by Carol Grace
“Yes?” Laura said, sinking into the deep sofa in front of the fireplace. The only light came from the antique gas lamps flanking the fireplace.
“Look,” Brandon said, “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I had to apologize for what happened. I’m sorry.”
Her heart sank. She should have known he’d regret the kiss. “So am I,” she said quickly. What else could she say? She was ashamed of how she’d behaved, but sorry? She wasn’t sorry it happened. There was a long silence. She didn’t know what else to say. Was that it? Was she supposed to hang up?
“I wouldn’t be honest if I said I was sorry about the kiss. That’s not it. I’m only sorry the phone rang when it did. I should have ignored it, but from force of habit, I didn’t. I wanted to tell you that I haven’t kissed anyone for a long time. I didn’t intend to kiss you.”
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “I didn’t intend to kiss you, either. I didn’t intend to drench your shirt for the second time, either.”
He either coughed or chuckled, she couldn’t tell which. He cleared his throat. “To be fair, there’s something I have to tell you. Something I hope you’ll keep to yourself.” She heard him take a deep breath. “My—my wife died two years ago along with my infant son in a car crash.”
She gasped. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me. I’ve had enough sympathy to last a lifetime. I want to forget, that’s all.
That’s why I’m here. To get away from everyone who knows me and knows what happened. Who reminds me of what I’ve lost by just being kind or sympathetic or whatever. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I had to explain why I blew it tonight. I’m not sure what happened to me, but I didn’t want you to think I went around kissing women.”
“No, of course not. And I wouldn’t want you to think I went around crying on men’s shoulders, because I don’t.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said.
“Well, now that we’ve settled that…” she said uneasily. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, had been settled. “I appreciate your telling me. I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I hope you feel better,” he said.
“Oh, yes, there’s nothing like a good cry,” she said. Or a good kiss. Her lips still tingled, her heart still pounded and he didn’t seem to feel a thing. Except regret. If he did, he wasn’t going to admit it. “I’m fine, really. I thought I was over it—the divorce, Jason, everything. I am over it. I just had a relapse. But now I’m fine,” she repeated, more to convince herself than him.
“That’s good,” he said. “Please tell your aunt I enjoyed the dinner. That’s the first decent meal I’ve had since I left San Francisco. She’s a great cook and a wonderful hostess.”
“Yes, she is, and she’s been so good to Dylan and me. If it weren’t for her, we’d be…well, we’d be up a creek. She liked you, too. She’ll probably invite you again.”
“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t accept. From now on I’m staying on the ranch. That’s why I bought it, to have a place to stay.”
You mean hide out, she thought. “But maybe you need to get out and—”
“And make new friends? Mix with people? Stop living in the past? Is that what you’re going to say? Believe me, I’ve heard it all. That’s why I left California. I told you what happened to me because I thought you were different from other people. Because I thought you’d accept me as I am. A loner. A man who’s lost the only woman he ever loved, the only woman he ever will love, who doesn’t want to be dragged back into society. I guess I was wrong. You’re just like everyone else. The truth is nobody who hasn’t lost their whole family in the space of a second could possibly understand.”
Laura stiffened. There was so much anger and bitterness in his voice, she could feel his pain. But he was right. It was true. She couldn’t really understand how he felt. She could sympathize, but he didn’t want her sympathy. It was hard to understand why any man wouldn’t want to get on with his life—after a decent period of mourning, of course. But she’d never known true love the way he had. This was not an ordinary man. This was a sensitive, caring man who’d let her cry her heart out on his chest tonight. A man who must have been deeply in love with his wife. She’d never known that kind of love. For that she envied him.
“Good night, Laura,” he said.
She hung up and started up the stairs when she heard her aunt’s door open.
“Who was that?” Emily asked in a hushed voice, tying the sash on her robe.
“That was Brandon. He thinks you’re a great cook.”
“Is that all?”
“And a wonderful hostess.”
