“I’ll see you at the game tonight. Kirby’s a real star—got a great three-point shot.” Sammy gave him a smile. “You Huestons always know how to get the job done, but you might remind him to pass the ball now and again.”
Yeah, well, passing the ball required trust that someone would catch it. Sometimes it was better to be a one-man team.
Jason headed for the locker room also, then turned back. “Hey—did Nicole talk to you about playing drums for us this weekend for the wedding? Apparently she’s hired someone out of Minneapolis to play guitar, but she mentioned needing a drummer. I’d have to pay you in wedding cake, but we’d really appreciate it.”
Kyle followed him into the locker room. “Who’s the guitarist?”
“She’s from Deep Haven, a couple years younger than us. The Nelson girl—I think her name’s Emma. Remember her?”
Kyle smiled. Maybe God was finally playing fair. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I might.”
What had Noelle done with the last twenty-five years of her life?
She hadn’t even graduated from college, from what she could tell. And forget her painting, her photography. The only pictures on the wall were cheesy oils one might pick up at a discount art store.
Stepping on the scale had made her march down to the kitchen and pull out the tortilla chips, the ice cream, the Oreos, and the Nutty Bars and throw them in the trash. She did notice that Kirby came along behind her, fished out the ice cream, and stuck it in the basement deep-well freezer.
Fine. Carrot sticks and salad for her.
Now she stood at the stove, separating egg yolks from the whites, a pan heating on one burner, a teakettle on the other. A couple pieces of lightly buttered wheat bread lay on a plate. She’d found the loaf shoved way back in the freezer, as if her old self had briefly resurrected and made a feeble attempt at healthy eating.
She hadn’t bothered to figure out the coffeemaker—even when Kirby came out of his room yesterday morning inquiring about a cup of coffee on his way to school.
What, was she a short-order cook too?
And what had happened to her personal style? Stretchy lounge pants, T-shirts, oversize sweatshirts with embroidery on the front? She’d turned . . . frumpy.
No, no, no, this couldn’t be her life, but the longer she lived here, the more the truth sank in. She’d found a collection of art books in a box in the basement storage room. And a wedding dress that matched the one in the picture. And finally, her old high school letter jacket hanging in a hall closet.
Oh, the waste.
She poured the egg whites into a pan, began to scramble them. The smell rose, taunting her empty stomach. She’d hidden in bed this morning until she’d heard Eli’s truck start up and grumble its way out of the driveway.
She’d dreaded yesterday, her first day alone with him after Sunday’s long, drawn-out silences, Kirby trying to make her feel at home. Thankfully, Eli had pulled out right after Kirby and been gone most of the day, so she’d wandered around the house looking for clues to her life. She opened the other two bedrooms—one of them so clearly Kyle’s, with a picture of the two of them standing on a basketball court, giving the camera a thumbs-up. She looked younger, but not by much.
The other room was barren—no sheets on the double bed, a crisp, unused chill to the room. She doubted they’d had guests here anytime in the last decade.
And did she have any friends at all? Because no one called. Not one person to inquire after her. Was she a miserable loner, devoid of a life?
She finally couldn’t take it and spent the day cleaning out the cupboards, waiting for Eli to return. He pulled in after dark, covered in wood chips, his face red as if he’d been outdoors all day.
He dropped his coveralls in the entryway, then headed down to shower in the basement.
“Did you cook supper?” He’d asked her that as she sat watching the news—what had happened to President Reagan?
She’d frowned at him and could see the war inside him as he bit back something and managed to surface with a tolerant smile.
Supper. Really.
Her role here had obviously sunk to that of domestic slave. Indeed, she unearthed very few feminine touches in the house—even the downstairs television room boasted team pennants and a full-size decal of a Minnesota Viking, number twenty-eight.
Even the dog had surrendered her femininity. Who named a female dog Riggins? The poor thing had found Noelle sitting in the family room, watching the waves of snow outside the window, and set her floppy mug on Noelle’s knee, her sad eyes blinking as if confused.
