Philip reached for my damp hand under the sheets. “You’ve got parents who love you unconditionally, and without judgment. They don’t see you as a failure.”
“I want to do more for them.”
Philip moved and turned to me, our knees knocking against each other’s. “You’ve been the most devoted and thoughtful son anyone could ask for. Your parents know this is a difficult time for everybody, especially you. They’re trying to keep as many burdens out of your life as they can during this difficult period.”
“I have so many things to say to my father,” I said. “Things I know I’ll never be able to tell him before he dies.”
Philip ran his fingers through my messy hair. I laid my head across the warmth of his body, tucking my head in the folds of his arm, my cheek brushing the soft white curls of his chest hair.
We were gathered in each other’s arms, and Philip whispered into my ear, trying as always to lighten the mood. “Do you want to fool around?”
“Maybe later.”
Before the slit in the sky opened up and a new day broke the horizon, I told Philip I didn’t want him to leave me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
Chapter 2
One Week Earlier
My world collapsed when the phone rang at ten P.M. on the last Monday in July, during the worst summer heat wave to blanket the small upstate New York area of Milestone in two years.
Philip and I had gone to the farmer’s market that morning at eight, after our morning constitutional around the grounds at the Old Air Force Base. We’d both adopted a new daily ritual. Get up early and run three miles.
That same day, we’d planned to bake an after-dinner strawberry rhubarb pie.
Our plans changed.
We walked our dog, Darth, to the doggie park at Trinity Park downtown to let him play with other dogs his size for an hour. As we were leaving, Darth’s new four-legged friends whining for him to stay behind, Philip and I ran into Father O’ Brian talking to his parishioners outside St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. He stood on the stoop of the 18th Century stone stairs and told us he’d be retiring this year. “Too much bureaucracy and red tape,” he said, grinning, but serious.
His craggy, weathered face, stooped posture, and the unfriendly opinion he adopted when he spoke about Bishop Ted Jackson proved Father’s Tim O’Brian’s declining confidence in the future of the church and diocese. The exceptional service he had provided as our small-town priest for the denizens of Milestone would be missed.
When I asked Tim what he planned to do after his retirement, he looked at me, squared-jawed, as if he didn’t understand the question. “My wife and I don’t use the R word in our house.”
“I’m not opposed to basking in the sun on a stretch of white sand beach one day,” Philip said, reaching a hand behind my waist, a wide grin spreading across his face.
“I’d go stir crazy if I wasn’t going and coming and doing,” Father O’Brian said. “I’ve always had a strong work ethic. Work and I have always been inseparable.”
“My idea of retirement would be drinking martinis,” Philip said, “and watching football.”
“Sometimes it’s the small things that make life worthwhile,” I said, smiling and rolling my eyes up at Philip.
“Speaking of which, I think we’d better get back to our errands,” Philip said. “We’ve got a lot to do for tonight.”
“Big plans for the new married couple?” Father O’Brian asked.
I looked up at Philip. “After a few hectic weeks at work, I’m taking some well-deserved time off and Christian and I are heading to Vermont for some R and R of our own.”
“Congratulations again on your marriage.” Father O’Brian smiled.
“We were in good hands,” I said to him. “Thank you.”
“It was an honor before I retired from priesthood permanently.”
“You’re going to be missed,” Philip said.
Father O’Brian folded his hands in front of him. “On to greener pastures.”
“Good luck in your future endeavors,” I said, climbing a few steps to hug him. “You’ve been a stalwart member in our community for five wonderful years.”
He turned his head up to the big bright sky. “You know it’s time to move on when your heart isn’t in the job anymore,” he said, “and when too many people are pushing you out the door.”
“No one will be able to replace you, Tim,” I said.
“You’ll find someone to replace me.” He sounded definite, tired.
Philip leaned in to hug him.
“Don’t be strangers,” Father O’Brian said, rearranging the sleeves of his cassock.
“I have a feeling you won’t be able to get rid of us that quickly,” Philip said, staring up at the cirrus clouds rushing past, the last light of day spilling across the top of his silver-white hair. “You and Mary should come by the house sometime next week for dinner.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, turning to Tim. “Philip makes a mean pesto shrimp and spinach fettuccini.”
Father O’Brian’s face brightened up. “I’ll bring the wine.”
“It’s a date,” I said. “I’ll call you when we get back from Vermont.”
“How’s Mary, by the way?” Philip asked.
“Busy. What with the shortage of nurses, her schedule at the hospital keeps her away from me.”
“It’s a shame that Milestone Hospital is understaffed,” I said.
“Mary works twelve, thirteen hour days,” Tim said.
I shook my head. “Accept our offer and come to dinner. Relax.”
“I’ll talk to Mary.”
We all hugged, and as Philip and I said our goodbyes to Father O’Brian and strolled along the downtown waterfront towards the mom-and-pop shops, we heard Tim yelling behind us. “Thanks for the support!”
I turned and waved back, smiling, my spirits lifting with the hot temperatures.
