A New Shade of Summer_Love in Lenox

by Nicole Deese

  As she searched my face, her eyes glimmered. “You can really see all these colors, Davis?”

  For the first time in thirty-two years, I answered yes to that question.

  She did a little victory dance in a way only Callie could pull off. “I’m so glad! I wanted them to work for you so badly. When I researched them, the company said there was a chance you may not see any difference at all, but . . . I just kept hoping you’d be able to see how beautiful this was out here. How beautiful the art of nature is. Nobody should miss it. It’s too amazing.”

  “It really is,” I said, looking at her fully. “Thank you for this, Callie.”

  I gathered her into my arms and rested my cheek on her head, fighting back the layering emotion. Not only for the gift of color but that Callie had been the one to give it to me. “I love you.”

  She gripped me tighter around the waist, and I wondered if she’d say it back this time, tell me what I’d seen in her eyes for the past few weeks. But slowly, she pulled away from our embrace and took hold of my hand. “Can we take a walk?”

  “Do I get to keep the glasses on?”

  “For as long as you want. They’re yours.”

  Fingers intertwined, we strolled along the path, Callie pointing out her favorite sections of the garden and stopping to admire every carved lantern and bamboo sculpture. We curved around another walkway where a double waterfall trickled into yet another koi pond. This one was larger than the last.

  She started for the iron bench, and I tugged her back. “Wait.”

  She followed my gaze.

  “What is that? Right there?”

  “You mean the clematis?” she asked.

  “Not the plant.” I stepped closer and then bent to touch the petal. “The color. What’s this color? I’ve never seen it before—not in any shade I can register.”

  She crouched low beside me. “Davis, allow me to introduce you to the color purple. She’s one of my all-time favorites, and you’ll be happy to know that the entire front walkway to your house is lined with a similar shade.”

  I tried to picture what she meant. “The bleeding hearts?”

  She nodded. “Some are brighter, more of a pink purple, like a fuchsia, but you have a few that are in the blue-violet tones, too, just like these. But every one of them is intricate and lovely.” She paused. “What color did you assume they were?”

  “Red.” And without Callie, I would never have known any different.

  With her hand still locked in mine, we sat on the bench. Contentedly, we watched the koi swim in the pond near our feet.

  “I’ve always loved koi fish,” she said. “Their beauty, their stamina, their resilience.” She peered into the water, her face taking on that quiet, introspective look she sometimes wore when her mind visited the past. “Clem checked out a library book called Koi Facts once when I was in still in elementary school. I hid it under my bed for ages so I could admire the pictures.” She tipped her chin skyward and chuckled. “I think I even remember a fact or two.”

  My gaze was drawn back to the beauty of her hair. Of her. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, like they can sunburn easily, because their scales are so sensitive to light.”

  “Kinda like someone else I know.” I tugged on one of her curls.

  “I’m sure that was part of my obsession with them—their coloring.” She tossed me a knowing glance. “Us gingers have to stick together, you know?” Callie turned back to the pond, the amusement in her expression draining once again. “I almost got a tattoo of one on my eighteenth birthday.”

  I angled in my seat to better see her. “Of a koi?”

  “Yep. I designed it myself, too. Spent weeks sketching it out, working on lines and shading. It would have gone right here.” She pointed to spot directly above her right hip.

  “What stopped you from getting it?” Callie didn’t seem the type to back out of anything she set her mind on.

  She cut her trancelike stare away from the water, her eyes full of an emotion I couldn’t place. “I get this feeling sometimes . . .” She paused. “Like a pre-regret.”

  “A pre-regret,” I repeated.

  “Yes. Some might say it’s a premonition, I suppose, but it’s my measuring stick—for whenever I’m about to make a big life decision.” Her voice wavered as her finger wandered over my palm, scrolling a design and then wiping it away with the flat of her hand.

  “And you knew you’d regret getting the tattoo?”

  “Not when I walked into the parlor, no. I actually went through the whole process, showed the artist my design, let him press the temporary ink to my skin, and then . . .” She twisted in her seat, and her milky shoulders gleamed in the dipping sunlight. “I remember studying my hip in the mirror, angling my body this way and that, but I couldn’t shake it, the feeling that it was too permanent. Too limiting. Too . . . committed.” Her lashes lowered. “That was eleven years ago, and I’ve never regretted walking out of that parlor. Or listening to my gut.”

  When she didn’t look up, a cold premonition of my own snaked into my conscience. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Without permission, Vivian’s remarks circled back through my head as Callie finally looked up, her eyes pleading for me to understand.

  She is a free spirit with no structure and no staying power . . .

  Listen to yourself, Davis, she’s not the type who settles down . . .

  Brandon’s already lost one mother . . . Don’t risk his heart . . .

  I slid the glasses off my face, closing them inside my fist as the world around me morphed back into the only reality I’d known before tonight.

  I forced the words out. “Is that how you’re feeling now—about us?”

  Averting her gaze, her finger continued to meander in my palm.

  Sketch and erase.

