by Coleen Kwan
“She’s doing great,” Luke murmured to Tyler, his lips agreeably close to her ear.
All through lunch he’d sat next to her on the couch, and because of the crowd, he’d been squeezed right beside her. She had a sneaking suspicion he didn’t have to be quite so close, but she wasn’t complaining. Her qualms about Chloe growing too attached to him had faded as the length of his muscular thigh pressing against hers had induced a warm buzz in her, aided by the faint scent of his sandalwood soap wafting from his shirt. With his arm stretched out along the back of the couch behind her head, she was practically scooped in by his body, and she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
While she was basking in his half embrace, Helen pulled up a stool next to them and pinned Luke with a determined look. “I went over to Mum’s place yesterday and gave it a good clean.”
Instantly Tyler felt Luke’s leg tense up against hers. “You didn’t need to do that,” he said cagily. “I can clean it myself.”
“Well, I didn’t know when you’d turn up.” She crossed her arms and legs and waggled her foot before she directed her gaze at Tyler. “Has Luke shown you the house where he grew up?” Tyler shook her head. “Why don’t you take Tyler there now?” she said to Luke.
Luke shifted about. “It’s your birthday.”
“So? It won’t take you long to stroll over. You’ll be back before teatime, and I’ll look after Chloe. Go on, it’s just around the corner.”
Luke opened his mouth as if about to argue further, but then he shrugged and turned to Tyler. “When my sister gets going, she’s like a bulldozer. It’s easier just to do as she says, and probably quicker.”
“Okay,” Tyler replied, getting to her feet. “I’ll tell Chloe where we’re going. She might not want to be left here.”
But Chloe was in the middle of a complicated game with the other kids and shooed her away. Tyler went back to Luke, and they slipped out of the house. She was eager to see his old home, even if he wasn’t. So much of his formative years had passed in that house, good and bad years that together made him who he was today. And he’d been avoiding his home, had run away from it and landed next door to her. She wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t interested in what had made him flee.
…
From the outside, the house looked virtually unchanged since he’d been a boy. A humble, workingman’s cottage, it sat square in the middle of a plot dotted with rose bushes and garden gnomes. A concrete path edged with bricks led to the plain blue door. Luke unlocked it and beckoned Tyler to go ahead of him.
Even six months after Luke’s mother’s death, the house still retained that unique scent of hers, though it was fading now. They stepped into a narrow, enclosed veranda running the width of the house.
“This is where I used to sleep,” he said. Roasting hot in summer, freezing cold in winter, but at least he’d had his own little space. “There used to be a partition wall here.” A flimsy particleboard barrier that blocked out little of the noise coming from the rest of the house.
They moved into the low-ceilinged living room. Tyler glanced around at the plain, sturdy furniture. Everything was twenty years old but in pristine order. “I see where you get your cleaning genes from.” She nodded toward the ancient television in the corner. “Does that thing still work?”
“Yes, which is why my mother kept it. She couldn’t bear to throw out things that were still useful. Even after my sisters were working and my royalties started rolling in, she refused to let us buy frivolous things for her.”
“Looks like it was a tight squeeze in here when your whole family was together.”
Luke nodded. “There are only two bedrooms. I got the sleep out, but my sisters all had to share a room. When I could afford it, I offered to buy my mother a house. I thought she’d choose a modern one, but she insisted this was the home she wanted.”
“Must have been nice growing up in a large family,” Tyler said a little wistfully.
He thought of the crowding, the lack of privacy, the tempers that flared, the piles of laundry always waiting to be done. But then he remembered his mother’s satisfied smile when they all sat down to dinner and the casual hugs from his sisters and the reassuring notion that he was surrounded by people who cared. “Yeah, it was good.”
One of these days he’d have to decide what to do with the house, but right now, with the memories soaking into him, he could understand why Helen was having a hard time of it.
“Show me your bedroom. The one you were using not long ago.”
He ushered her into the bedroom, not sure what she expected to see.
“Wow!” Tyler exclaimed. She gazed at the walls covered with all the memorabilia his mother had collected. Certificates, prizes, degrees, newspaper and magazine articles—all had been carefully framed and hung on the wall, forming a mosaic above the desk. “This is so amazing. I’m guessing your mother did all this. She must have been so proud of you.”
He tried to see it through her eyes, but all he saw was a monument to his abilities, his potential, and his secret failure. He dropped into the swivel chair in front of the desk.
“She was immensely proud, but you know what? She never got my writing, never understood what my stories were about, and she always assumed it was because she wasn’t smart enough. Oh, she never said anything to me, but I suspected it, and all this”—he gestured to the wall in front of him—“this tribute to my supposed talent just sticks in my craw every time I see it.”
She studied him for a while, digesting his confession. “And that’s why you had to get away? You couldn’t write here anymore?”
“Exactly.” Pressing his elbows onto the armrests, he bowed his head. “In fact, I don’t think I can write anymore, anywhere. I’m thinking of giving up, doing something different, maybe teaching.”
“What?” She looked aghast. “You can’t stop writing.”