Yeah, me too, Rigs.
Noelle scooped the eggs onto one of the slices of bread, then turned off the heat. She added salt and pepper and put the plate on the counter near the high-top chairs. She went in search of the tea she’d seen earlier as the kettle whistled.
She was opening cupboards when Kirby emerged from his room, a blue sports bag over his shoulder. He wore a button-down shirt, a tie, and a pair of dress pants.
Yes, she liked this young man. He’d arrived home last night after school, also after dark, smelling of the gym. After showering, he made himself a grilled cheese sandwich and joined her in the family room, giving her a play-by-play of practice. Apparently he was working on his three-point shot.
“Kyle holds the record for the most outside shots in a game. He had a signature swish shot from the top of the key that he nailed every time.”
Ah, her shot. Maybe Kyle was her flesh and blood. “I played guard all through high school. Lettered, too. We should shoot some one-on-one after the snow melts. . . .”
Kirby had grinned at that but her words wound tight inside her.
How long did she intend on staying here? The thought tossed her in her sheets all night until she finally got up and stared at the moonlight, so bright on the snow.
What if she never regained her memory? Would she stay here, in this place, with people she didn’t know?
And looking at Eli, at the debris of a life she couldn’t believe she’d created, did she truly want to get her memory back?
“Morning, Mom,” Kirby said, dropping his bag in the kitchen. “Perfect, breakfast. You remembered!” He sat down, pulled the sandwich to himself, picked it up.
She stilled, glanced at him, at his broad grin, his green eyes bright.
Oh, she hated to—
He must have seen her expression, for his dimmed. “Oh. Well, you always make me breakfast on a game day.” He put the sandwich down. “Sorry; is this yours?”
“No, it’s for you . . . Son. Eat up.” She turned away, the endearment ringing inside. Son. Okay, she could admit some feelings of affection building there.
She pulled down a tea bag, opened it, and dropped it into a mug. Pouring in the hot water, she let it steep. “What time is your game?”
“Four o’clock. You’re coming, right?”
Uh . . . “I don’t know anyone there, Kirby.”
“You know me.” He looked away, and she hated the hurt on his face.
“I’ll try.”
He gave her a soft smile then.
“By the way, do you know where your father went? He left again this morning, early.”
Kirby was gobbling down the sandwich. “No. Maybe he went fishing. He does that a lot. Or sometimes he goes into town and eats breakfast with the deputies at World’s Best.”
Seriously? The man would leave her alone to eat with friends? But then, did she really want him here?
“Kirby, can I ask you what happened between your dad and me? Why is he so . . . distant? And angry?”
Kirby swallowed the last of his sandwich slowly. Didn’t look at her when he wiped his mouth. “It’s been a hard few years. You and Dad were . . . Well, it’s not all his fault, Mom.”
It seemed to pain him to admit that, and she resisted the strange urge to press her hand to his, to comfort him.
“Did something bad happen?”
Kirby wiped his mouth again. Took a breath.
Kirby had gone a little pale and now slid off the stool. Picked up his bag. “Thanks, Dad.”
Eli nodded, then disappeared, probably to dispense of those awful coveralls. Please.
Kirby lingered in the kitchen, looking at her, waiting, it seemed, for something.
“Have a good day?” she offered.
His smile failed him.
“What am I not doing, Kirby?”
“You always pray with me before I leave for school, especially on game day. I just thought . . . aw, it’s no big deal.”
See, she was a woman of faith. Even if she couldn’t feel it. “Okay, uh, how do we do this?”
“You usually put your hand on my shoulder.”
She could do that. She gripped his shoulder, trying to think of a blessing, of anything.
Then suddenly she heard, “Lord, we ask for Your blessing on Kirby today as he plays basketball. Protect him in the game, and help him to play for You to the best of his abilities. Amen.” Eli lifted his hand off Kirby’s other shoulder. “Have a good day, Son.”