  Sketch and erase.

  Sketch and—

  “Callie.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and released a shaky breath. “Yes.”

  That single admission broke me. I stood from the bench and braced my hands at the back of my neck. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not with her. “How long have you felt this way?”

  “Listen, I’m not saying I want what we have to end, I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

  “Then be honest with me. How long have you felt like this?”

  She smashed her lips together and stared at her toes. “A little while.”

  A little while. And yet she’d led me to believe that I wasn’t alone in wanting more between us. So much so that I’d actually believed she was considering making a life here. With me. With Brandon.

  I thought back to her edgy nerves when I picked her up tonight. Her distracted state of mind on the drive over. Her surprise glasses she’d been waiting to give me. Until now. “You planned this entire night—why, so you could let me down easy, Callie? So you could walk away and leave me with a parting gift?”

  “No.” She stood, reached out for my forearm. “That’s not at all what I wanted to happen tonight. I was simply hoping we could . . . I don’t know, slow things down a bit. We’ve only known each other for a couple months, and you’re already telling me you love me. It’s all just happening so fast. Too fast.”

  I held my ground. “What’s too fast?”

  “Your expectations, for starters. All the pressure of knowing what you want and knowing I can’t possibly give it to you. Not in the way you deserve.”

  “The only expectation I have is for you to stop letting your father’s fears be your own. You’re not him, Callie. You don’t have to make his same life choices.”

  With a quick jerk of her neck, her hair spilled over her shoulder. “Fine. You want to talk about family? Then let’s start by talking about Brandon.”

  “What about Brandon?”

  She flicked her gaze to the young couple strolling past us pushing a stroller, and lowered her voice. “You know as well as I do that he deserves a real mother. Someone l
ike Stephanie. Someone who’s steady and consistent and parental. Someone who would sacrifice her very life to bring a child into this world.”

  As if she’d just dropped a burning flare between us, I reared back a step. In all our talks about the past, about Stephanie’s illness and death, I’d never once discussed my wife’s decision to have a baby. I didn’t want Callie to think of her as a martyr—not when she’d done everything in her power to keep her conception a secret from the people who loved her most.

  “How do you know about that?” But the answer was as obvious and acrid as rising smoke.

  With a chastened bow of her head, she raked her fingers into her hair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Is that where this sudden panic is coming from? Vivian came to you—said something to you? Callie, the woman has a master’s degree in manipulation. Whatever she told you is—”

  “This isn’t because of her.”

  “So I’m just supposed to believe that what’s happening right now is some sort of coincidence?” I kneaded my forehead between my forefinger and thumb, working to suppress my outrage over Vivian’s overstep.

  Callie shook her head indignantly. “These doubts were here well before Vivian said a word to me. They were already planted in the soil, waiting to be watered.”

  Anger rippled inside me. Whether the doubts were there or not, Vivian Lockwood had shown up with her watering can in hand, eager to help them grow.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  CALLIE

  I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that—hadn’t meant to bring Stephanie into this conversation at all. But how could I not? She was the woman Davis had pledged his life to, and she was my opposite in every way that mattered.

  “Don’t blame Vivian, Davis. She’s not wrong to want a suitable mother for her grandson. And I’m not too proud to admit that I fall short of that definition by a mile. I’ve known it my entire life.” Adrenaline pumped through my heart. “While Clem made daisy-chain wedding rings and doodled her favorite baby name in notebooks, I found my contentment in artistic solitude and nature”—I gestured to the garden surrounding us—“and you know what? Everything was working out just fine for me. I was fine—happy, even. I wasn’t looking for any of this. I never wanted a family of my own.” Until you.

  He pointed at my chest. “That’s because you’re afraid of what you want.”

  His words shoved me backward, silencing me momentarily.

  “What you call artistic solitude, I call fear. That’s the root of it anyway—the reason you never stick around long enough to deal with the consequences of your loving-and-leaving routine.” He pelted me with a look that made my insides shiver. “The only thing that limits you from having a family of your own is the lifestyle you’ve chosen.”

  Indignation thrummed in my ears. “My lifestyle is about freedom—being free to choose, free to create, free to love.”

  “Free to love?” His husky laugh caused goose bumps to scatter down my spine. “For someone so in tune with everybody else’s feelings, you’re standing in a blind spot when it comes to yourself.” He held up the glasses I’d given him earlier. “Maybe you’re the one who needs these, not me.”

  I pointed at him, my hand a trembling accusation. “And maybe you’re the one who needs to take a harder, more realistic look at the future—at what’s best for your son.”

  His eyes narrowed into calculated slits. “Despite what you may suspect, I didn’t suddenly forget I was a single father the minute you rolled into town. There was no oversight when it came to Brandon, or lack of forethought by me. Just the opposite, actually.”

  Davis’s focus was so intent, so insistent, that I couldn’t glance away.

  “It was your increased interest and concern for my son—the way you treated him with kindness and compassion and respect, the way you joked and laughed and understood parts of him that I can’t—that obliterated any doubt in my mind that you are exactly the kind of woman I want in my son’s life. And in mine.” He edged closer. “Falling in love with you was not happenstance.”

