Cassie

by deMora, MariaLisa

  “Cassie,” the man said at the same time, nodding. “She’s a seasoner. You just missed her. She always lets the crowds clear out a little before leaving, but she headed downstairs just a couple of minutes ago.”

  That jolt echoed through his chest again, and Hoss nodded. “Cassie Williamson, that’s who I thought she was. She holds season tickets?”

  The usher nodded. “Yeah, reliable as clockwork. She’s got a routine that hardly ever varies. Comes in soon as the doors open, always an hour early. She hits the head and then the grill, then won’t leave her seat until after the final horn. Told me once she has anxiety issues and keeping to that routine makes it so she can still come. The returning players were watching for her tonight. Our boys get used to seeing faces, and they miss her when she’s not in her seat.” The man shook his head, laughing as he rambled on. “Couple of the new boys were trying to think they’re sweet on her tonight, talking to her through the glass.”

  Hoss felt his chin come up at that last, the question out of his mouth before he could stop it. “She take them up on that sweet?”

  “Nah,” the man said dismissively. “She’s just here for the game. True fan, all about the hockey. Fan of the game, down to the bone.”

  Taking in a breath, Hoss nodded. She would have to be if she regularly braved something that so obviously frightened her. He wondered why she didn’t say something this morning. Then he gave another internal snort at his thoughts. She’d hardly said two words this morning, and those had been about his kids. Her next set of words spoken to shut him down. She’d done it sweetly, but it was still a rejection that stung. I’m a little salty, still. “Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow night,” he muttered, but the man shook his head.

  “She mentioned on her way out that she’s given her tickets to a friend. She won’t be back until next week. How do you know our Cassie, Mr. Rogers?” With that carefully protective question coming from a stranger, Hoss decided their brief conversation needed to end. It was second nature to protect his interest in someone, not spreading the knowledge around, because that interest could be unhealthy if the wrong people found out. If even the ushers here knew who he was, it meant people might pay attention. Pay attention and talk. Maybe to the wrong people. Knowledge was power in his world.

  Oh, really? You have an interest in her now, old man? He nearly rolled his eyes at himself, then told the usher, “Thanks. Was a good game, yeah?” After a few more moments spent talking about the game and how well his son had played, Hoss took his leave, heading back to the box and his family, because with the length of time this side trip had taken, Sammy should be showered, changed, and up there by now.

  At home, he watched as Faith ran up the hallway towards her room, probably to vidchat with her friend about their plans for tomorrow. Or maybe about boys, he thought, struggling against grinding his teeth when he thought of her watching Jonny. Boy’s too old for her and he knows it, Hoss reminded himself, hoping to ease his own mind.

  Headed towards his own room, he jerked to a halt midstride when an idea struck him. Then, without taking too much time to consider the impulse, turned the other direction and entered his studio instead. Even in the dim light cast by the moon, the room looked large, crowded along the edges with framed and stretched canvas pieces, a scattering of easels standing near the span of windows. “House, lights on, gallery mode,” he called softly. The lighting in the room changed, and spotlights shone on the walls illuminating the artwork displayed there.

  He scanned the room, unsure of what he was looking for, glancing at painting after painting, sketch after sketch. Every piece his, arranged in no certain order. Not displayed to showcase any individual canvas, the only semblance of order were the series, where they might all be grouped together. Scrubbing his palm across his jaw, he looked around again, still not certain what he was doing, just knowing he wasn’t finding whatever it was his brain was trying to point out.

  Walking towards the angle-top desk, he sat on the stool and without having to look, used his fingertips to find a worn graphite pencil. “House, lights change to work mode, desk,” he called, and the glow in the room strengthened, focused on his location, the shadows from his hands disappearing as the lighting changed. Reaching out, he flipped open a sketchbook, thumbing through pages of half-started fragments of ideas. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t in there either, evidently, because he thumped it closed and opened a nearly new one, flipping quickly to an empty page before he reclosed it gently. Need to find it in my head first. He knew from experience that unless he centered himself, the chaos of his memories wouldn’t settle enough to give whatever it was eating at him a chance to break through.

