Family Tree

by Carol Grace

  “Oh, no, I can’t drink on the job,” she said, but Willa Mae was out the door before she’d finished her sentence. And the phone rang.

  “My car is ready,” Brandon said. “I don’t want to impose on you, but if you’re free after work, Scotty will be there until six.”

  “Of course,” she said, while inside she wanted to blurt out the bad news. She wanted to yell and scream at the unfairness of life, but she didn’t. She said she’d be by after work to take him to town.

  EVEN WHEN SHE ARRIVED at the ranch she couldn’t say anything. About anything. Dylan was jumping up and down, excited to show her how he’d painted the boards that would be the new sides of the tree house. Still blithely unaware that the tree house would not be going back up the same tree. Still even more unaware that there was absolutely no place for the tree house to go at all. Or for them to live.

  The three of them were tightly wedged in the front seat of the truck on the way back to the garage in town. Dylan between the adults, and Brandon’s arm casually resting along the back of the seat. Laura could feel his fingers graze her shoulder, making shivers go up her spine even in the summer heat. Fortunately Dylan talked nonstop, so she didn’t have to say a word. When he spotted his friend Andy on Main Street, Laura let him out to join him. Laura agreed Dylan could have dinner at Andy’s house.

  “You’re quiet today,” Brandon remarked to her as they pulled up across the street from Scotty’s Garage. “Anything wrong?”

  “You might say that,” she said, her jaw clenched and her head throbbing. “You might also say that everything’s wrong. For me. Not for you. For you, you got your wish.”

  He leaned against the passenger door, so relaxed and at ease, it made her more tense than ever. He shot her a puzzled look. For all the time he’d been without his beloved car, she thought he’d leap out of the truck and race over to pick it up at long last. Instead he just sat there, as if he’d forgotten he had a car, watching her and patiently waiting for her to explain.

  “I didn’t get the job of postmistress,” she blurted. Strange, but just telling him seemed to make some of the hurt dissipate.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “Do? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” she said, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers. “I’m going to be the new rural delivery person. I’m going to drive a truck or a van or something all day and deliver your mail to your house at the ranch and every other ranch around here every day. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it’s great. You weren’t meant to be cooped up in that office all day,” he said.

  “Maybe not. But I was meant to have the apartment over the post office, which traditionally goes to the postmaster. Now, because someone complained about the lack of door-to-door service out to the rural areas…”

  “Wait a minute.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you talking about me? Are you blaming me for your not getting the job you wanted?”

  “Well…”

  “Well, nothing,” he said. “I’m sorry about the apartment, but I never saw you as a postmistress.”

  “Really. What did you see me as?” she asked, her chin tilted up, her tone challenging him to come up with something. She wanted to make a grand gesture and remove his hand from her shoulder, but somehow she couldn’t do that. It felt too good to have his hand there, too warm and too comforting—in spite of everything.

  Brandon took his time thinking of an answer. He gave her a long look, admiring the way her hair fell to her shoulders, the way her white blouse covered her breasts and tempted him to reach over and unbutton it, right here on Main Street. He wondered what she’d do. He imagined the way her cheeks would turn scarlet, her heart would pound.

  He imagined the scandal it would cause and he tried like hell to stifle the idea but it just wouldn’t be stifled. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from those buttons, couldn’t stop imagining how she’d look without the blouse, without the lace bra he knew she was wearing. Now it was his heart that was pounding. And he hadn’t touched her.

  He realized at that moment he’d dreamed about her last night and in his dream she was wearing a black dress. No buttons. Just a long, smooth black dress. That was all he remembered. He wished he hadn’t remembered any of it. Wished he’d repressed the whole thing. It was disturbing.

  If he dreamed of anyone, he should dream about his wife, but he had no control over his dreams. He wondered if Laura had a black dress and where she’d wear it if she had one. It was easier to imagine her in a T-shirt and shorts. A T-shirt that clung to her breasts and shorts that exposed her long legs.

  He dragged his gaze from the row of buttons on her blouse back to her face. He had no business fantasizing about this woman. Or any woman. He believed there was one woman for every man, and Jeanne had been his. But lately he’d had trouble picturing her face. It must be the move. The change of scene. The change of climate and geography. It had messed with his head. Since the day he’d arrived, he’d started changing. The worst part was he didn’t know how far these changes would go.

  Laura was angry. He knew that by the way her eyes blazed and her cheeks were stained with color. He was sorry she was angry with him. But he didn’t think it was justified.

  “What do I see you as?” he said at last, when he’d dredged his mind for the question she was waiting to hear the answer to. “I see you as a rodeo star, in a star-spangled outfit, riding bareback around the ring.” Talk about fantasies. There was one that sent a shaft of pure desire through him. Laura in tights and spangles. Oh, Lord.

  She stared at him, openmouthed, then a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, I get it. Dylan told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “My childhood dream of becoming a rodeo star. I never rode that well and I’m certainly not the spangled type. It was a totally ridiculous dream.”

  “Not as ridiculous as mine,” he said. “I wanted to be a race car driver.”