“I mean, is that all he said.”
“No. He explained his situation so I’d understand why he doesn’t want to socialize.”
“Doesn’t want to socialize? That’s ridiculous. I hope you told him so. No? Well, then I’ll have to tell him.”
“You do that, Aunt,” Laura said, and climbed the stairs to her room. “If you get a chance,” she murmured.
THE NEXT MORNING her heart felt as if it were made of lead when she thought about last night. She’d made a fool of herself with a man who was not interested in her and never would be. He would spend the rest of his life grieving for his wife and son. She’d never known such devotion. She couldn’t fathom it. But she respected him for his loyalty. She just wished that her kisses meant something to him beside “blowing it.” Because they meant something to her. How much she wasn’t sure.
She got the message. He was going to bury himself on the ranch and hang a Do Not Disturb sign on his door and on his heart. The worst part was that she’d told him he didn’t know anything about being a parent. That was before she knew about him, how it must have hurt. From now on she’d keep her mouth shut. And keep her distance.
After serving her guests breakfast trays in their rooms, Aunt Emily had gone off to the farmer’s market on the edge of town. Laura and Dylan were eating flaky croissants at the table in the kitchen in her aunt’s old-fashioned breakfast nook.
“Do dreams come true, Mom?” Dylan asked.
“They can come true if you believe in them. Why?”
“Cuz I had a dream last night that I want it to come true.”
“What was it about?”
“It’s a secret.”
“I see. Well, sometimes you have to help your dreams come true. You have to do your part, and work to make them come true. For example, if you dreamed of having a new bike, you could find a way to earn the money for one. Or if you dreamed of being a fireman, then you did exercises and got strong and studied hard for the firefighters’ exam, that would be doing your part. Do you understand?”
He nodded enthusiastically and her heart lightened. Everything was going to be all right, after all. “What are you going to do today?” she asked.
“Go over to Jeff’s house.”
Laura breathed a sigh of relief. Not a word about the ranch or his father or his tree house. Could her problems with Dylan be over? She was afraid to get her hopes up, but she smiled brightly. “We’ll have to invite Jeff to do something with you on the weekend. Maybe go fishing at the reservoir,” she suggested.
“Okay,” he said, wiped his mouth on a napkin and took off out the back door. A little too fast. A little too eagerly. Laura watched him go, a tiny niggling worry at the back of her mind.
Chapter Six
Brandon stood on his deck watching the morning sun highlight the purple hills on the horizon. The air was so dry, so still, so full of the smells of dry grass and wild roses, he should have been energized. This was just what he’d pictured when he bought the ranch, sight unseen, based on the photos the Realtor had sent him. No sounds, no people, but no car, either. When he called Scotty’s Garage a little earlier, they said the part wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. So he was stuck there. But wasn’t that what he’d wanted? To be stuck? To be isolated? Not when he knew he couldn’t leave if he wanted to. Not if he couldn�
��t leave without calling Laura and asking her to pick him up. The person he knew he must have antagonized by telling her she didn’t understand him.
He could tell she was hurt by what he’d said on the phone last night. Now he knew he should never have confided in her in the first place. He had no idea what had gotten into him last night. First kissing her and then trying to explain it away. The truth was he couldn’t explain it, not to her and not to himself. All he knew was that he’d let himself go. Part of the reason was simply that she was a desirable woman, soft and sweet with a core of strength he admired.
In fact, he admired everything about her—her dark hair, her amber eyes, her soft curves. Pressed against him, her lips soft and responsive, he’d lost control. Even now he wondered what would have happened if the phone hadn’t rung. When would he have come to his senses and realized he was betraying the memory of his one true love?
No wonder he felt restless. He was trapped. Every time he tried to do some work, he thought about Laura. He thought about kissing her, about how he’d forgotten everything for a few moments. Forgotten Jeanne and how much he’d loved her. How he promised himself he’d never forget her. But he had forgotten. And that made him feel guilty.
