Kiss Me, Tate (Love in Rustic Woods)

by Karen Cantwell

  CHAPTER THREE

  BUNNY WAS DESPERATE FOR THAT glass of wine. She’d arrived at Barb’s house, still shaking and stomach complaining like a cranky old man.

  “Have you eaten today?” Barb asked Bunny.

  Hmm. Bunny had to think about that. Yes. That’s right—she’d had a poached egg before rushing off to be guillotined by Dr. Page. “Not much,” she admitted. “But that noise you hear isn’t hunger. It’s raw nerves. My insides flip out when I’m upset.”

  “I’m putting food out anyway. You can’t have wine on an empty stomach. We don’t need you drunk before dinner, right?”

  Her friend cut some pita wedges while Bunny sat at the kitchen table. “Maybe I should have a glass of water first.” She noticed a severe dryness at the back of her throat when she swallowed.

  “Coming up.” Barb stopped chopping and filled a glass from her refrigerator, setting it in front of Bunny. “How did it go?” she asked, getting back to the pita.

  Bunny chugged. The interview had been bad enough. Seeing Tate Kilbourn after all these years was even worse. She clunked the drained glass on the table. “It was awful. There was this rude girl, and this creepy man, and a lady with this wild, frizzy hair who didn’t smile...” Her hands flitted around her head describing Abigail’s halo of frizz.

  “Her hair didn’t smile? How dare it?” Barb teased.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, but I got you to smile.” Barb set a plate of pita and hummus on the table and poured Bunny a glass of white wine.

  Bunny leaned back in her chair, pulling the glass with her. “The frizzy haired lady wasn’t the worst part.”

  Barb narrowed her eyes. “Eat before drink, lady. Eat before drink.”

  Laughing, Bunny snatched a pita wedge, then scooped up a healthy serving of hummus. “Mm, that’s good hummus,” she said, covering her mouth politely as she talked while she chewed. “Really good.” She washed it down with a sip of wine.

  “What was the worst part?”

  “It’s going to sound so silly.”

  “Try me.”

  “Tate Kilbourn was there.”

  Barb exaggerated a shocked face. “You’re right. That’s so silly.”

  Bunny leaned against the table. “You don’t understand. I’ve never stopped thinking about Tate. He was my high school crush. Through all of my boyfriends, and even my marriage, I never stopped dreaming about Tate.”

  “Even when you were with Russ, the super hot fireman? That’s hard to believe.”

  “Even through Russ.” Bunny sighed and sipped. “Don’t ask me why. I haven’t seen him since he graduated.”

  “Graduated high school or college?”

  “High school.”

  “Man, Bunny. That’s a long time to moon over someone.”

  She nodded and counted on her fingers. “Twenty-three years.”

  “How long did you date?”

  “Oh, we didn’t date. I told you—it was a crush. He was a senior, I was a sophomore. But he was so cute and so nice.”

  “So you knew each other? Had friends in common?”

  Bunny shook her head. “I told you it was silly.” It was silly. So, so silly. She gulped wine and set down the empty glass. “I’m not getting the job. I can feel it.” She raked her hands through her hair, feeling the dried, split ends. “And I can’t afford to keep coloring my hair. Maybe I should just chop it all off.”

  “That’s a lot of chopping. You’d be bald. I have a better idea. Follow me.”

  Bunny was pleasantly surprised with her new look. At home, in her bathroom mirror, she admired the light chestnut brown which was much closer to her natural color. Barb had had several bottles of the wash-in rinse on hand. And she’d even given her a halfway decent trim to get rid of the split ends. Not so bad, she thought. Not so bad. Of course, she’d go through a dozen or more bottles of rinse before her own color grew out. Maybe she’d splurge on one last trip to the salon for a change back to her natural brown and be done with it.

  But blond or brunette, Bunny had to face some facts. She wasn’t going to get that job. The only person who’d asked any questions was Tate Kilbourn, and even he’d seemed bored when he asked them. And that Abigail lady was just plain scary. Bunny wasn’t sure she’d want to work for her.

