Butterfly Ginger

by Stephanie Fournet

  A look of mock horror crossed Nate’s face.

  “Oh, I don’t want you to think of me as a brother,” he said in a hushed tone that made Blythe’s skin catch fire.

  “Well, I think you’re safe — as long as you don’t hold me down and fart on me.”

  Nate’s eyes went wide.

  Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?

  “Damn,” Nate said, trying to keep a straight face. “That’s what I had planned for dessert.”

  Laughter overtook her. Blythe laughed so hard, tears leaked from her eyes. Nate sagged against her, laughing and trying to catch his breath. His face went red, and the veins in his throat stood out. Watching him laugh made her feel like she could fly.

  “You’re… so… funny,” he managed, sitting up at last.

  “You’re so funny,” she threw back, wiping her eyes again.

  “They don’t really do that, do they?” Nate asked, arching a confused brow. “Your brothers?”

  Blythe rolled her eyes and felt herself blush.

  “They’re 13 and 10. What do you think?”

  “Oh, God. You need a bodyguard.” Nate gave her a pitying smile.

  “I need to move out,” she corrected. “And that’ll happen in six short weeks.”

  Nate blinked but said nothing. A mosquito flew toward her face, and she batted it away.

  “Let’s go back to the porch.” He stood and drew her up beside him.

  As they climbed the steps, Blythe saw that most of the moonflowers had opened, but several were still in tight whorls. The blossoms filled the air with a heady perfume.

  “They are so fragrant,” she said, stepping inside the screened porch.

  “I’m glad you like them.” Nate closed the door behind them and moved toward the picnic basket with a shrug. “Not every girl would think a picnic in someone else’s backyard was a promising date.”

  Blythe found herself watching him. Nate had an odd combination of confidence and self-doubt that was kind of endearing.

  “As far as dates go, this is pretty great,” she told him honestly.

  Blythe watched him fight his smile as he unpacked the basket. He produced two bottles of Arizona Green Tea and handed them to her.

  “So, in an attempt to feed you things that you would likely eat,” he started, a teasing smile playing on his lips, “I went to Fresh Market last night and only came back with the vegan stuff.”

  “You did?” she asked, amazed. “But Fresh Market is so expensive!”

  Nate gave her a playful smirk and turned up his palms.

  “I’m trying to impress a girl who’s going to Tulane. A guy’s got to ante up.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a poor girl who’s going to Tulane on about four scholarships, a Pell grant, and a student loan,” Blythe said, suddenly hoping that she wasn’t disappointing him with this disillusionment.

  “Well, in that case, I should have just gone to Wal-Mart,” Nate said with mock seriousness. For that, she slugged him on the arm, but he carried on unfazed. “Do you think that I can return all of this?”

  “No,” she scolded and laughed. “Now feed me. I’m hungry.”

  “Okay, Your Majesty.” He pulled out a plastic carton and a serving spoon. “Do you like quinoa and cranberries?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said with exaggerated politeness.

  “What about kale and orzo salad?”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  He produced a loaf of ciabatta from his picnic basket.

  “The guy at the bakery counter swore this was vegan, but since I didn’t know if vegan butter was any good, I made us some herbs and olive oil.” He pulled a small container from the basket.

  “Wow! I’m impressed!” Blythe said, touched that he’d gone to so much trouble. “Thank you. For all of it.”

  Nate looked like he tried to pretend that her praise didn’t affect him, but she was pleased that it did. She watched him serve their plates and tear off hunks of bread. She opened both bottles of tea, and when he put the plates and forks down in front of them, she handed his over.

  Blythe’s first move was to take a piece of ciabatta and dredge it through the oil he’d made. She could see garlic, fresh rosemary and oregano, and red pepper flakes floating in the mix.

  The first bite was heaven.

  “Mmm… Oh, this is so good!” she vowed. “Are the herbs from Mrs. Ester’s or your house?”

  “My house,” he said simply.

