Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “That big, dumb ox,” he grumbles.

  “Hey! He’s a nice guy!” I spare a second to glare at Roy with disapproval. “And a friend. He helped you only days ago, so stop being such a jackass.” I’ve never spoken to anyone besides Jonah like that, and certainly not to any sixty-something-year-old man.

  But if there’s one sixty-something-year-old man on the planet who deserves it, he’s sitting beside me in this old beat-up truck.

  “He lets Muriel walk all over him,” Roy says, as if that’s justification for his harsh words.

  “She’s his mother! He’s being respectful. You should try it sometime.” Not that I disagree with Roy’s assessment.

  Roy glares at his cast as if it’s the cause of his discomfort, and not the arm it’s protecting.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No, it tickles.” After a moment, as if catching himself on his sharp response, he admits, “Yeah, it hurts some. They gave me a local anesthetic before they started poking and prodding, but it’s wearing off.”

  “I’ll bet one of those painkillers would help, when you get home,” I suggest.

  He grunts. “I don’t do drugs.”

  I check my side-view mirror as an excuse to roll my eyes at his obstinacy. “It’s not crystal meth, Roy. Your doctor prescribed it. Taking a few at night before bed isn’t going to kill you. It might even help you sleep.” Which, by the heavy bags beneath his eyes, he hasn’t been doing much of lately.

  “Just a few at night, huh? So easy.” His brow furrows. “Me and addictive things don’t mix well.”

  Is that another glimpse into Roy’s life? A dark sliver of his past?

  It clicks. “Is that why you don’t drink, either? I noticed you didn’t drink your beer at the Ale House.” He held it, he stared at it, but he never took a single sip.

  “First a spy, now a detective,” Roy grumbles, then purses his lips, as if deciding whether he wants to explain himself. “Haven’t had a drink since I came up here, thirty-three years ago.”

  But he must have had more than one before then, enough to know that he has problems with addiction, enough to not trust himself taking pain meds when he desperately needs them.

  “What made you stop drinking?” I dare ask.

  “Life.”

  I hesitate, but only for a second—the opportunity is too tempting to pass up. “You mean, your wife and daughter?”

  His jaw tenses.

  “I saw the picture,” I admit, though he’s probably figured that out. He’s hid it since then, for fuck’s sake.

  “It’s none of your goddamn business.” His normally bitter tone is laced with something colder, harder, scarier.

  My stomach tightens as regret stirs. I’ve clearly hit the nerve I knew I would hit if I brought it up. But I’ve already cracked the proverbial can of worms and, seeing as Roy did open up about his past as, I’m guessing, an alcoholic, I can’t help but hope he might tell me more, might tell me something that makes sense. “I know it’s none of my business,” I offer in as contrite a tone as I can muster. “I was wondering what happened to them.”

  “They smartened up, is what they did. Got the hell away from me. Is that what you wanna hear?”

  So, what Toby said about Roy’s wife leaving him was accurate. But has he seen or talked to them since? Does he have any relationship with his daughter? I have so many questions.

  Suddenly, Muriel’s claim that Roy and I have things in common doesn’t sound so farfetched.

  I was a daughter estranged from her father.

  Is Roy a father estranged from his daughter?

  I let a few minutes pass before I ask, “Have you talked to your daughter at all since then?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  We’ve already passed my driveway, and I know the trip is almost over, so I try a different tactic. “My mom and I left Alaska when I was little and moved back to Toronto. I didn’t see my dad again until last summer. I didn’t even talk to him for about twelve years—”

  “Lemme out here,” Roy grumbles. The rustic wooden sign that marks his driveway appears in the bramble ahead.

  “Here? That’s, like, a twenty-minute walk to your house. At least.” In good health, and Roy is far from that.

  “So what? I like walkin’.” He paws at the door handle with his left hand.

  “Do you remember the doctor telling you to take it easy?”

