by Sarah Remy
Everett lowered the window as curious eyes admired hood and rims and tail fin. Only the kid in the fatigues seemed to have any real courage. Narrowing watery brown eyes, he peered over Chris’s shoulder and into the car, studying Everett with undisguised curiosity.
“Ready?” Everett asked Abby’s son, ignoring the cocky brown eyed stare.
“Yeah.” Chris Ross wore jeans and a rugby shirt. His sneakers were fashionably dirty, his backpack casually torn, and his hair flopping in the wind. He looked average and middle class and wise with it, exactly the type of kid Everett had once envied.
Everett felt an unexpected jolt of pride and relief. The emotion made him frown, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Christ shift uneasily.
Affection curled to embarrassed irritation. He popped the lock and waved a hand. “Get in.” He knew he sounded gruff but he didn’t care.
Chris tossed his backpack into the care, and slid into the passenger seat. Fatigues leaned through the open door, and stroked one freckled hand over the dash.
“What’s she like on the straight aways?”
“Like lightning.” Everett noticed the nicotine stains on the boy’s blunt fingers, and revised his opinion of Chris’s crowd one notch lower. Any punk who smoked enough to stain his fingers and still knew better than to light up on the school’s front steps would grow into trouble.
“Pick her up in Richmond?” Fatigues pressed, sounding skeptical.
“Alexandria.” Everett turned to Chris. “Ready?” He repeated.
Chris nodded and grabbed the door. Fatigues retreated, smirking. The door slammed to with a satisfying crack. Undeterred, the brown eyed boy leaned forward again until his breath smeared the window.
Everett knew better. He was a grown man, and he’d long ago left the tangled emotions of junior high behind. But the watery-eyed snot with his boastful grin wanted to be taken down a peg.
He knew better. But he couldn’t help himself. Everett gunned the Spyder’s sweet engine until she growled, and then he sent her screaming from the curb.
“Cool.” Chris gasped.
The reek of smoked tires enveloped the cab. Everett glanced in the rear view, and was inordinately pleased to see Jefferson shrink into the distance. With a snap of his wrist and a flick of a button he lowered every window in the car, and then breathed a sigh of relief as cool, fresh air chased away the stink of burnt rubber.
“Your mother would kill me.” He stabbed a finger at the radio until the Beatles sang through hidden speakers.
“Yeah.” Unconcerned, Chris squirmed in his seat. He peeked out the back window, and then ran his hand over the glove compartment. His own fingers, Everett was relieved to see, were free of cigarette stains.
“Take you long to learn how to drive a stick?” The boy asked after a moment, eyeing the gear box with interest.
“Learned first on a stick,” Everett replied. “My old man had a pick up. A Ford. Around here, in those days, manual was pretty much standard.”
Chris nodded. “I’m gonna get a manual, soon as I turn fifteen and can get my learner’s. Roddy Green says his dad will sell me a second hand Nissan, cheap.”
“Roddy Green the kid with the attitude and the bad pants?”
Chris’s mouth twitched in amusement, but he had a boy’s deep loyalty to his friends. “Roddy’s just curious. His dad runs a used car lot and does NASCAR stuff on the side. Roddy spends time on the circuit, so he knows a lot about cars.”
“NASCAR.” The bread and butter of the South. “You follow the circuit?”
“Nah.” Chris scoffed. “NASCAR’s not a real sport. I like soccer.”
Everett found himself smiling as he turned the car onto Creek Lane.
“What happened to your hands?”
“Ran into trouble.” The Spyder bounced from gravel to asphalt, and the house sprouted behind wind tossed trees.
Chris whistled. “Knuckles look pretty bad. Does it hurt?”
“Some.”
“Was it a mugger? Mom and I took a self defense class, last year. She’s afraid of muggers.”
The depth of disgust in the boy’s sigh made Everett laugh. “Unlikely to meet many muggers in Williamsburg. This was a thief.”
“Really?” The kid’s jaw almost dropped. “Cool. Mom wanted a gun. But Jack said pepper spray was a safer idea.”
Everett had to give the bastard credit. “Your mom with a gun would be a very dangerous thing.” He let the car roll to a stop in front of the garage. “But don’t tell her I said so.”
Chris laughed. He grabbed his back pack, and followed Everett through the front door. “Can we have a snack before we start? I’m starving.”
“Sure.” This time when he reached out to thump the boy on the shoulder, Chris didn’t dodge away. “Ice cream or...ice cream?”
Abby’s clients lingered longer than she expected. She couldn’t complain, as most of the over time was spent discussing the little extras that could only plump her paycheck at the end. Still, by the time she finally shook hands and locked the shop it was far later than she’d intended.
