by Carol Grace
“Who are looking to take on a divorcée and her son? I don’t think so. From now on it’s Dylan and me. I know I’ve said that before, but this time I mean it. I will not fall for any more handsome strangers who come to town and have no intention of staying the course. I thought I’d learned my lesson, but I hadn’t.” She shook her head and bit her lip to keep from crying. Not now. Not in front of her aunt.
“Aren’t you being too hard on yourself?” her aunt asked, standing and putting an arm around her niece’s shoulder. “He’s an awfully nice man.”
Laura nodded in agreement. He was an awfully nice man. Too nice. That was the problem.
“Where will you stay tonight?” her aunt asked, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“An old high school friend has offered me her spare room,” Laura said. “You remember Brenda White? Unless she, too, has a last-minute visit from her sister, that’s where I’ll be. And if she does, I’ll spread my sleeping bag in the town square before I’ll go back to the ranch.”
Her aunt nodded slowly. Laura could tell she was worried and she wondered if she really should have burdened her aunt with her troubles. She managed a smile before she changed into shorts and left to pick up Dylan and his friend.
She heard her aunt’s phone ringing just as she started her truck. She hesitated for a moment, then pulled out of the driveway. Why did she think it would be for her? Why did she hope it would be Brandon? She didn’t want to talk to him. It was more likely someone calling to make a reservation.
Inside the kitchen her aunt answered, “Silverado Inn.” When Brandon asked for Laura, her aunt looked out the window to see the back of her truck disappear down the street.
“I’m sorry, she just left. May I take a message?” she asked hopefully. She knew who it was. She also knew by the tone of his voice that he was just as upset as her niece and she wondered if Laura had correctly interpreted his real feelings. Emily had the distinct feeling that the man cared more than she realized, more than he realized, for Laura.
“Would you ask her to call Brandon?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Brandon felt a ray of hope. He would talk to her. She would understand. They would be friends. Dylan would come back to work on the tree house. They’d find a permanent place to stay so he wouldn’t feel like he’d stolen their ranch from them.
But she didn’t call him back. She didn’t call him that day or the next. He didn’t see Dylan, either. He thought at least the boy would show up on his bike. Not that he missed him. He had work to do, work that he’d been putting off while he worked on that tree house. He walked outside. The boards and the partially finished tree house stood outside the shed in the sun. Then he went back in the house and stared at his computer screen.
On Tuesday, Brandon could no longer take the solitude he thought he’d wanted, so he drove to town to pick up his mail at the post office. There was a strange man behind the counter wearing a regulation white shirt, blue pants and a tie. When Brandon asked for his mail, the man leaned across the counter and explained earnestly.
“We have a new system. Your mail is being delivered, starting today. Courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service.”
Brandon almost pounded his forehead with his fist. He’d forgotten. If he’d just stayed at home, she would have driven by and left his mail, and he could have seen her then. Talked to her. Made things right. There was no way she could avoid him then. He glanced at his watch and turned around. If he raced back, he might still be in time to catch her on her route. But Willa Mae was blocking his way by standing there in the doorway.
“Did you find her?” she asked.
“Find her? No, she doesn’t work here anymore. Oh, on the Fourth. Yes, I did. And I gave her her bag,” he said, trying to edge around the former postmistress.
“And?” she said.
“And…she took it and found another place to stay. Everything worked out,” he said. Sure it did. If you could call inviting her to her old house and seducing her “working out.” “If you’ll excuse me…” he said politely.
“Are you sure?” Willa Mae asked. “I was worried. After all, I invited her and then I had to let her down. Are you sure she found someplace to stay?” She wrinkled her forehead and peered up at him through her bifocals.
Brandon sighed. “I’m sure,” he said, wishing she’d step out of the way. Hoping she wasn’t going to insist on knowing where. Where had he found her a place to stay? Because he could just imagine the look on the old girl’s face when she heard that she’d spent the night with him.
“She’s a lovely girl,” Willa Mae said.
“She certainly is,” he agreed. He’d agree to anything if she’d just step aside and let him out of there.
“I’d give anything to see her happily married,” she said, observing him through narrowed eyes.
“Yes, of course,” he said. Then he paused. “To anyone special?”
“He’d have to be very special,” she said.
Did she mean him, or did she mean he should step back so Laura could find someone special?
“If you folks wouldn’t mind,” the new postmaster called from behind the counter. “I believe you’re blocking the entrance, which is strictly forbidden by Regulation Number 6590.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said over his shoulder. For once he was grateful for the postal service’s bureaucracy. He had to get out of there before Willa Mae. “It was good to see you again, Ms. Willa Mae.”
He felt her eyes on him as he sprinted to his car, and as he pulled away from the curb, she called to him, “Don’t forget about that apricot cordial now, will you?”
Chapter Nine
Brandon broke the speed limit on the way back to his house. But he was too late. His mail was on his front porch in a sack on a wicker chair with a form letter asking him to erect a mailbox next to the driveway so the mail person wouldn’t have to drive onto his property. He cursed under his breath, removed the mail and dumped it on the table, then sorted through the letters with ruthless efficiency. If it hadn’t been for Willa Mae, he might have been there in time. But if it hadn’t been for Willa Mae he might never have had that incredible night with Laura.
