by Karen Cimms
Even though her jeans rubbed her calves and her coat was soaked through, she stopped at Harold’s. He answered on the second knock.
“You look like a drowned rat.”
“Nice to see you too.” She smiled. “I’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow. I’ll make something healthy.”
He looked skeptical. “Healthy?”
“And delicious, I promise.”
“I guess I could come for dinner. What time?”
“Six thirty?”
“Red or white?”
“Surprise me.” With a wave, she bounded down the steps.
At home, she took a hot shower, lit a fire in the fireplace, and made herself a cup of tea. Then she curled up on the sofa and picked up Beowulf.
“Okay, you big Geat. Time to figure out why you keep invading my dreams.”
Chapter Seventeen
“That was excellent.” Harold pushed his plate away and rubbed his hands over his trim belly. “You sure all that was healthy?”
“Absolutely. I mixed panko bread crumbs with coconut for the chicken and used cooking spray instead of oil. The Thai salad had a little olive oil in the dressing and just enough peanuts to give it flavor. And for dessert, we have oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies, and while those aren’t low-cal or low-fat, they’re healthier than the regular version.”
“I’m stuffed. Maybe I’ll have room a little later.” He topped off her wine glass, added a healthy splash to his own, and raised his glass. “To a wonderful cook.”
They clicked rims lightly.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I love to cook. I haven’t done much at all lately. No point cooking only for me.”
“I guess not.” He swirled the wine around the bowl of his glass before taking a sip.
“Grüner.” She read the label on the bottle. “It’s light and crisp. I like it.”
“It’s Austrian. A new favorite of mine.”
“Very nice.”
“My wife was a decent cook. She didn’t care for wine, though. Actually, she wasn’t much of a drinker. Maybe a glass of champagne on New Year’s, but that’s about it.”
She shrugged off a twinge of regret. “That’s preferable to raising a few glasses every day.”
He nodded and set down his glass. “So what’s the deal?”
“Deal?”
“What’s your story? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“I live here,” she said a bit shortly. “You haven’t told me your story either.”
“Not much to tell. I was married. My wife’s name was Pat. I’m a retired marine biologist. We had four kids, all boys. Pat died about ten years ago. The boys are all grown with lives of their own. I live here from April through October. The rest of the year, I live in Boston near my son Steven.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Your turn.”
“Let’s just say I can’t sum up my life in one neat little paragraph. I’ve been through the worst year you could imagine, but I’m beginning to think that I might actually survive.” She raised her glass. “And that’s all I care to say on the subject.”
He nodded and then promptly ignored her last statement. “You a widow?” He lifted his chin to point toward her left hand, where she still wore her engagement ring and the narrow gold band Billy put there on their wedding day.
She dropped her hand into her lap, protecting it from further scrutiny. “A widow? God, no.” The thought was like a punch in the stomach.
“Your husband in the military?”
At that she laughed. “Definitely not.” She nervously twirled the rings around on her finger. “We’re, um, separated.”
Harold didn’t look satisfied but had the good manners to table the conversation.
“Hey, I almost forgot,” he said suddenly, as if he truly had forgotten and wasn’t just trying to change the subject. “Next weekend is Memorial Day. My boys come up with their families. They help get the big boat out in the water, and we go fishing, put the lobster pots out, and dig clams. Then we have a huge blowout on Sunday to celebrate the holiday and my birthday. The neighbors all come. It’ll be a great chance for you to meet everyone. I happen to know that no one on this street besides me has a clue who you are.”
And I’d like to keep it that way. “I can’t. But thanks for including me.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” He looked at her as if she were crazy. “What the hell else could you be doing?”
She began to clear the table. “I can’t. I’m not comfortable around people, if you must know. To have you come here tonight was a big deal for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You came to the hospital last week. There were lots of people there.”
“Yes, and that was hard. In fact, it was a big step for me, so thanks for getting sick.” She flashed a big fake smile at him, and he laughed.
“Kate, you have nothing to feel uncomfortable about with my family or any of the neighbors. If there were anything wrong with any of them, I sure as hell wouldn’t invite them to my house.”
“I can’t, but thank you.” She brushed some imaginary crumbs off the table. “So when is your birthday?” Not exactly a smooth segue, but she wasn’t discussing this further.
“Was.”
“Excuse me?”
“Was. My birthday was Sunday.”
“Oh, no! Were you alone for your birthday?” It disturbed her to think of anyone being alone on their birthday. That she had already missed Devin and Billy’s birthdays gnawed at her.
“Who cares, at my age?”
“Still. You shouldn’t spend your birthday alone.”
“When’s your birthday?”
She was tempted to tell him it had passed, but she hated lying, especially when there was no good reason for it. “July 19.”
Hopefully, he’d forget. She had no intention of celebrating her birthday, that was for damn sure.
“So about Sunday,” he began.
Like a dog with a bone. “So,” she responded. “How about dessert?”
