by Jean Oram
He pretended to pull a dagger out of his chest, while keeping a watchful eye on her. Maybe she didn’t hate him, just the way he behaved.
Story of his life.
Had that aspect not changed despite two years of beating himself up over it?
“So, tell me, what do you like about antique boats?” She crossed her arms, suddenly serious as they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the moored vessels.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Valos.”
She gave a frown that brought her lips into a pout before she shook off his apology.
“So what do you like about them?” she insisted.
Tristen took a moment to change his focus from her and their games to the vessel in front of them. “They’re like people.”
“How so?” The crowd swelled and ebbed around them, bits of conversations floating past in waves. This was where he excused himself, found Dot, went home and didn’t come out again until it was safe.
Likely around 2050.
Melanie’s arms were still crossed protectively.
“Sometimes they shine in their age,” he blurted. “They become better.”
Damn. He hadn’t meant to say something that sounded deep, but there was something about Melanie Summer that hit him hard enough to be uncomfortable. He wanted to learn more about her, but at the same time wanted to push her far away so he could breathe properly.
She nodded thoughtfully and went to sit on a nearby bench.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Tristen sat beside her, arm draped across the backrest. So much for being able to breathe right. His arm wasn’t around her, but he was close enough to feel the heat from her back seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
“I took the morning off.”
“And what do you like about these old crafts?”
“Their stories,” she said immediately. “Their history. They made it through when others didn’t.”
Why did it feel as though she was no longer talking about boats?
“Anyone ever tell you they can’t talk?” he joked.
She swallowed hard, her neck lengthening as she jutted out her chin. “Shut up, Mr. Bell. You know what I’m saying.”
“Sorry.” The truth was that he did know. It just sounded hokey and he hadn’t talked about anything real or deep in a very long time.
They sat in silence, the bench comfortable, just like the quiet between them. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, seeing as she’d been angry with him only an hour ago.
“I thought you were done with developing?” Melanie stared at him, and he was fairly certain she was waiting for him to form a nervous tick, or generally reveal that he was, indeed, a lying schmo who wouldn’t stand up for her.
Oh, wait. He’d already done that in Vincent’s office.
“I am done,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Then what about the land you were talking about with Mr. Valos?”
Tristen stretched his legs out in front of him, enjoying the shade from the large trees that grew on the grassy hill behind them. “Eavesdropping, Ms. Summer?”
“It was difficult not to when you were taking my appointment time.” He could feel the anger from Vincent’s earlier dismissal building within her again, and it was as though he was sitting on a volcano about to erupt. Time to bail.
No. He wasn’t a chicken. He could use the old Tristen in a way that wasn’t monstrous and stand up for himself.
“You took my appointment time and then didn’t leave.”
“I most certainly did not take your time.” She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “And next time, grow some balls and be honest. If you don’t want to help, then fine. But don’t lie to me.”
Oh, this chick was going down.
“For your information I am a Realtor, Melanie, and sometimes I inquire about zoning bylaws.”
“And yet you can’t give me advice about that sort of thing.” She opened her small purse, pulling out her checkbook, voice cool as she said, “I see how this works.”
“What are you doing?”
“You have to be paid to be helpful, obviously.”
He took in their surroundings on the island, wondering how many of the people on the nearby sidewalks and docks were overhearing their conversation.
He stood, but didn’t walk away. “I don’t do that sort of stuff any longer.” He squeezed his eyes shut when he saw the rejection in hers. “I’m sorry, Melanie. It’s not about you. It’s about me, okay?”
Dot loped out of the crowd, her sharp gaze taking in the two of them. Tristen slung an arm over his daughter’s shoulders, pulling her into a half hug. She seemed both conflicted and happy by the embrace.
“Nice talking to you, Melanie,” he said over his shoulder as he steered Dot away. They could take the path around the quieter side of the island where the small boat locks were located, then maybe take a shortcut up the hill past where the small museum was nestled, over the footbridge and then back to his truck and his much-needed solitude.
Dot planted her feet like Max did during hot-weather walks. “You didn’t introduce me to your girlfriend.”
Melanie quirked her head, then bent over, laughing.
Nice. Now he felt insulted. Why did this woman have to live on the same planet? Couldn’t she move back to Mars or Venus, or wherever women were from?
“What’s so funny?” he snarled. He tried to stare her down, but an elderly woman caught his attention as she moved toward him with her walker. Hitch the walker forward, drag the bum leg. Hitch, drag, hitch, drag. It was distracting. Especially given how she kept staring at him, unblinking. He stepped out of her path, but she deliberately turned toward him once again.
Not good.
Melanie, now standing, extended a hand to Dot. “I’m Melanie Summer. Pleased to meet you.”
The old woman, now a foot away from them, cleared her throat.
“Oh, Mrs. Kowski!” Melanie bent over the walker, giving her a hug. “So lovely to see you.”
“Did I hear you have a boyfriend?” the woman asked.
“No, ma’am, you most definitely did not,” Melanie replied.
Tristen smiled. How many people called older women “ma’am” these days? Melanie had been raised right.