  Eyes closed, he ran the day back through his mind, homing in on the time spent with Cassie. So damn pretty. Those spare few minutes of interaction, the moments where he had her full attention, and moments he didn’t, when he’d been free to look his fill of her. Graceful, and that laugh? Perfect. The effortless beauty that flowed into the world when she smiled. The way she’d stared up at that picture of his kids, her expression rapt as she gazed at a painting pulled from the skill of his hands …he breathed slowly. He remembered again the instant he’d realized the piece was forever changed in a way that blended it with her fond memories of pleasure independent of his when he’d first created the art.

  Then he remembered how she had stared spellbound at the picture of Hope, newly hung on her wall. Lovingly, expectantly, like it being on her wall was a precious gift that was important to her, no matter she had paid thousands for the privilege. How it was patiently waiting for her interpretation to enhance its message as she had done with every piece she owned. How he could see the courage it took for her to touch his hand. Again, He felt the aching need in his chest, quickly followed by a stinging disappointment, regret etched across her face when his offer shut her down, underscoring something hurtful and giving her pain. Pain he’d hated seeing, and still desperately wished to take away.

  The bravery he had seen her exhibit tonight, sitting there alone in a place that made her fearful, but she was fighting past that fear with every moment, every breath. In his mind, he traced the shape of her hands as she reached up to push the hoodie back. Snapshots advancing in a stutter through his mind as her face was exposed, revealing the beauty that uneasily rode her bones. In his head, the arena lights grew more brilliant, accenting the dazzling joy in her brief smile at the pleasure his boys had taken in the game that was something they lived to do.

  Just like that, he had it. Had ahold of what he had been searching for and knew why he hadn’t been able to find it. “Because you ain’t drawn it, yet.”

  His hand moved, thumb flipping through until it exposed a blank sheet of paper and with teeth clamped on his bottom lip, he set his pencil to the page.

  A knock at the studio door pulled his attention away from the sketchbook, and he looked up, blinking, surprised to see the full light of early morning flooding through the windowpanes. “Dad?” Faith was outside the door, and unless he answered, she wouldn’t come in. Not because he’d ever rejected her entering the studio, but because she’d gained an intuition over the years of when he was immersed in work.

  “Yeah, baby?” he called, and smiled as the door clicked open. He looked over at the opening while he tentatively rolled the muscles in his stiff shoulders and neck.

  “Daddy, were you in here all night?” She asked the question clearly already knowing full well the answer, and he just grinned at her and reached down to shuffle the loose papers in front of him into a loose pile. Walking to his side, she put her arm around his shoulder, her warm lips dropped a sweet kiss onto his temple as she stretched her hand out, fingers reaching for the drawings. A possessive swell of emotion startled him, and he almost stopped her but forced himself to pull back, letting her rifle through them as she wanted. He had never censored his art from his kids, even the more explicit pieces, and he damn sure wouldn’t start now. He was more unsure of what her reaction would be to him d
rawing someone—a female someone in intimate settings, other than her mother. Wasn’t sure at all what his response would be if hers were not understanding.

  Looking down again at the pastels and pencil marks that covered the papers scattered across the desk, he first saw a cacophony of color and lines, and then focused in on the shape of the couple on the pages. As he had often done, these were not entire body studies, but a concentration on parts and pieces, capturing elements of feelings more than the flow of the person.

  Flip. Flip. Pause. Flip. Pause. Flip. Flip. Faith leafed through the work he had done. She made it through a half a dozen more before stopping again, this time for far longer. Staring down, he took in what she was looking at. The shape of the face on the paper, circled round with hair just being released from the hoodie as it was pushed back. Cassie’s hands were raised, tense fingers shoving at the bunched material, her sweet eyes and gentle smile fixed on the person standing in front of her. Seen from the rear, the male figure had reached out, cupping one hand behind her neck, tension in the muscles of his arm steadying her in a way that would be supportive for whatever she was dealing with. The man’s other hand rested along her jaw, his broad thumb caressed the apple of her cheek. The soft smile curving her lips, hesitant but full of desire, was all for him.