Yes, he was stuck. But he shouldn’t care. He had enough food and enough work to do. Then why didn’t he do it? Why did he stand there staring at the vast fields where cows and horses once grazed? At least they were grazing in the pictures he’d seen. Why did he stand there and wonder what life was like when the McIntyres lived here, when it was a real working ranch, when the air was filled with the shouts of children, the house was filled with the smell of stew simmering on the back of the stove and bread baking in the oven?
He pictured Laura growing up there, riding horses across the field and climbing trees. He felt a deep sense of regret knowing that no more children would run across the fields, fish in the creek or climb the trees. At least not while he lived there. He wandered out to the tree house, looked up into the branches and saw…No it couldn’t be, but it looked like Dylan’s bare legs dangling over the edge of the tree house. He stood for a long moment telling himself he was imagining the whole thing. But he knew he wasn’t.
“Dylan?”
“What?” The boy sounded surprised he’d been found. He jerked his legs back up into the tree house as if he could disappear and Brandon wouldn’t know he’d been there.
“What are you doing up there?” Brandon asked calmly.
Dylan leaned forward and met his gaze. “Waiting for my dad.”
As if Brandon didn’t know. He took a deep breath and told himself to be patient, be understanding. As patient and understanding as if it were his own son.
“I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t wait for him anymore, not until we’d decided what to do with the tree house. At least not until it got repaired or there was an adult here with you. Me or your mom or…”
“I know. There is an adult coming. My dad. He’s coming to get me today.”
“Really. Your dad is coming to get you today? How do you know?”
“He told me. He told me to wait for him here. He’s coming in his new car and he’s bringing me a BB gun and a bow and arrow.”
Brandon rocked back on his heels. The boy had an active imagination, but could this be true? Was his father coming back to get him? If his son was alive, there was nothing that could keep him away. Maybe Dylan’s father felt the same way. Maybe he was on his way right now. It was possible he didn’t know the whole story. Even Laura said there had been good times. But she didn’t say his father was coming to get him. Maybe she didn’t know. If she did, he was sure she wouldn’t let him go.
“You know it’s dangerous up there,” Brandon said, eyeing the rotten boards and the rusty nails. “I wouldn’t want you to fall down before your dad gets here.”
“He’s gonna fix it for me. He has all the stuff in the shed. He just didn’t have time before he left cuz he had an important job to do.”
“In the shed,” Brandon repeated. “Why don’t you show it to me? Maybe you and I can fix it.”
“I can’t. I gotta wait here. He’s coming here to get me.”
Brandon nodded. He didn’t want to antagonize the kid. He just wanted to get him down. “I’m sure we’ll hear his car. What was it, a Maserati?”
“A Porsche,” Dylan said.
“They make a lot of noise coming up the drive at seven hundred RPM’s,” Brandon said soberly.
There was a long pause.
“Well, okay,” Dylan said at last. “But first I’m gonna leave a note for him in my secret mailbox.”
“Secret mailbox?” Brandon asked, looking around the tree house.
“It’s in a hole in the tree,” he said. “But I’m not telling where, cuz it’s a secret. Could you get me some paper and a pencil?”
Brandon hesitated a moment. The boy was being so reasonable; how could he refuse such an innocent request? “Sure, I’ll be right back.”
He was back a few minutes later, he went halfway up the ladder with the paper and pencil, reached out as Dylan reached down to get them. Then he waited for another five minutes while Dylan composed his message.
“How do you spell alone?” he asked.
Brandon told him.
“Is that the same as lonely?” he asked.
“You can be alone and not be lonely,” Brandon said. “For example, you’re alone up in your tree house, but you’re feeling so happy, you don’t feel lonely. Or you’re in the middle of a crowd of people, but you still feel lonely. Do you understand what I mean?”
It was a hard concept for a little kid to grasp, one that had even been a painful concept for a grown man to grasp, but Dylan nodded gravely. Finally he finished his message, told Brandon to close his eyes and Dylan put the note in his secret mailbox.
