Love Is

by S. E. Harmon

  Damn, he was good. I didn’t know what I’d even been worried about. With his arm draped casually over the back of my chair, playing with the end of my ponytail, I almost believed we were a couple. Obviously, he didn’t need my help. He was a natural with people, putting them at ease without appearing to do so. He made them laugh as he told manufactured stories of our first date, and even my dad couldn’t help a chuckle or two.

  The feeling of well-being, surrounded by people I loved in the home I’d grown up in, washed over me like a hot bath on sore muscles, healing places I didn’t even know were strained. The sounds of plates and serving dishes being passed and people chattering made me feel good…good in the present, the here, the now… not accompanied by that bitter tinge of nostalgia that it usually came with. So I was completely unprepared for someone to rain on my parade. But rain it did.

  The thunder rumbled as we were finishing dinner, and Bree and Brittany were clearing the table. “Coffee on the deck?” Art suggested.

  “I’m in,” Jackson said.

  “We should do this again,” Lane said suddenly.

  “We will,” I said dryly. “We’ll probably eat again tomorrow.”

  Her fingers found a patch of skin on my arm and pinched. “I meant we should do this again for the upcoming holiday. Thanksgiving, maybe.”

  “That’ll be wonderful,” Irene piped in. “Even if the house sells by then, we can still get together.”

  For the second time in so many days, Irene’s announcement met pin-drop silence. She was getting a little too good at those. I looked from her to my father’s slowly reddening face, and realized it was a little more than a slip of the tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” Lane said, clearing her throat. “You’re selling the house?”

  I tried to come up with something supportive to say, but I drew a blank. In the end, I could only manage one word, stupefaction personified. “Why?”

  “Irene and I want something a little smaller. We’re not getting any younger, you know. We need something with a little less maintenance.” It was hard to even look at my father as he patted Irene’s arm. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

  Maintenance? He was reducing our childhood memories to maintenance?

  Irene nodded so hard in agreement, I was afraid her hair clip was going to fly off. “Absolutely. It’s only the two of us, after all. What do we need with all this space?”

  I gave her a cold stare and her hands fluttered nervously. Space, my ass. She just wanted a blank slate with my father, a place where my mother had never been. I understood it. That didn’t mean I had to like it.

  Lane finally found her voice. “Where…where are you guys planning to move?”

  “Maybe a condo? Hopefully we’ll get something by the beach, like this one,” Irene gushed. “Your father loves to relax on the deck and watch the ocean go by, so that’ll be perfect for us.”

  As long as I could remember, my mother had begged him to take more time off. Take some time to relax, she’d said. Take some time off for you. For us.

  He’d never even missed one day of work. Not in twenty-five years. Not when he was sick. Not when we were sick. Even in a fucking hurricane, he’d gone in with the auxiliary unit, to help control street chaos. Immediately after her death, he’d retired, taken up bowling, reading, and an overall relaxed mode of living. Apparently, he liked to watch the ocean’s waves roll in. And now he was going to sell the house…no, the home my mother had helped create for us, and move his bubble-headed fiancée into a beachfront condo with the proceeds.

  Two million, six hundred seventy-five thousand, five hundred, twenty minutes. I’d never missed her more. My mom would know exactly what to say to diffuse this awful pall that had dropped over the table. I didn’t bother to try my own skills at smoothing things over. Right now, I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t begin with something foul. I was leaning toward either “fuck you” or “fuck this,” and I was pretty sure neither option would help lift anyone’s spirits.

  I swallowed hard, and Jackson’s hand was suddenly in mine, squeezing so hard it almost hurt. When I finally looked at him, he rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand and gave me a small nod.

  Truthfully, it was time for me to realize that part of my life was over. It was officially separated into BM and AM, Before Mom and After Mom, and I had to accept that things were going to change. Things were different now. It was time for me to stop clinging to old memories and create new memories of my own.

  I just wasn’t sure where to start.

  *

  “You need a hand?”

  Later that night, I glanced up from the kitchen sink to find Art standing there holding two dirty saucers and a cup. I shook my head and took the dishes. I plunged them in the hot water to soak and went back to scrubbing a pot. “You cooked, so there’s no way I’m letting you clean. You even made the after dinner coffee. Besides, it’s helping clear my head.”

  “I hear you.” He sighed and picked up a dish towel. He joined me at the sink, and began drying dishes out of the drying rack. “You know what would clear my head? A little Jack Daniels.”

  Amen to that. Unfortunately, he was shit out of luck. I shook my head sadly. “I already raided the place. Only thing we’ve got alcoholic is Dad’s craft beer. And apparently only he and Jackson can drink that.”

  Art sighed. “Where is Jackson anyway?”

  “His firm has a big project going on. He had to take a call.”

  “This late?”

  I shrugged. When you were the owner of a company or business, nothing was too late. Proverbial fires and real fires were alike that way. Real fires never happen conveniently, when you were dressed and ready with a fire extinguisher at hand. They usually happened when you were in your pajamas, the ones too ratty to even get the mail in, with your hair standing on end. Proverbial fires were no different, and whether it was night or day, you had to put them out.