  “Do you remember me tellin’ you to mind your own damn business?” he shoots back.

  I sigh, exhausted from a day of dealing with Roy’s volatile temperament. “Is this because I brought up your daughter?”

  His jaw clenches. “No, it’s because you’re gonna hit every goddamn pothole from here to my house, and it’ll hurt like hell. I can’t believe we made it home alive, the way you drive. Whoever gave you your license should be shot.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my driving!” I snap, my patience finally evaporating. I pull into the laneway—there’s nowhere else to go with it being a dead-end road.

  He pops open the door the second the wheels slow, forcing me to stop abruptly.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Probably.” He shifts to move out, but then pulls back, glaring at the laneway ahead. “What’re you doin’, girl?”

  “I’m trying to get you home in one piece!”

  “No, I mean, why’re you keepin’ this up? Comin’ around every day, bringin’ me dinner and muffins and shit.”

  “Because you need help?”

  “Whatever you’re lookin’ for here, you ain’t gonna find it in me.”

  I feel my cheeks flush with indignation. “I’m not looking for anything—”

  “I’m no replacement for your dead daddy, and I don’t wanna be.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Is that seriously what you think is going on here?”

  His gaze flickers to me before shifting off, as if meeting my eyes is uncomfortable. “I don’t know what I think. Been tryin’ to figure you out. Maybe … yeah. Nothin’ else makes sense.”

  “God, you are such a—” Just helping him doesn’t make sense? My hands grip the steering wheel, shaking with rage. “Well, funny, I’ve been trying to figure you out, too, and all I see is a miserable, sad old man waiting to die in the woods, alone.”

  “Never claimed I was anything else, did I?” With a grimace of pain, he slides out of the passenger side, slamming the door behind him. He hobbles down his laneway.

  “You know what, Roy? Screw you!” I holler out the window.

  “Maybe you’ll listen to me when I tell you to stay away!” he fires back.

  “You win! I am done helping you!” My voice is husky with emotion. I add after a beat, “And I don’t care if that bear eats you on your way home!”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t. I’m too bitter.”

  I throw the truck in reverse and jam my foot on the gas, then slam on the brake to keep myself from hitting the tree on the other side. I race home, my tires kicking stones and dust along the way.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Hey,” I croak.

  “Happy birthday to you … happy birthday to you …”

  Mom’s and Simon’s singing—Simon’s tuneless, my mother’s high and rhythmic—fill my ear. I smile despite the pounding headache behind my temple.

  “Are you not up already?” my mom asks when they’ve finished serenading me.

  I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s almost nine. “Jonah let me sleep in.” I roll onto my back, squinting at the bright daylight that casts a glow around the edges of the blackout curtains. The other side of the bed is empty. Jonah was supposed to wake me by seven so we could be in the air early, but that plan was made before I opened a bottle of wine last night, waiting for him to get home from work. “Did you know that consuming alcohol while sitting in a hot tub can be lethal? Like, they should put it in the manual.” Maybe they did. I only skimmed over the warnings.

  “Good time ringing in your
twenty-seventh?” Simon asks, amusement in his British lilt.

  I groan again, throwing my arm over my eyes. “I think so?” Memories of the night come rushing to me. Jonah, rolling up to the house at ten after finishing his day water-bombing flames. Me, three glasses into a bottle of California Cabernet—my anger with Roy stymied, and my inhibitions dulled—stumbling out of the hot tub to meet him on the driveway, naked and attempting seduction, oblivious to the mosquitos. Things progressed quickly from there.

  Or regressed, depending on how you look at it.

  Jonah certainly must have had a good night.

  I wince at the enormous welt on my arm. I can only imagine how many more I have on my body. I’ll be spending my birthday itchy and doped up on Benadryl.

  “So, our birthday gift to you is on its way,” my mom says, her voice humming with excitement. “We’re so sorry, we tried to get it to you yesterday. But the courier confirmed it should be there within the hour, so try not to leave before it arrives.”