Noelle stared at him, nonplussed, as Kirby gave him a hug, then grinned at her and headed out the door.
Eli’s voice—solid and affectionate for his son—nudged a feeling of warmth inside her. Perhaps she’d been a smackle too harsh on the man.
Once upon a time, she’d loved him enough to marry him. To stay with him for twenty-five years. Which meant that, deep down inside, there was something about this man worth knowing.
“I’m going to go clean up,” Eli said.
Noelle nodded, picking up Kirby’s empty plate. She took two more slices of bread, toasted them, and separated two more eggs as she heard the shower running downstairs.
She had just slid the new eggs onto her plate and settled down with her tea when he reemerged. He smelled clean, of fresh soap, and he’d shaved, his hair combed. He had curls like Kirby, and they corkscrewed around his ears. In a pair of jeans and a white-and-black flannel shirt, he might be considered handsome for a man his age. He rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, revealing strong forearms.
She wasn’t sure why she said it, but, “Would you like me to make you some eggs?”
When he turned, she noticed his eyes. Reddened, as if he hadn’t slept much, but a pretty brown. They examined her for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “I’ll just make some coffee. But . . . thank you.”
He turned away from her, grabbing the carafe from the coffeemaker.
“Eli? How did we meet?”
He turned back, coffeepot in hand. “I rescued you.”
She set down her tea. “You rescued me? From what? A raging moose?”
“No.” He filled the pot with water, returned to the coffeemaker, and poured it in. “Up under your hair you have a scar.”
She raised her fingers to her scalp.
He came over, took her hand in his, moved it over to a bump. “There. You hit the windshield.”
He had a tenderness in his touch, but she appreciated that he stepped away, resumed his coffee making.
“What happened?”
“You were on your way here to visit your parents. They’d taken a cabin for the summer, and you were driving up pretty late at night.” He added coffee grounds. “You T-boned a deer, slid off the road, and hit a tree. I was on duty that night.”
“So you arrived on the scene, pried me out of the car, and asked me on a date?”
He switched on the machine, and the coffee started to gurgle as he turned, leaning against the counter. Now that he’d taken off his coveralls, he didn’t seem quite as rotund. In fact, he had lean hips, strong legs, a wide, powerful chest. “Something like that. I knew you were staying with your parents, so I stopped in to see how you were.” He smiled, and she could imagine that, twenty years ago, he might have been sweet and charming like Kirby. Or Kyle.
She might have said yes to a date back then.
Noelle ran her thumb down the side of her cup, considering him for a long moment. “I’d like to get my memory back, Eli. I would like to remember our life together.”
Eli blinked at that, then looked away, an emotion she couldn’t place flickering across his face. He did want that too, didn’t he?
“Do you want me to remember, Eli?”
He looked at her, the curmudgeon briefly resurrecting. “Of course I do.” Perhaps he saw his words reflected in her expression, for he sighed, his voice softer. “Yes, of course I do.”
Oh. Maybe that emotion had been hurt or grief. She hadn’t really thought about what it might be like for him, for her to lose the life they’d shared.
Then he came over, his dark eyes solemn. “It’s just that I’m not sure you’re going to like what you find, Noelle. And I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.”
Home games had the power to dissolve her, to erase every day of victory Lee had managed over the past three years and reduce her to that raw, devastated woman she’d been standing beside Clay’s grave.
The sounds of the game emanated from the gym—the high-pitched scuff of shoes on a wooden court, the pop of the basketball being dribbled, the shrill whistle of the refs, the cheers of the home team. They lured Lee to the door and she took a breath, coaxing back her courage from the dark corners where it had scurried.
She could do this. Once inside, she’d see familiar faces, smiles now void of sympathy. Time did that—it erased the memory of another person’s grief from their countenance.
Sometimes she wondered if she was the only one who remembered Clay Nelson, hometown hero.