  “Daddy,” Faith said softly, gently adjusting the paper on the desktop, lining the drawing up and moving the other sketches to the side so she could see it in its entirety. “This one. Oh, yeah. So good.”

  He swallowed. “Yeah?”

  The arm around his shoulders squeezed hard, and he felt the brush of her lips against his temple again. “Oh, yeah.” She paused, and then asked with a questioning lilt to her voice, “That’s the lady from the show?”

  Frowning, confused, because Faith hadn’t been able to come to Saturday’s opening, he said, “Yeah, but how did you know? You had a school thing.”

  “Not this show, silly,” she said quickly. “The show.”

  The show meant the first show he had allowed after Hope’s death. It had made such an impact on Faith, she always talked about it as if The were its official title. “You remember her from there? That long ago?”

  “Yeah,” his daughter breathed. Her voice light, a happy sound, one that he loved hearing in his house. “She was awesome. Said the nicest thing.”

  “Yeah? What was that?”

  “Sammy and I were telling The story,” and she didn’t have to explain beyond that for him to understand she meant the story of how Sammy and Hope came to be his, how Faith came to be theirs, and how their family had formed out of love and happiness. One of Sammy’s favorite stories, it centered on the idea of home being a person and not a place. Something that rang true for a kid who had lived hard and homeless for much of the first eight years of his life, a truth Sammy had held onto as he grew up, even with their house and his bed being a stable factor since then. Losing his mother so young had made its mark, and knowing she counted people as the greatest treasures in her life left their boy with the understanding she held him close, even gone.

  “And she said it was a nice story, which it is of course. Then she asked about Mom, and Sammy told her about the paintings being her.” All true, that first showing had only been pieces about Hope and his lives together, short as that pairing had been. None of that artwork had ever been sold. He wouldn’t allow it. They were part of his heart, part of his kids’ legacy to see and know the love he and Hope had held together. “She said you were lucky because you had her. Had Mom.”

  Faith’s voice had gone a little thin, and he knew she was grieving for what she had never known, the love of her mother. That tore at him in a way that never healed, knowing he wasn’t enough, could never be enough, no matter how he tried to fill both roles. “I told her Mom died. Not trying to be mean or make her feel bad, but I wanted her to know that light was gone from the world. All the beauty she saw in front of her. Gone.”

  He closed his eyes, because it was true. Hope’s beauty was so much, had filled him up so much. When she died, a big part of him died with her. It had been months before he worked again and even then all inspiration had been drawn from their kids and his memories of Hope. In all the years since, he had never as much as dated, not being able to bear the idea of a woman who stood beside him the way his Hope had.

  “She got it, like really got it. Called it a profound loss for all of us. Then she turned around and made me understand something important.” Faith paused again and touched her lips to his cheek this time as he turned to see wet shining from her eyes. “Told me again that you were lucky because you had her. Mom. And, I got it. For as long as we had her, we had everything. I just needed to remember that. Remember all the time, that she was so much a part of everything you taught me. Everything you did held parts of Mom.” She turned to look at the paper and reached out a hand, touching the edge reverently. “She matters, Daddy.”

  He nodded, that jolt through his chest coming again at her words. He had known the moment he saw Hope that she was it for him. And yesterday, when he touched Cassie, he had known, too. She was something important to his life.

  Like Faith said, she mattered.

  ***

  Sammy

  “I wish you was at my game last night.” Sammy tipped his head back, looking up at the stars wheeling overhead. The granite at his back was cold and hard, chill from the stone seeping through the jacket he wore over an old jersey. “Wish you coulda been there.” He shifted, settling in, scooching his ass a little closer to the headstone.

  “Jonny and Kane did good. You’d of been proud of ’em, Mama.” He sighed, eyes tracking the flight of a jet as it passed overhead, lights twinkling coldly against the blackness. Bodies packed in that tin can like sardines, every one of them headed towards their life, unaware of his silent observation of their passage.

