The Red Diary

by Toni Blake

  Maybe in the end Nick had wanted more, but she should have listened to herself. Recent events had proven to her that she was far more capable, far more independent. than she'd ever realized, yet losing Nick the way she had left her wondering if she could come back from this kind of devastation.

  Nick had spent Monday night working on invoices, so it left Tuesday evening free to swing by the hardware store, pick up some spray paint. and stop by Elaine's.

  If he just kept busy, he told himself, he wouldn't think about Lauren so much, wouldn't feel so empty every time he remembered she was no longer in his life. He couldn't drop in at her house whenever he felt like it, couldn't talk to her about his day or hers, couldn't kiss her hello. or good-bye, or good night. Stop it, he commanded himself. shaking the can of white paint as he sat on Elaine's back deck next to a chair turned on its side on a bed of newspaper.

  The problem, he thought as he started spraying, stemmed from doing what he spent most of his time doing: painting. Too much time to think, just too damn much time. Last night hadn't been so bad-sitting in O'Hanlon's and writing down numbers. adding them up. double-checking his work; it required concentration and left less room in his mind for meandering.

  Not that he hadn't thought of her; he had. He'd thought of how the invoices in his hands would soon pass through her hands, and he wondered how seeing his name, his handwriting, would make her feel. Wistful and full of longing, or just betrayed? Stranger still had been making out an in voice for the job he'd done at her home, writing out her name and address, stuffing it in a windowed envelope, and knowing the past few weeks came down to nothing more than a bill in the mail. He almost hadn't billed her, in some insane effort to make things up to her, but he'd decided against it for two reasons. She probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture, would likely pay him anyway. And his parting words to her had been true: He was let down by her, as well. He didn't know if he had any right to be; he probably didn't. But despite what he'd kept telling himself, deep inside he'd thought she believed in him. Enough to understand, enough to forgive, enough to move on. It'd hurt to find out he was wrong.

  Although even as he tried to pin part of the blame on the princess, his stomach clenched, remembering how he'd hurt her, remembering the horrible way she'd looked at him, like he was the devil incarnate.

  As he turned the chair for a better angle, the sliding door opened behind him and he glanced up. Shit. His father. When Nick had shown up unannounced, Elaine had warned him Dad was coming over for fried chicken and that she hadn't invited Nick since she knew he'd say no. He'd been tempted to leave, but thought-hell, I can't spend the rest of my life running from the man, avoiding him. It never worked anyway.

  "Nicky, can I talk to you for a minute?" Nick sighed, didn't look up. "Sure."

  From the corner of his eye, he saw his father attempt to crouch down beside him, but the effort proved too great, so he stayed standing, lowering only his voice. "I never should've said what I said to you the other night."

  Quit avoiding him. Nick stopped painting to glance up, but kept his face emotionless. "I'm glad you did. Glad I know the truth."

  His dad looked nervous, understandably. "I've done a lot of terrible things in my life, but what I did to Davy ... that was the worst."

  Nick just rolled his eyes. "Talk about an understatement."

  The old man shifted his weight from one worn shoe to the other. "Do you hate me, Nicky?"

  Nick could almost sense how fast his dad's heart beat.

  Or was that his own heart? He considered the word: hate. It seemed too close an emotion to love for Nick to want to validate, and too far from pity to be quite accurate. "No," he finally said, refocusing on his work.

  He shook the can and watched the metal before his eyes turn white and shiny, and listened to his dad breathing hard and heavy and emotional above him. Finally, his father let out a long, deep sigh and patted Nick on the shoulder. He spoke in a ragged voice. "You do a real good job taking care of Elaine and Davy."

  Nick gave only a slight nod, again turning to the paint job, and his dad made his way back into the house.

  "Nick. any chance you could hang out with Davy this Friday night?" Elaine asked, swiping a napkin across her mouth. They all sat around the table eating quietly, so the request seemed out of the blue.