  “I would make this all the time if I had fresh herbs,” she said, enjoying another bite.

  “Herbs are easy. You could grow them in pots. You don’t even need a yard,” Nate said, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Lots of veggies are really easy to grow, too. Like eggplant and lettuces.”

  “Mmm. Your mom must be an amazing cook with all of that fresh food to work with,” she said.

  The change on Nate’s face was instant. His expression froze and then went blank. Blythe kicked herself for forgetting that his family was not an approved topic.

  “Not… really,” he said, finally.

  Blythe didn’t know what to say or how to backpedal away from the topic. Nate stared at his plate and seemed to deliberate.

  “My mom’s… different,” he said, surprising her.

  Blythe put down her fork and debated about asking him more.

  “What do you mean?” she ventured after a moment of silence. Blythe watched him. He hadn’t made eye contact with her since her comment about his mom’s cooking, but then he brought his gaze to hers, and she was struck by the fact that he looked both determined and afraid.

  “At my house, on Mondays, we only eat red foods for dinner. Red beans and sausage, beets, cherries. Anything red, and nothing else,” Nate watched her for a reaction, but Blythe didn’t have one. Even though what he was telling her sounded unusual, she waited to hear more.

  “Go on,” she said, encouraging him. Blythe reached for her tea and took a sip. The action seemed to put Nate more at ease because he did the same. She picked up her fork again and continued eating in case he thought that telling her that his mom was different was going to make her head for the hills.

  “On Tuesdays, dinner is green. Pesto with spinach pasta. Guacamole. Bell peppers. Whatever. Just green,” he went on. He still watched her, so Blythe kept eating steadily. “Wednesday is orange. Thursday is yellow. Friday is white.”

  Blythe waited a moment before asking.

  “What happens on the weekends? Saturday and Sunday?”

  “Saturday is brown, and Sunday is hot dogs.”

  “Hot dogs?” Blythe almost choked. If she laughed now, she’d probably have to walk home.

  “Hot dogs.”

  Then Nate laughed. It was a sad kind of laugh, but it allowed her to crack a smile.

  “Sunday is hot dogs,” he said, shaking his head. “It has been my whole life.”

  Blythe’s smile withered then because even though she didn’t understand what he was telling her — what it meant exactly about his mother — she could see that whatever it was, it had been a source of pain for him.

  “So… does your mom have… like OCD?” she asked, hearing how stupid she sounded and hating it.

  Nate shook his head.

  “She’s autistic.”

  Blythe felt her breath leave her. She’d only ever known autistic children. Blythe scanned her mind to come up with an autistic adult she knew, and she couldn’t name one. What happened to all of the children with autism when they grew up? Did they live in institutions?

  The thought made Blythe suppress a shudder.

  But here was Nate, telling her that a woman with autism had raised him. And by the looks of it, she’d done a damn good job.

  Blythe smiled.

  “I bet she’s incredible,” Blythe said.

  Nate’s eyes blinked rapidly, and his mouth actually gaped.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Your mom. What’s her name?” she asked.

  “It’s Lila… I don’t
call her mom. Just Lila,” Nate explained, studying Blythe so carefully he looked like he needed a magnifying glass.

  “Is that why you call your dad Richland?” she asked, smiling under his scrutiny. If this was some kind of test, she wanted to pass it.

  “Yes… except…” The look of caution in his eyes returned.

  She reached across the picnic blanket and took his hand.

  “Except what?” she nearly whispered, squeezing his hand in hers.

  “Except Richland isn’t my biological father,” Nate said. Blythe watched him swallow hard. “He adopted me when he married Lila.”

  “How old were you?” Blythe asked. It was only one of a thousand questions she had, but it seemed the safest.

  “I was four,” Nate answered, the skin around his eyes looked pinched. “And just so you know, Lila never married my father. She was nineteen when he got her pregnant. He was her boss. Her married boss at a carwash in town.”

  Nate’s lip curled as he told the story, and Blythe just held on tight to his hand.