Chapter Eighteen
“The dream is essentially the same?” Liz asked.
“For the most part, only it’s not as foggy.” Kate thought for a moment. “In fact, I can almost make out the people who come to the circle before the monster.”
Liz lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“One is a woman. I think it might be my mother.”
“Why do you think that?”
She closed her eyes and pictured the figure from her dreams. “She’s tall and thin, all sharp angles. Hard edges. Even her hair, cut right at her jawline. And the way she stands. Perfect posture, arms folded, legs straight. I can’t see her face, but I sense that it’s my mother.”
“And the other person.”
“It’s not my dad. He was taller than my mother, but he was loose, gangly, kinda like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Always a bit rumbled, a little bumbling. Not quite as kind.” Her voice trailed off. “But not unkind.” It was difficult to explain her father, especially when she’d never really understood him herself. “His students usually liked him. If they’d had a contest for most unpopular teacher, my mother would’ve won hands down. That might be why I didn’t have more friends in high school. No one wanted to hang out with me if it meant they had to come to my house.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“Not really. I had Joey. Being his friend was a full-time job.” The memory warmed her. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“You were lucky to have a friend like that.”
Blessed too.
“The other person? I think it might be Sedge Stevens, the man who shot and killed all those people at the meeting I was covering. The one who probably wanted to kill me too.”
“Why do you think it’s him?”
“He’s kind of stocky like Stevens. And even from a distance, I can tell he has long white hair and a beard.” She shrugged. “It’s just a feeling.”
“Can you t
hink of anything else different about the dream?”
She thought for a moment. “The battle ends the same, only this time, I didn’t hide. I was still scared, but it’s like I knew Beowulf or Billy or whoever he is was going to stop the monster. When it was over, I waited near the boulder. The man vanished like before, but this time, the woman stepped into the clearing like she was daring me to come closer. But then the warrior climbed onto his horse and rode toward me like before. When I looked back, she was gone.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“I asked who he was, but he just said ‘You know who I am.’ Then I woke up. It must mean something, but I’ll be damned if I know what.”
Liz jotted a few notes and set the legal pad on the table beside her. “Do you think you deserve to be happy?”
“What?”
“Do you think you have the right to be happy?”
The question was unsettling. Her knee-jerk answer would be that she didn’t deserve happiness, but why wouldn’t she? If she could accept that she wasn’t responsible for the shooting and the deaths of all those people, didn’t that free her to be happy someday?
“I guess everyone deserves some happiness.”
“What about you?”
“Do I deserve it?”
“Yes, do you deserve to be happy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“You’re not sure?”
Kate squirmed against the cushions. “I was loved. Once. Twice, I guess.”
“But not anymore?”
She shrugged.
“When you say twice, to whom are you referring?”
“Joey, of course. And Billy. I know he loved me once.”
“But you don’t believe he still does.”
It was still difficult to discuss Billy. If she had a choice, she would table this conversation indefinitely. Saying his name felt like opening the door to all the pain and heartache simmering just below the surface. It was necessary, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
She shook her head. “He may still care about me, but after leaving like I did, maybe not even that anymore.”
“Why do you think he stopped loving you?”
The look she gave Liz was probably rude, but it was a dumb question. “For starters, he cheated on me.”
“People cheat for lots of different reasons. Not loving their spouse isn’t necessarily one of them. That in and of itself isn’t proof that he doesn’t love you.”
“Well, it’s a pretty crappy way to show you care.”
“I agree, but it’s not necessarily black and white. You said you don’t know all the details, and when he tried to tell you, you stopped him.”
Kate dragged a pillow onto her lap and wrapped her arms around it. “I didn’t think there was any point.”
“People are flawed, Kate. You’re overly aware of yours. Your self-esteem is so low you don’t believe you’re worthy of happiness. But I don’t believe that has anything to do with recent events. I think your feelings of being worthless and undeserving go back to your childhood. Your parents are gone, but even if they were still alive, there would be nothing you could do to change the way they treat you. You would just have to learn not to let their criticism and negative thinking affect you.”
Liz picked up her pad and flipped to a fresh page. She drew a line down the center and began to write.
“Here’s some homework.” She tore the page out and handed it to Kate. “On one side, I wrote Strengths, and on the other, Weaknesses. I want you to think about this over the next few days, and I want you to write ten of each under each column.”
“Ten strengths?” Twenty weaknesses would be much easier.
“Let’s think about it right now and get a head start,” Liz said. “Go ahead.”
Kate didn’t like this at all. “This feels like bragging.”
“It’s not. It’s identifying for yourself what you’re good at. I have something: you’re kind.”
Okay, that she could accept. But kindness had its own problems. “Kindness often gets you hurt.”
Liz handed her a pen. “True. Write ‘kind’ under Strengths and ‘overly sensitive’ under Weaknesses.”
She didn’t like it, but did as she was told.
