by Libby Howard
“It’s fine. Stop worrying.”
His brow furrowed. I crunched the napkin in my fist, staring at the streak on his forehead.
“It’s just…I saw your face when you came in the kitchen and saw everyone in the back yard—”
“It was probably the same look that you had when carloads of kids started arriving.” Must not wipe his face. Must not wipe his face.
The judge laughed. “True. I had to ask one of the moms to run out and pick up more burgers and buns. Thankfully she was eager to run an unplanned errand for me. Allison’s mom, I think. I can’t remember her name.”
I’ll bet she was helpful. And I’ll bet she remembered Judge Beck’s name. She probably had it tattooed somewhere on her body. I’d noticed how friendly the single moms had been to my roommate whenever they were dropping their daughters or sons off, and how eager they were with offers of help. Madison had noticed too, and bristled at the sharks circling her father when her parents’ divorce wasn’t even close to final. I was sure Allison’s mom, as well as two or three other moms, would be lingering to chat and flirt tonight after the fireworks when they picked their sons and daughters up to go home. All the while Judge Beck would reply politely, with that bland, clueless smile on his face that said he truly had no idea these women were moving him to the top of their must-date list. And why not? He was a good-looking, fit, successful man in his early forties. Once the divorce was final, he’d have women asking him out right and left. The thought bothered me almost as much as that line of dark grease on his forehead.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I lifted my napkin, and stood on my tiptoes and met the judge’s startled gaze.
“Bend down,” I commanded. “You’ve got grill grease on your forehead.”
He obeyed, a bemused expression on his face as I scrubbed at the mark. It didn’t want to come off, but rather than send him off to the bathroom, I licked the napkin and kept at it, commanding him to hold still.
By the time I realized what I was doing, the greasy mark was gone, the skin under it somewhat red from my determined efforts. Oh, Lord, I’d just cleaned the judge’s face with a saliva-wet napkin, as if he were a child. I held my breath, and my gaze slid from his forehead to meet his own. It was so embarrassing. I wanted to apologize, to say something, anything, but we just stood there, silent, frozen in time, staring into each other’s eyes as I still held an upraised, damp, dirty napkin.
He had beautiful eyes. Actually he had beautiful everything. And he was almost twenty years younger than me, not even divorced yet. And I was still aching over the loss of my husband. Was I just as bad as those single mothers who seemed like vultures circling our house? Or worse, because he was far too young for me and I hadn’t even been widowed a year yet.
Idiot. He’s forty-two, not twenty-two. You’re just lonely and confusing the affection toward friends and newfound family for romantic love.
Something furry darted past us, breaking the spell—something furry with a hot dog in his mouth….
“Make sure you’re covering the food,” I called into the other room.
Judge Beck took a step back, laughing as we watched Taco gobble down his stolen treat, then trot back into the kitchen for yet another raid.
“And try not to let the cat out,” I added.
It was another hour before we need to walk the five blocks for the fireworks. I’d always been able to see them from my front porch, but the lower ones and ground displays weren’t visible unless you were on the carnival grounds. We would be a mob heading down the sidewalk, but finding parking much closer would have been difficult, and there was no way we could have crammed over a dozen kids into our two vehicles.
I’d grabbed a few blankets to sit on, amused that they’d gotten more use in the last three days than they had in the last decade. I was throwing a few drinks in a soft-sided cooler, when the judge shooed me out, insisting that I go relax while he got everything ready and did a bit of clean up.
I left it all in his hands, scooped up Taco, and headed outside. The cat went into his outdoor cabana-run, and I milled about, picking up a few discarded plates and cups before plopping down in the gazebo to watch the kids. Henry and his friends were playing horseshoes. Madison and her friends were sitting in the grass, checking their cell phones and gossiping. Eli’s ghost lurked nearby, then passed through the group of teenage girls to drift beside me as I watched the sun set and eavesdropped.