  I squirted some more dish soap in the water and swished it around. “Speaking of work, how’re things at the Bleu?”

  “Fantastic. As usual,” he added without a hint of modesty. It was well-deserved—I’d eaten most everything off his menu and it was fantastic. “I hired a new sous chef and it seems to be working out pretty well so far.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll get out of the kitchen before midnight sometime.”

  “You work too much.”

  “You should talk.”

  I made a face as I washed soapy lather off the pot’s well-seasoned bottom. Guilty as charged. We were both workaholics with no lives. We would start a club, only we worked too much to make time for meetings.

  “At least you made time for a relationship. Which is more than I’ve done in the past few months.” He looked off thoughtfully. “Although that does give me hope. I mean, if you can find someone…”

  “Shut it.”

  “I mean, really,” he teased. “How is the karma of the universe working when you have someone and I don’t?”

  “Even karma has its limits. There’s no help for your cheesy pickup lines.”

  He swatted me with the dish towel.

  A wave of nostalgia suddenly hit me so hard it was hard to draw a breath. God, we’d had the same kind of argument at least a dozen times in this very kitchen. From the look on Art’s face, he kind of felt it, too.

  His shoulders drooped a bit as he leaned against the sink, bracing his hands on the edge. “Can’t believe he’s selling this house,” he said with a sigh.

  I shook my head. “You and me both.”

  “It’s going to be hard seeing another family living here.”

  “Not like we have much say in the matter.”

  “We could buy it,” he suggested.

  “And then what? Are you going to leave Vegas and live here? Should we ask Lane and Rick to give up their jobs in New York? Things are financially sound on my end, but I can’t afford to buy a three-way timeshare. Not something this expensive. We’d have to rent it out to another family.”r />
  “But it would still be ours.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same and you know it. Part of what made this feel like home is gone, and there’s no amount of property and a four-figure tax bill that’s going to fix that.”

  “You’re right about that.” He sighed again, gustier this time. “Hell, maybe it’s for the best.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to convince myself to believe. If you have better luck, tell me how.”

  It was a full minute before he spoke again. “Can you tell me why it feels like he’s moving on so quickly and we’re stuck in a rut? Stuck in the remnants of the past?”

  I used the hand sprayer to wash a pot, turning it over gently in my pruney hands. No, I couldn’t. I could tell him he wasn’t alone in that feeling, but I thought that was kind of obvious. Instead, I nudged his shoulder with mine and handed him a pot.

  “Dry,” I instructed.

  We worked in quiet unison for a little while, the clink of dishes comforting in the quiet of the kitchen. Most of the household had retired to their rooms, and the usual sounds of people going about their night routine could be heard. The soft patter of the shower upstairs, the buzz of an electric toothbrush, the sound of the hair dryer…it was peaceful and quiet, which was a nice contrast to my riotous thoughts.

  Art slung the dishtowel over his shoulder and began putting away dishes to make room in the drying rack. Most of them were still damp, and I had to grin. The fool had been doing that since we were little kids, and then we’d both get in trouble for doing it wrong.

  “Would it be possible, sometime before I die, for you to learn how to do dishes properly?” I asked.

  “Maybe when you learn not to be such a smartass.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  He flipped me the bird before shutting the cupboard quickly. Mostly because he’d stacked them so precariously, they threatened to fall out. The next person who tried to get a cup out of that cupboard was probably going to get some Tupperware right to the noggin.

  The door swung open as Lane came in, clad in a fluffy sheep robe and fuzzy blue slippers. She came to a halt, surprise on her face. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” Art raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up,” she said with a shrug. “I came down for some water.”

  “Irene put water next to our beds,” I said, hiding a grin. “Evian, I think.”

  “I meant I’m looking for a snack,” she said huffily. “Not a crime to come down for a snack, is it?”

  Art and I shrugged innocently. “Not at all,” we chorused, continuing to wash and dry.

  She opened another cupboard door, moving around a bunch of canned goods to see what was in the very back. “I thought we had some almonds in here.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “I didn’t see any,” Art said.

  “Pecans?”

  He smiled. “Nope.”

  I rolled my eyes and decided to put her out of her misery before she began looking for secret trapdoors. “There’s no booze in here,” I said. “We already checked.”

  “Fuck.” She ran her hands through her dark hair, sending the strands in all directions. The dark silky strands fell back in place, too afraid to rebel for too long on her orderly head. “Let’s go out, then.”

  “Don’t you have kids?” Art teased.

  “They’re already asleep,” she replied. “Besides, the youngest is a nasty drunk.”

  Art laughed. “Same old Lane. I’m in if AJ’s in.”

  I made a face. I couldn’t think of something I wanted to do less than shove my ass in some clothing two buttons away from cutting off my circulation for good, and have someone serve me overpriced drinks all night. Drinks that were heavy on garnish and light on liquor.

