by Nicole Deese
PATRICK: I’m always feeling brave.
Chapter Fifteen
Alex reached across the table and slapped another slice of extra-cheesy lasagna onto her plate. “Wait, go back. How the heck”—she emphasized the word for my benefit—“did you get out of that murky swamp with the broken-leg guy? What happened after the raft sprung a leak?” She shoved another forkful into her mouth and gawked at Patrick, who was, once again, owning his role as Captain Story.
“Well, since the water was up to our necks, we had to float him on our backs. The splint we rigged was out of tree bark, so it was very buoyant, but—”
“But hellllooo, the alligators!” Alex’s hands flew up in the air. “Bet you and your doctor pal dropped more than a few f-bombs over that ordeal.”
Patrick chuckled at her while I pinched my lips and hoped Savannah’s next question wouldn’t be about f-bombs. Fortunately, she was just as engrossed in Patrick’s story as the rest of us.
“Did you see one—an alligator? Did it have a lot of ugly green warts?” Savannah asked.
“Yes, we saw several that night, actually. If not for the pickup truck waiting on shore, I don’t know if we would’ve escaped. My friend nearly lost his hand.”
The ping of Alex’s fork dropping onto her plate made us all jump. She pushed her chair out and picked up her dishes and drinking glass. “Well, thanks for the nightmares. I’ll be sure to send my therapy bill to your house. Or to your hut. Just leave your forwarding address with Willa.”
Patrick and I both laughed. Alex went back and forth between the table and kitchen, clearing the plates and putting away all the extra platters and pans.
The girl was a puzzle of complications. Every time I pegged her as irresponsible or immature, she’d proved me wrong. She had made a full lasagna dinner from memory, cleared the table without being asked, and was about to let Savannah “paint her face” with a bunch of old makeup.
“Okay, kid, make sure whatever you do to my face, it doesn’t clash with my hair,” Alex deadpanned.
Savannah sat at the edge of the couch while Alex knelt in front of her on the floor.
“I like your hair.” Savannah brushed it back with her fingers. “It looks like cotton candy. I got that once, at the hospital.”
“Yeah?”
Savannah added a shade of taffy-pink blush to Alex’s cheeks. “Yep. I had cancer. But not anymore. Now I just get to be a normal kid and have fun with my mommy and my uncle.”
“That’s cool.”
I pressed my hand to the base of my throat. Savannah’s resilience never failed to astound me—a trait I wished we shared.
A warm touch at my elbow caught my attention. Patrick’s crystal-blue eyes met mine. He inclined his head toward the kitchen as the girls chatted about eye shadow and lip glosses.
Moving to the sink, I turned on the tap water and rinsed the last few serving utensils before adding them to the dishwasher.
He set a glass on the top rack, his voice quiet and close. “So, what’s her story?”
It was a loaded question. “I don’t know everything, but what I do know is . . . complicated.”
Patrick closed the dishwasher and then leaned back against the counter. “I’m sure that’s true, but I’m also sure that what you’ve done for her so far will leave a positive impact.”
I wanted that to be true, but how much help could I really be if she was being shipped off in a few days?
“So . . .” Patrick’s change in tone held an extra note of mischief. “I may have heard from a little birdie that you like to bake.”
I huffed a short laugh. “Well that birdie is either four feet tall and insists that Cinderella should be a part of the Bible, or he’s six feet tall and is often confused about the meaning of ‘none of your business’—so which one is it?”
“The bigger of the two, I’m afraid.”
Naturally. “I can only imagine what else he’s told you about me.”
“Afraid I can’t divulge that information. What happens on the court . . .” He tilted his head to the side and I rolled my eyes.
“Maybe you should write a new clause into whatever basketball pact you two have going on—eliminate some topics of discussion.” I pointed to myself. “Like me.”
His smile widened. “Or you could just bake me something and I can judge his honesty for myself.”
Bake him something?
“I don’t have any ingredients for baking in the house.” At least I hadn’t used them in a very, very long time.
“Hmm.” Patrick tapped his chin. “I’m trying to recall—yep, there’s a very specific page in Rex’s travel journal dedicated to baked goods.”
“Liar.” I swatted him with a kitchen towel. “I think I need to see this journal for myself.”
“Anytime.” Was that a challenge or an invitation?
The theme song for 101 Dalmatians blared from the living room.
“Crap, that’s my phone,” Alex said.
When we stepped around the corner, I had to hold my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Alex no longer looked like a tough biker chick. Instead, she looked as if she were about to interview for the circus.
She stood up from the floor and reached for her phone in her backpack. “Yep. Cruella just called.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Syd.”
Again, I stifled a laugh. “Does she need me to take you home? It’s just around the corner, I’ll grab my keys.”
Alex texted her back. “Nope. Too late. She’s on her way.”
“Okay, well . . . you might want to take a look in the mirror.”
“Doesn’t she look so beautiful, Mommy?” Savannah sat up taller.
I kissed the top of Savannah’s head. “She looks quite exotic. You have a gift, sweetie.”
“Hey, can I take a look at your knee, Vannie?” Patrick asked, moving around the couch. The use of her nickname—a name used only by my brother—made my heart flip.