LAURA HAD PARKED off the road to eat her sandwich at noon when she saw Brandon’s car whiz by in the direction of the ranch, at a speed of at least eighty miles per hour. Suddenly the bread and ham became a lump impossible to swallow or digest. She was just happy he hadn’t seen the truck and that she’d missed him. She only hoped he’d get that mailbox erected by tomorrow so she wouldn’t have to pull off and deliver the mail by hand.
But the next day there was still no mailbox anywhere to be seen. He hadn’t been the only one. None of the other ranchers had complied with instructions, either. She’d had to drive onto their properties, honk her horn, wait for them to come out, and if they didn’t, she’d had to get out of the truck and either hand them their mail in person or leave it in a conspicuous place. Which forced her to be behind her schedule by at least an hour.
By the time she’d reached his ranch, she was hot and irritable and frustrated. She pulled up in front of the ranch house and beeped her horn. When he didn’t appear, she had to get out of her truck. Just as she’d done a dozen times that day with special delivery packages and registered letters and envelopes.
She walked up the steps to the front door, his letters and magazines under her arm, with a strange feeling of déjà vu. Well, what did she expect? It had been her house her whole life. She’d never be able to walk up those steps without feeling like she belonged there and he didn’t. She knocked loudly, but there was no answer.
Somewhere in the background she heard water running. She followed the sound to the arbor and her herb garden. Brandon was standing there in wrinkled shorts, bare-chested and barefoot, watering her plants.
“Hello,” she said loudly.
He spun around. “Hello yourself.”
“Thank you,” she said, glancing pointedly at the herbs.
“As soon as I find a place to stay I’ll come over and harvest them and dry them for winter. I appreciate your taking care of them until then. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know that. I’d be within my rights if I turned the hose on you,” he said. “After what you did to me.”
She thought back to that fateful day when Dylan climbed up into the tree house and refused to come down. The day when she sprayed Brandon with the hose and then laughed hysterically. Her mind raced. Is that what he meant? Or did he mean something else?
“Go ahead,” she said. “I deserve it. But you’d be soaking your important letters, too.” She held up the mail in one hand to show him.
He ignored the letters in her hand; instead his gaze traveled over her body, his eyes lingering on her crisp white shirt, her waist and her legs. She stood there, trying to ignore this scrutiny and the threat of getting drenched in the middle of her route. But she felt the heat from his gaze. Just as if he’d caressed her here and there and everywhere. Like that night. Her knees wobbled. Her head felt as if it were floating above her body. She’d never fainted in her life, but she was afraid she might faint right there on the ground with his mail in her hand. Finally he turned the hose off and dropped it and she regained her equilibrium.
“What brings you by?” he asked.
“Didn’t you get my message?” she asked. “You’re supposed to erect a mailbox.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” he said curtly.
She wondered what was keeping him so busy. He looked tired as if he hadn’t slept for three days. She didn’t want him to come any closer, but he did. He walked up to her, reached out and tilted her chin with the pad of his thumb to look into her eyes. She wanted more than anything to lean forward, to close the gap between them. But she’d learned. She’d really learned this time. Not to make a fool of herself.
“Look, Brandon,” she said. “I can’t deliver everyone’s mail to their door. You have to get a mailbox.”
“I know. I’ll get one as soon as I can. I assume they have them at the hardware store.”
“Yes. The specifications were in the letter I left for you and everyone else. You’d be amazed at how few people follow directions.”
“Give me another day and I’ll have the mailbox up. Look, can you come in the house for a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”
“No. I’m behind schedule already,” she said briskly.
“When can I see you?” he asked.
She wanted to say “Never.” But she couldn’t do it. Not with him standing there looking at her with those cloud-gray eyes, his lips so close, he could kiss her if he leaned forward just another few inches. The memories came flooding back. She promised herself she’d never step into that house again. On the other hand, they had to talk sooner or later. It might as well be sooner.
“We can talk right here,” she said. “But I only have a few minutes.”
He pressed his lips together in a straight line. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but he had to accept it.
“You walked out on me,” he said, his eyes hard as flint.
“I’m sorry. I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Is that what you call it?” he asked incredulously.
She could feel her face turn scarlet.
“I don’t want a thank you. I want an explanation,” he said. “After a night like that, you ran away without a word. Without even a note.”
“All right, here it is. I felt bad about what happened. I never should have accepted your offer and I never should have done what I did….” She couldn’t bear to say make love with you. Because there was no love involved. At least not on his part.
“So you left,” he said brusquely.
“What was the point in staying? Don’t tell me you didn’t feel just as bad as I did. Don’t tell me you weren’t feeling regret and guilt and God knows what else that morning?”
He couldn’t deny it. He didn’t deny it. Instead he reached for her free hand and took it between his. “You’re right,” he said gruffly. “That’s how I felt. At first. But now…I miss you. I miss Dylan. Where is he?”
She couldn’t help it. If he wanted to melt her resistance, he couldn’t have done it better than by asking about her son.