  “He didn’t want anything to do with her after she turned up pregnant,” Nate said, bitterness thick in his voice. “If it hadn’t been for Lila’s parents, we’d have been on the streets.”

  “Oh, Nate,” she breathed. Blythe couldn’t imagine how hard his childhood must have been. Or what he thought of himself because of his father’s rejection. Suddenly, Blythe understood Nate Bradley a lot better. She ran her free hand up and down his arm.

  “So, now you know all the sorry details of my life,” Nate said, his perfect mouth bending into a crooked smile, but she could tell that he still watched her closely. She understood now that he was afraid she’d bolt.

  Not a chance.

  Blythe looked him in the eyes and let him see that she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You do know what this means, right?” he whispered, his tone somewhere between serious and comical.

  “What’s that?” she whispered back. She let her fingers trail more slowly down his arm.

  “It means I’m a bastard.” This time he couldn’t quite carry the lighthearted tone, and she saw in his eyes that he expected the worst.

  And she was having none of it.

  “You know what?” Blythe said.

  “What?” Nate answered, his voice barely audible.

  “I’ve never kissed a bastard.”

  And just like that, she was on him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Now

  NATE KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE moment he walked into his house.

  Lila sat on the first step that led to his den and rocked herself, which was never a good sign.

  “Lila?” he said softly. “Did you have a bad day?”

  She sat facing away from him, and he watched her turn her head away to the right. She wasn’t ready to talk yet.

  “I have to take a shower, Lila. I’ll be out in a few minutes, and I’ll make you some tea.” Nate set his lunch box on the counter and went through the kitchen and living room, turning on a few soft lamps. He left the big overhead light in the kitchen off until he’d need it to make dinner.

  He found himself some clean clothes, carried the bundle into his bathroom and started the hot water. Nate stripped off his t-shirt, and the action stirred up a cloud of dirt. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, only to find mulch around his ankles. His underwear was sweat-soaked, and as he stood naked in the bathroom, he brushed off the dust and grime that had found its way onto his back.

  Under the shower stream, he let his mind go blank for a few minutes. Lila would still be sitting where he left her, and he needed a few minutes to recharge. The Hugh Street job had gone well, but it had been a long week. He’d had to make-do with two mowers because one was in the shop, and he was going to have to fire Brock. The kid had skipped out on another job, saying he was sick. Again. On a Friday. Again.

  Nate was grateful Pete had offered to pick up the unfinished work. It spared him from getting home even later. He’d remember the kindness when it came time for Christmas bonuses.

  Nate smiled and scrubbed the shampoo from his hair. Maybe he’d even put Pete in charge of the fourth crew he’d planned to assemble in the spring. Business was better than ever, and Nate didn’t want to turn down as many jobs next year.

  His mind turned back to Lila. His guess was something had gone wrong at work. Customers at Albertson’s were usually kind to her, and if asked where to find an item, she knew immediately where it was; she knew what was on sale and what wasn’t, but anything out of the ordinary could fluster her. And anything against the rules sent her into a tailspin.

  A customer who decided against a can of tuna and stuck it among the canned pears would receive a scolding, but that was nothing compared to the shoplifters. The first time Lila spotted a shoplifter, the manager had to call Nate to come get her. For five whole minutes, Lila had rammed an empty shopping cart into the store’s RedBox, screaming, “She didn’t pay for it! She didn’t pay for it!”

  Before the thief even reached the doors, Lila’s fit spooked her, and the suspect dropped the $30 bottle of Bombay gin she’d stashed it her bag. The bottle had shattered, sending glass and gin everywhere and giving the woman the chance to flee on foot.

  Nate had been sure that Lila would be fired for the outburst; instead, her boss was thrilled, especially when Nate explained that Lila could learn what she needed to do if she witnessed shoplifting again. Knowing a rule was being broken and not knowing what to do had led to her meltdown.