  “Daddy and Faith were there,” he said with a smile. “She sat up in the box nearly the whole game. You’d’ve laughed at Faynez leaning on the railing. She looks so much like Daddy when she does that.”

  Arms propped on his knees, his hands were dangling, wrists loose and relaxed. A stark contrast from his posture last night, when he’d wound up seated, facing his opponents across the sheet. “I sin binned, Mama. Kane pissed me right off. I can’t even remember what he said now.” He glanced down, fingers stretching and flexing into a fist, seeing the bruising and swollen knuckles. “His head is so hard, it’s a wonder I didn’t bust a knuckle giving him the beatdown he deserved.”

  Raising a hand to his face, he scrubbed his cheek, fingertips mapping tenderness there. “He mighta got a shot or two in hisownself.” Leaning over, he plucked a bottle from the ground where he’d tucked them upon arrival, fumbling a bit as he worked the lid open. Tipping it up, he took a long drink, pulling deeply at the beer. “Kane’s first game. Wanted to mark the event.” He gestured with the bottle towards his torso. “Dug out that old jersey. You ’member it? The one from the first game we went to see the Tridents play. Coach Spence pulled it out of the case, signed the back and put it on me himself. You laughed and laughed, because it hit me midshin.” He looked down, shrugging so his jacket fell open, seeing the team logo emblazoned on the front. “Fits a little better now.” He grinned and snorted, lips to the mouth of the bottle. “Hard to believe I made it, Mama. Everything you did for me, all our plans? I did it. Did it all.” Tipping up the bottle, he pulled at the beer again.

  “Miss you, Mama.” He twisted so he could see the wording on the granite, fingertips tracing the etched letters. Beauty and Grace and Love. Then on the second line there were two words, these making his heart clench in his chest because for a kid growing up who didn’t have much, those words had meant everything. He had a mother who loved him beyond life itself and when they didn’t have anything else, they had each other and this oath of truth and trust. “No Lies” was his mother’s promise to him.

  He finished that beer, pulling another bottle from the pile, feeling the cold a bit more acut
ely now. He belatedly thought about the thick blanket in his car, kept there for similar visits so his sister wouldn’t have to sit on the grass while she listened to his stories. She’d lean into him, lips tipped to the side in a grin so familiar it was like seeing his mother smile, all while he spun tales about Hope Rogers, their Mama.

  “Hockey’s goin’ good. But you already knew that.” He tipped his head back again, the creak of his leather jacket a familiar accompaniment to the movement. “Faynez called early this morning. Said Daddy’s workin’ again. He’s found something he’s trying to capture. Said he worked through the night. It’s always good when he gets like this, brings out his happy. That’s good for her to see. Good for him, too.”

  Finishing the second beer, he glanced over at the ones remaining and decided to not push his luck tonight. Sitting up, he rocked forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I gotta get goin’, Mama. Bus leaves early in the morning. We start a four-game trip. I’ll come see you when we get back.” Pushing to his feet, he gathered the bottles and bag, organizing everything in the cardboard carrier, hands moving without conscious thought. “Wish Daddy’d find someone who’d bring out his happy like you did.”

  Straightening, he looked at the headstone and smiled, his voice gentle as he reminded her, “I love you.”

  Ask for Tugboat

  Cassie

  Eyes fixed on the screen, she stared for a long moment in confusion at the multitude of makes and models before diving in to build her knowledge base. At her most comfortable in front of the screen, Cassie spent hours on the computer as she reviewed individual specifications and pricing. Online, no one could see or judge you, and sitting at her keyboard was second nature. Her research into motorcycles included in-depth lists and notes on maintenance, as well as detailed information on resell value. Since she had no idea what she was doing, she’d thought it at least prudent to understand what she would get out of the motorcycle if she had to turn around and resell it. At this point, it is still just research. She then laughed aloud at the fallacy. You’ve already moved money over from savings, woman. Stop lying to yourself.