  Fighting against the acidic burn at the base of my throat, I began to pace the length of the bench, my sandaled feet crushing apple blossom petals and waxy maple leaves. “I told you before I don’t do long term.”

  “And I told you that was an excuse. Just because you’ve never done something doesn’t mean you can’t. The question you should be asking yourself has nothing to do with your capability and everything to do with what you really want. Because the freedom you’re pursuing, Callie—you’re never going to find it by running away. You have to be willing to explore what’s in here.” He thumped his chest. “That’s where true freedom is found.”

  His words were such a blatant contradiction to the warning that had played and replayed in my mind for so many years. Closing my eyes, I pushed against the image of my father crouched before me, his smooth, freckled hands wrapped tightly around my elbows, his raspy voice a violent tug on my heart as he gave his final benediction: “And remember this—always remember this: For us, there is nothing more important than our freedom. Not even love.”

  I could scarcely breathe when I opened my eyes again. Why couldn’t Davis see I was a liability? “I don’t want to hurt you and Brandon.”

  The steadfastness of his expression chipped at the ache in my chest. “But you will. Just like we’ll hurt you. It’s impossible to love someone and never feel pain. They’re a packaged deal.” He stepped closer. “But when you’re committed to loving someone—you figure out how to work through the hard times. The painful times. Your sister’s marriage is a prime example.”

  “Marriage?” My throat went dry as I recalled Vivian’s statement about a future proposal. “Davis, I’m so far from ready to even think about that type of commitment!”

  “Do you see me down on bended knee? No. We’re just talking. This is what people do in relationships. They talk about the future.” He raked a hand through his hair, his tone both dejected and defensive. “But I guess you wouldn’t know that, would you? Because you’re out the door before the word future can even be uttered. Driving to a new city. Looking for a new project to fix.”

  I didn’t miss the way he emphasized the word project. “No—that’s not what this has been, not what you’ve been to me.”

  But I could tell by his silence, by the disbelief clouding his gaze and the rigid set of his shoulders, that nothing I could say now could bandage up the wound I’d inflicted.

  “Davis, I promise you, you’ve meant more to me than . . .” Colors swirled in my vision as air pressed from my lungs. I could no sooner imagine leaving this man and his son behind than I could imagine never picking up a paintbrush again. But I also couldn’t give him what he wanted. I’d already made a vow—to myself.

  I inched closer as an unfamiliar compromise leaped from my throat. “Maybe we can just agree to stop talking about the future for now, then. Let’s just go back a few steps to when we were friends and see how things go from there.”

  He stared out at the water, saying nothing for so long my throat began to burn with unshed tears. “I’ve played the wait-and-see game before, and I’m not willing to play it again. Not with you. Not when the consolation prize is a postcard with my name on it.”

  I couldn’t swallow the devastation I felt at his words.

  Achingly slow, he trailed his gaze back to mine. “I love you, Callie. More than I ever believed I could love any woman on this earth again. But I won’t be the only one who chooses this relationship. Not when you refuse to choose anything at all.”

  “So you’re saying you’d rather me leave Lenox than . . . than take a step back?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  All summer long I’d watched Davis make compromise after compromise, and now, when I needed one—when I was practically begging for one—he wouldn’t budge. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shifted to face the koi pond once again, but not before I spotted the sheen of
moisture in his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  DAVIS

  The sight of the oversized recreational vehicle parked in my driveway unleashed everything I’d managed to suppress during the drive back to Callie’s. With damp lips she’d kissed my cheek one last time, her tortured gaze lingering on my face as she’d said goodbye.

  I slammed the Jeep door and strode for the motor home. A distinct feminine murmur from the other side of the fiberglass wall spiked my pulse. Enough was enough. Without a thought to my neighbors, I banged my fist on their door and yanked it open after my second hard rap.

  That was more warning than they’d given me.

  Vivian, Charles, and Brandon were seated at a heavily polished wood table. As soon as I entered, their chairs swiveled in my direction.

  “Go wait in the house for me, Brandon.” The only civil sentence my adrenaline would allow.

  “Dad? Are you okay?” He glanced at his grandparents nervously.

  I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose. “I just . . . I need to talk to your grandparents. Alone.”

  “Okay.” Uneasily, he stood, staring at my face for a moment before he clattered down the metal porch steps.

  “You had no right to speak to her,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Casually, Vivian set her hand over a set of shiny brochures in the center of the table. “I had every right.”

  “You made her feel like she couldn’t measure up—like Stephanie was some sort of saint.”

  Her eyes hardened. “I will not apologize for trying to protect Brandon from more heartache!”

  “That is not your job, Vivian! You are his grandmother, not his parent!”

  Charles stood. “Lower your voice, Son.”

  I gripped the railing and forced myself to exhale. “I want you both to leave.”

  “We will leave tomorrow, as we planned to,” she said curtly.

  Tomorrow was not soon enough.