  “You’ve almost succeeded,” she said dryly. “Didn’t you say your car goes one hundred twenty?”

  “Supposedly. But I’m not planning to race it. I gave up that dream a long time ago.” He glanced up to see an older woman in a black T-shirt waving both hands at them from the sidewalk. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

  Laura turned. “That’s Willa Mae, the former postmistress. She wants to meet you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He muttered something unintelligible, something that gave her the impression he’d rather have a root canal than meet another of Silverado’s colorful characters, but he got out of the truck and allowed Laura to introduce him to Willa Mae. He shook her bony hand, gave her an engaging smile and said he was happy to meet her.

  “So, young fellow, how do you like it here?” she asked, sizing him up with her bright blue gaze. “People treating you right?” she asked, shifting her gaze to Laura and back to him again.

  Brandon assured her he liked it fine and that everyone was treating him very well. Laura noticed him sneaking a look at his watch, no doubt wondering if the garage would close before he picked up his car while he was standing out here making conversation.

  “Would you like to come by for a glass of apricot cordial?” Willa Mae asked Brandon with a coquettish smile. “I made it myself.”

  “You really should,” Laura said, feeling slightly devilish. “It’s delicious.”

  “If I weren’t in a hurry to pick up my car at the garage,” Brandon said, “I’d take you up on your offer. Maybe I could have a rain check.”

  “Oh, it never rains in Silverado,” Willa Mae explained. “Well, hardly ever. Except for the flash flood of’ 67. But before I leave I’ll have you both up to my place. While it’s still my place.”

  Laura watched Brandon smoothly excuse himself and go into the service department of Scotty’s garage. No wonder Willa Mae’s wide
-eyed gaze followed him as he crossed the street. The man knew how to turn on the charm. Then Willa Mae turned to give her report on the new man in town.

  “Well, I must say, he’s something, all right. Did I hear right? Is it possible he’s available?” she asked, licking her lips.

  Laura didn’t know what to say without giving away Brandon’s past. “Uh, well, I—he isn’t married, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Darn tootin’ that’s what I mean. What are you doing, just standing there? Don’t be shy. Go after him.’ Course if you’re not interested, if you don’t want him…I might…Say, there he goes,” she exclaimed as Brandon’s car pulled out of the garage and headed toward the highway. “What a car. What a man.”

  Laura pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. For years, Willa Mae had been the quintessential postmistress, hardworking and sensible, but ever since she’d announced her retirement, she’d been kicking up her heels, entertaining every single man in town, plying them with her homemade cordials in her digs above the post office. Is that what would happen to her? Man-crazy and desperate at sixty-five? It was a chilling thought.

  Fortunately the tree house project seemed to go on and on into the next week, keeping Dylan occupied and happy. Laura wanted to ask Brandon if Dylan was getting on his nerves, if he was looking forward to finishing the project and getting rid of her son, but she was afraid he might say yes and yes.

  She also wanted to ask what was going to be done with the structure when it was completed, seeing that she had no place to put it, but there never was a time when she saw him alone and she didn’t want to ask in front of Dylan.

  She finally had a chance one evening when she went to pick up Dylan at the ranch. After she admired their progress, her son went to wash the paint off his hands. She and Brandon were left alone as the shadow of the barn lengthened over the temporary construction site and the fading sunlight cast a golden glow over the house and the fields. She sighed. It was her favorite time of day. It used to be her favorite time of day.

  Brandon leaned against the shed, crossed his arms over his chest and observed her without speaking. His blue chambray shirt was buttoned halfway, exposing his chest lightly dusted with dark hair. She had a wild desire to slide her hand inside his shirt, to run her palm over his chest. She shivered though the evening was balmy. Yes, she was getting more like Willa Mae every day. Desperate. And she hadn’t even hit thirty yet. She swallowed hard and jerked her gaze away.

  “I’m afraid I’m imposing on you, leaving Dylan here every day. I’m sure you had no idea this would happen when you volunteered to fix up the tree house,” she said.

  “That’s right, I didn’t,” he admitted. “Or I never would have suggested it. But it hasn’t been that bad.”

  Not that bad, she mused. Not good, but not that bad. At least he was honest.

  “I assume you’re almost finished,” she said.

  “We were, but then we decided to add shelves and paint it. Not just for looks, but for protection against the weather.”

  She nodded. We were. We decided…She couldn’t believe an authoritative macho man like Brandon would let a child participate in the decisions. What a father he would have made if only…

  “It’s meant a lot to Dylan to have this project,” she said. “It’s been so good for him. You’ve been good for him. He doesn’t talk about his father as much, at least not to me. I was hoping…”

  “Don’t get carried away with high hopes,” Brandon warned. “You must know that’s why he’s here, that’s why he’s motivated. That’s why he works so hard. Because this is where his dad is coming to get him. He’s a very determined, stubborn kid. Like his mother.”

  “I don’t know how to take that,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  “Take it as a compliment,” he said. “That’s how I meant it.”

  “A compliment from you. A rare treasure. I’ll remember it,” she said lightly. She would remember it. Partly because it was a rarity. Partly because it came from him.