There was a bit of discussion about a boy that Katie liked, dissecting in minute detail his every word and gesture in an attempt to determine if he reciprocated the girl’s interest. Then conversation turned to some vicious slander of Allison’s ex-boyfriend in a show of solidarity for how much better off she was without him. Then one of the girls brought up the party at Persimmon Bridge.
I peeked around one of the gazebo posts, sure this would be salt in the wound for Madison. She complained bitterly about how her father wouldn’t let her go, and didn’t seem any happier when Katie and Allison both chimed in that they’d not been allowed to go either.
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Chelsea put an arm around Madison’s shoulders. “Once we got there, Holt barely said two words to any of us. He was too busy with that Kendra girl.”
“That won’t last,” Babette scoffed. “Bet he’ll be with a different girl tonight.”
Maria shrugged. “I don’t know. She came up to him at the regatta and I didn’t see him trying to dump her.”
“Well, she’s a fool if she thinks he’s going to be with her after he leaves town,” Peony announced confidently. “She’s just a fling for the holiday.”
The other girls agreed, a few of them commenting that Holt was just as much of a player as he’d been in high school—not that any of these girls were old enough to have even known Holt in high school.
“He wasn’t always that way,” Peony told them. “He dated my sister Violet for two years, and I know he didn’t run around on her. Violet doesn’t put up with that stuff.”
“Yeah, but he dumped her for greener pastures, for the player life,” Maria said.
“She dumped him,” Peony glared, affronted that Maria would even suggest her sister was the dumpee and not the dumper.
Maria rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s what she told you. Who in their right mind would ever dump Holt Dupree?”
I tensed, expecting a fight. Peony certainly looked like she was ready to start swinging. Then suddenly, she let out a breath and leaned back against the gazebo. “My stupid sister, that’s who dumps Holt Dupree. He loved her. I think he still does. I think if she snapped her fingers, she’d end up with a ring on one of them.”
“Doubtful.” Maria snorted, and Madison elbowed her in the ribs with a glare.
“It’s always the ones that get away they love the most,” Madison said. “It’s sad. I wonder what he did that she wouldn’t forgive him?”
“Did he cheat on her?” Chelsea’s voice was full of sympathy. “You said she wouldn’t put up with that kind of thing. Maybe he fooled around and she told him to take a hike.”
Peony shook her head. “No way. I think Violet is the only girl Holt never cheated on. She said she just didn’t like how he’d become, that he wasn’t the same boy anymore.”
That was greeted with a moment of silence. Then a chorus of ‘no’ and ‘how could that be?’ and ‘she’s crazy’.
Peony shrugged. “Violet wants a boy who just sits back and lets the world take advantage of him. Not me. I want someone who knows what they want and goes and gets it— someone who isn’t afraid to take risks and push his way to the top. Dad always said if people aren’t going to get out of your way, then you gotta either push them aside or climb over them.”
Madison frowned. “That’s mean. There’s other ways to get ahead than by screwing over other people.”
“Sometimes that’s what you have to do,” Peony insisted. “Nobody is going to just hand stuff to you on a platter, least not where I
grew up. Holt always did what he had to do, and now he’s going to make millions and be famous. And Violet could have had all that too, if she hadn’t been such a fool and let him go.”
I winced, realizing that Peony was just as enthralled with Holt as pretty much every girl in town under the age of thirty. It wasn’t surprising. In addition to everything he had going for him, he was someone who’d managed to make it big from her neighborhood. He was a rags-to-riches story. No wonder she admired him over her hardworking and much poorer sister.
They all adored him. And I couldn’t wait until the day Holt Dupree left this town and I never had to hear his name again.
Chapter 8
Judge Beck and I sat on the blanket alone. The kids had run off to buy smoothies from a nearby vendor with a stern reminder to be back before the show began. It was that solemn moment of first dark, when the dusky notes of twilight had faded from the sky. We had no moonrise yet, the only lights the faint dots of stars and the millions of glowsticks waved about by excited children. It had been ten years since I’d sat on a blanket at the carnival grounds and watched the fireworks. I think Eli and I had even used this same blanket, and probably been in almost the same spot.