“One ticket,” she said quietly and held out a five-dollar bill. Amy, the athletic director, took it, gave her a ticket, and she edged into the gym.
Back in her day, they’d played their games in the smaller gym with the cement bleachers. She could nearly hear the echo of the cheers every time she passed by the closed doors. Now they used it for the middle school games and community activities.
This new gym could house the entire town. A sea of blue-shirted fans packed the home bleachers, waving signs, some with their faces painted. The Huskies weren’t undefeated, but this close to the end of the season, they had won enough to fight for a place in the play-offs.
Lee glanced at the scoreboard. The Huskies were up by two, still early in the game, but she hated that she hadn’t accounted for the extra time it would take to ease herself out of the car, hobble to the gym.
A slipped disk in her neck. In the ER, she’d had X-rays, and the doctor had given her a painkiller, but it was her chiropractor who gave her the most hope of recovery. And Eli.
What would she have done without his help? He’d not only plowed her driveway, but shoveled her walk and made a pot of venison stew that just might rival Chef Ramsey’s. In between chopping wood all day Monday to refill her supply, he’d brought her ice packs, then driven her to town for her appointment. He’d even offered to carry her again, but she could make it alone.
Really.
Today he’d come over too early for even the dawn and filled her wood bin, then let himself into her house and made a cozy fire.
She hadn’t heard from him the rest of the day, but as she scanned the crowd, she spied him on the Huestons’ usual perch, five from the top, wearing a long-sleeve black T-shirt with the Huskies logo emblazoned on the front. He was watching the game, leaning forward, arms on his knees.
Walking the gauntlet behind the basket to the bleachers, the eyes of the town scrutinizing her, could skewer a woman’s courage. Sometimes she imagined Clay beside her, holding her hand. How many times had they walked into this gym when Derek played JV, dreaming of the day when he’d start for varsity?
They’d had one son and wished the entire world for him, not to mention the dreams they had for Emma.
She swallowed, affixed her smile, and waved to Lou, the UPS man, and Jenny, her hairdresser. Joe, th
eir local author, sat next to Mona, who owned the bookstore, as they cheered their son to victory. She glanced up toward Eli again as she approached the bleachers, searching for her empty spot. The Huestons and the Nelsons could practically carve their names of ownership on that row.
Eli erupted into a cheer as the Huskies sank a basket. She turned to see Derek grinning as he ran down the court.
Shoot, she’d missed it.
Beside Eli, wearing a black cap, her hair pulled back, sat Noelle. She had her hands tucked between her knees, her gaze intent on the game.
Maybe that’s why Eli hadn’t called. Maybe Noelle awoke this morning, her memories restored.
What might that be like—to remember afresh the grief? Oh, Lee wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially now that she’d grown some calluses.
And now that Lee had managed the walk to the bleachers and found her aisle, she discovered the breath that had abandoned her by the door.
She might be alone, but she was Derek’s mother. Emma’s mother. And she had a place in the stands.
As she reached the row, Eli glanced at her, a funny look on his face a second before a smile emerged. “Hey, Lee!”
She scooted in beside Noelle, glanced at her friend, and patted her knee. “Hey, Noelle.”
Noelle looked at her, then to Eli and back. Smiled.
Eli caught Lee’s eye, gave his head a tiny shake.
Oh.
Around her, the crowd cheered as the Huskies stole the ball. She leaned over to Noelle and spoke quietly. “I’m Lee. We’re friends.”
Something like relief crested across Noelle’s face. “I was starting to wonder if I had any friends.” She stuck out her hand and Lee glanced around before she took it, shook quickly.
How long did Eli think he could keep Noelle’s injury quiet?
“We’ve been friends for a while, since our boys started playing basketball together back in middle school. And of course, we knew each other from when Clay worked as one of Eli’s deputies.”
“Deputies?”
How could Eli not mention—?
“Eli was the sheriff here for many years. I’m sure it’ll come back.”
The Shadow of Your Smile Page 10