  He lowered his drumstick to his plate. "Sure. Why?" A thin veil of pink climbed Elaine's cheeks. "I ... have a date." He raised his eyebrows, and Elaine nervously shook her head. "Nothing important, really, just a man who works at Albertson's. He's a meat cutter. His name is Paul."

  Nick nodded, pleasantly stunned, "That's good, Lainey."

  "Paul's left eye twitches when he talks to Elaine," Davy added with a grin, "but he always smiles when he hands her the meat"

  At the end of the table, even their father piped up.

  "You should get out more, Elaine."

  "Well, it's really thanks to Nick." She cast him a timid look of appreciation. "I might have said no, been too nervous, if you hadn't made me start wondering ... what else is out there."

  "So you're not nervous?" Nick asked.

  Elaine rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm nervous." "Wear that skirt," he said, "the one you had on last week." Elaine quietly nodded her thanks, and he thought how nice it was to see his sister excited about something. "Maybe you and Lauren could take Davy to a movie," Elaine suggested.

  His stomach clenched again as he shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. He focused on the salt and pepper shakers directly in front of him, two smiling glass seashells Davy had picked out from a shop in Tarpon Springs. "No. We broke up."

  He felt the reaction around the table, even though no one spoke for a moment. "Why?" Elaine finally said.

  He wished she hadn't asked, or wished he had an answer besides the truth. But he didn't have the will to make anything up. "She thinks I was using her to get back at Henry Ash."

  His father flinched. "Henry Ash?"

  Nick slowly lifted his gaze. "She's Henry's daughter, Dad."

  His dad stared through tired, bloodshot eyes.

  "And I started seeing her because I wanted to find out what her life was like. And because I resented her after what Henry did to you and how it ruined what was left of our lives after Mom died."

  He' d just done it, just laid the truth out on the table for a change. He felt his sister's glare, his brother's confusion, but he focused on his father, whose bottom lip had begun to quiver. a common precursor to tears.

  "Don't do it, Dad," Nick said softly, lowering his fork to his plate.

  His father said nothing, did nothing, sat still as a stone, and Nick knew he was trying to be strong for once. Nick respected the effort-perhaps because it was the only thing his father had given him to respect in a very long time.

  So perhaps he should have shut up then. yet as he sat around the table with his family, a family who moved blindly through their lives without ever acknowledging the truth, he realized he was still keeping stuff inside big, hard. complicated things-- and he wasn't gonna do it anymore. "I should've said this to you on the porch and not ruined dinner, but I have to say it now, and then it can be finished." He took a deep breath and looked into his dad's glassy eyes. "You're my father-no matter what you do, you're still my father. And when I was a kid, you were great. Those days seem like they're from another world now, another lifetime ... but I still can't quite stop loving you, old man." Nick paused. realizing his voice had turned unexpectedly shaky. Get through this. "Even so, you gotta understand, nothing you'll ever do can make up for what happened to Davy, or what you said to me the other day."

  Elaine whispered, "What?" but Nick ignored her. "You turned me into a hard man, Dad. A man who looks for the bad in life instead of the good, and the bad in people, too. A man who looked for the bad in an innocent woman for no reason. It doesn't even make good sense in my head anymore, but it's what I did."

  He felt stronger now that he'd said everything he'd wanted to say, and he
was sure his father would break down any second, but to Nick's surprise, he didn't.

  Instead, his dad raised his eyes back to him. "I know I'm to blame for a lot of things, Nicky. But don't be like me, don't let the things you've lost ruin you. You're stronger than me. always have been. Don't let life drag you down."

  Nick heard the words loud and clear, took them in, absorbed them. But he had no reply, so he finally just nodded, took another bite off his chicken leg, and mumbled, "Sorry to mess up the meal."

  "It's okay, Nick," Elaine said softly.

  They didn't speak about it anymore, but after dinner, Elaine served up pieces of a pie she'd gotten at Albertson's, and it reminded Nick that his sister had a date with the meat cutter and made him feel a little hope for her future. The four of them sat down in the living room and watched a sitcom. then Nick and Davy played gin rummy across the coffee table as Elaine watched, and their dad drifted off to sleep in the old recliner across the room.