Shortly after, Philip waited outside with Darth as I stopped in at the Corner Stone Bookstore at the end of the block to pick up a first edition, out of print hardcover by Dean Koontz.
Later, while walking Darth across Salmon River Bridge, overlooking the shimmering waters of Lake Champlain, Philip dropped in at Spirits & Wine, the new organic wine shop at the corner of Mackintosh and Duke Street.
While he was browsing for a bottle of sauvignon blanc, I walked to the end of the bridge, Darth at my side, his nose sniffing the trail of dirty ground stretching out in front of us. I pulled out my cell phone from my back pocket and checked for any missed calls from home. My father had been on my mind every day, more so than usual.
I jammed the iPhone back into my pants pocket, turned, and stared out at the spectacular vistas of Sea-Doos, kayaks, and sailboats gliding along the pristine waters. A few people casted their fishing lines from the embankment.
Philip found me at the edge of the bridge, Darth resting at my feet. My husband leaned in to kiss me. My eyes misted over at the subtle scent of his cologne and the familiar, gentle way his lips brushed mine. I bent down, my shoulders curling forward. Darth shifted at my feet, whining, looking up at me.
“What’s wrong?” Philip asked.
Darth tugged on the leash, his tail wagging, redirecting his attention to a black and white greyhound walking by us with his owner.
I shook my head. “I think he needs a friend.”
“Two dogs in the house?”
“Why not?”
We paused, took in the peaceful surroundings of the place we call home.
“Thinking about anything in particular?” Philip asked.
“Us.”
“What about us?” He leaned his forehead against my face.
We shut our eyes, inhaling each other’s closeness.
I opened my eyes and stared out at a school of ducks submerging themselves beneath the silvery surface of the water, their backsides standing erect in the air. The spirited, carefree sounds of children laughing, frol
icking up and down the water’s edge, arched my mouth into a smile.
“I’m happy to have you in my life,” I said.
He kissed me.
“I don’t want to waste time that we won’t get back fighting over small, petty things,” I continued.
He pulled away and glanced out at the tranquil lake. He sighed. “What happened between us last night was my fault, not yours.”
Philip had been called out to a crime scene in the town of Barry, three miles from Milestone. It was another drug overdose incident this month, involving two young men from the senior high school.
“I feel bad about what happened,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why we’re still talking about it. I thought we’ve resolved everything last night.”
“I’ve accepted your apology. I don’t want to fight.”
“I didn’t realize you were still thinking about it,” Philip said, annoyed.
I paused to unspool the dog leash cutting into my hand from Darth’s pulling, his attention pointed in the direction of the long-gone greyhound.
Shaking my head, I said, “I wasn’t angry with you for not telling me about your work. It was the tone in which you told me.”
He shifted, stuffing his large hands in his pockets. “I didn’t realize I was going to be at work as long as I was last night. I’m sorry for not calling you.”
“I was worried.”
“I’m sorry, hon.”
I shook my head, stared out into the glistening waters. A gathering of more sailboats occupied the already stunning scenery.
“What’s wrong?” Philip asked.
“Everything is setting me on edge lately. I apologize.”
He hugged me. “You’ve got a lot to think about right now. I should’ve been more thoughtful. I apologize for my harsh tone.”
“When you have to leave town and drive for hours to get to a crime scene, I start to worry.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“It will. It’s your job. But please, call me and let me know what’s happening. Some nights when you leave the house—”
He hugged me. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise.”
“In your line of work, that’s one promise you can’t make.”
He turned towards the lake, gazing, drifting. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“I’m scared that you’re going to get injured, or worse,” I said, and paused. I looked down at Darth, who was still looking for the greyhound. My gaze fell on my husband. “This town isn’t what it used to be. There are more drugs running through our town, and violence against police officers is on the rise.” I felt my voice choking up. “I’m concerned about you when you leave the house.”
He slung his arm around my shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Chapter 3
Back at the house, I cut into the generous block of goat cheese Philip had picked up at the farmer’s market and filled two wine glasses with our favorite sauvignon blanc. We clinked glasses, inhaled the aromatic scent, and sipped the delicate wine.
A mixture of collard greens and red Vidalia onions sizzled in butter on the stove, infusing the air with delectable smells.
I stared down at my cell phone on the countertop. No new calls from Mom. I watched Philip from the kitchen window set up the Martha Stewart table and chair set in the backyard. Through the slit in the opened window, I inhaled a billow of smoke from the grill. I yelled to Philip to check the fish and steaks.
He nodded, tossing me a thumbs-up.
Eating outdoors during the summer months was a venerable past time. I had no plans to tour with a new book this year, and the prospect of taking a few weeks off from writing and spending quiet time alone with my husband was inviting.
Darth, too, I thought, bending down to scratch the dog’s floppy ears. Even in his golden years, Darth was still compliant and ready for the next adventure in his life.
Energetic and happy, his tail thumping the floor, he stared up at me, his eyes begging for table scraps.
