by Beth K. Vogt
He’d made sure she was his first appointment, marking off the entire first half of the day to install the unit. If he had time left over, he’d fix her washing machine, too. If not, he’d let Jessica know he had the right belt now, and ask when he could come back to install it. She had to be tired of hauling both her dirty laundry and her rambunctious son to the Laundromat by now.
A quick stop in the kitchen to heat up a breakfast burrito in the microwave and then he’d get on the road.
The sight of his mother slouched at the breakfast table stopped him short. She wore her black robe over her thin frame, her hair loose and uncombed.
“Morning, Mom. Dad still here?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
When had his mother’s voice gotten so faint, so rough—her words like verbal sandpaper worn thin?
“He must have left for work already.” Which was where he needed to be going. Soon. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“Not very hungry.”
She never was. He shouldn’t have bothered to ask.
“I could make you some toast—” He stood with the fridge door ajar. “Maybe some hot tea?”
“I’ll get myself something to drink in a little bit.”
Alex shut the fridge door, his fingers tightening around the handle. Breakfast or try to reason with his mother? Eat . . . or waste his time fighting a never-ending battle he couldn’t win?
When he sat across from her, she refused to look at him, eyes downcast.
“Mom.” He rested his hand on top of hers, willing himself to curve his fingers around her hand. Her skin was dry, her hand skeletal. “I know you’re having a tough time right now—”
“You don’t understand.” Her words rasped out. “I’m his mother.”
“But I am . . . was Shawn’s brother.”
“It’s not the same.” Her eyes were bloodshot. Unfocused. “And his birthday . . . it’s always the worst.”
They hadn’t celebrated a birthday in the house in years. Maybe his brother’s birthday was the worst, but any family birthday was a day of mourning.
“But drinking like this . . . it doesn’t solve anything.”
“It helps me forget.”
“You don’t really want to forget him, Mom.” Alex’s words felt like so many pieces of loose gravel tossed against a closed window. “Maybe I could take you to the cemetery, to visit his grave again—”
“No!” His mother jerked her hand away. “I want to forget him. I want to forget everything.”
She stumbled to her feet, the chair behind her teetering back and forth.
“Mom, let me help you—”
“There’s nothing you can do.” She pushed her hair from her face. “I’m tired. Need to go back to bed.”
Alex stood in the center of the kitchen, the sound of his mother’s footsteps fading down the hallway. The bedroom door opened, closed with a click. He wasn’t foolish enough to think his mother would go to sleep. No, she’d wait until she heard his car pulling away from the house and then make her way back to the kitchen to get a bottle and glass.
Why hide the bottles from her anymore? He and his dad limited the amount of wine in the house instead. Hiding the alcohol only made things worse—sending his mother out to shop for her relief. Preventing her from driving anywhere controlled things somewhat. His father had abandoned the battlefield years ago. An all-out surrender.
Alex had done what he could here. He’d tried—and failed—again.
Just outside the house, Alex stopped, staring at his cell phone. What time was it in Colorado? Would Caron be up yet? He’d call her, say good morning, relax into the familiar sound of her voice, allowing her to calm his frayed emotions.
“I love you.”
“I know you do. I love you, too.”
“Forgive me?”
“Of course.”
The snippet of their conversation outside the airport terminal offered him some comfort. And she’d called him to let him know she’d arrived safely in Colorado Springs, as she’d promised.
He pocketed his phone. He was running late, and Caron probably wasn’t even up yet. He’d text her a quick “I love you” midmorning, promising to call her later.
They were fine. They understood each other. Loving Caron was easy—their relationship was the one reliable, good thing in his life.
• • •
Pulling up in front of Jessica’s twenty-five minutes later restored his mood. Some. He’d learned a long time ago to leave personal stuff behind the closed doors of his home. He couldn’t fix his mother. But he was at work now and he could install air-conditioning for one deserving single mother and her very active son, who would sleep better tonight.
The scent of cinnamon filled the air when Jessica opened the front door.
“It smells like a bakery in there.” Alex tucked his hat in his back pocket, smoothing his hair back from his face.
“Good morning.” The sound of feet pounding on the wooden floors caused Jessica to brace herself as Scotty ran up behind her and wrapped his arms around her leg. “I made cinnamon rolls this morning. Can I interest you in one?”
His “No, thanks” was interrupted by a loud stomach rumble.
“You sure about that?” Jessica’s grin indicated she’d heard his stomach’s complaint.
“I confess, I skipped breakfast this morning.”
“Do all repairmen have as bad eating habits as you do?”
“I haven’t participated in that poll, ma’am.”
“Hi, Mr. Alex.” Scotty stepped forward. “Are you going to fix our air conditioner?”
“I’m going to do even better than that.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I’m going to give you a different air conditioner. I’ve got it in my truck.” He winked at Jessica. “If it’s okay with your mommy, you can unlatch the gate and wait until I bring it around to the backyard. Deal?”
“Deal.” Scotty tilted his head up. “Can I help Mr. Alex?”
Jessica waited for Alex’s nod. “Sure. And while you do that, I’ll get Mr. Alex some breakfast.”