  As much as she hated the idea, she might have to ask Daddy for help. She had a couple of months to find a job, but everyone said the job market was lean. Even high school and college kids had trouble finding work. Her son Charlie had been putting in applications all around town and no one was calling back. And he was a good kid with good grades. Responsible. The kind of kid they’d want to hire.

  Bunny sighed and picked up the phone. She let it ring twenty times before hanging up. Daddy hated answering machines and phone service voicemail—he couldn’t figure out how to operate them. Consequently, when she couldn’t reach him in his apartment at the Whispering Pines Retirement Community, she had to leave a message at their front desk. Luckily, Nice Nancy answered. She was always kind and helpful toward Bunny.

  “Nancy, this is Bunny Bergen. I’m trying to reach Daddy. Are you able to see if he’s in the community room before I leave a message?”

  “Oh.” Right away, Nice Nancy sounded apprehensive. “Hi, Ms. Bergen. Um...”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well...” Bunny could hear Nancy pull the phone from her mouth and speak to someone else, but the words were too muted to understand. A moment later, another voice spoke in Bunny’s ear.

  “Ms. Burkett, this is Dan Baker, the day manager. I’m afraid we are not authorized to discuss your father or his condition at this time.”

  “His condition? Is something wrong?”

  “Again, we are not authorized to disclose any information regarding Douglas Hobbs. You would need to direct any inquiries to the person who holds his power of attorney.”

  “Power of attorney? Just tell me if he’s alive, for crying out loud!”

  “I will need to end this call now, Ms. Burkett.”

  “It’s Bergen you...you...” she slammed the phone down, shaking. “Demon!” she screamed, knowing the person to blame for her black-listing. She took a minute to calm herself, not wanting a shaky voice when she got on the phone with her demon sister. She was so upset, though. What had happened to Daddy? If something was wrong, why hadn’t anyone called her?

  After several minutes, Bunny realized she was only talking herself into more worry, so with trembling hands, she picked the phone back up and dialed her sister, who picked up almost immediately.

  “Bun Bun,” she said in her usual, patronizing tone, “why are you causing problems with the staff at the Pines? I just got off the phone with Dan who was very troubled after you threatened him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him, Deena! Where’s Daddy?”

  “I can tell you’re upset—”

  “Would you answer my question?”

  Her sister, who always had to control conversations, purposely waited several seconds before proceeding. “He’s in the hospital.”

  “Is he okay? What’s wrong? How long?”

  “Which one of those questions do you want me to answer first?”

  “Oh my God!” Bunny shouted into the phone.

  “Settle down. You’re so full of drama. He’s fine. A little weak still, but fine.”

  “Why weak? What happened, Deena?”

  “He didn’t want anyone to know. He was embarrassed. I’m only acting on his request.”

  Still no information. Bunny wasn’t stupid. Deena-the-Demon had reveled in working the bossy older sister angle her entire life. Bunny wasn’t going to stay on the phone playing her cat and mouse game anymore. “What hospital, Deena? Is it Rustic Woods? Because I’ll march over there right now and cause a scene if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

  “See, that’s exactly why Daddy put me in charge. You still behave like a child when decorum is in order. He slipped and fell in his bath
room. They kept him for observation. He’ll probably be released tomorrow morning, and you can visit him at the Pines once he gives me the okay. I told you, he’s very embarrassed. Don’t make this out to be more than it is.”

  “Promise you’ll call me tomorrow and let me know what’s happening?”

  “Promise, little Bun Bun. I have to go now. Things to do.” Her sister made smooching noises in Bunny’s ear. Bunny responded by sticking her finger in her mouth, pretending to make herself gag, then slammed the cordless house phone back into its charging cradle.

  One day, Demon, she thought. One day. As a child, Bunny had spent hours dreaming of cruel and unusual ways to get back at her sister over the years, and One day, Demon, had become her classic mantra. She’d never had the courage or stamina to actually fight her. But one day...