And then flop.
Because Patrick McCade wasn’t staying in Lenox. His life was bigger than what our little town could contain. We were as temporary as his timeline.
The knock at the door was a welcome distraction from my conflicting emotions. Only, when I pulled it open the face that stared back at me did not belong to my boss.
It belonged to Davis.
The seconds seemed to stretch and pull like taffy the moment Davis stepped into my tiny house. The ceilings shrank, the walls narrowed, and the thrumming of my pulse intensified.
Davis held out a colorful bouquet, tethered with a giant smiley-face balloon. “These are for Savannah.”
Patrick stood from his place next to Savannah as Davis approached the couch.
“It’s not my birthday.” Savannah peeked over the back of the sofa, clearly not understanding the concept of a get-well gift.
“No, sweetie. Mr. Davis brought these for you because of your hurt knee.” I clasped my hands and wrung them. “Which was a very kind thing to do.”
“But I’m better now. Dr. Patrick fixed me all up, see?” She pointed to her exposed knee, and to Patrick’s handiwork.
“Yes. I see that,” Davis said, eyeing Patrick the way one might eye a persistent weed in a garden bed.
Alex shuffled down the hallway from the bathroom, her fuchsia lips curved in a rueful grin. Apparently she had decided against washing off Savannah’s artwork in favor of witnessing the scene in the living room.
“Well, hellllooo,” Alex practically sang the word, her eyes darting between Patrick and Davis. The girl really did thrive in uncomfortable situations. “I’m Alex, Willa’s friend.” She looked at me and clucked her tongue. “And you said your hosting skills were rusty.”
Davis shook her hand, his brows arched as if trying to figure out where this eccentric teenager fit into my life. I would have offered him an explanation if Sydney hadn’t knocked on the door before I could.
I invited her to join the town meeting taking place
in my living room.
Sydney’s designer heels sank into my tan carpet. Her no-nonsense gaze swept across every face, stopping at last on Alex. “Why do you look like that?”
Alex squared her shoulders. “It’s a new trend.”
Sydney’s lips thinned and before another battle could break out between the two of them, I intervened. “Savannah gave Alex a mini makeover tonight. Just for fun.” The irony of my word choice rang in my ears. Fun was not exactly the atmosphere Sydney had just walked into. We’d transitioned from a dinner party to a testosterone competition.
“The car’s running,” she said. “Get your stuff.”
Alex’s eye roll could have been seen from heaven. Amazingly, though, she obeyed.
“See you later, squirt.” Alex tapped Savannah on the head, gave me a quick nod, and then pushed her way out the front door.
Sydney exhaled and the rigidity in her body seemed to diminish by half. “Good night,” she said, stepping onto the porch.
“Wait—Sydney?” I turned away from the alpha male stare-down happening in my living room. “If there’s anything I can do—for Alex—I’d like to help—”
“You know, I never pegged you as the ask-forgiveness-before-permission type.”
I rocked back on my heels.
“The next time you want to play Debbie Do-Gooder, you can do it with someone else. Alex needs structure, not sympathy.”
“Yes, I agree that she would benefit from some structure, but perhaps there’s a better way to—”
Her tight blond bun didn’t budge when she shook her head and cut me off. “I’ll see you at work.”
The bang of the door seemed to reverberate in the deafening silence. As I swung back toward the living room, both men watched me with renewed interest.
Nothing like a good boss scolding to add to the pressure cooker of this house. I glanced at the clock on the microwave, looking for any possible excuse to end this evening. There wasn’t a single diplomatic topic to be discussed between Davis, Patrick, and me. That, I knew. “Well . . . I should probably get Savannah to bed. It’s a school night.”
Savannah moaned and hobbled off the couch toward her bedroom.
Patrick touched my arm. “Thanks for dinner, Willa.” Yet the way his hand lingered, the way his jaw pulsed, the way his eyes scanned my face, made me wonder if there was something else he wanted to say—or ask?
Davis stepped away from his place near the couch to stand beside me.
“You’re welcome.” My reply was as underwhelming as Patrick’s nod.
He dropped his hand, grabbed his coat, and let himself out.
As I turned back to Davis, the hurt reflected in his deep brown eyes stole my next breath.
“Mommy . . . aren’t you coming? I can’t reach the toothpaste.”
I pointed down the hall. “I . . . I need to—”
“I’ll wait.” Two words he’d spoken to me before.
After I’d switched off Savannah’s bedroom light and cracked her door, I found Davis standing near the sofa. Right where I’d left him.
“I’ve never pressured you, Willa . . . and I don’t intend to start pressuring you now, but I do need to know where we stand.”
The words hung in the air, suspended between us—the same way this conversation had been suspended for months.
He wanted an answer; he deserved an answer.
Only I didn’t have one—or maybe I just didn’t have the one he wanted. I didn’t know for sure.
Unlike Patrick’s ruddy hair that curled over his ears and at the base of his neck, Davis’s hair was cropped short, a dark espresso like his eyes. He wasn’t a gym member, yet his athletic build could have fooled anyone. As a veterinarian he was as active as he was ambitious, making pet house calls, visiting rural farms, and building his clinic from the ground up.