  They’ve piqued my interest. “Is it something I need to sign for?”

  “No, but you definitely don’t want to leave it on your front porch for the weekend,” Simon quips, earning my mother’s tittering laughter.

  “You two are weird. It’s a lemon cake, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see!”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll love it.” It has to be lemon cake. They’ve been “surprising” me with one every year since the local baker mastered a dairy-free buttercream icing for me. But can they even ship that all the way from Toronto?

  Of course, my mother would find a way. I applaud her determination.

  “We so wish we were there, darling, but you know how June is with all the weddings and graduations and proms. It’s like a month of Valentine’s Days.”

  “No worries. I remember.” When my mother is home—which isn’t often during that month—Simon hides in his office and I tiptoe around her.

  “Do you have any guesses for where Jonah’s taking you?” Simon asks.

  “No, but he promised it doesn’t involve an outhouse.” Though, at this point, I’d be fine with going somewhere remote, somewhere our phones don’t work and there are no TVs to broadcast news of the fires raging on. Somewhere where I have Jonah entirely to myself, where he says the right things and makes romantic gestures and reminds me why I’d chase him to the ends of the earth.

  Which, some days lately, it feels like I already have.

  I am desperate for this weekend away with him, which is absurd given we live together.

  “Well, I’m sure he’s going to spoil you.” Again, with my mother’s tittering laugh, as if she knows something I don’t.

  I can’t imagine what his gift to me will be this time. Should I be preparing myself for another joke? Matching camo pants to go with the jacket from Christmas?

  He’ll have a hard time topping the airplane pendant.

  Unless he proposes.

  My stomach leaps with anticipation. It’s been more than a month since we visited the safety cabin, since the pregnancy scare and the potentially disastrous engine failure. I haven’t asked and he hasn’t hinted.

  But that would certainly make this day memorable.

  I say my goodbyes to Mom and Simon, and then holler into our quiet house, “Jonah! You promised me coffee in bed today!” He even made me demonstrate how to use the barista machine and write out the steps for making my latte.

  A few moments go by with no answer. “Jonah?”

  Still nothing.

  A vague recollection of his phone ringing early this morning stirs in my memory. I remember the low, gravelly sound of his sleepy voice as he answered, but I remember little else.

  I haul myself out of bed and stagger to the bathroom, angling for a long, hot shower to wash the chlorine from my skin and steam the alcohol from my pores.

  The Post-it stuck to the middle of the mirror stalls me in my tracks.

  Sorry, Sam called. Really needed me. I’ll be back in a few hours. Promise. Happy birthday!

  I read the note several times over to make sure I haven’t somehow misconstrued it, to make sure I’m not still drunk, all while a sinking feeling settles into my stomach. That phone call I heard was Sam. He was calling to ask Jonah to come in to work on his weekend off.

  And, instead of saying he can’t, instead of saying that it’s my birthday and he promised me a weekend away, Jonah said yes to Sam and stuck a Post-it Note to the bathroom mirror.

  A few hours, my ass. When has he ever been back after a few hours? He could easily be gone all day.

  But it’s a horrendous fire, I tell myself, trying to settle the gnawing ache in my chest and the lump forming in my throat. A fire that is running rampant, destroying forest, killing animals, chasing people from their homes.

  What Jonah’s doing is important, I tell myself, even as hot tears trickle down my cheeks, the wave of hurt and disappointment overwhelming.

  The most painful thing about this, I realize, is that I’m not surprised.

  * * *

  I pull the blanket tighter around my body, as much for comfort as to quash the slight chill lingering in the shade of our porch, despite the climbing temperature outside, and listen to the sound of tires over gravel as our pickup crawls up the driveway. Jonah arrived home half an hour ago, the approaching purr of Veronica’s engine bringing both relief—that he has arrived home safe, that it’s still early in the day—and a fresh wave of melancholy. I don’t know what he’s been doing in the hangar since he landed, but he certainly didn’t run home to me.