“He’s at day camp this week,” she said with a half smile. “He agreed to go only because his friends were going. He’ll be back here next week. If you want him, that is.” She wrenched her hand from his and glanced at her watch.
“Of course I do. Wait a minute. Don’t leave,” he said. “Not until I’ve finished. In case I don’t get another chance to tell you. That night with you…I’ll never forget it. Never. It was incredible.”
She clutched his mail to her chest and felt the tears sting her eyelids. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell him anything. What the night had meant to her. The way he’d made her feel. It was just as well. Better to keep it bottled up inside. Forever. It was over. She felt relief, sadness, but no regret. She knew if she had the chance, she’d do it all over again. Just because she’d never made love to anyone like that. Never given herself, never gotten back more than she’d given.
“Here,” she said, holding out his letters. “I’ve got to go now.”
She marched back to her van in the driveway. Before she blurted out something else. Something she’d regret. She didn’t look back. Not until she got to her official vehicle in the driveway. Then she sneaked a look in the rearview mirror and saw him standing there staring at her truck.
True to his word, he had a mailbox erected the next day when she drove by in her mail van. When she saw it, her heart fell. Yes, she wanted him to have a mailbox. Yes, she’d left him a note, and told him in person. Of course she didn’t want to have to drive in there, see him again, be forced to engage in idle or awkward conversation. Then why the wave of disappointment she tried to stifle as she stuffed the shiny new box, with his name stencilled on the side in black letters. Could it be that she liked seeing him, hoped he’d take her hand, touch her face? Was it so wrong to enjoy talking to him and to imagine that he liked seeing her, too? If she did, it would be foolish in the extreme.
She didn’t see him all week. Every day she glanced down the driveway as she delivered the mail to his box, but she never saw him. She wondered how often he watered her herb garden, but she didn’t dare drive in to take a look. She didn’t linger, or hand-deliver any special-delivery letters. By Friday she realized that was the way it was going to be. Which was exactly the way she wanted it.
When she picked up Dylan from day camp he had a whistle hanging around his neck from a lanyard he’d made out of leather scraps. He showed her a paper plate mask he’d decorated to look like a tiger, talked about playing goalie in the soccer game and said he wanted to go back to camp the next week.
She shouldn’t have been surprised, since he seemed happy all week, but she was. Surprised and pleased. This was the same boy who’d scoffed at kids who went to day camp. Said they were babies and sissies. Now they were his friends.
“That’s great. Then I don’t have to worry about you, about what you’re doing when I’m at work.”
“Did you worry about me when I was at the ranch working on my tree house?” he asked.
“Well, no, not exactly. But…” What could she say? Yes, I worried, but not for the reasons you think. Brandon didn’t want you there. It isn’t our home anymore. I was afraid you’d get attached—to Brandon and to the ranch. I wanted to avoid Brandon because I, too, was afraid of getting attached. That I’d make another awful mistake.
Suddenly he slid down in his seat, his shoulders hunched up so he looked like the pet turtle he’d had when he’d been about five years old. Her spirits fell. What now?
“I’m not going back to the ranch,” Dylan said in a so
ft voice she could barely hear. “I’m never going back to my tree house.”
“You’re not?”
“No, cuz you know what?” he said. “My daddy’s not coming back to get me.”
She sat very still, without moving, slanting a glance at his face, looking for tears, her heart splintering in a thousand pieces. He’d finally said the words she’d waited to hear, wanted to hear, but now that he’d said them, she felt sick. She’d been hoping he’d grow up enough to accept his father’s leaving them, but it was too soon, he was too young to have to face such a disappointment. His words were matter-of-fact, but his mouth was twisted into a grimace and one lone tear trickled down his cheek.
“Oh, Dylan,” she said, and put her arms around him.
“He isn’t, is he?” he asked, his voice muffled against her shoulder.
“No, he isn’t.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
“But you and I—we have each other. We always will. We’re a family, you know, the two of us.” She hugged him tightly.
He nodded. But his body was stiff. “Other kids have a dad and a mom,” he said. She blinked rapidly. She couldn’t let him see her cry. She couldn’t. She didn’t know what to say. She was filled with unspeakable regret and sadness. She buried her face in his hair.
After a long moment he pulled away from her. His eyes were dry, and his mouth was set resolutely in a straight line, his lips clamped together. In those few moments she felt he’d grown up. Too fast. Maybe it was selfish, but she wanted her baby back. She didn’t know what else to say to him, so she didn’t say anything. She thought of Brandon, remembered him saying I miss you. I miss Dylan. If he meant it, he’d be disappointed. If he didn’t mean it, he’d be relieved. Surely the latter was true. He’d be glad he could put away the saw and hammers and boards and get back to his own work. Wouldn’t he?
DURING THE WEEKEND she stayed close to Dylan. As close as he’d let her. She suggested renting a movie to watch on her aunt’s VCR. He shook his head. She mentioned swimming at the high school pool. He said no. Instead he sat on the front steps shuffling his baseball cards in his hands. She realized he was still processing the painful truth about his father. She was not going to be able to make up for the loss of his father, no matter what she did.