Stable, secure, and safe. The very attributes that my husband had possessed in spades.
“Settling back into normal life has taken a lot more time and energy than I anticipated.”
“And yet you’ve had time to make new friends.”
Somehow, I doubted he was referring to the angsty teen he’d met earlier tonight. But Patrick wasn’t a threat either, not when he came with an expiration date.
“He has nothing to do with this. With us.”
“Us?” He tilted his head to the side. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you refer to you and me as an us.”
Probably because I never had. Relationship titles were just one of the many reasons I’d stayed clear of dating.
“Davis . . . you’ve been a good friend to me during a very difficult season. Visiting Savannah in the hospital, taking care of Prince Pickles when we stayed in Portland for treatments . . . even carrying her off the soccer field yesterday.”
“You know I want to be more than your friend.” The raw quality in his voice was like the snap of a rubber band against wet skin. Painfully loud. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I also couldn’t make a commitment I wasn’t prepared to keep.
“I’m just not ready to be more.”
He took a step toward me, his body so close that I could smell the scent of cinnamon on his breath. “I get it. I understand what losing a spouse before your twenty-fifth birthday feels like. I’ve been scared, too. But I’m not proposing marriage—not yet. I just want you to think about what life could be like. With me and Brandon. And Savannah. Together.” He lifted his hand, his fingers skimming my cheek. “I would love her, Willa. I would treat her like my own—you know I would. She deserves a father, the same way you deserve a husband that will love and protect you.”
The dizziness in my head rivaled the dizziness in my heart.
His thumb grazed my jawbone, the first intimate touch from a man in many, many years. “Just . . . promise me you’ll think about us, okay?”
I swallowed the anxiety pounding in my throat. It would be so easy to slip into his arms, to bury my sorrows in his offer of steadfast comfort, to give my daughter the family life she desired. Yet, like always, something held me back. The same something that pulsed in the middle of my chest and reminded me with every beat that love should be more than a convenience.
Ignoring the burn in my lungs, I nodded. “Okay.”
Davis leaned close and brushed a light kiss on my temple. “Thank you.”
My phone vibrated on my nightstand, the glow illuminating the ceiling I’d been staring at for the last two hours. I rolled over and picked it up.
GEORGIA: Your brother is driving me crazy.
ME: Welcome to my life.
GEORGIA: Seriously, he’s refusing dance lessons. I already PAID for them.
Only Georgia would be up texting me after one in the morning. Yet another quality we shared—chronic insomnia. Hers was mostly due to the stresses of script writing, while mine was due to something else entirely.
ME: Want me to beat him up?
GEORGIA: Already tried that . . . but I have a plan B.
ME: Good luck!
I sent her a smiley face and set my phone back down. It vibrated again a second later.
PATRICK: How do you feel about dancing?
I laughed out loud and then slapped my hand over my mouth, thankful that Savannah had stayed in her own bed tonight.
ME: I take it YOU are Georgia’s plan B?
PATRICK: You’re awake? Everything go OK after I left?
I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth and contemplated a dozen different replies to that one very loaded question, and chose to do what I did best, divert.
ME: Yes. I’m a night owl.
PATRICK: Does that mean you’re in?
My fingers hesitated, unsure of what in meant.
ME: I don’t really dance.
PATRICK: That’s not what I’ve heard.
ME: Remember—never trust the big birdie.
PATRICK: Then prove him wrong.
Again, my stomach dipped. What was he asking?
ME: How . . . ?
; PATRICK: If I go, Wes will go. And if I go . . . I’m hoping you’ll go, too.
Heat prickled in the center of my chest, but as fast as the fire came, I doused it with a splash of cold reality.
Nothing about Patrick was long-term. Which, in a way, meant that Patrick was safe. No matter how many times my stomach dipped and pinged when he was near.
ME: When? (This is not a yes yet . . .)
PATRICK: Yet is always a yes . . . I’ll pick you up Fri at 6. (This will earn you extra credit.)
I sucked in a breath and contemplated the words extra credit before shooting back a simple OK, followed immediately by Goodnight. I set the phone on my nightstand screen down, rolled onto my side, and pinched my eyes closed.
Somehow the line separating life lessons from real life was being crossed. One day, one conversation, one text at a time . . . and so far neither of us had redrawn it.
Yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Since arriving at work I’d been asked on three separate occasions by three faithful water aerobics patrons why there was an extra bounce in my step. Had I tried a new protein shake? Taken a new supplement? Pumped an extra shot of caffeine in my coffee? Though I’d politely answered no to all of the above, the real reason was as simple as it was complicated.
I snuck another glance at my phone—at the text that had doubled as my morning wake-up alarm.
PATRICK: If your first thought this morning was about extra credit, you’re in good company. See u Fri night.
Yet despite the boost in my own serotonin level, the tension between Sydney and Alex dampened it. Their drama could radiate through concrete walls.
Alex had declined all my efforts at social interaction, setting up camp in the break room, while Sydney had locked herself away in her office. I hadn’t seen either of them for hours.