by Terri Kraus
He ran the images of the evening over and over in his head, wondering how Cameron viewed the same event. He wondered if he had erred in his restaurant selection, if he had erred in taking the ride up to Titusville, if he had erred in answering her questions about church the way he did. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. She had never talked about church before that moment. Ethan knew there were women who were very committed to religion, and he was pretty certain the idea would have come up sooner—and that she would have reacted more strongly to his honest answer had she been one.
He wondered if she was just being polite.
He’d had a good time this evening. It was the first good adult-only time he had had in … well, in years. Not that time spent with Chase wasn’t good, or that time spent with his extended family wasn’t good. And he wasn’t one to hang out with friends regularly.
He replayed the end of the evening again, when he had placed his hand on her hip and when he’d kissed her. He was pretty certain that she had kissed him back—not only politely, but as if she meant it—even if it was just a brief kiss.
He liked the feeling. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt this way.
As he tried to recall the touch of her skin against his own, that image from his past wavered into view. A thud of guilt grazed his chest. He imagined his wife. Then he saw Cameron’s face, her closed eyes and lips, outlined in soft crimson.
He swung his feet out of the bed, as if the movement would change the view. It was not entirely successful. He stood up and peered out the window, up and down the street. All was quiet. He heard the gentle creaks and hum of the house.
As he recalled the scent of Cameron’s perfume again, the guilt returned. He closed his eyes and his head dropped.
This is never going to work. This will never, ever work.
He sat down on the bed heavily, his shoulders slumped.
I can’t do this to her. I just can’t.
Cameron heard the church bell toll twice. She loved the sound—the deep rolling chime as it blanketed the downtown. The first time she’d heard it, she had smiled, certain that Franklin was going to be a wonderful town to live in.
She sat up in bed and watched the reflection of headlights from the street below on the wall. She folded her arms across her knees. She replayed the evening in her head again, wondering if she had done everything right. She remembered him laughing and smiling, and remembered the touch of his hand on her hip and how thrilled she was that he’d initiated the kiss. She wished, now, that it had lasted a little bit longer, but tried to resolve that she should not be greedy.
She wondered why she had asked him about church. Was it because of Paige’s comment about God being able to restore a damaged person? Cameron wasn’t a devout churchgoer. In fact, she had only been to church a couple of times since moving to Franklin, and usually after a conversation with her aunt—the religious one.
It was not a question she normally would have asked.
Other than that one blip—or sort of a blip—she considered the evening a success. He was funny and considerate and charming, the sort of person she would want to be with—always.
It was just so right. I’m sure he’s going to call again. He will.
She felt again the hopefulness she had felt earlier. And then a fleeting image of the sea came to her mind.
The poor kid’s gonna be living that nightmare forever.
She had moved to Franklin to be farther from the sea and farther from those memories.
It wasn’t my fault.
And then she closed that door once again.
Without forgiveness
life is governed by
an endless cycle
of resentment and retaliation.
—Roberto Assagioli
Forgivers … reject the possibility
that the rest of their lives
will be determined by
the unjust and injurious acts
of another person.
—Gordon Dalbey
CHAPTER NINE
ETHAN TOSSED THE BAG at Joel. “Think fast!”
Joel almost dropped his thermos but switched hands and caught the bag before it hit the floor. He didn’t spill a drop of coffee in the process.
“I got you a couple of donuts. A reward for the first man on the job.”
Joel dug into the bag with obvious pleasure. “Marcy won’t let me stop at Donut Heaven anymore. She said that if she finds another greasy crumpled bag in the truck, she’s going to make me join Weight Watchers with her.”
“You’re not fat,” Ethan said, defending Joel against this outlandish accusation.
“It all depends on your definition, boss. Marcy’s dictionary is much different than mine,” he said as he munched into the chocolate-covered, custard-filled donut. “Do you think Donut Heaven will sell me donuts in plain paper bags?”
“You know, you could just throw the bags away before you get home. Try being neat for a change.”
Joel responded, his mouth half full, “That’s not the way of the contractor, Ethan. You should know that by now.”
Ethan smiled, but painfully. It was a common complaint—carpenters and construction crews were pigs, people said—never cleaning up after themselves. Ethan defended the process to a point. “‘Why clean a site when it will get dirty the next day?’ my crew says. At the end of the project we’ll get a high school kid cheap to pick up all the debris.”
He did take exception to the pop cans and drink containers left littering the space, insisting that the crew keep the site relatively neat.
CeCe hated the clutter and debris left over at the end of the week. “Can’t your crew sweep up once in a while?” she’d chide.
Ethan tried to explain that she would be paying a carpenter’s wage for manual labor—not the best use of their time … or her money.
CeCe said it didn’t matter. She liked the site clean—regardless of the cost. “This will be my home, after all,” she’d said.