Mrs. Kowski glared at him and made a disgruntled sound. He reached out and shook her hand. “I’m Tristen Bell. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.”
Ouch. A relation of Melanie’s, perhaps? She had the same sharp tongue.
Mrs. Kowski started in on him. “What is wrong with you that you won’t take Melanie out for a lovely supper? A woman needs to enjoy as many good suppers as she can before they put her in a home and she’s stuck eating strained peas and other foods that are affront to the term meal.” She edged closer, almost nailing him with her walker. “You hear me, sonny?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Kowski,” Melanie said. “The man will barely talk to me, let alone take me out for supper.” She winked at Tristen. “He’s always acting as though he’s got a great big bug up his—”
“I talk to her,” Tristen interrupted, clutching Mrs. Kowski’s cool fingers. “Although I don’t know why. And I do not have a bug up my—no. Never mind.”
He was fighting for this crusty old woman’s favor and wanting to win. Melanie Summer was trouble, all right.
“This is my daughter, Dot.” He looked to Dot, hoping she would smile and charm the lady.
“You poor dear,” Mrs. Kowski said to the silent teen. “Daughter Dot. Your father isn’t one to think things through, is he?”
Dot smirked in collusion. Before Tristen could defend the name, Melanie was choosing sides, as well. “You poor thing.”
“I resent that tone,” he interjected.
“He made me have breakfast, and thinks that everyone should eat as much as he does.”
Tristen bristled. Food habits were not good conversatio
n territory for them right now. Getting her to finish her breakfast had just about done him in.
“I’d rather not talk about meals, thank you.” Mrs. Kowski sniffed and headed for someone new to grouch at.
“I could tell you how to apply for legal emancipation,” Melanie muttered to Dot out of the side of her mouth. “Then you can eat what you want, when you want.”
“I heard that,” Tristen said, trying to draw his daughter away.
“Really?” Dot’s eyes grew rounder and she held her ground once again. “You know how to do that?”
“Please don’t encourage her.” What would Cindy do if Dot managed to pull that one off? He’d have to move farther away than Muskoka.
Melanie winked at him over Dot’s head as the teen turned to glare at him.
“You know what legal emancipation is?” Melanie asked his baby girl, tempting her toward rebellion.
“I took a pre-law class in high school last year. I want to become a lawyer.”
Melanie gave her a high five. “I’m a lawyer!”
“Get out!”
Yep. This was where things got bad.
Melanie grinned. “Which schools are you looking at?”
“I can’t decide between McGill or Queen’s.”
“McGill? That’s seven hours away.” Tristen protested. Toronto was far enough. He needed Melanie to convince Dot that Queen’s was the place to go, as it was only a little over four hours away.
Although, if every meal was like breakfast, he might just pack his daughter’s bags and send her to school at the other end of the country.
“That’s hardly far, Dad,” Dot said with a smirk. “But I need more experience before I apply, as my marks aren’t stellar. Something about being abandoned by my father a few years ago set me back.” She whisked her shaggy mane out of her face to make sure both eyes could reach him with their death-ray glare.
“Yeah, not at the joking stage for that little misunderstanding yet,” he muttered.
Melanie, as if sensing his desperate need to change the subject faster than a rocket could launch, asked, “Are you looking for a job or internship?”
“Either would be great.”
“There might be an opening in my office.” She pulled her phone from her shorts pocket and addressed Tristen. “Can I ask?”
“Oh my God!” Dot gave a little bounce that was completely at odds with her rocker chick style. She whirled toward him, hands clasped. “Please?”
He couldn’t be the one to dash all that hope. And honestly, he hadn’t seen his daughter this overjoyed since the trip to Disney World when she was seven.
But damn. More Melanie? That wouldn’t end well for him.
Nevertheless, he gave a minuscule tip of his head, and Dot was in his arms, bouncing and squealing and generally making a scene, as well as bursting his eardrums.
“Thank you! Thank you!”
“Yeah, sure.” He gave a sharp nod. “I’m going for ice cream. You coming?”
“Dad, teenage girls don’t eat that kind of thing unless they’re fat or something.”
Melanie’s cheeks flushed and she ducked her head so fast Tristen wanted to rewind the moment and erase it. A small voice in his head warned him not to acknowledge the comment, and to disappear. It was the same one that had told him to work harder when Cindy expressed that she needed more from him. It wasn’t a very smart voice.
“Dot, just so you are aware, men don’t like bitchy women. They like real women who don’t mind putting food in their mouths.”
Ah, man.
That didn’t work.
His little parenting party had officially come to a grinding halt, and he was pretty sure he’d inadvertently offended Melanie while he was at it. He couldn’t win, could he?
“I don’t care about men,” Dot snarled. “Don’t you even listen?” Her voice reached a crazy pitch and he cringed. Tilt-a-Whirl time. “Not that you care, I have a girlfriend now.”
“So, I’ll just text my boss and see what’s available, shall I?” Melanie said, her voice tight.
“What? When?” he asked Dot. “I left you alone for twenty minutes.”
“Just now.” Her arms were crossed, her chin jutted. “Her name’s Samantha.”
“Um?” Melanie was still waiting.