  “I have a better idea.” I pulled the plug in the sink and let the water drain. I turned to them and snagged the dishtowel from Art to pat my hands dry. “Art, you go to the store and rectify this prohibition crisis. I’ll change into my pajamas and we’ll wait for you in the den. Then we can all sit on some comfy furniture and drink booze out of whatever random assortment of cups we can find. What do you think?”

  “I think what I’ve always thought.” Art grinned. “Clearly you’re the brains in this family.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tipsy Uno was the best Uno. And no one could tell me differently.

  We wound up on the back deck, facing the darkness of the ocean, enjoying the breeze and the salty air. Lane and Art sat sideways on the deck steps across from one another, while I sat cross-legged on the deck. It probably would’ve been smarter to play on a kitchen table, without the wind threatening our game every few minutes, but no one suggested it.

  I looked up as the back door creaked open and Jackson stuck his head out. Spotting me, he grinned and shook his head. I waved him out. “Come. Join us.”

  “Uno, you guys? Really?”

  “Really.” I patted the deck next to me. “You can be on my team this round. I’m kicking ass.”

  He didn’t take the seat next to me. He sat behind me, legs on either side, and pulled me back, flush against his body. If I’d been completely sober, I probably would’ve gone stiff as a board…maybe even put a few inches between us again as soon as I could have managed it. But apparently Captain Morgan thought it was a fabulous idea and snuggled into his larger form. Captain Morgan also thought Jackson was warm on my slightly chilled backside, and that Jackson smelled really, really good. Captain Morgan was such a slut.

  When Jackson spoke, his voice was a deep rumble by my ear. “You do realize the idea of the game is to get rid of as many cards as possible right?”

  I would’ve sent him an offended look, but that would require un-plastering my back from his front, and that wasn’t going to happen. I tried to inject disdain in my voice instead. “There’s a method to my madness.”

  “Oh good.” He sounded relieved. “Because right now it looks like you’re collecting a whole shitload of cards.”

  Lane cackled as she plopped down another card. “Let me help you with that. Draw four, babes.”

  Bastards, the whole lot of ’em. Art and Lane had been ganging up on me for a little bit now. I collected my cards as Jackson anally began organizing my hand by color. I didn’t mind. I was just too glad that he was here. Mostly because the three of us were still a little shell-shocked, and someone had to help us achieve normal again.

  Some part of me was glad I wasn’t the only one who was so thrown off by the sale of our childhood home that drunken Uno at midnight seemed like a great idea. It just…made no sense. This was our house. Our house. We’d grown up here. We’d learned every squeak, every creak, every sound the floorboards made, so we could sneak in after curfew undetected. The second step on the porch, the third floorboard in front of the couch, and the fourth stair squeaked bloody murder and had gotten me many months of grounding.

  This was where we’d had huge holiday parties, the house so full people exploded from the confines of rooms and onto the lawn and back patio with festive cups and cheer. This was the place where we’d made hundreds of cookies for bake sales and did hours of homework at the kitchen island while our mother made dinner. I had a thousand little stupid memories like that. It was more than just a house.

  It was home.

  Jackson gave my shoulder a gentle nudge. “Your play, AJ.”

  I started, looking down at my cards blindly. He sighed, reaching over my shoulder and removing a few from my hand and tossing them on the stack. He squeezed my fingers gently, letting me know, without words, that he knew my head wasn’t in it.

  “Uno!” Lane cried out gleefully, slinging down all but the last of her cards.

  As per our altered game rules, everyone took a shot. I poured another serving in my glass and offered it to Jackson. After a pause, he took it and slammed it back. His eyes watered a bit as he handed it back. “You’ve been doing these for how long?”

  “Who know
s?” Art said helpfully.

  A good wind picked up, whipping the cards into a frenzy as we tried to grab and hold them down. We lost the battle as the pile in the middle took flight and headed toward the beach in a dazzling array of colors. I was momentarily stunned by their beauty as I watched them fly.

  “I got ’em!” Lane screeched, taking off for the dunes, Art not far behind her.

  I watched them for a moment, shaking my head, before stacking my cards. I hit them on the deck once to line them up neatly, and tucked them under Art’s glass so they wouldn’t become victims to the wind. When I looked up, Jackson was pouring us both another glass of rum. I didn’t know whose glass was whose, but it didn’t really matter at this point. I took the drink silently, and tilted my head in appreciation.

  We did several shots there in the dark, quietly contemplating our own thoughts. He was the first to speak. “Have you guys considered buying the house?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a good idea.”

  “Even as a vacation rental?”

  “Especially then. Who would keep an eye on the property? Who would keep up with the maintenance? Lane and Art are so busy with their own stuff that it would really be just me. And I certainly don’t have the time or know-how to take on a project that big.” I sighed. “And even then, we’d be back to our original objection. Strangers living in our house.”

  He gave me a considering look. “And you wouldn’t consider a loan?”

  “Between the business and my house, I think I already owe the bank my first born, thank you very much. I’d like to keep the second.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the bank.”

  “No,” I said sharply. At his wide-eyed expression, I tempered my tone a little. “No, but thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

  He sighed. “I figured as much. If you weren’t so stubborn, you wouldn’t have had to take a loan from the bank in the first place.”