Joel leaned against a stack of drywall and bit into his second forbidden treat. “Seeing your girlfriend again this weekend?”
Ethan could feel his eyes narrowing. Was Joel trying to get a rise out of him? Date a woman once, and the local observers would classify that event as a get-acquainted date. Dates two and three started to change that identification. And now that Ethan and Cameron had had six official dates, they were a “couple,” at least in the eyes of most casual observers.
Ethan didn’t consider his relationship with Cameron that way, but it was too early in the morning to argue.
“Yes, Cameron and I are going out again. She’s a pleasant person. We laugh a lot.”
Joel obviously wasn’t compelled to investigate the situation any further since he simply nodded while he ate. Then he asked, “How’s Mrs. Moretti?”
Ethan looked pained. This was a wonderful project, a project that would keep Ethan and his crew employed for months, a project that had the potential to put Willis Construction solidly in the black … but that was not all of it.
“She’s fine. She’s happy so far. Or she was happy yesterday. Or at least happy at the end of yesterday.”
Joel wiped his sleeve across his face. “Ethan, I know it’s your job and your company and all that … but you should lighten up. If she wants a seven-foot-wide staircase, you shouldn’t even say anything. You should just start cutting treads in seven-foot lengths. You’re going to have a heart attack here if you and her argue about every detail in the place. There are a lot of details. And a lot of arguments to come, probably.”
Ethan was shocked. Joel had always supported him in his preservation-not-degradation arguments. Or at least he had never contradicted him.
“But what she wants to do isn’t the right thing,” Ethan
replied with early morning passion. “What she wants doesn’t work. It doesn’t look authentic. I can’t keep my mouth shut when she ignores history. She should honor the past. I do. Deeply.”
Joel drained the last of his coffee and screwed the lid back on his thermos. “The rest of the crew will be here in a minute. And it would serve no useful purpose if they hear us arguing about this. But they already are getting confused as to who to listen to—you or Mrs. Moretti. She’s here a lot and she talks a lot, Ethan. She tells everyone what she wants. She brings food with her. You got to realize that she is the boss here—even if what she wants don’t exactly line up with history. Sometimes the past just ain’t worth holding on to, Ethan. You should know that. You battled too many times with too many people over the same sort of thing. And where has this purist thing gotten you?”
Ethan was perturbed now, almost angry. What right does he have telling me how to run my business? He’s an assistant, that’s all. He doesn’t have any money in this. If what she’s doing is wrong, then I have a right to call her on it.
“You know that I like working for you, Ethan. We all do. But we all know that … that you need this job. Willis Construction needs this job. We don’t like bounced checks and dirty looks at the lumberyard. Why don’t we just do like the nice lady asks and everyone will get their bills paid and everyone will be happy … okay?”
Ethan was thinking of the right answer when the front door opened with a slam and the familiar sounds of Z102.3—ErieZ Classic Rock—came blasting as Doug hauled up his boom box to the third floor.
Ethan remained silent. And remained silent all through the morning.
“You want to get a what?”
“A latte. You know—coffee and steamed milk, I think.”
“And where do you know about lattes from?” Ethan asked, wondering when and where Chase had tasted a latte.
“I was with Elliot and his mom. She stopped at that new Starbucks in Oil City. She said she was treating, and I saw on the menu board that a small latte was the cheapest thing, so I got one. It was real good. I thought we could go for a ride … get some coffee?”
His son had not been what Ethan would call communicative for weeks, perhaps ever since he had started dating Cameron. Sometimes doors opened ever so slightly.
“Okay. We have nothing important to do today. Hop in.”
Chase switched the radio on, rolled down his window, and turned the volume up.
At least he’s smiling, Ethan thought. That’s a good thing these days.
Minutes later at Starbucks, they both stood, staring at the menu board, which proudly presented several thousand options. Ethan had seldom stopped at these places for this exact reason. He was confused over what to order.
“A small latte,” Ethan eventually said, without much confidence. He loved coffee, but loved it as plain coffee, not encoded with odd ingredients and confusing sizes.
“A tall latte,” the clerk called out.
“No … a small latte … the little one,” Ethan said, explaining his choice.
“A tall is small,” the clerk said evenly, as if he had explained this very thing a hundred times already this morning, mostly to children and ignorant customers.
“Oh. Okay then. A tall latte.”
Chase stepped up. “The same thing. But with a shot of caramel.”
Ethan shuffled off to one side of the counter, looking up to see where the PICK UP ORDER sign was.
After receiving their drinks, they scouted for an open table. And there, right in the middle of the not-so-crowded coffee shop, at a large table in the center, sat Cameron, with her laptop. Three sets of eyes met and triangulated in an instant.
Cameron raised her right hand, almost timidly, as if she wasn’t sure she should be saying anything. “Hi. I saw you come in. I was reading the news. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ethan looked at Cameron, then at his son, trying to gauge the mood and tenor of this all-so-awkward moment.