Seven months after his accident, he’d been in no condition to make the short trip, even if I could have managed to get him and a wheelchair into the car. Eli’s hospital bed in the parlor had been positioned so he could see out the front windows, but the porch overshadowed all but a handful of the colorful bursts of light. Still, I’d sat by Eli’s side, watching the ones we could see, and listening to the explosions of the many we couldn’t. The whole time I’d assured him that the next year we’d go back down to the carnival grounds to watch. Next year he’d be better, and everything would be back to normal. We’d go to the regatta and the concert and the parade. We’d go to the fireworks.
Next year was the same. The following year I didn’t even open the curtains. It just made Eli sad, a reminder of things we’d never have again, experiences we’d never be able to share. Most times he didn’t remember anyway, even though as the years went on we tried all sorts of memory devices and note-taking systems to aid him. Worst of all, he knew what he’d lost. He was very aware that events and conversations were slipping like water through his fingers.
“Why don’t we go see the fireworks anymore?” he’d fuss at me.
We didn’t go because it was so difficult for me to get him in and out of bed, to get the chair through the narrow doorway and down the steps, to get him in the car and the chair in the trunk. I felt bad every time I denied him an outing because it was a struggle for me. Sometimes I called Conrad to give me a hand and we’d take Eli out, exhausted by the time we’d gotten him back home and in bed. He’d be angry the whole trip, frustrated that he was helpless to get himself around, unable to remember people’s names, or often even where we were going or what we were doing. Half the time he couldn’t remember where we’d gone, or confused the excursion with some other place we’d visited or thing we’d done years ago, mashing experiences up like a fruit salad. The outings dwindled to monthly, then twice a year.
He was happier looking at pictures—even of places we’d never been. Pictures brought joy and a scrambled mix of memory and fantasy. Actual outings only brought anger, frustration, and exhaustion.
I still felt terrible that I’d given up, taken the easy way out. Had I just made up excuses for not putting forth the effort? Had I imagined that he was happier not going because it was what I wanted? The smart, dry-humored, charming Eli I’d married had died in that accident, but I’d learned to love the sweet, absent-minded man who the accident had left behind. He was short-tempered, often irritated with me and himself, but there were moments where he smiled and held my hand, and I knew he still found joy in life. He mourned the old Eli just as much as I had, but this new Eli often saw beauty in things that the man I’d married hadn’t even noticed. Every now and then he’d grasp an old memory from our past, and laugh, and I’d hope the old Eli would be returning as the doctors had at first hoped he might. But it wasn’t to be. The old Eli was gone, and these glimpses were no more than ghosts.
No. The ghost in my house was more substantial than these fleeting whispers of the man I’d fallen so deeply in love with when we were college.
And here I sat. With Judge Beck. And as much as I enjoyed having him and his children in my house as my adoptive family, it seemed a betrayal. Eli hadn’t been gone for six months, and I was out having fun, doing the things he’d so wanted to do those last ten years. It made me feel guilty. It made me want him here with me, as we’d been all those years ago.
“Miss Kay, I brought you a smoothie.”
I looked up into Henry’s smiling face. The boy was holding a cup to me, a bendy straw protruding from the plastic lid.
“It’s kiwi mango. Is that okay?”
I felt the sting of tears and it took me a second to find my voice. “I love kiwi mango. Thank you so much, Henry.”
He grinned and jogged off to sit with his friends on another blanket. Madison and the girls were ten feet away on a blanket of their own—far enough that they had the illusion of independence, but near enough that they were still under Judge Beck’s steely eye. I shook off my melancholy and the ghosts of my recent past and hid a smile by sipping my drink. It was the perfect combination of tart and sweet, and an icy cold contrast to the lingering heat of the day.
“The young devil hasn’t made an appearance yet,” I teased the judge. “Maybe you can relax your vigilance enough to enjoy the evening?”
