by Dana Pratola
“Was it because of me? I hope it wasn’t because you took me shopping, or spent time here,” she said.
“No, no,” he said. Seeing her uncertainty, he gave a small smile. “It’s been coming for a while.” He couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to. Him and Dee were simply being pulled in separate directions. His gaze dropped to the ground, briefly studying the imprint of his boot left at the bottom of the steps. When he raised his eyes to focus on Winsome, she still wore that concerned expression. “I guess I was just waiting for the moment. She cheated, so that moment finally came.”
Winsome’s brows drew tightly together. “She cheated on you? Really?”
“I don’t blame her, entirely. I mean, mostly, yeah, but if I don’t really care about us splitting up either, we weren’t supposed to be together, right?”
Winsome pulled her hand away and sat up straighter, facing the open field. “I’m sorry. It can be rough no matter who’s at fault.”
Cal shrugged. “Anyway, the dilemma part is that I was living in her apartment.”
He watched her eyes go wide as his meaning sank in.
“Oh. You’re coming back here,” she said.
It was a statement of comprehension, but there was more. Approval? Acceptance?
Relief.
His heart gave a hard thump against his ribcage. She was the personable sort, who would undoubtedly enjoy the company, and even if she wasn’t afraid to stay out here, she was at the very least lonely. In the next instant, her expression went from one of contained excitement, to dread.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” He clasped his hand gently around her cast. “No, I don’t want you to leave. I just want to clear it with you. If you’d rather I don’t—”
“Don’t be silly, this is your house!”
“It’s yours too.”
Her smile broke like the sun, and for several moments, he was unable to think or respond, trapped in the glow of her beaming face. When she blinked at him, he blinked back, breaking the connection long enough to dispel the fog clouding his brain.
“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his words coming out in a precise line as he put the idea together one word at a time.
She shook her hair back. “Are you kidding? It’ll be nice to have someone around to….” She paused and her smile faltered, then faded. “I mean, we don’t have to hang out or anything, if you don’t want to. I just mean, you know….”
He tried that half-smile again, this time drawing hers back to the surface. “Yeah, we can work it out,” he said.
“I’ll stay out of your way. I can just stay in my room. I don’t mind, I pretty much sit quietly for long periods of time anyway. I love to read,” she blathered, her words tumbling out in a rush.
Cal gave her cast a pat. “I don’t expect you to hide away like a nervous cat, Winsome.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, but her hesitation gave Cal the impression she hadn’t been positive until just now.
“I’d rather you didn’t keep to yourself,” he realized. “Unless that’s what you want.”
She shrugged, her slim, toned shoulders moving under the turquoise sweater. “I like being outside, too,” she told him.
“You mean when it’s warm, right? Not in the frost in the middle of the night?”
She laughed, a musical, cheery sound, and as he listened, that brain fog rolled in again, softening the sharp edges of his tumultuous thoughts. He’d been in a terrible mood when he pulled up, but suddenly was laughing with her. Again. What a sad testament to his relationship with Dee, that he couldn’t remember laughing with her like this in all the time he’d known her.
“Hey, how about if I make us some supper?” Winsome asked, standing.
“You cook?”
“Not well, no. I enjoy it, but I’m not very experienced.”
“We can order something.”
She looked a little disappointed, and he instantly regretted it.
“I guess it would be nice to have a home-cooked meal for a change,” he said.
“Even if it’s lousy?”
“I’m willing to take my chances if you are,” Cal answered.
Winsome smiled and walked inside. He tried not to notice the way the bounce in her step caused her hair and hips to synchronize in a natural sway, that would have been alluring—if he’d been watching. He cleared his throat and got his bags from the car. It was going to be an interesting living arrangement. Now that he thought about it, he needed to get moving on those treehouse plans. They could talk about it over dinner.
Putting his clothes away in his room, Cal threw the last of his belongings in an open drawer, kneed it shut, and went downstairs. He wanted to talk to her now.
Winsome was at the kitchen counter, staring down at a can of olives. With a sigh, she wrapped one hand around a can, and with the other, clamped the manual opener to the edge. After a single turn of the handle, it slipped and fell to the counter.
“Shoot! That’s the third time,” she said.
He took the opener and gently nudged her aside.
“Bet you can’t wait to get that cast off,” he said, inwardly rolling his eyes. Duh.
“Yeah. Soon,” she said, with a cheerless smile. “But it’s not the cast. There’s something wrong with that opener.”
Uncomfortable silence landed heavily between them, and he sought something else to say. He didn’t want a comment on her cast to be hanging out there, mentally reminding her of the beating she’d suffered. He didn’t want to be reminded either. It pissed him off, and he’d just started to relax.
“There’s something wrong with this opener,” he said, after several attempts to turn the handle, only to have it spin without catching the can.
“So, it’s not me?”
She gave a chuckle, but he heard the strain in her voice and refused to turn and face her, knowing what he would find if he did. Eyes lowered and imploring, and the sadness in their depths drawing him closer, even as it stopped him. To offer comfort, he told himself again, as he had once before. Nothing more.