She stopped at home long enough to shuck the wool suit she’d worn to work. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a rust colored fisherman’s sweater that had been a gift from her mom.
The sweater’s sleeves were too long and the turtle neck bunched beneath her chin, but it was the warmest piece of clothing she owned. She suspected it had originally been a gift from one of Juliet Ross’s own clients, but she didn’t care. It was pretty and soft, and it reminded her of her mother’s generosity.
Even so, as she climbed Everett’s front steps and rang the bell, the chill in the air managed to sneak through the heavy sweater. She wished she had thrown on a coat. She had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
Nobody answered the doorbell. After two more attempts and five minutes of standing on the stoop, watching her breath fog in the air, and trying not to shake right out of her boots, Abby gave up and wandered around the side of the house in search of her son.
She found him on the back lawn, on his hands and knees in the grass, applying varnish to the underbelly of Everett’s skiff with a concentration he usually reserved for his beloved books.
Amused, she stood for a moment against the house, content to watch.
A shiny red barbecue, low to the ground and wide enough to grill a small sheep, flickered happily in the fading evening. Abby guessed it was meant more for warmth than for light. The barbecue gave off a grey plume of smoke, but Chris didn’t seemed bothered by the haze. He paused every few moments to stand in front of the fire, and then went back to work.
Her son wore a pare of canvas work gloves Abby knew she had never paid money for, and a huge green sweatshirt. The sweatshirt looked stiff, as if it had never been worn or washed, and an elaborate logo running down the left sleeve spelled out ‘Westex’.
Everett’s company, she remembered. Then she turned her head as Everett himself came striding down the lawn.
Even the simple sight of him made the heat kindle low in her belly. He moved with the lazy grace of one at home in his surroundings, and the easy roll of lean muscle beneath the dockers and t shirt he wore made her remember the wonderful way his body flowed against her own.
Everett bent to adjust Chris’s grip on the paint brush. He said something too low for Abby to hear, and Chris nodded.
Abby grinned at the cozy picture the two male figures unconsciously presented and then, forcing eyes that seemed to want to linger on Everett’s mouth forward, she left the shadow of the house.
Her boots squeaked on the damp grass. Chris looked up.
“Mom,” he said with a little less enthusiasm than she’d expected. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.” She stopped before the warmth of the barbecue, and let smoke wreathe her. “This men’s work or can I help out?”
“We’re almost done for the day.” Chris turned his attention back to the skiff. “After I finish this coat the paint
has to dry over night.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or amused by her son’s dismissal.
Then Everett caught her gaze, and his own eyes were full of wicked green glints. “Boy likes to do everything himself. Can’t say I’m surprised.” He unbent from the grass and held out a hand. “But you might help me rustle up dinner.”
“Women’s work?” She wrinkled her nose, and refused to take his hand.
“You shred the lettuce, I’ll toast the shells.” He slung an arm over her shoulder, and steered her toward the house. Abby thought about resisting, but even through several layers of clothing his body warmed her quickly and more pleasantly than the barbecue, and Chris didn’t look as if he’d miss her at all.
“I’m glad you came.” Everett said, as Abby watched the wind toss a brown leaf across the lawn.
“That makes one,” Abby grumped. She pulled the ends of her sleeves over her fingers, and tucked her hands into her armpits.
He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that Abby felt more than heard. “He’s having fun. When’s the last time he got to hang out and just let the testosterone take over?”
Abby snorted. “He’s too young for testosterone. Thank God.”
“Dunno. Think I saw a whisker or two sprouting on his chin.”
Abby stopped in her tracks, and looked over her shoulder. “You’re kidding!”
“Yes.” He chuckled again, and Abby felt the kiss of his breath against her temple. His arm tightened around her shoulders, and he urged her up the into the house.
She stopped in the light of the kitchen and frowned. “What happened to your fingers?”
He took his arm from around her shoulder, and considered his battered hands. “Defending my territory.”
She couldn’t help herself. She took his fingers, and examined the swollen knuckles. “Looks like a regular old bar fight to me.” He winced and swore when she poked. “Broken?”
“No.” He took his hands back. “And you know I’ve never liked bars.”
She resisted the urge to smooth his scowl. “What happened?”
He looked away. The orange of the setting sun made his skin dark as weathered walnut. When he turned back again his mouth was tight.
“Came home to find trouble sniffing around my front door.”
“Trouble?”
He only shrugged and watched her. The weight of his regard made her heart beat faster, and she turned away.
“You should have called the police.” She busied herself with opening the fridge, poking about.
“I took care of it.” He reached past her, and liberated a head of lettuce and a bag of tomatoes.
“So I see. Tell me there isn’t a body buried beneath the gazebo.”
“Not yet.” He set a package of ground turkey into her hands, and nodded at the stove. “Try not to burn it.”