  “You make me sound like an ogre,” he said. “Am I that bad?”

  “No, of course not. You’ve been more than decent about this whole thing. What I want to know is why? We know why Dylan hangs out here, what motivates him, but I don’t know what motivates you. Why are you going to all this trouble?”

  “I told you,” he said. “I want the tree house repaired because it’s dangerous.”

  “You could have hired someone to repair it. You didn’t need to involve yourself or Dylan. You must have your own work to do.”

  “I do have work to do. But something happened when I got here. I thought it would be easy to concentrate out here with no distractions, but it isn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. In the past I’ve even been accused of being a workaholic.” He grimaced at the memory, and Laura wondered who’d accused him of it. His wife? Or his associates, after his wife had died? He continued. “But now it’s different. Maybe it’s the distance, but I can’t seem to get into my work the way I used to do. There are days when I sit out on your porch and just stare out at the scenery.”

  She wondered if he realized he’d said your porch. Would he ever feel at home here?

  “It’s much easier to pick up a hammer and nails and build something. So don’t give me any credit for being nice to Dylan. He’s given me the excuse I need not to do the work I don’t want to do.”

  “But I thought he’d drive you crazy with his endless chatter and his questions.” And the fact that he’d remind you of the son you lost.

  “Sometimes he does. I came here for the solitude, you know. But I didn’t realize how quiet it would be. No traffic, no sirens, no dogs barking, no car alarms going off in the middle of the night. At first I couldn’t sleep, it was so quiet. Not that I miss the city. I don’t. I’m just saying I haven’t minded having him around as much as I thought I would.”

  Laura nodded. Another backhanded compliment. This time for Dylan.

  “As soon as it’s finished we’re going to move it to wherever you live, you know. Dylan’s not going to like it, but that’s how it’s going to be.” He brushed the sawdust off his shorts with an air of finality.

  Laura nodded. She knew only too well that was how it was going to be.

  “Any luck finding a place for yourselves?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but something will turn up,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She was beginning to wonder if anything would turn up. “The whole town is focussed on the Fourth of July festivities right now, so it’s a bad time to be househunting.” She didn’t say that any time was a bad time for looking for a rental in Silverado.

  “So the Fourth of July is a big deal around here,” he said.

  “Oh, a very big deal. Wait till you see the parade. You are coming to the parade, aren’t you? And the picnic and the fireworks?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from hitting her like a large, leather sack of mail tossed off the back of a delivery truck. She didn’t know why. She’d managed to enjoy the festivities in the past without him; she’d certainly be able to do so this year without any problem. But it might do Brandon some good to see the town enjoying simple pleasures. Who was she kidding? She wanted to see him. He intrigued her. He attracted her. She wondered how much of it was mutual.

  “I’m not one for holidays,” he explained.

  “But this is a special holiday. Silverado was actually founded on the Fourth of July.”

  “What a coincidence,” he said dryly.

  “Not really. They did it on purpose. Which makes it easy to remember and gives us even more reason to celebrate. But if you don’t like holidays…”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “I see,” she said.

  Then it hit her. It was on the Fourth his family was killed. How insensitive she must seem. She didn’t know what to say. Anything she’d say would be tactless or misconstrued as pity.

&
nbsp; “It’s not just a parade,” she continued, trying to change the subject but not knowing how. Not knowing why she didn’t just shut up and forget it. But she didn’t. “And it’s not just for kids. It’s fun for everyone.” As if that made any difference. As if that applied to him. She didn’t know why she continued when the look on his face told her it was useless, that he’d already made up his mind and he wasn’t going anywhere near a hokey small-town celebration and risk pain, but she did. “There’s a picnic afterward and fireworks at night.” The more she said, the worse she sounded. Like a one-person visitors’ bureau or the chamber of commerce.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “I’m sure it’s a lot of fun. But not for me.” His tone was firm. She got the message. Leave him alone. He didn’t want to get involved. Not with the town and not with her.

  ON THE WAY HOME she went over their conversation in her mind. She hoped she hadn’t come on too strong about the Fourth of July. Whether he came or not was completely immaterial to her. She also hoped she’d conveyed a sense of optimism about the future and not the dread she was experiencing every time she thought about her failure to get the job she’d wanted and even more important, to find a place to live.

  She didn’t want Brandon’s pity any more than he wanted hers. That was one thing they had in common. One thing and not much else. Except for the fact that they’d both suffered losses. But he was rich, she was poor. She had a child to raise, and he didn’t. He was a city person, trying to adjust to the solitude and the quiet. She was a country girl trying to get used to living in town. A small town, but still a town.

  She glanced at Dylan and realized how lucky she was that he’d stopped complaining. About moving, about the tree house, about his aunt and anything else he could think of. For giving him something else to think about, something else to do everyday, she owed Brandon a huge debt of gratitude. She’d tried to thank him today, but she hadn’t done a very good job of it. She’d try harder next time.

  In the meantime she’d try to take her life one day at a time, instead of worrying about the future which loomed ahead like a brick wall she was speeding toward and would inevitably end up crashing into.