“It’s my aunt’s sentiment,” he said, trying to keep it light. “She probably got it from a friend of hers or something and couldn’t bring herself to throw it out. Let me see what I can do with it.”
Cal flipped it over in his palm and gave the handle a spin. There was a minimum of moveable parts and they didn’t look like anything he could tighten. He jabbed the circular blade into the can and pressed hard when turning the wheel, as if the added effort would somehow cause the little cogged wheel to catch the can’s rim.
When that didn’t work, he removed the blade and reinserted it to make a new gash. He repeated the process again and again, leaving a dotted line of openings, which he went on to disconnect with a knife.
“There, simple,” he said, tossing the opener back in the drawer and stepping back from his accomplishment.
But when he turned, Winsome wasn’t where she’d just been standing. In fact, she’d fled the kitchen altogether.
He found her sitting on the porch, her feet on the first step, bowed in half, rocking and sobbing like a baby, into her lap. In an instant, he was at her side, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her close. To his relief, she didn’t flinch. She turned to him, leaned against his chest, and continued to sob.
It seemed somehow natural to pull her into his lap, so he did. She came willingly, her good arm crossing over her cast, her forehead pressing against his neck. He could already feel dampness spreading near his collar bone and his heart ached with a never before felt need to take her pain away, into himself if necessary. That was impossible, he knew, so he did what he could.
Instinctively, his arms wrapped around her and he began to rock gently, whispering reassurances, calling her Baby, and giving her leave to get it all out. He wanted to believe he was soothing her, but shit, he had no idea what he was doing. Still, he kept it up another few minutes until the flow of tears ebbed
, her delicate shoulders stopped quaking against him, and her breathing became slow and steady.
Winsome sniffled again and pushed slowly away from his chest to look down at him, her eyes so heartbreakingly troubled he thought he might just cry himself. Cal wanted to kiss her so badly. If not to remove the pain inside her, then to ease the ache in him. This strange, unidentifiable ache that seemed to gnaw at him more frequently lately.
His stomach gripped with the knowledge that this cessation of tears wasn’t the end of things, but the beginning. The start of something he had no clue how to handle. Just the fact that he was even considering handling it gave him pause. Through luck or lack of opportunity, he’d never before had to handle something of this emotional magnitude, and a part of him couldn’t help wonder if he was only considering it now because he had missed any chance to help Tiffany.
Maybe caring for Winsome would be viewed as a kind of penance for not being there when she had needed him. It was a duty he was willing to shoulder, but deep inside he knew it was more than a debt owed to his dead sister. This was about Winsome and how she felt. And how he felt about her.
Without a word, he stood, lifting her with him, and carried her inside, setting her in a chair in the kitchen. She remained quiet as he handed her a paper towel, then took a delivery menu out of a drawer and slid it across the table to her.
“Seems I’m always trying to get food in you,” he said.
Winsome blew her nose and crumpled the paper towel in her hand. But she didn’t cry, thank God.
“I’m not very hungry,” she said.
“That may be, but you need to eat.” He opened the tri-fold menu and repositioned it in front of her. “Pick something.”
Winsome sighed and jabbed a finger into a random spot on the paper. Cal looked down and read her choice upside down, pursing his lips.
“Do you really want that?” he asked.
“Sure,” she answered, wearily.
“Are you going to eat it?” She nodded. “Okay, one order of extra cheese, coming up.”
Her brows drew together and she looked down at the menu.
“That’s the list of pizza toppings,” Cal said. “I’ll just order something for you.”
He reached again for the menu and this time she flinched. The reaction was swift, and she tried to cover it up, but it stabbed him like a knife in the gut.
“Damn it, Winsome.” Cal grabbed her and pulled her up, into his arms. Even though his movements were sudden, his tone heated, he encapsulated her in his strength, willing her to feel shielded, instead of hunted. “I will never hurt you. Never. You have to trust me.”
It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized those words, and his actions, were every bit as much possessive as protective. He might be headed for trouble, but he didn’t intend to let any other man even have the opportunity to hurt her. He realized, too, when she remained motionless in his arms for long, drawn out moments, that his words may have been perceived as a kind of threat of their own. He was really screwing this up, wasn’t he?
Then her arms came around his waist, joining at his back. She held on tight, in what seemed acceptance of the protection he offered. Relieved, Cal brushed a hand down her hair and back, and rested his chin atop her head. They remained that way until Winsome’s stomach grumbled and she slowly released him, backing away.
“I guess I am hungry after all,” she said, looking up at him.
This time, he was glad to see the sadness gone from her eyes, replaced by that tiny spark of light she seemed to have most times. He finally understood what it was like to be a moth. Averting his eyes from hers, he picked up the menu.
“Okay, then, not just cheese, right?”
CHAPTER 10
Winsome lay in bed staring at the darkness outside her window, wondering how much of a fool she’d made of herself with all those tears on the front porch. And why? Because she was overwhelmed when Caleb was just being nice to her. Not even nice, just not not nice. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was for most people.