“When I see you next week, I’d like to see the list complete. Just ten of each. I think you’ll be surprised to see all your strengths laid out before you. Also, once you’ve identified your weaknesses, you’ll be better able to tackle them head on.”
It sounded simple, but it would be difficult to dig deep enough to find the positives. Still, it was a step forward, and she pondered some of the possibilities as she drove home. She was honest, trustworthy, loyal. Even though she sounded like a Girl Scout, she felt a flicker of empowerment, as if she might be closer to getting a grip on her own life.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday was sunny and warm. The windows were open, and by late morning, Kate could hear cars arriving next door. Voices multiplied and grew louder. A stereo played music from the fifties and sixties—the first music she’d heard in months. At least Harold wasn’t a fan of grunge or alternative rock, because her heart wouldn’t have been able to take it.
The aroma of hamburgers and hot dogs cooking on a charcoal grill wafted through the kitchen window, and her stomach growled. She poked around in the refrigerator. The best she could find was a container of yogurt and a slippery red hot dog, which she tossed in the trash. She closed the windows on the front of the house to deaden the sound and the smells and escaped with her book downstairs, where the goings-on next door were somewhat muted.
She’d barely read a page when she heard a knock on the front door. Charlie was up the stairs and skidding across the hardwood before she could even get herself off the couch. The knocking grew louder.
She wrapped her fingers around Charlie’s collar and yanked him off the door. “Knock it off!”
She opened the door, expecting Harold, only to find a man who looked a lot like him. He was about her age, attractive despite a nose that had probably once been broken. He had close-cut, sand-colored hair, Harold’s light blue eyes, and a crooked smile to go with his crooked nose. He held a plate covered with a cloth napkin.
His smile deepened. “Kate, right? I’m Jeff. My dad sent me. I’m to invite you again on his behalf, and if you insist on being stubborn—his words, not mine—I’m to give you this plate of food.” He dramatically removed the napkin, bending low and presenting it as if she were Cinderella and he had the glass slipper on a velvet pillow.
She also couldn’t help but notice Harold had sent the care package over on good china, meaning she’d be expected to return it. She’d bet anything the crowd at his house right now was eating off paper or Styrofoam.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jeff, but as I told your father, I can’t come over.”
Charlie wouldn’t stop barking and trying to pull away. She pushed him behind her and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door partway.
“Are you sure?” Jeff shared his father’s Boston accent. “Dad had the party catered, other than the lobsters and clams, which I understand you don’t eat.” He frowned as he said this.
“Look, Jeff, I’m sorry, but I was kind of in the middle of something—”
He handed her the plate. “By all means. Here you go. It was nice meeting you, Kate. I hope to see you again soon.”
Doubtful. In her haste to get back inside, Charlie zipped past her and practically launched himself at Jeff.
“Charlie! Stop!” She reached out to grab him and almost dropped the plate. “Goddamn it!”
Jeff seemed to be enjoying the lavish affection from her traitorous dog. She stepped into the kitchen and set the plate on the countertop for safekeeping. Jeff trailed behind her, leading Charlie by the collar.
“Here you go, buddy,” he said, scratching Charlie’s ears and throat.
“He’s such an attention whore. I hope he wasn’t slobbering all over you. I think he’s sick of
me.”
He smiled a charming, crooked smile. “I can’t imagine that at all.”
A total stranger was standing in her kitchen, and while it made her uncomfortable, she was more annoyed than frightened. Of course this was Harold’s son. Pushy must run in the family.
She moved toward the door. “Thank you again.”
“This is really nice.” He ignored her completely and walked through the kitchen into the dining room to check out the view. “I haven’t been in here since the Cunninghams owned it years ago. I never met your friend. My dad said he was a nice man—a little out there, but funny.”
Why would he leave? She didn’t want to talk to him about Joey or anything else.
“I’m sure you miss him.”
“I do.”
“It must be hard for you, being alone all the time.”
She wasn’t sure where he was headed with this conversation, but she wished he would go back to where he came from.
“If you need someone to talk to, I’m a good listener. I’ll be here all week.” He rested his hip against the counter and folded his arms. “My dad says you need a friend.”
If Harold were standing in her kitchen right now, she’d throttle him. “I had a friend,” she said, a bit churlishly, “and he’s gone. I had a lot of things that are gone. Thank you again for the food and your kind offer, but I’m fine. Please remind your father of that.”
She should have been embarrassed for lashing out, but she was too annoyed. First with Harold for talking about her, and second with his son for his presumptions. Exactly what kind of friend did he think she needed?
In spite of her little outburst, Jeff’s eyes remained warm. They also held the same hint of mischief his father’s usually possessed.
“Like I said, I’m a good listener.” He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.
She stepped back. It had been a long time since she’d been touched, and she didn’t like it. He was invading her home and now her personal space.
“If you change your mind or if you want seconds,” he continued, “you know where to find us. Just follow the sound of the band.”