  It’s left me with far too much time to dwell on my thoughts and insecurities, to dissect fond memories—the weekend he flew across the continent to tell me he can’t live without me, the morning he braved the snowy mountains and whisked me off to the cabin for Christmas, all those early nights tangled in sheets, sharing our best intentions.

  I’m left wondering if that’s all they were—intentions. Has something changed? Have we changed in these last few months? Because those memories suddenly feel so far from where we are now—me here, day after day, finding ways to occupy my time until Jonah comes home, telling myself over and over again that what he does is important, that it’s only for the summer months, that I knew going in this is how it would be.

  I’m tired of telling myself that.

  I didn’t really know this is how it would be. At least, I didn’t know how it would feel.

  I brush my palms against my cheeks, trying to rid any last evidence of tears, and then I shift my focus to the hazy, smoke-filled sky and the small ripples forming over the surface of our quiet lake as I wait to face him.

  “You ready to …” Jonah’s words drift when he meets my eyes.

  I guess wiping away tears wasn’t enough to hide the fact that I’ve been crying.

  “What’s going on? Did something happen?” he asks, his voice panicked.

  Despite the ache, I almost laugh. He literally has no clue. “Yeah. You told me I was more important to you than work.”

  A frown slowly forms as realization sets in. “I was only gone a few hours.”

  “That’s not the point!” My voice cracks. Words I hadn’t planned on saying out loud fly from my mouth. “I haven’t complained once about you never being home since you took this job with Sam, have I? But the one day, the one day you promised you’d be here, that you’d put me first, that I would be more important than you flying off somewhere, and you couldn’t do that.”

  A bewildered look flashes across his face. “Calla, you are more important to me than work. Or anything,” he says slowly. “Where is this coming from?”

  “Seriously? I’ve basically been alone here for the past two months, with a goat and a raccoon for company. I have no job besides being your secretary and your maid and your cook, and I have one friend. It feels like you’re never home anymore. I hate it here!”

  His eyebrows arch. “You hate it here?”

  “Yes! N
o!” I shake my head, the tears rolling again. “I don’t know!” It’s the first time that thought has taken shape in my mind. It’s my emotions talking. Or not? Maybe it’s true. Maybe this is as good as it’s going to get for me in Alaska. “I want you to be happy, Jonah. But I’m not happy. I don’t belong here.”

  “Jesus.” He curses under his breath.

  A horn tuts several times in rapid succession, cutting into my tirade.

  “Oh my God, I don’t need this right now.” I bury my face in my palms. “Can you please deal with whoever that is? I can’t talk to anyone.” It must be the courier. I hope it’s not Muriel, though she always comes on her ATV and that was the sound of a car door slamming.

  “Yeah … That’s gonna be a problem.” Jonah sighs heavily. “For the record, I wasn’t at work today.” He shifts, unblocking the view of the stone path that leads to our porch from the driveway.

  And the tall, leggy blonde who’s picking along it in a pair of heeled sandals and a brown suede satchel purse swinging at her hip.

  “Diana?”

  “Surprise!” she squeals, throwing her hands in the air.

  “I …” A rush of elation hits me, clashing with the sorrow that had previously taken root and bringing an instant flood of tears. I pull myself out of my wicker chair. “You came?” I manage to choke out, my knees wobbling as I close the distance to the porch door.

  She charges in and collides with me in a fierce embrace. “Do you know how hard it was for me to keep this from you? I almost blew it when we were talking on the phone!”

  I inhale the familiar floral scent of her perfume. She’s been wearing it since we graduated from high school. As far as I’m concerned, they should just change the brand name to Diana. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, you weren’t supposed to, obviously. God, this is …” Her big, cornflower-blue eyes are wide and glistening as they drift over the view of the lake and the mountain range beyond. “Indescribable. I get it now.”