“Ready?” Brandon asked. “Maybe we can fix your tree house before your dad comes.” What was he saying? Laura had told him in no uncertain terms his father wasn’t coming back. Brandon didn’t want to fix the tree house. He wanted to get it off his property. But he was trapped. He couldn’t possibly say no now. One step at a time, he told himself.
“Do you know how to fix things?” Dylan asked skeptically.
“Some things.” Memories came rushing back of their house in Marin County. The summer he’d spent his vacation from the securities firm he was working for in the city replacing a rotten redwood deck. He’d smashed his thumb, cut his hand, dropped a hammer on his toe, but he’d made a deck that was still standing when he sold the house. He remember the pride he’d felt, the pride that shone in Jeanne’s eyes. A different pride than when he’d gotten his raise. Different from when he was made partner. Or when he made his first million. The deck was a concrete achievement. Maybe that’s what he needed now. Another achievement he could see, touch and feel.
“If the stuff is in the shed, if you help me, I’m sure I can fix it. Come on down and show me where it is,” Brandon said.
There was a long silence. Brandon could almost hear the wheels turning in the boy’s head while he entertained second thoughts. Should he trust Brandon or not? If he left the tree house for only a moment, would he miss his dad? Finally he came flying down the ladder.
Together they headed for the shed behind the house. Brandon had never looked in it. He hadn’t looked in the barn, either. Why bother? He had no use for outbuildings. Sure enough, in a weather-beaten shed there were sheets of plywood and two-by-fours stacked against the wall. There were power tools, saws and hammers and bins of nails and screws of all sizes. It was the workshop of a man who had plans, whether for a tree house or something bigger. There was enough material here to rebuild the tree house completely and then some.
“Think your dad would mind if we used his stuff?” Brandon asked. He didn’t point out that it was now his stuff, that he’d bought the ranch and everything in it. All the furnishings and equipment. It was all his.
Dylan looked around at the boards, his forehead furrowed
in a frown, as if he didn’t know, wasn’t sure what his father would say. Or maybe he preferred to do it with his dad as planned, and not the stranger who’d taken over his house and land. Brandon could understand that. Dylan didn’t want a substitute dad, not even for a day. Brandon didn’t want a substitute kid, either. He wanted one of his own. He wanted to teach his own kid—not somebody else’s—to build, to read, to play soccer.
Brandon picked up the boards one by one, studying them for imperfections, running his hand along the sandpaper, checking the blade on the table saw while giving the boy time to think it over. If he said no, then Brandon was off the hook. He’d go back to the house, call Dylan’s mother and tell her to come and get her son. After all, he didn’t really want to build a tree house. Not here and not now. At one time he would have loved the opportunity. Not any longer.
Finally Dylan looked up at Brandon. “The tree house wasn’t really mine. It’s been there a long time. Since before I was born. I wanted to fix the roof so I could sleep there. My dad and I were gonna do that and repair the deck and stuff, cuz he wanted to teach me how to build things. We were gonna do it together. But he didn’t have time. He was too busy.”
Too busy running through your mother’s money, Brandon thought. If the rumors were true. Dylan’s stubborn lower lip stuck out defiantly as if he knew what Brandon was thinking, as if Brandon would dare to question his dad’s good intentions.
“So, what do you think?” Brandon asked. “We could actually rebuild the tree house with a new roof and surprise your dad. You’ll be up there in a tree house that’s safe. That you made. He’ll be proud of you.”
Dylan nodded slowly. “Okay. If he comes we’ll prob’ly hear him, like you said. But even if we don’t, he’ll find my note I left him.”
The sun was strong now at midday, beating down on them as they hauled the boards out to the gravel driveway. Brandon was surprised how strong the kid was. He easily held up his end of the heavy boards. In the shade of the oak tree they set up a worktable made up of a slab of plywood on two sawhorses.