He grimaced. “It’s bad enough being responsible for one teenage girl. What was I thinking to allow Madison to invite an entire posse of them? I’m tempted to put an electric fence around them and stand guard with a shotgun. Their parents would never forgive me if anything improper happened on my watch.”
“I’m pretty sure Allison’s mom would forgive you just about anything,” I teased.
His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Is she the one who ran out to get more hamburgers? If anything, I owe her one.”
“Oh yes you do, and I’m pretty sure she’s fantasizing right now about how she’s going to collect on that.” I gave a few moments for that to sink in. It didn’t. Judge Beck was clearly one of those guys who was clueless about the female attention he generated. And I wasn’t sure why I felt the need right now to be the one to enlighten him. “In case you didn’t notice, all the single moms are eyeing you up, waiting for the divorce to go through so they can pounce.”
He blinked in surprise. “I’m not even divorced yet.”
“They’re waiting, some not so patiently, for that to happen.”
He let out a breath and shook his head. “I honestly haven’t even thought that far ahead. I guess I’ll eventually want to date again someday. Although it would be terribly awkward for the kids if I dated one of their friends’ moms. Imagine if it didn’t work out.”
“Imagine if it did.” I really couldn’t stop teasing him on this. It was like I wanted to push him into an uncomfortable conversation. Although, surprisingly, this wasn’t as uncomfortable as I’d thought it would be. “Having Allison’s mom stay over, and everyone sitting down for breakfast the next morning… Madison would be mortified.”
He turned a shocked gaze on me. “I would be mortified. That’s never going to happen. That sort of thing would only happen when the kids were not with me. In fact, any dating I do would be completely separate from my time with Madison and Henry. I’m not even going to introduce them to anyone unless I’m thinking of marriage. And trust me, I don’t believe I’ll ever be thinking of marriage again.”
It was a passionate speech, and I was now the one shocked. He didn’t want to share his family with anyone. Any woman in his life would just be casual, or carefully boxed into the time between family and work. She’d be for adult conversation, and other adult things. She’d be like a mistress on the side, fitting into whatever schedule he had at the moment.
/> The picture forming in my mind was horrible, and what was worse was that I didn’t think the judge realized it. I knew the disintegration of his marriage and this contentious divorce had left scars, but I hadn’t realized quite how many.
And far back in the corner of my brain a little voice told me that I was better off as the friend, the roommate, the older widowed lady who’d been allowed into the sanctity of his family, than I would ever be as a romantic interest. The thought was insane. Clearly I was never a romantic interest. I was nearly twenty years his senior. We had nothing in common. We weren’t even attracted to each other.
You’re attracted to him, the little voice told me. Well, of course I was. Duh. As if any woman with eyes wouldn’t be. Unbidden memories rose of us at my dining room table, files spread everywhere, dishes with the remains of dinner pushed aside. There was an easy comradery between us. We’d bonded when I’d been researching the history of my sideboard, and he’d been just as interested and enthusiastic on solving the mystery of its former owners as I had. But comradery didn’t equate to romance. And I was older. And recently widowed. And he not even divorced and still wounded and bitter.
“How about you?” The resolute, somewhat harsh expression on his face had shifted to one of mischief. I swear, dark as it was, I saw his eyes twinkle.
“Me what?” I firmly put all the stupid thoughts of romance away. No doubt it had been those movies I’d been watching lately. No more Hallmark Channel for me. Documentaries from this point forward. Or old sitcoms.
“Dating?” He laughed as he saw my expression. “If you’re going to grill me about my plans for future romantic encounters, then it’s only fair I question you.”
Where in the world would I meet potential romantic interests? My job as a skip tracer at an investigative and bail bonds company didn’t provide many opportunities to meet eligible men my age. Our clients were either facing jail time, or hiring us to dig up dirt on a cheating wife. The police detectives and officers that came in and out of our office all appeared to be in their twenties. Was there an online dating site for women my age? Singles meet-ups? The very thought was exhausting.