“I appreciate it. I’ve always been partial to cinnamon rolls.”
“Then this is your lucky day. My mother’s recipe is the best ever. I’ll bring breakfast out when it’s ready.”
“Are we gettin’ started soon with the new air conditioner?” Scotty hopped from right foot to left and back again.
Alex ruffled the little boy’s hair. “Yes, we are. You’ve been very patient. Meet me by the gate, okay?”
“Yessir!”
Jessica’s laughter followed him out to the truck. Just a few minutes talking with her and Scotty had improved his attitude. Of course, the promise of homemade cinnamon rolls would help anyone have a better day.
Scotty stood waiting for him by the gate like a pint-sized sentinel, waving him through, his eyes serious. He hopped and skipped his way beside Alex to the old unit.
“Mom says not to ask if I can help anymore.” His voice bobbled with his bouncing body. “But can I watch?”
“You can stay and watch—” Alex pointed to the picnic bench. “—so how about if we carry that over here and you sit on that while I work? Sound good?”
“Yep!”
As they carried the bench over, Scotty’s end considerably lower than Alex’s, Jessica exited the house with a paper plate and a tall blue tumbler.
“What did I tell you about not bothering Mr. Alex?”
“He said I could watch, Mom.”
“It’s true, I did.” Alex accepted the plate of not one but two cinnamon rolls and a glass of cold milk. “Thanks.”
The first taste was a blissful bite of still-warm cinnamon-flavored roll, topped with drizzles of sugary icing and nuts.
“My compliments. This is the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever tasted.”
“Thank you.” Jessica bobbed a small curtsy, holding out the corners of her white denim shorts. “So, have you figured out how you’re going to
propose to your girlfriend yet?”
Alex choked on his gulp of milk. “Pardon me?”
“Proposing. You know, have you thought about how you’re going to do it?” She straddled the bench.
“I don’t know.” He thought for a minute. “How would you want to be proposed to? I’m open to suggestions.”
“I’d be fine with my guy showing up at my door with a pizza for our regular Friday movie night. And then proposing when the closing credits are rolling—but definitely not during the movie.”
“Really?” Alex chased the question with a gulp of cold milk. “Nothing fancy, then?”
“Nope. I got fooled by fancy talk and an elaborate proposal the first time. Fell for it all. Next time—if there is a next time—I want a simple, straightforward ‘I love you. Will you marry me?’ ”
“Why can’t I just do something like that for Caron?”
“Because this is her first—and hopefully her only—proposal. You’re a good guy, Alex. I can tell. So do it right. Do a little research on diamonds—or emeralds or rubies or sapphires—whatever it is that she likes. Then find out what type of ring she prefers before you go planning the proposal.”
Too bad he hadn’t heard Jessica’s advice before he’d bungled the proposal with Caron on the way to the airport. But he’d get it right the next time. Might as well take advantage of Jessica’s willingness to offer suggestions.
“I still don’t know how to actually ask her. Got any ideas on how I should pop the question?”
“Does she like horses? I had a friend whose boyfriend took her horseback riding and then proposed to her at the end of the trail ride.”
“No, she’s not into horses, but she did play basketball in high school.” Alex finished off one roll and started on another.
“Oh, you could take her to a basketball game and do the whole Jumbotron-proposal experience in front of thousands of people. But that’s been done to death, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, plus I don’t want to drive all the way down to an Orlando Magic game just to propose.”
“Is she adventurous? Instead of a hot-air balloon ride, you could go parasailing in Destin and propose then.”
“And drop the ring in the Gulf? No, thanks.”
“I thought Mr. Alex was here to fix our air conditioner, Mommy, not talk to you.”
With a laugh, Jessica stood and stepped away. “You’re right, Scotty, that’s exactly why he’s here.”
Alex chased his last bite of pastry with a gulp of cold milk. “I just had to finish these yummy cinnamon rolls your mom gave me. I didn’t have breakfast this morning.”
“You mean your mom didn’t make you breakfast this morning? You’re lucky. Mommy always makes me eat breakfast.”
“Don’t be silly, Scotty. Mr. Alex is an adult. He makes his own breakfast.”
“That’s right.” And Jessica didn’t need to know he still lived at home. “And you’ve got a very nice mommy. I bet she makes you really good breakfasts.”
“Most of the time. I don’t like oatmeal.”
“I didn’t like it when my mom made me oatmeal, either.”
Not that he could remember the last time his mother made him breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. It was sometime around when he was ten years old—he just couldn’t remember it.
• • •
“Everything going okay?” Jessica’s voice sounded behind him.
“Yep.” Alex focused on the task at hand. So far no problems. “Scotty get to his friend’s house okay?”
“Yes, you were very nice to let him watch you work all that time. But I figured it was best to get him out of your hair.”
“He’s a good kid.” He sat back on his heels. “Does he see his dad much?”
Now what prompted him to ask such a personal question, he didn’t know. Idle curiosity. Keeping the conversation going, maybe? Or maybe because Jessica had brought up his relationship with Caron earlier? Conversational tit-for-tat.