“Sorry. Yes, Melanie,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I’m sure my ungrateful daughter does, as well.” He tugged Dot’s arm, urging her away from what was quickly turning into a complete disaster.
“I do appreciate it, Dad.” She dug in, refusing to budge. “I need to give Melanie my phone number. It’s rude to just take off without even a goodbye.”
“I didn’t take off,” he said, his voice tight with held back anger. “And I said goodbye.”
“It’s okay, I know your dad’s number,” Melanie said without looking up, her shoulders frozen in a way that told him she was trying to hide, so she wouldn’t be dragged into their fight.
“You do?” The hope and curiosity in Dot’s voice made him want to gag her.
“Yeah. A mutual friend gave it to me.” She looked at him this time. Her eyes were different. Sad. Lonely. Rejected.
Again.
Who was he kidding? Melanie Summer sad, lonely, and rejected? Get real. She was nothing like him. She wasn’t hiding away from the world. She was out there shaking things up.
Dot was staring at him, putting together random, unrelated pieces and undoubtedly believing that he was lying to her once again.
“I didn’t just take off on you, Dot, so just leave it alone, okay?” He stomped off, hoping she’d follow, so he wouldn’t have to call Cindy and tell her he’d already lost their daughter.
* * *
Tristen took a seat at his kitchen island as Dot grinned at him, momentarily forgetting the ice cream cone in her hand, and giving Max the opportunity to claim the melting treat with a well-timed flick of his jumbo-sized tongue.
Yes, Melanie had come through for his daughter, saving the girl’s future with one text to her boss—a text that had just secured Dot a position as an intern.
And now Tristen owed Melanie.
In deeper by the moment.
Dot threw her arms around him, pulling him into a monster hug, before running to her room to text her friends about the turn in fate.
He looked at Max, who was eyeing Tristen’s empty hands. “Sorry, pal. I ate my cone back in town.”
The dog’s brown eyebrows lowered and he dropped his hundred-pound frame to the floor with a thump that vibrated through the laminate flooring.
“How do you not break something when you do that?” Tristen muttered. Grabbing a handful of blueberries, he opened the patio door, trying to ignore the garbage barge speeding by. It was too small to be Shawn McNeil’s. Plus Shawn always followed the speed limit, whereas this barge was trucking along as if rules didn’t apply. Tristen went back inside for his phone, then dialed the number for the police.
“There’s a large barge with demolition debris speeding through the bay outside Port Carling,” he told the dispatcher. “The scrap is just about spilling into the water. Maybe it already has.” Because of the way the barge was weighted down with the remains of an old cottage, its speed was that much more dangerous. Traffic near town was bad this time of day, especially with the boat show.
“We’ll send out the marine patrol,” the woman said before hanging up.
Tristen leaned against the deck railing. This was the second or third barge he’d noticed in the past day or so. He supposed the recession wasn’t hurting people as badly as he’d thought, which would mean vacation properties might pick up again. Not a bad thing when a Realtor earned a decent commission, and most cottages in the area went for over a million hot ones.
He smiled and returned to the kitchen to sort out supper. He needed something good, celebratory, healthy, yet filling for a growing teenager. Something his daughter would eat without protest.
“What’s her name again?” Dot asked, joining him in the
kitchen, phone in hand.
“Melanie.”
“Cool.” She texted something, tucked the device away, then smirked. “Her name was right on your lips, wasn’t it?”
“There’s nothing between me and Melanie.” He reached far into the fridge, maneuvering jars of pickles and jam out of the way.
“Why not?”
“Why should there be?”
“She didn’t go running and screaming from you.”
He pulled his head out of the fridge to stare at his daughter.
“Not much fashion sense, though.”
“She has plenty.” His tone was too curt, his defense too quick. He put his head back in the fridge, half wishing it was a gas oven.
“You totally owe her one. You should take her out for supper.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“She wants something from me.”
“Ew! I didn’t want to know that.” The disgust on Dot’s face made him smile. He was tempted to leave the misunderstanding in place for his own amusement, but knowing she would be spending a lot of time with Melanie, he didn’t want inopportune comments popping out that might give the woman the wrong idea about him and his intentions.
Not that there were intentions. Other than to avoid her.
“She wants me to help stop a development. Advice and such, and I don’t do that any longer. I’m happy with stonework.”
Dot crossed her arms and twisted her lips doubtfully.
“I left the business. I’m here and have time now. Okay? I’m happy.” He turned away and clanged some pots together. He was happy, dammit. He would continue to cut his old world from his new life—with the exception of Dot, of course—and it would remain just fine.
“You’re a jerk.”
“Hey!” He pointed a noodle scooper in her direction. “Watch your language.”
“It’s true. She totally just bailed you out and you can’t sit down and tell her how to take down corporate Canada before they destroy the world? Nice, Dad. Real nice.”
“I don’t like your tone, young lady.”
Dot stormed out and Tristen fought with the urge to go after her and yell until his voice grew hoarse. Instead, he sat at the table and clutched his head, because she was right. He was a jerk. However, where Melanie was concerned, he had absolutely no plans to remedy that fact.