“We don’t normally come here. Chase wanted a latte—and I don’t think there’s any place in town … so … we came out here … and …”
Chase, in a most epiphanic moment, took a step forward. He extended his hand and announced, in a relatively clear voice, “Hi, I’m Chase. You must be Miss Dane.”
Where in the world did this person come from? Ethan thought, amazed … no, astounded. Has a polite alien taken over my son’s body?
“Chase, it is so nice to officially meet you. I saw you that day when I was doing the stories on baseball moms.…”
It was obvious that Cameron almost stumbled on the word moms. Anyone could see the confusion in her eyes—as if her saying the M word might cause Chase pain.
“Yeah, I remember seeing you there. It was a pretty cool story. Mrs. Hollister didn’t like it much, but then she doesn’t like anything all that much.”
Cameron laughed, in spite of her nervousness. “You have time to sit down? I’m alone here … so …”
Chase pulled out a chair and sat before the two adults had moved a muscle.
“I guess we could sit for a minute or two,” Ethan said.
“We have no place to go, Dad. You said that yourself,” Chase corrected him kindly.
“But Miss Dane might be busy.”
Chase looked over to Cameron and screwed his face up tight. Cameron laughed again, in spite of the fact that Chase was making fun of his father.
“You live on the third floor of the Franklin Club, don’t you?” Chase asked.
Again Ethan wondered just where Chase got all his information. He had never once mentioned Cameron’s address.
“I do. It has a turret.”
“I know. We all thought it would be a cool place to have a club. But somebody said it was haunted. You see any ghosts there?”
Cameron leaned in close. “No. But when it’s real dark and foggy, I can hear things.”
“Really?”
“I do. But I think it’s just one of the club’s ancient members who fell asleep in the clubroom—snoring.”
This time Chase laughed.
Where did this person come from? Ethan wondered again. When he’s with me, he never says anything.
Cameron asked Chase about the upcoming school year, about baseball, and she told him that her older brother worked for the front office of the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team and that she would see if he could get an autographed picture of the team. Chase said that would be really, really cool. He asked her if the newspaper was going to send a reporter to the championship game and Cameron said she thought so. She added that she knew a little bit about sports, but not a lot. Chase said that was okay because girls hardly ever did.
Ethan watched them talk, watched this son of his talk with a woman, a woman he was … well, dating. He knew his was an odd, odd situation, but he watched them laugh and smile and talk like they had been old friends for a long time.
Several minutes later, Cameron sat up, startled by the ringing of her cell phone. She placed it to her ear, listened, and said, “Okay. I can be there. Give me ten minutes.”
She stood. “That was the paper. There’s been a mix-up. Our photographer isn’t where he’s supposed to be and no one can find him. I need to run back to town to take a picture … of somebody.”
She gathered up her purse. “It was so nice to meet you, Chase. Your father has told me a lot about you. I hope to see you again.”
“Sure. Thanks. And it was nice to meet you, too, Miss Dane.”
Ethan wanted to shake his head in amazement but held his head steady. Maybe they’re teaching him manners in school … or church.
They both watched her walk quickly to her car.
“She seems real nice,” Chase said.
“She is.”
And then, as if a v
eil of silence fell around him, Chase returned to his latte, quietly drinking it through the plastic lid. He grabbed the sports section of the Erie Times from a table nearby, flipped to the baseball page, and began to read.
Ethan sat for a moment, not knowing what to do or say. He finally joined his son, picked up the front page of the paper, and began to read as well.
The relaxed, easy days of summer seemed to quicken as the season raced to its final ending. School was only a handful of days away, and there was a different feeling in the air.
The Flyers continued their winning ways and found themselves scheduled for the Junior League Championship Series. The team photo ran in the newspaper. Ethan dutifully saved the entire page, placing it carefully on the pile of clippings in the blue bin under the basement stairs.
If Chase had been nervous about playing in the final championship game of the season, he didn’t show it. Ethan was much more anxious than his son, even though he wasn’t the sort of father, or so he claimed, who lived life through the on-field accomplishments of his son.
No, he was more rational than that. He was much more evolved.
But Ethan woke early that championship Saturday morning, the Saturday of the final game for the Flyers, instantly fidgety and anxious, even before his morning coffee. Chase, on the other hand, slept late.
Chase, fully dressed in his baseball uniform, had calmly made his own breakfast of toast and cereal and a large tumbler filled with orange juice. He was putting his few dishes in the sink when his father walked hurriedly into the kitchen.
“Hey, sport,” he said, forcing his tone to be cheery and optimistic, “you ready for the game?”
Chase wasn’t sure how to respond. His father never called him “sport.” In fact, it was sometimes a joke in the house—fathers who call their sons “sport” because they can’t remember their names. His dad had only one name to remember, and Chase was pretty sure he hadn’t forgotten it.