  She heard her cell phone buzz across the room. It was a text from her son Charlie. He was staying after school to retake a test. Her younger son, Michael, was staying after as well, taking the late bus home. Neither of them knew she’d been fired—they’d figure she was still at work. What should she do with her unexpected day off, home alone? She needed something to take her mind off Daddy and Demon.

  She flipped through some papers on her dining room table. Bills. She didn’t want to open them. And there was a flier with a note stickied to it. Mom, can you order my yearbook? Charlie. She looked more closely at the flier. Eighty-five dollars for a yearbook. They’d gone up. She remembered when her own cost twenty dollars, and that had included her name embossed on the cover, for crying out loud.

  Hmm...her yearbook. Now there was a way to take her mind off her worries. Pictures of Tate Kilbourn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TATE HELD THE PAPER IN one hand, staring at it, while he thumbed his cell phone with the other. In less than a week, Colt had located his brother, Samuel. Now, against his sister’s wishes, he had an address and a phone number for the man none of them had seen in more than three decades. And for what?

  Tate wondered if he was being honest with himself. If Samuel really cared at all, or had an ounce of interest in them, he would have returned at some point, right? Or sought them out. Was he doing this for his father, or was he justifying his own need to know the older brother he’d only created in his imagination from pictures and the words of his sister?

  The phone rang in his hand. Damn. It was May. She had an eerie ability to read his mind. Like a mother. Only she wasn’t his mother, she was his sister. She’d only been forced to play the part of his mother.

  Tate hesitated. He hadn’t told May that he’d decided to find Samuel, only that he once had the idea. Her reaction hadn’t exactly been supportive. He let the phone ring again, and again, not sure if he wanted to answer. Ah, hell. “Yeah, May, what’s up?”

  “Caught you on a good day, did I?”

  “Just busy. I’m at work. Is this urgent?”

  “How’s Morton?”

  “He has his good days and his bad. You didn’t come the other day—you said you would.”

  “Right. Sorry. Things got bloody awful around here and I just couldn’t, blah, blah, blah.”

  May had two nasty habits in Tate’s mind: she loved the word bloody, and she ended sentences with blah, blah, blah. She didn’t end all sentences that way, but enough to make him want to yank her tongue out when she did. She was also the architect of her own life disasters, of which there seemed to be many. But he attributed that to the artist in her and largely forgave her because she’d more or less been the only mother he’d known.

  “Probably best,” he said. “It was one of his bad days. Is that why you called?”

  “No, you ornery oaf. Did she hear about the part yet? Was she cast?”

  That made him smile. May did love her niece. “Not yet. She said they’ll announce today. In fact,” he looked at the clock on the wall of his small office, “I’d better get home. I want to be there when she got off the bus.”

  Tate’s daughter, Willow, had set her hopes high when she auditioned for the spring musical at Rustic Woods High. Since she was a sophomore and new to the school, Tate feared her dreams of snagging the lead role in Kiss Me, Kate were a bit lofty. May, a gifted singer and dancer herself, had helped Willow practice, and, in Tate’s mind, contributed to the unrealistic goal.

  He hoped Willow would be happy with a smaller role, or the chorus, although, truthfully, he did believe she deserved more. He just felt it was important to keep your head closer to the ground. He knew more than anybody that you didn’t always get what you wanted in this world.

  “Okay,” sighed May. “She did say she’d text me, but I thought I’d check since I hadn’t heard.”

  “I’ll make sure she lets you know.” For a split second, he thought he’d mention that he had Samuel’s contact information in his hand; then thought better of it. He hadn’t decided what to do with it. “Don’t be a stranger. Mort will want to see you.”

  “Don’t bloody kid yourself. Or me.”

  “Whatever you say, May. Talk to you soon.”

  “Hey, Tater Tot...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Tate ended the call, slipped the paper with Samuel’s number into his back pocket, lifted his coat from the back of his chair and ran out the door, passing the empty reception desk on his way.