“No. He lives here—well, in Panama City. If he wants to see Scotty, all he has to do is ask. He just doesn’t ask. And I am fine with that. Makes it easier all around.”
“The guy doesn’t want to see his son?”
“No. Not that I’m surprised. Being a father cramped his style. Scotty and me—that’s my normal.” Jessica sat on the picnic bench, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your normal?”
What was his normal? He had two ways to answer that—the life hidden in the darkness of his parents’ house or the life he lived outside. Jessica might as well have showed up at his front door, knocked, and invited herself in.
“Hello? Did I lose you?”
“Oh, sorry.” He picked up a voltmeter. “Double-checking something here. I have a small family. Father. Mother. One younger brother, Shawn, who . . . um, who died when I was ten.”
“Oh, Alex . . .”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“What happened? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking—”
“Car accident. He was six. He loved riding his bike. After dinner one night, he went back outside and no one noticed. Shawn went through the intersection at the end of our cul-de-sac without stopping—”
“How tragic.”
“Yeah.” Alex shifted his attention back to the air conditioner. “I need to get this finished if I’m going to get to my next appointment on time.”
“Sure. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay. Not a problem.”
The rest of his work was done in silence. No Scotty asking questions a mile a minute. No Jessica wanting to know what his “normal” was.
He had a split-personality life. Out of control at home. Manageable at work. His relationship with Caron balanced on the tightrope between two lives. She was the one who kept his secrets. The one who offered him an escape from his secrets.
TWENTY-THREE
You weren’t dozing off, were you?”
Caron’s head jerked upright, her eyes opening. Her hands rested on her keyboard and several long lines of vowels and consonants—gibberish—strolled across her open Word document. Proof positive that she’d fallen asleep at her desk. No sense in denying the obvious, even if Kade Webster was the one who had caught her asleep at work.
So much for impressing the boss.
“I have no excuse.” She shut down the offending document before Kade could see that, too. “I was up so late—”
“Thinking about Kingston’s house. I get it. And then I had to cancel our earlier meeting. I apologize.” Kade’s half smile disarmed her. “Do you have time to talk now?”
“Absolutely.” Caron resisted the urge to run her fingers through her hair. Pat the corner of her mouth, checking for drool. “I’m ready when you are. I wasn’t doing anything.”
Except napping.
“Meet me in the conference room in ten?”
“Sure.”
Caron fast-timed it to the break room and filled a tumbler with an abundance of ice and sweet tea, dropping it off in the conference room first. Then she went back to her office and gathered her iPad and her leather folder, stopping to organize her papers into a more orderly pile. A quick brush of her hair, a refresh of her lip color, and she was ready to go.
Wait. She backtracked and grabbed a few Hot Tamales from her candy dish on the corner of her desk. Brain food. Get the creativity flowing again. And just as good as a breath mint.
She still didn’t know why Kade hadn’t shown up for their meeting this morning. She’d arrived at eight o’clock to find Miriam at her desk, but no Kade in sight. And then Miriam delivered a brief “Kade can’t make it and apologizes” message. Not that Kade had to provide her with an explanation. And this reality was a reminder of her employee status.
Kade positioned himself at the head of the table, a bottle of water paired with his own glass of tea.
“I see we think alike. I’d forgotten how good your sweet tea was.” He loosened his tie. “I know these things are part of the business, but sometimes I wish I could wear jeans and a T-shirt to work.”
“I’ve always been glad I can skip the tie.” She arranged her papers on the table. “You ready?”
“The question is: Are you ready?” His dark eyes glinted with a challenge.
“More than ready.”
And just like that, an echo from the past tripped her up. How many times had she and Kade challenged each other by tossing the “ ‘You ready?’ ‘The question is: Are you ready?’ ” taunts back and forth when they both worked for her father? They’d always enjoyed challenging each other to try harder to achieve the monthly business goals.
“Caron?”
Her attention jerked back to the present. “Sorry. I just have to decide where to start. I’m not sure how to set this up so you can see everything—”
He stood, moving his chair around the edge of the table and positioning it next to hers, and then sitting back down. “This should do it.” He rested his elbows on the glass tabletop. “Go ahead. I’m all yours.”
And that comment was just a turn of phrase. Nothing more. Kade probably wasn’t even aware of what he’d said.
Boss. Employee. Boss.
She pulled out her numbered list. “I know that not all homebuilders stage every room in their homes for the tour, but we’re going to.”
“We are?”
“Of course. You want to give Kingston your best, so that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to decorate every room. A full-court press.” She used her purple gel pen to tick down her handwritten list. “The nice thing is, we don’t have to worry about decluttering like I have to when I stage a home that goes on the market.”
“True.”
“Okay. The kitchen is minimal, except for accents. Same with the bathrooms—rolled towels, baskets, candles—a spa feel for them. The focus is on the three bedrooms, the family room, and the dining room. And I’m trying to decide whether I want to make the small den an office or a workout room.”
“Okay. You planning on outfitting the laundry room, too?”
“It’s not my major concern, even though people are crazy over the laundry room these days. Eddie’s built a nice-sized room with good shelving and I’ll accent that with baskets.”