“I have already, in case you hadn’t noticed. Why else is your yard looking so great?”
She stood there, a slow flush rising in her cheeks. Then she lifted one foot and kicked at his chair, sending him spinning backward. “Hey,” he protested.
“I’ve never heard such bullshit,” she fumed, advancing on him. “You hit a little speed bump and you’re ready to chuck in the towel?”
He scowled back at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I may not know anything about writing, but I sure as hell know about giving up. Writing is your job. You’ve just had a week off from your job. That’s great. But now it’s time to get back in the saddle.”
He felt his temper shooting out of control. “Chucking in the towel, getting back in the saddle. How many more clichés are you going to throw at me?”
“As many as it takes to get through to you. Luke, you’re better than this. I know it, and your mother knew it.”
He shut his eyes briefly. “You don’t play fair.” Opening his eyes, he saw her rubbing her arms, her face strained with worry, and all his ire disappeared. She is upset for me, he realized with a start of surprise. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can write another damned Kingsley Jeffers book. I just freeze up at the thought of him.”
A strange, brooding expression came over her face before she moved closer and slid down onto his lap. His brain froze, but his body knew what to do, his hands immediately settling onto her hips.
“Then write something else,” she said softly.
Belatedly the cogs of his brain creaked over. “What?”
She shrugged. “Anything. Just write whatever comes to your head. It doesn’t have to be good, doesn’t even have to make sense. It just has to get you back into the habit of writing.”
She was describing free writing. She couldn’t have known he’d done plenty of free writing in the past. But not recently. Why? Probably because he’d shifted so far from the roots of his writing, he’d forgotten the basics. He moved a hand to Tyler’s thigh, enjoying the feel of her firm flesh. She was the perfect weight and size
for his lap, and illicit desires were already coursing through his bloodstream.
“You make a lot of sense,” he said.
“Of course I do.”
Up close he could see her pupils dilating and knew she was enjoying him squeezing her thigh just as much as he was.
“I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.” He slipped his other hand beneath the edge of her silky top, seeking out the smoothness of her skin. She drew a quick intake of air and started to rise, but he held her firmly in place. “Not so fast. You can’t sit yourself in a guy’s lap and not expect a reaction.”
“Um, I just wanted to get through to you. About your writing. I didn’t mean anything else.”
“The hell you did.” He continued to stroke her midriff, aware of his wavering self-control. After weeks of titillation without satisfaction, his libido was tinder dry and ready to burst into flame. But he was in his mother’s house, and maybe it wasn’t exactly appropriate to get frisky here.
“Don’t,” she said with a groan. “We’re in your mother’s house, for goodness sakes.”
So she agreed with him. Sighing, he withdrew his hand from her top and lifted her regretfully off him. “You’d try the patience of a saint,” he muttered.
She merely smiled as she moved over to the bookcase near his single bed. Bending down, she flicked through the books, twisting her head to read the titles. He sat back to admire her shapely, denim-clad legs. They were so captivating, he barely noticed her pull out a familiar oxblood-red hardcover book, which fell open at a particular page when she had it in her hands.
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree…” she slowly recited.
He tensed, but she continued reading the poem. After the first stanza, she glanced up at him. “You look constipated. Am I reading it all wrong?”
“No, your reading is fine.” He forced himself to stop frowning. “It’s just… I didn’t realize that particular book was there.”
“I’m not surprised. You have hundreds of books in this room.”
But that particular book, together with the others his father had left him, he’d long ago stowed away in a suitcase under his bed, not wanting his mother to see them. With a start, he realized she must have found them and put them in the bookcase. She must have known where the books came from, probably guessed how much they meant to him, and unpacked them for him. His heart clenched hard with a pain more bitter than any he’d experienced six months ago. The room grew blurry. Then he felt Tyler touching him, putting something into his hands. When his vision cleared, he saw he was holding the book of poems.
“You should take this back with you,” Tyler said. “For inspiration.”
His fingers curled round the familiar edges of the book. Maybe she was right. But did he want to be reminded of his dad? And besides, carrying this book around with him would only weigh him down.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I think this one belongs here.” He rose to his feet and placed the book back on the shelf.
They walked back to Helen’s house, Luke ambling as slowly as possible. The sun warmed his back, and Tyler strolled by his side, humming quietly to herself. He liked having her all to himself; he could have walked another hour with her, but too soon they turned the corner onto Helen’s street. Parked at the curb outside her house was a car that hadn’t been there before. A navy-blue, oldish Mercedes that made Luke suddenly cold.
“Damn,” he muttered, turning to Tyler. “That’s my dad’s car. Come on, we’d better hurry before blood gets spilled.”
With Tyler trotting behind him, Luke dashed into the house. From the living room came the sound of raised voices. He hurried in and stopped short as everyone’s heads swiveled toward him. Only the adults were present, thank God. The children were all out back. Looking variously angry and upset, his sisters and brothers-in-law were gathered together on one side of the room. On the other side stood his father, once again dressed in a spotless, outdated suit, but this time his expression was agitated and his hair was awry.
