As she approaches me, she continues, “And I figured you had to be tired of that grumpy man you drove cross-country with. Hell, Maguire is great, but he’s so freakin’ moody, like a woman on her period.”
A smirk covers my face and she matches my same grin. She’s hit the nail on the head. “Yeah, you’re right about him.” I stand as she crosses the space between us. I’m not used to the affection this group of people show. It’s overbearing yet comforting at the same time. The second Elise is within arm’s reach, she pulls me close, and into a hug.
“Sweetie, just know you don’t have to do this alone. You’ve got people here, ready to help.”
Did she know I’ve never had a maternal figure in my life? Not even my own mother? Had Maguire told her my own parents couldn’t travel the six hours to their son-in-law’s funeral?
I’ve had close friends that became my family in the military. There were Sarah and Mark—who still are this to me. But Elise is different, and I crave whatever kind of friendship we’ll build in the future.
I’m so tired of tears streaming down my face. I have enough of them at night when I cry myself to sleep at so many dreams shattered. I weep for our baby who will never know his or her father. I cry for my loneliness, wanting and needing his physical connection. I grieve for the dreams we had made and for the fact I’m living them without him. I sob for Maguire who misses his son so deeply, I read it on his face each morning he tries to put a brave front on for me.
And honestly, I’m relieved to have someone with me. Receiving the rest of Scott’s belongings has me teeter-tottering on both anxiety and panic. I hadn’t slept last night, and my appearance resembles a hobo. I never wanted to do this alone. When Maguire offered, he’d seen too much of my vulnerability and it was only leading to what we both knew we couldn’t be to one another.
“Wow, how did you know I didn’t want to do this by myself?” I ask, with Elise in front of me, her hands on my shoulders.
“Because, sweetie, no one should have to do this by themselves. I mean, if you need to be alone to go through his things, I get it, but as they deliver it, seeing the last of his stuff, you should have someone with you.” She turns back to her car for a moment. Coming back, she’s holding a tray of drinks and a white bag. “And because everything is better with food, I brought you the world-famous Auntie Lou’s apple fritters.”
We’d passed Auntie Lou’s bakery many times on the way to work. When I mentioned to the Sarge we should stop, his response was, “I ate enough junk on the road.” I knew I’d not be trying it with Maguire.
“And because I’ve learned you’re a tea drinker, I brought you chamomile tea.” She hands it over to me and we both sit down chatting as if we’ve known each other for years.
An hour later, we’re deep into conversation. “Yeah, Teagan, she’s a character. Let me guess, she asked you if you were a lesbian?” Elise questions.
We’re laughing so hard, as I recreate the scene of my first encounter with the eclectic Teagan Erons. “Yep, she sure did.”
“She’s a funny one, that’s for sure.” She’s listing all the women, seven in total now including me, working for Ned and Maguire. “Besides yourself, Diane, and Teagan, there’s Irene, the boys’ secretary. Jolene works as the purchasing liaison, Mira is the new artist, and Debra is the computer guru. We gals have to stick together. I take everyone to lunch once a month. Plus, we do dinner or game nights, too.”
My eyes widen at her declaration. I’m amazed by her love for people and the true giver she is. We’re into a conversation about the antics of all the women in the group when a large truck comes barreling up the drive. My heart sinks when her hand squeezes mine. “I know your parents weren’t the hands-on type. I know Christine better than most, she’s a hard woman to love, believe me. But you don’t have to do this alone anymore, sweetie.”
My inner voice repeats the words over and over again, silently, I can’t believe this. I’ve always wanted a mother figure. Who knows if Elise Landon will be this for me, only time will tell but right away, in her words and reassurance, I know this woman will be someone significant in my life.
I only want the movers to place the boxes and the few items of furniture at the bottom of the stairs near my to-be apartment. After Elise left, knowing I had to do this on my own, I opened a few boxes. It’s all I could do.
Pulling at the box marked pictures, I open it slowly and our wedding album is the first item I see. I take it gently, soreness creeping up into my throat and lungs. My hands grip the sides of the album with such force, my way of making sure this keepsake I’m holding will not be damaged. I take it with me as I sit on the steps leading to my apartment. Opening the first page is our official picture as husband and wife. We’d kept the plans to ourselves. Scott was certain Christine would try to stop the wedding. He hadn’t slept for days, being conflicted over sharing our upcoming nuptials with his dad—since he had not wanted his mother there. In the end, we had Sarah and Mark stand up for us.
My dress was simple. It was white lace, stopping above the knee. Scott had on a simple pair of jeans and a button-down baby blue shirt. Sarah snapped the picture with her cell phone, but the photo encompassed everything of the two of us. I’m looking up into Scott’s eyes and his face is tilted down to mine. We’re smiling—we were so happy. Actually happy doesn’t cut it. No, we had our whole lives ahead of us.