  Now, Lila knew to yell for security and point to the person in question. She was to stop yelling as soon as security apprehended the suspect. Failing that, she was to stop yelling when security asked her to describe the thief so they could keep looking. It was a simple system that had been foolproof. Lila had yet to finger an innocent shopper. The ones she called out always had stolen goods on them.

  But even though her manager and members of the security staff praised Lila each time she busted someone, the incidents always left her fragile and over-sensitized.

  Nate turned off the water, dried himself, and quickly dressed. He hoped she’d be ready to tell him what had happened, and he hoped it was something he knew how to handle.

  Nate crossed the house and stopped at the little entryway that led to his den. Lila still sat, shoulders hunched, but her rocking had slowed.

  “How about some tea?” Nate asked. He didn’t expect an answer, so he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get one. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove. If she was ready to be soothed, the ritual of tea making would comfort her.

  “Richland was a good man,” he heard her say from her perch on the steps.

  It was something Lila said often, and no matter how many times she did, Nate always felt a little stab in his heart.

  “Yes, he was, Lila,” Nate answered gently. “He was a very good man.”

  He got out two tea mugs and took down the tin of Bristol House tea that she liked. When he didn’t hear her get up to join him, Nate walked back over to the landing and stood behind her.

  “Don’t you want some tea, Lila?” he asked softly.

  She turned her head away and kept rocking. Nate sighed.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said almost inaudibly.

  The hairs on the back of Nate’s neck stood up.

  “You didn’t mean to what, Lila?” he asked, his heartbeat speeding up. What had she done this time? He quickly scanned the windows of the den facing her apartment. He didn’t see smoke billowing out of any of her windows or water flooding into his garage.

  Lila’s posture shifted, and he heard the sound of rattling glass. Nate came around to face her, and he saw now that Lila clutched something to her chest. A deep frown etched her face, and her eyes were wide with distress.

  “Lila, what do you have there?” Nate was able to gentle his voice again now that he knew the extent of the damage. Something was broken. That was all.

  “Richland was a good man,” she s
aid again.

  Lila refused to look at him. His mother could only handle eye contact when she was relaxed, so now she stared at the floor by her right foot and let a shaft of brown hair cover her face. At forty-five, Lila was still a beautiful woman. Except for the streak of gray right at her temples, she looked almost exactly the same as the woman who gazed out of family pictures from twenty years before.

  Men still went out of their way to talk to her, and on a good day, her disability looked like shyness. Nate had gotten used to telling older men who hit on her to get lost. So far, none of them had treated her as Richland had. He doubted anyone else ever would.

  “Yes, he was a very good man,” Nate repeated. “Are you thinking about him today?”

  Lila nodded, still looking away, but Nate could see tears in her eyes. Tears were rare for his mother, and the sight of them brought him down to kneel a few feet from her.

  “Lila, what’s wrong?” he asked, his heart twisting for her.

  She clutched the treasure in her arms tighter, and again, he heard the discordant sound of broken glass.

  “I didn’t mean to.” Her voice cracked over the words, and for the millionth time, Nate wished Richland was still with them.

  “It’s okay,” he promised. “It’ll be okay. If something is broken, we can fix it.”

  Lila shook her head, adjusting her grip on whatever she held, and then Nate saw the blood on her hands.

  “Lila!” he gasped, trying to keep his voice under control. He inched closer to her on his knees. “You’re hurt.”

  She started rocking again, full speed, and Nate knew he had to be careful or he’d upset her even more.

  “Lila, give me what you are holding so I can see how to fix it after we take care of you.” Giving her step-by-step instructions sometimes helped. If she understood what was coming, she wasn’t so overwhelmed.

  It worked.

  Lila lowered her bloody hands, and Nate saw that she cradled a shattered picture frame in her arms, the one of Lila and Richland on their wedding day. The one that had stood on the dresser in her bedroom for the last twenty years.

  “Oh, Lila.”

  Blood smeared the glass and soaked onto the picture, staining the bride and groom.