“Do you know how much you’re spoiled?” I asked him, rubbing a patch of hair on his back where he wasn’t able to reach anymore.
Philip walked into the room through the patio doors. “Dinner’s almost done.”
“I’m just waiting on the onions and kale and Swiss chard.”
Philip came over to me. “Does Darth know what’s for dinner?”
I turned to Philip then down at our dog, running my hand along the smooth top of Darth’s head. “He can smell steak two towns away.”
“Spoiled brat.” Philip reached down and patted Darth’s thick mane of dark hair.
“He’s our spoiled brat.”
“We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
A couple of years ago we rescued Darth from an unhappy, violent young man named Bret Hicks. He was our then next-door neighbor and had had drug and alcohol problems and a tumultuous home life. He hung out with the wrong crowd of kids. With a dose of reality and hard love, Bret has since turned his life around and sobered up.
He lived across town and we saw each other while out running the occasional errand. The days of hard drinking and smoking pot were in Bret’s past now, as far as I knew. The last time I’d seen him was at Philip’s and my wedding. We were surprised to see Bret and his mother Janice in attendance. They looked happier, closer, more like a family. During the church service and well into the late evening, they laughed at each other’s banter over cake and champagne. Janice put on some weight, I recalled, which eradicated her pallid anorexic appearance from a year ago.
Bret reminded me of myself when I was a young man: curious and interested in life and people. He would grow up to be a smart, adventurous person. His longwinded stories of travel and seeing the world would keep him grounded and inquisitive, a bright young man who had turned his life around on his own.
That night at our wedding, before Bret left St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church with his mother, he came to me, his eyes red and aggravated from crying. I was seated in a pew at the back of the church, thinking of my father who couldn’t make it to our wedding because he was too sick to travel. I asked Bret what was wrong. He told me: “I couldn’t have gotten through the last year without you. You’ve literally saved my life.”
Even after I thanked him for coming and told him that he saved himself from drugs and the wrong side of the law, he held on to me, crying hard.
Bret felt like the son I never had.
When we got home, I related the incident to Philip. We ate the rest of our wedding cake that night in bed, not waiting for our one-year anniversary.
He asked me, “Do you want kids?”
I don’t remember answering him that night. Maybe, too, I wasn’t ready to be a father.
Now, I stood in front of the stove, stirring the sautéed mixed greens.
I remembered Bret and me, sitting next to each other in the pew, the young man’s face crumpled, scared, guilty-looking. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for me and my mother,” Bret said.
I could feel the emptiness in his voice, his confession plagued with shame.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Bret,” I said.
The overbearing young man had turned into a cordial new soul, confessing his sins to me in the most candid circumstance.
“I did wrong,” he said.
“We all make mistakes.”
“I did wrong,” he said again, his voice softening, frightened and agitated.
I reached over to him and covered my hands over his. “Let it go,” I said.
He looked bewildered, speechless, staring around at the other parishioners emptying the room.
I caught his eye. “Don’t carry these hard feelings with you. They’ll eat you up.”
I watched his chest rise, as he inhaled and held it for a few seconds. Exhaled, then asked, “They’re more like demons.” He turned to me. “Do you have them? Demons, I mean?”
“So, how do you deal with them?”
“Talking about it, like you’re doing now.”
“How does someone who’s messed up his or her life find the strength to keep going?”
His words recalled a period in my past I wanted to forget. My ex-boyfriend, Russ, flickered across my mind. I smiled at Bret. “Our past does not define us. But we cannot run away from it either. You have to face your fears, whatever they are. Deal with them head on. Then they won’t hurt you anymore.”
“I feel lost, like I’ve been through war.”
“You’ll find your footing.”
Muscles worked at his jaw, and he fidgeted in his seat.
I let go of his hand, sat up straighter.
The congregation wandered in and out of the high-ceilinged church, their voices low and respectful. Footsteps shuffled across the polished linoleum. High in the tower the bell tolled.
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” I said.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive myself.”
“Would you feel more comfortable talking to Father O’Brian?” I asked.
He shook his head, and wrung his hands in prayer.
“I’m comfortable here. With you.”
I pulled him into a hug. He turned towards me to hide his crying.
As I continued stirring the collard greens, I was startled out of my thoughts when Philip spoke into the clammy nape of my neck, “Chris? What’s up? Did you hear me?”
I must have looked puzzled because Philip turned me around so he was standing in front of me, looking befuddled, wrinkles burrowing the corners of his eyes and across his forehead, his eyes squinted. He asked, “Where’d you go just now?”
His eyes were glossy from wine. His boozy breath was heady.
I swallowed and sucked in a breath. “I, um—”
He embraced me.
Sooner or later, I’d tell him the truth about the lost child.
Chapter 4
“I was thinking about Bret,” I said.
He gazed at me longingly, the weighty smell of his strong breath on mine. I managed a weak smile. He kissed me and lingered on my mouth, his tongue sliding in and out like a long-kept secret he’d hidden until now.
The Light Between Us Box Set Page 15