At once, she’d seen the depth of the pit she’d fallen into. The loneliness and despair that caused her to be stunned when people like him and Ruth not only weren’t dismissive or mean, but showed kindness. Missing Ruth, she’d broken down, for her loss, for the uncertainty of the future, and for missing life the way it used to be. It hadn’t been a great life, but it had been hers. She’d been independent, and if not always happy, at least hopeful things would work out somewhere down the line. Dante had stolen that from her, the dream that she would one day have a man who loved her. Kids. A simple, neat home with plants on the porch and a welcome mat at the door.
She pushed his face from her mind and replaced it with another. One with blue-gray eyes and a surprising smile that calmed her. One with a body that spoke of physicality and the ability to handle himself, yet a presence that assured her she was safe with him.
Her heart throbbed with longing, knowing she could never have a man like Caleb, and that like their living arrangement, the tentative friendship they now shared was temporary. She blinked away the sting of tears. The lump in her chest was more difficult to remove. A lump that was a thing and not a thing at the same time. A ball of emptiness, trying to gulp up what little hope she had.
Even the treehouse-candle shop wasn’t her dream. Ruth had dreamt it for her, because she didn’t dare do it herself. And it was…insane! More insane was the fact that Caleb was not only on board, but resolute in seeing his aunt’s wishes come to fruition.
She had to admit when contemplating his plans for the treehouse, that ball of emptiness started to give way to excitement, and the dream started to become hers, despite knowing her hopes would have that much further to fall when things didn’t work out.
After Caleb had refused to let her help clean up the take-out mess earlier, he began sketching in his pad, page after page. They’d discussed what her ideal work-living space would look like, the kind of lighting she wanted, and would she prefer the work room to have a view facing south or somewhere else? He’d written down all her brain-stormed ideas, including the one about having a verse of Pure Imagination from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, carved into the steps leading up to the treehouse. He’d chuckled, then written it down.
It had been thrilling to watch his pencil fly over the crisp white paper. He’d deposited lines at various angles until an identifiable structure took form, complete with bathroom, bedroom loft and a small library space with a window seat. It was all for her, to utilize as a real home and a workshop for her business. Her business. Her heart pounded at the thought. What did she know about starting a business? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But he was determined to make it happen.
He had her briefly describe the candle making process and asked about her storage needs. She gave him a list of some of the supplies and tools required, and items that weren’t necessarily essentials, but things she’d love to have. She really didn’t know exactly what she needed. Aside from the time she’d gotten to use an actual melter in a class she’d taken years ago, she’d always used double boilers on a stovetop. He told her she’d probably need a bigger assortment of molds. Well, yeah. She’d only had two—one round, one square—and now she didn’t even have those.
Talking about such fantasy had exhausted Winsome emotionally, and after a couple hours Caleb shuffled her off to bed like an overtired three-year-old. Maybe he was right, maybe she was overtired, and that was why she couldn’t sleep.
She rolled to her back. No, her wakefulness had little to do with the treehouse and all to do with Caleb. Where had he come from? She’d never met anyone like him. He was gruff and serious most of the time, but there was never any doubt he wouldn’t hurt her. It upset her to know she’d caused him to question her trust at the kitchen table earlier, but his abrupt movements weren’t what had made her flinch, it was the reflex she now owned, that told her to brace for the blow.
One day she might be able to forgive Dant
e for the beatings—not the sexual abuse—but she didn’t think she could forgive him for embedding this fear in her. The initial terror when the wind blew the screen door open, or the birds all suddenly became silent, and that irrational flash of thought, for a split second, that it could be him coming for her. It was an ugly part of her now, one that she would have to fight to be rid of, and she planned to seek counselling as soon as she could afford it.
Oddly, knowing it disturbed Caleb so much to see her that way made it simultaneously harder, and easier, to cope. His discomfort added to her stress a bit, and it wasn’t fair for him to be burdened with the role of caretaker. If she’d had anywhere else to go, she might be there now. Yet, the fact that he recognized what she was going through helped put her mind at ease. She didn’t feel she needed to be anyone other than who she was right now.
When he held her in his arms, she not only knew in her head, but felt in her heart that he would never hurt her. His arms were the safest place she’d been in her life, and also the sweetest, giving her the feeling she could accomplish anything. But the embrace had ended too fast, when she began to worry he might feel her heart practically beating out of her chest. Although it was possible he might have attributed it to her irrational fears, she couldn’t take that chance, and had stepped away, changing the subject.
How she wanted to be held again, in those strong, reassuring arms. Did that make her weak? She didn’t know any more. It had been so long since she recognized Winsome. Last year, she wouldn’t have believed it of herself, but maybe she’d been weak all along. Maybe that’s how she’d been taken in, and taken over, by Dante.
This time, the thought of him brought a sudden rush of anger. That was new. And it felt kind of great. So great, she went with it, snatching up the closed book on the nightstand and hurling it against the wall with all her might. It made a solid, though muffled thud, not loud, but she heard Caleb’s footsteps in the hallway just moments later.
“Winsome? You okay?” he asked, through the closed door.