pledged my future to Chad. A decision I’d remake in a heartbeat if given the opportunity to go back in time. Even though our years were limited, our love was real. I’d probably worn the same doe-eyed expression that Georgia was wearing now.
I cleared my throat. “Let me help you with anything you’re willing to delegate. I’m not very crafty, but what I lack in creativity I make up for in my ability to follow step-by-step directions.”
“Deal.” Flipping her wedding planner open by way of the multicolor tabs and labels, Georgia slid her finger across the gridded page to an open Friday on her calendar. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to plan a night to work on wedding favors. And since I only have two local bridesmaids, I would love your help. You can bring Savannah, of course.”
The date was only two weeks away, but it had been so long since I’d planned anything that far out, unrelated to treatments or trips to Portland.
“Count us in.”
“Great! Nan’s been begging me to invite you over. She’ll be thrilled to cook for you and Savannah, plus she’s looking forward to teaching her piano again.” She shut her planner with a satisfied grin. “Now, let’s get out of here and get some real food. I’m starved.”
Maybe I’d been starved, too—for friendship.
Chapter Four
The timer on my phone counted down the twenty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds remaining on my lunch break. The nagging reminder of new member registrations and return-call memos tugged me toward the front desk in the lobby. But it was the car keys in my pocket that took priority.
Seven minutes later, I pulled into the deserted side lot at the elementary school. The playground was hidden from oncoming traffic, which meant it was also hidden from a certain high school teacher
who might or might not be taking an off-campus lunch break.
The fall breeze whipped my hair into my eyes. I gathered the unruly golden strands into a makeshift ponytail at the base of my neck and held the bundle together at my shoulder.
Certain I was being watched, I glanced behind me. But unless that empty black sedan had suddenly grown eyes, there was no one around. Quickening my steps, I focused on the happy sounds of carefree children. Giggles, squeals, and delighted screams lured me up a mound of fresh bark. I wedged myself between a large thorny rosebush and a metal fencepost.
Savannah’s hot-pink thermal was easy to spot. She’d worn her favorite top twice over the past week—a small battle I’d let her win.
The glee on her face shot an arrow of joy through my heart. She pushed her friend on the swings, her head tilted back, a wide laughing smile on her mouth.
A throat cleared behind me. “Ms. Hart?”
I whirled around and my balance faltered. My arms flung wide and the sleeves of my gray hoodie snagged on the thorny branches behind me. An arsenal of spears dug into my flesh.
“H-hi.” With my hair whipping a wild mane around my face, I blinked down at the only McCade currently in town.
Wrestling against the snare, I yanked my arm away from the bush, the effort fruitless. His puzzled gaze ran the length of me, landing on my bark-covered shoes.
The doctor cocked his head to the side, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Are you some sort of secret arborist?”
More like a modern-day scarecrow.
“No,” I said, the thorns working their way into the back of my thighs with every tug. “I just . . .” What? There was nothing I could say to explain this away. Just like there was nothing I could do to tone down the heat in my cheeks.
Without another word, Dr. Patrick McCade set his leather satchel on the pavement and strode up the bark hill. This would be the perfect time for him to unleash some payback for my unkind words to him at his office last week. I wouldn’t blame him a bit for leaving me confined to this prison of nature.
Placing a hand at the center of my back, he unclawed the spiky branches from my legs, arms, and hair. I winced, the burn in my face graduating from a smolder to a raging fire.
How many bad first impressions could I make with the same person?
“There,” he said, as if he’d just rescued a wild animal from a big-game trap. “You’re free.”
After a single leap to the blacktop below, he turned to offer his hand to me. Only my hands were too busy shaking to be held. Along with the rest of me.
I declined the polite gesture and inched my way down the shifting bark until I reached solid ground.
“Some of the kids I had in the vaccination clinic this morning would have run out the door screaming if they saw that.” He pointed to my hand, where two droplets of blood were rolling down my fingers.
“Oh . . . um?” My ability to speak in a comprehensive language had completely vanished. I curled my hand into a fist and pulled the cuff of my sleeve over my knuckles. “Thanks for . . . your help.” Your help untangling me from my own stupidity.
And then I bolted to my car.
“Wait—hold up!”
I could only handle so much embarrassment with the same person in the same ten minutes.
But he was at my side in a heartbeat. I glanced around the parking lot again, the black sedan still the only car in the lot besides mine. And he had just blazed right past it.
“Let me look at your hand.”
“That’s okay, really. I’ll wash it up at work.” I didn’t pause my stride, didn’t turn my head. Even still, I could feel his stare on the side of my face.
“The gym, right? You work at Parker Fitness?”
I stopped in front of my car door, ready to ask him how he knew where I worked, when he dropped his knee to the ground and rifled through his bag.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
His thick, ruddy hair ruffled in the breeze, and strangely, I had an urge to reach out and feel the texture of it. I clenched my noninjured hand tighter while he rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his elbows, exposing the jagged scar he’d shown Savannah at the clinic.