“Luke!” Helen darted forward and grasped his forearm with icy-cold fingers. “Look who waltzed in here just a minute ago. Can you believe the insufferable cheek of the man?”
His sister was so white her blusher stood out in stark red patches on her cheeks. The man who’d caused her paleness looked no better himself.
Luke put an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Maybe you should sit down.” He glanced around the room. Tyler stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on him. “We should all sit down.”
“No! I’m not going anywhere near him.”
“Helen, please—”
“He’s scum. He’s nothing to me.” She aimed her enraged glare at the old man opposite her. “You hear that? You’re nothing to me.”
Luke’s father wobbled slightly but stood his ground.
“Why did you come here?” Luke barked at him, furious that his father had ruined Helen’s party.
“It’s her birthday. And I thought you’d talked to her already, to all of them.” He nodded at his other daughters.
Helen’s fingernails dug into Luke’s arm. “What’s he talking about? Luke, have you been seeing this louse behind our backs?”
Taking a deep breath, he faced his incredulous sister. “He’s visited me a couple of times, yes.”
“How could you?” She pushed his arm away. “Why did you keep it secret?”
“Because I knew you’d react like this. I was going to bring it up at the appropriate time, but it appears I’ve been preempted.” He shot a glower at his father. Damn him. Why couldn’t he have waited? Now he’d distressed Helen and made Luke out to be one of the bad guys.
“Bring what up?” Helen demanded. “What exactly does he want?”
“He wants…” Luke paused and shrugged at his father. “Why don’t you tell everyone yourself?”
Patrick smoothed back his hair and cleared his throat. “I only want what any father wants,” he began, looking humble. “To be with my family—”
“You forfeited that right when you walked out on us,” Helen snapped.
“And it was wrong of me, very wrong.” Patrick bowed his head. “I regret it to this day. But that happened a long time ago. Can’t we let bygones be bygones? Can’t we forgive and move on?”
“Liar. Hypocrite.” Helen hurled the words at him like stones. Her fury shook Luke. Was his sister this unforgiving?
Patrick staggered back as if he’d been hit, sweat coating his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Moving forward, Luke caught his father’s arm and lowered him into a nearby armchair. The old man’s face was like dough.
“I’ll get him some water,” someone said. Someone else opened a window to let in more air.
Patrick gripped Luke’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tyler and Karly were holding Helen’s hands. His eldest sister looked devastated. He pulled his arm free. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
His father winced. Before Luke could add anything, Rosie bustled up with a glass of water and a clean towel. “Here you go,” she said sympathetically.
“Thank you, my dear.” Patrick accepted the water and towel. “I’m not as strong as I used to be. Still recuperating from the operation.”
Luke caught his breath.
“What operation?” Rosie asked.
“Had half my liver removed. Fortunately, the tumor was benign.”
“You never mentioned this before,” Luke broke in accusingly.
His father leaned back in the armchair and dabbed his forehead with the towel. “I don’t want to be a bother, son.”
So why mention the operation at all? And in front of everyone? Disquiet crawled in Luke’s gut. His father had always been a liar—a charming liar, yes, but still a liar. Disguising the truth was second nature to him, to the point where he himself wasn’t aware he was lying. He had used Luke to weasel his way into Helen’s home, and now he was using Rosie’s sweet sympathy
to his own advantage.
“Is this why you’ve come back?” Luke asked. “Because you’re sick and you want someone to look after you?”
An injured expression came over his father’s face. “When did you become such a cynic? If I need someone to look after me, I can always hire a private nurse. I came back because I want to make amends before it’s too late. Is that so hard to believe?”
Rosie clucked, her face softening as she patted his hand. Patrick gave her a faint smile, but his gaze returned to Luke, a question in his eyes. Luke didn’t know what to think or say. He backed away and turned to Helen. She was still clutching onto Tyler and Karly, deep lines etched on her face.
“Come on.” Luke pulled Helen away and led her into the kitchen.
Once there, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and exhaled deeply. “He took Mum’s engagement ring when he left. Did you know that?”
Luke filled a glass with water and handed it to his sister. “No, I didn’t. Mum never mentioned it.”
The glass rattled against her teeth as she took a sip. “Of course she didn’t. She never stopped loving the rat.” Helen lowered the glass. “He would have left her a lot sooner if it weren’t for you.”
Luke gaped at his sister. “I don’t understand.”
“Before you were born, he left and returned numerous times, but once you came along, he stayed put. You were his boy and the apple of his eye. He doted on you.”
Luke’s gut ached. “But he left anyway.”
Helen shrugged. “Eight years was a long time for him to hang around. Now, he’s still doting on you, looking to you to save him.”
What could he say? Helen had every reason to despise their father, but try as he might, he couldn’t muster the same blind outrage.
“I’m sorry, Helen. For everything, especially for ruining your birthday. I’ll get him out of here.”
He went to leave, but she put out a hand to restrain him. “It’s not your fault. I know that. I tend to lash out sometimes. And I had a lovely birthday before all this.” She paused, her expression softening. “Did you and Tyler have a nice visit at Mum’s place?”