She snarled and he laughed.
Abby found a pan and a spatula, and set the turkey to heating. She tried not to notice the ease with which he moved in the kitchen. Somehow, as she struggled to keep the meat from searing too quickly, he managed to turn raw vegetables into salsa and toast taco shells at the very same time.
“You are good,” she admitted, grudging.
“Thank you.” He replied, grave, but she knew he was still laughing at her.
She turned her attention out the kitchen sliders, and looked out over the lawn where Chris worked in the dusk. Against the flicker of the barbecue her son’s face appeared long and thin.
He had been growing so quickly, lately, and it was as if his bones couldn’t quite keep up. She knew the outgrown clothes and his lanky body frustrated him, but she’d assumed the restless moods were just something every boy went through. Growing Pains. Puberty.
Lord, puberty. Maybe that was the simple explanation. She winced and hunched her shoulders. She didn’t think she was ready for puberty. She’d had enough trouble with her own.
“You need to stir it.” Everett said into her ear, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Dammit!”
He took the spatula from her hand, and replaced it with a glass of white wine.
“Go and get your boy.” He brushed one rough palm across the top of her head, soothing. “Dinner’s ready.”
Later, after every last crumb had been consumed, Chris and Everett retired into the living room to watch an apparently pivotal football game, and Abby took herself out onto the back deck and dropped into one of the Adirondack chairs she’d been lucky enough to find in a Richmond estate sale.
The wind had died down but the air still stung, and she pulled the collar of her sweater up over her mouth and nose, and buried her hands between her knees.
She loved winter, even Williamsburg winters where nature couldn’t decide whether to rain or snow or freeze, but the change of seasons always took some getting used to. And fall, so beautiful, seemed to disappear in a matter of days.
So she ignored the cold, and cocked her head back on the chair, and tried to count the stars. But the little pinpricks of light were numerous as the thoughts in her head and soon began to blur. She shut her eyes, and listened to the click of the last brave cicadas instead.
“You asleep?”
She hadn’t even heard him approach.
“No.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Who’s winning?”
“Redskins.” She thought she heard adolescent pride. “I brought you a blanket. And hot chocolate.”
“Thank you.” She sat up, and took the steaming mug between her fingers as he spread chenille over her knees. “Where’s Chris?”
“Asleep on the floor.” Cupping his own mug, Everett settled into a second chair. “Painting can tucker a person out. Guess you know that.”
“I like it.” Abby took a sip of liquid chocolate and sighed in pleasure. “Think you could use a hand tomorrow?”
He slanted her a look. “Maybe. We’re almost done. We could probably use all the capable hands we can get. But I suspect the kid would like to do this one on his own.”
“Without his mama, you mean?” Abby couldn’t decide whether to be amused or touched that he cared enough to think her son through.
He shrugged. “We had a good time, today.”
“And you’d rather I didn’t butt in.” She felt a pang of something that felt too much like jealousy, and quickly chased it away. “You pick up a psychology degree along the way, Ev?”
He only arched a brow and took a slow sip of his chocolate. “I remember what it’s like to be a boy his age.”
The cicadas fell briefly quiet. Abby listened to the silence. Somewhere not too far away someone was using their hearth. Abby could smell woodsmoke in the night.
“Sold another job today,” she said, deciding to shift the subject to safer ground. “I’ll start next month. Would have been sooner, but the guy has to fly down to Atlanta for the next two weeks. Some sort of poker convention.”
He must have heard the yearning beneath her scoff because he turned from his drink to study her face. “How long have you been wanting to fly, Abby?”
“Since I was about two.” She smiled as she remembered the leap she’d taken from her mom’s dresser.
“Your ma always said you’d kill yourself trying to reach the stars.” She liked the way he grinned at her, sideways. “And you’ve been grounded here your whole life.”
“It’s not so bad.”
He took her empty mug and set it on the deck. His battered fingers curled about her own, and squeezed gently, warming. “You could fly out and see me sometime between fall and spring. Seattle’s full of old houses. You’d love it.”
“Probably. I don’t have that kind of money, Ev. You know it.”
“I’ll buy you a ticket. You and Chris both.”
She cut him off with a violent shake of her head. “Let it be, Everett.”
He nodded, but his fingers stroked her palm. She could feel the caress all the way down to her toes, and her skin prickled in reaction. She sh
ivered involuntarily, and goosebumps rose up beneath her sweater.
It would be so easy, she thought, to let her body take over. To let her heart take over. She was a grown up. She’d had an affair or two. She knew that the body didn’t need promises.
It was the heart that complicated matters.
She stiffened her spine and pulled her hand away. Crossing her arms tight against her chest, she spread her legs long and crossed her ankles, slouching into the chair.