“Here we go.” Pinched between his fingers was a blue Superman Band-Aid and an alcohol wipe. “Sorry, I ran out of Hello Kitty and Dora.”
My gaze followed him as he stood to full height and the inside of my mouth went chalk-dry. He wants to doctor me?
“It will just take a second.” He gestured for my hand and I shook my head. “Come on, I should have known better than to startle a mother spying on her kid.”
“Oh, I wasn’t spy—”
“And it’d be a shame to ruin such a pretty sweater.” The side of his mouth ticked up.
Reluctantly, I gave him my hand.
His gentle clasp on my wrist made my breath catch. He worked the fabric of my sweater to the middle of my forearm, my skin tingling with awareness.
Though his hands looked callused and scarred, his fingertips felt as soft as velvet. With calculated pressure, he wiped the two puncture wounds clean and then tore open the bandage. He pressed each end to the inside of my palm.
I could have sworn the knock in my chest was louder than the ring of the school bell.
Recess was over. And so was doctor time.
“All better now.” He dropped my hand and took a step back before bending to grab the handle of his bag.
Forcing a swallow, I met his gaze. “Thank you, Dr. McCade.”
Kindness was such a rare commodity, and he’d just given it away freely. With a Superman Band-Aid.
“Oh, wait.” He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a round red sticker. “I have something else for you. And it’s Patrick.”
I took it and laughed. Way to be brave! was printed on the sticker.
“From the vaccination clinic,” he said.
I bit my bottom lip and rolled it between my teeth, searching for the right words to convey my horrible misjudgment. Searching for a way to tell him that his fake prescription had meant something to me—how I’d kept it in my car.
How I’d read it daily.
Instead I gave him the best compliment I could think of. “You’re a lot like him.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
Patrick’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’ll see you around, Willa.”
He remembered my name?
With a quick wave, he walked away, headed in the direction of the black sedan.
Sleep and I hadn’t been on the same team in many years.
I’d never been one to remember my dreams, but you didn’t have to remember a nightmare to know you’d just had one. The impression it left was enough—a sticky residue that wouldn’t easily rinse away.
More often than not, the hours between midnight and three were reserved for household chores.
I lifted a basket of Savannah’s freshly laundered clothes, and my elbow bumped the bookshelf behind me. A small four-by-six-inch frame clattered to the floor. It was the same picture Savannah propped beside her on the arm of the couch while she read her favorite bedtime stories.
I set the basket down again and bent to retrieve the photograph I’d memorized. Deep brown eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets, a lighthearted grin on his lips. It was taken just a week before his funeral. Nearly seven and a half years ago.
A familiar sadness pressed against my chest as I ran my thumb over the edge of the tarnished silver. There were hundreds of quotes dedicated to time and grief, dozens of books and pamphlets on heartache and loss, yet I didn’t always want to remember those words and phrases. Sometimes I just wanted to remember him—the way he’d laughed, the way he’d felt, the way he’d loved me so completely. I’d prayed for years that God would take away the ache, numb my wounded heart, so I could focus solely on raising my daughter. And though the pain attached to his death had lessened over time, my soul-deep longing for companionship had not.
As
I placed the frame back onto the wooden shelf, the Superman Band-Aid stuck to the heel of my palm snagged against the sanded edge.
This time the memory that surfaced was much fresher—as was the zing it ignited in the pit of my stomach. Patrick’s tender touch, playful voice, and winsome smile.
Abandoning the laundry basket, I flicked off the living room light and decided to try my luck with insomnia.
Chapter Five
I had whiplash from the volume of phone calls I’d answered today, triggered by the 50-percent-off coupon for personal training listed in the Lenox Tribune. And I still had two hours until I picked Savannah up from school. Studio Two opened and an army of sweaty bodies flooded the lobby. The attendance for midday yoga classes had skyrocketed, with people willing to drive upward of forty-five minutes to attend.
“. . . Patrick McCade . . . a traveling doctor . . . hotter than hot.” Two brunettes stood near the staircase, chugging back their waters, yoga mats slung over their shoulders.
The phone buzzed again, but hearing his name had slowed my reaction time.
“I heard he’s only here until the end of the year,” Sports Bra Girl said. “Maybe someone can tame his wild side enough to keep him around.”
“I’d like to give it—or him—a try,” her friend replied with a shrill laugh.
“You gonna get that, Willa?” Sydney Parker, my boss, wearing her favorite snakeskin stilettos, had stopped in front of my desk and was pointing to the phone.
“Yes, of course.” I lifted the phone to my ear and stumbled over the standard greeting while she tapped her long acrylic nails on the countertop. As if she were typing up a thesis on my job performance.
I hadn’t even hung up when Sydney launched into her second sentence, speaking in her signature staccato—as signature as her too-tight blond bun and ruby-red fashion glasses. The woman was walking intimidation.
Sydney was two years younger than me, but her business age could account for an extra three decades. Maybe four.
“. . . received your request for Tuesday mornings off. Fine. Just find someone to cover for you.” She slapped the counter and then turned away.