  Nick couldn't say it reminded him of better times, but of familiar times. Times after they'd lost everything yet had gone on together, taking each moment as it came, stealing snippets of joy and contentment where they could, in a shared dessert, a card game, a quiet evening without any shouting or pain.

  He left that night with some sense of acceptance. Because his father had told him something he already knew, but hearing it made it seem more real. He was stronger than his dad. Although he hadn't behaved that way with Lauren, using lies and deception to forge a relationship with her. He'd have given anything to go back and change that, to change a lot of things. I love you. Would it have been so hard to say? Would it have made a difference if she knew that was how he felt? As his headlights cut through the warm Florida night headed toward home, he knew it was true, especially now that he was without her.

  But hell, maybe it wouldn't have mattered. She'd have thought it was just one more lie. He wished he'd known how to show her the things he couldn't say, but clearly, he'd failed at that, too.

  The next day was Wednesday, three weeks since Nick had first shown up on Lauren's doorstep. It seemed like much longer he thought as he painted a bedroom inside a brand new high-rise condominium on Sand Key. It seemed impossible that she'd come in and out of his life in less than a turn of the calendar page.

  As Nick refilled his paint tray, he thought about his life over the past days. Other than dinner with his family the previous evening, he'd painted nonstop, day and night. When he hadn't been painting the rooms inside this enormous building, or painting Elaine's patio set, he'd been at home, in the spare bedroom, looking out on the ocean and filling up the old canvases from his closet. Soon after the first couple of paintings, he'd even picked up some artist's acrylics like he'd used as a kid, so he wouldn't have to worry about the paint crackling. What had started as dabbling, soothing his soul, easing his conscience, had somehow become a mission. Blues, pinks, violets, exploded across the canvas in what felt like some misplaced labor of love.

  In the end, he would have a collection of paintings that meant nothing to anyone but him. Maybe once upon a time. he'd hoped they'd mean something to Lauren if he ever gathered the courage to show her. And strangely, even that had become a concrete idea only when it was too late. He thought it was like driving madly down a road to nowhere. but he'd kept going anyway, filling the brushes, covering the white space.

  The next time he checked his watch, it was after quitting time. He'd been working away from the rest of the guys, and he guessed they'd gotten so used to not having him around these past weeks that they'd forgotten to tell him they were knocking off for the day.

  He cleaned up only slightly since he'd be back the next morning, picking up where he left off, then he meandered the lonely halls and took the elevator down to the ground floor.

  A familiar wall of heat and humidity hit him as he stepped out into the harsh sunlight and made his way through the debris of construction littering the not-yet paved parking lot. The hottest part of summer had arrived and wouldn't abate 'til fall. He'd just opened the door of his van when he heard the sound of skittering gravel and glanced around. Two grungy teenagers threw rocks at a big tabby cat literally backed into a corner.

  "Hey!" Nick yelled at them. For a split second he wondered why, but then thought---ah hell, Davy must've finally rubbed off on me.

  The two boys stopped flinging gravel and looked up with a start.

  He glared at them, glad to see fear in their. eyes.

  "Leave the cat alone." .

  "Go to hell!" one of the punks yelled. Well, so much for fear.

  Either kid could've been Nick at that age, but he was pissed now and wanted to scare them. As they resumed pelting the cat with small rocks, he leaned calmly into the back of the van, rummaged around, and pulled out a tire iron. Stepping back out where they could see him, he said, "Leave the fucking cat alone. Now."

  The boys looked at each other, and one of them let his fistful of gravel fall to the ground in a cloud of dust. Nick started toward them. "Get the hell out of here."

  He raised his voice, along with the crowbar clutched in his hand. "Get the hell out!"

  Finally, the two punks exhibited a little sense-the other one dropped his crushed rocks, and they both took off toward the road, even if they did mutter a few choice words beneath their breath.

  Nick put the tool back in the van, then started to climb behind the driver's seat, when he noticed the cat hadn't moved, seeming frozen in place.