  Crabby Abby still hadn’t hired anyone. Apparently, her first choice had a better offer. Imagine that. A man with two degrees got a better offer than becoming a receptionist for a small nature center.

  Tate shook his head. He had to give Abby a little credit for not asking the rude temp-hire back, at least. Having her answer the phones was worse than no one answering them.

  He caught George’s eye on the way out. “Done for the day, man. Have a good weekend.” George gave him a queer look, which Tate was used to, since queer looks were about all the pointy nosed man seemed capable of.

  Once home, Tate, figuring he had a few minutes before hearing a yay or nay from Willow via text, phoned his father’s house.

  “Hello?” answered the nurse.

  “Hi, Clara. It’s Tate. How is he today?”

  “Good. He’s napping now, though.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t wake him.”

  “He’s asking for the sweet yogurt,” she said. “I don’t know what that is. He won’t eat what’s there.”

  Tate rolled his eyes. The man was like a two-year-old sometimes. “Sweet yogurt is vanilla. He stopped eating it ages ago and said he only wanted blueberry.”

  “Well, now he wants sweet.”

  Mort probably needed more than yogurt, so a grocery store run was in order anyway to stock his father’s fridge. “Tell him he’ll have sweet as soon as I can get it.”

  “Sounds good. Should I tell him when you’ll stop by?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Okay. And, um…Mr. Kilbourn, my manager told me to tell you that unless your insurance pays on the latest claim, you’ll either need to pay the balance owed, or I can’t come next week. I’m sorry, I hate to have to talk money. Not why I became a nurse.”

  “I understand. Don’t worry. The insurance company is playing games again. I’ll send a check from Mort...from my father’s account to pay the balance.” He always felt strange calling his father by his first name to people other than family. He and May, as long as he could remember, had always called him Morton instead of Dad. It was a respect issue, he figured. The man didn’t really command enough to warrant the title. “I’ll call your manager and let her know money is on the way.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll be talking to her when I leave here. I’ll tell her.”

  “Thanks, Clara.”

  Tate pulled the paper from his back pocket and stared at his own scribbling. Why did he feel so compelled to call this...this stranger, really, and tell him that their father was dying? Morton didn’t want it. At least, that’s what he claimed anytime Tate brought up the subject. He had an add
ress—maybe Tate should just write a letter. It would be easier. If it needed to be done at all.

  He heard the front door open. Willow? She hadn’t texted him with any news. His heart sank for her. It couldn’t be good. “Sweetie, is that you?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was low. Her backpack thumped against the floor. Tate imagined her at the front door, shoulders slumped, possibly with tears in her eyes. She didn’t even get a part in the chorus? He shoved the paper in his pocket and rounded the corner from the living room to their small foyer, ready to give her a sympathetic hug.

  Only her shoulders weren’t slumped, and her eyes weren’t filled with tears. His beautiful daughter with her wavy blond hair had a sly grin on her fair, freckled face and a twinkle in her deep brown eyes.

  “You got the part?” he asked.

  She nodded, her grin widening to a broad, happy smile. “Yup! Yup! I did it!” She jumped in his arms, and he swung her around, hugging her tightly. “I did it, Daddy!”

  “The lead?” he asked setting her back down.

  She shook her head. “Better—Lois Lane! Who, by the way, is not Superman’s girlfriend. I kind of play two roles because Lois is in a musical version of The Taming of the Shrew—that’s Shakespeare—so I’m playing Lois, who plays Bianca. A play within a play. Did I tell you that already? Anyway, it’s almost the lead, and I like her role better. We start rehearsals Monday.”

  She bugged her eyes out at him. “Monday! Can you believe it?” She lifted the backpack from the floor and hefted it back onto her shoulder, giving Tate’s arm a loving rub. “There’s a Facebook page set up already. I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Tell you what, let’s celebrate. I’ll take you out to dinner.”

  “Fiorenza’s?”

  “It’s a date.”

  Tate watched his daughter walk down the hall to her room, a definite skip in her step. She walked just like her mother. “Hey, did you text Aunt May?”