  "Meow," it said when he looked at it.

  He shut his door and started the engine. Cranked up the air and turned on the radio. Glanced back at the cat. Saw through the window the silent meow he couldn't hear anymore.

  "Shit," he muttered, opening his door.

  A moment later, he returned to the van, the docile tomcat in his arms. He lowered it to the passenger seat, where it stayed, even if it still acted a little nervous. Nick took a good look at the cat as he started maneuvering the potholes of the construction site to see that one ear was frayed, and a couple of chunks of fur were missing. "Been through a lot, huh?" he said idly, turning out onto the main road. "Well, don't let 'em break your spirit, buddy."

  It was about the time he hit the bridge to Clearwater Beach that he thought-what the hell am I gonna do with this cat? His first thought was Davy, but Elaine would have a fit. Next he thought of the animal shelter, but he'd heard they killed animals if no one wanted them. He hadn't bothered saving the cat just to sign its death warrant.

  He shook his head. When had this happened? When had he gotten so damned humane?

  As he crossed over onto the mainland and wove through town, Nick thought of the only cat person he knew. And it just so happened he'd be passing by Bayview Drive in the next few minutes.

  He made the turn without weighing it much, but as he drove through the palatial neighborhood and neared her house, a small knot gathered in his stomach. I never want to see you again. She'd said that, and he had the nerve to show up at her house three days later? And had it only been that long? Felt more like three weeks, .three months maybe.

  He didn't pull into her driveway, just parked on the street. Somehow that felt less invasive. He wondered if she was inside, if she'd glance out and see his van, if she'd even answer the door.

  I'm just here to deliver a cat, he told himself. reaching for the tabby. Not here to bother her, to beg her forgiveness, or to seduce her with my eyes. Just here to deliver a cat.

  'There's a cute girl cat here," he said absently to the tabby as he looped his arm around it, "but don't get your hopes up-I doubt you're her type. You're from two different worlds."

  Nick felt like a stranger all over again as he walked up Lauren's brick path, stepped cautiously onto the stoop, and rang the doorbell. The place looked enormous and foreign to him once more-the home of the Princess of Ash Builders. When she opened the door, her face fell; clearly she hadn't checked the peephole. Like so many similar instances before, Nick wanted to scold her for that, but kept
it to himself and instead launched into why he was here. "Look, I know you never want to see me again, and I don't blame you, but I found this cat." He lifted the tabby slightly. "Some kids were picking on it, and you're the only cat person I know. I can take it to the animal shelter, but I thought they might kill it. And besides, I thought maybe Izzy could use a man in her life." He glanced down at the white cat now peeking from between Lauren's ankles, and lowered his voice. "Unless you think he's too scruffy for her."

  Lauren's gaze dropped from Nick to the tomcat, then she reached out, gently taking him. "No, he's not too scruffy."

  The slight brush of her hand against his arm had traveled through him like an electric shock. He'd hoped not to feel that, not to look at her and want her, heart, body, and soul, but unfortunately, seeing her only shored up how much he loved her and that he'd lost the best thing to ever enter his life. For a fleeting moment he even considered telling her, but he'd come here to deliver a cat, not keep pleading for a forgiveness he didn't deserve.

  "Well. thanks for taking the cat," he said. Then he turned to go.

  When he gathered the courage to glance over his shoulder a few steps later, her door had already shut quietly behind him. A sense of loneliness descended as he got back in his van, without even the tomcat for company now. And he guessed he could go by and see Davy and Elaine, but that didn't feel like what he needed at the moment. Instead, he went home, grabbed a quick bite to eat, opened a tube of paint labeled FERN, and reached for his brushes.

  He couldn't say exactly when it had hit him, if it'd come in one huge burst of realization, like the Big Bang taking place in his head, or if it'd evolved over the course of time, little pieces of the puzzle slowly dropping into place. He'd spent Wednesday evening painting at home, and Thursday night, too-when he'd painted until well after midnight, not even thinking of the early morning ahead, anxious to finish up the last piece in his collection.