I stand, placing the album down. I’m not aware of where I’m at in the garage. Only that I’m hyperventilating. My breathing is so labored, I’m barely able to catch my breath until strong arms reach around my waist.
The voice itself is calming. The one word which is pulling me out of my grief is, “Darlin’,” and I know who it is. Safe doesn’t begin to describe how I feel with his arms enveloping me. “I got you, darlin’, just breathe.”
With each command of his words, I take another calming breath as he turns me around to look at him. He pulls me tight to his body as my breathing starts to regulate. And it’s in his arms I can start living again.
Chapter 20
Two weeks living with this man—I know his routines. He wakes at five a.m., in the name of everything holy and good in this world. What’s wrong with him? He runs past the lake and back, about three miles he claims. He makes himself the same thing every morning for breakfast—two fried eggs, three turkey sausage patties, and one piece of wheat toast with way too much butter for someone’s heart. He’s in his room for a good hour then returns to the living room and watches some sort of show on ESPN, filling the house with his woodsy pine-like aftershave. His attire changes from day to day only in the color of the shirt he wears but the man displays his fine ass in a pair of jeans in a way many can’t manage.
I, on the other hand, wake when I wake and scramble around in the morning to shower and dress, leaving my room and bathroom in disarray. I grab a hot tea and yogurt, normally eating in Maguire’s truck on the way to work.
At night, he retires to his workshop. The man is obsessed with building, but as I’ve come to find out, it’s his passion and I enjoy watching him.
I’m in the main house applying to a variety of online colleges, but I’m lonely. I decide to go in search of him, not like I have far to look.
After making a cup of coffee for him, I cross the gravel driveway, surveying the progress of his new workshop. It’s not big, maybe four hundred square feet. It’s coming along, with the frame newly constructed. Entering his workspace in the garage, he’s deep in thought, staring at one piece of wood, like him and this inanimate object are about to chat with one another.
“What’s so interesting?” I ask, pulling him from his deep thoughts.
“Oh, I’m just looking at my design with this type of wood.” He twists around, grabbing the coffee out of my hands. “I tell you what, darlin’,” he begins, taking a swig of his drink. “For someone who despises coffee as you say, you sure make a great cup.”
“Well, what can I say,” I
curtsy. “It’s my superpower.” I look at the stairwell to the right of his shop that leads to my soon-to-be home. “How’s the progress going?”
“Oh, are you in a hurry to move out?” He leans against a worktable when I sit down on a bench.
“I’m sure you’re ready to have your space back. I mean, I’m untidy and you cook for me every night.”
He stands like he may walk toward me but then leans back on the table. “Let’s get one thing clear, I love having you in my space. I never thought I was lonely, but now I realize I have been, for so long. Having you around, knowing you’re in the house, gives me hope, and a purpose. It’s hard to explain, I’m not one to talk about my feelings and emotions, but your spirit livens everything up.”
We’re getting bolder with one another. We’re certainly more comfortable with each other. And at times, we teeter on dangerous. My stomach flutters because his words offer me the same hope, and it’s the promise in them—I won’t be abandoned. My parents, even in their presence, never wanted me. Being a widow, though it certainly wasn’t Scott’s fault, further cements the wounds from childhood. In Maguire, I find my protector and healer.
“Well, I’m not moving across the country, just across the driveway. Now, show me the progress.” The contractors have hit some snags, but they are close to finishing. Maguire thinks I’ll be moved in by the end of next week. And though I’ll miss him, I believe we require this break.
The second we’re on the landing of the steps, he opens the door and all the air escapes my lungs. I’m blown away by my home Maguire is single-handedly paying for. We walk straight into a hallway. If I were to turn left, we’d be walking toward the bedrooms. If we continued straight, we’re in the galley kitchen and if we were to take a right, we’re heading to the living room. Because the apartment is on the entire right end of the garage and is the whole length of it, my new home has tons of windows. The natural light is fantastic.
Maguire begins the tour. “The contractor took down a half wall in the galley kitchen and put an island to separate the two spaces. He used the same gray grained cabinets you picked out for the baby’s bed. The small dormitory fridge is removed and in its place is a large double door stainless steel refrigerator.” He points to the rest of the kitchen, as though he’s Vanna White turning the letters on Wheel of Fortune. He’s so adorable. “The backsplash is a slate blue subway tile. The walls have been repainted a calming light blue, one of your favorite colors I’ve heard, after purple. And the countertops are white quartz.”
Heading down the hallway, he pulls back a closet door, or at least it’s what it had been. Behind it is now a stackable washer and dryer unit. “The contractor didn’t think he could configure it properly, telling me he’d have to locate it downstairs in the garage,” he explains. I like this set up much better.
He continues the tour as if he’s an agent on House Hunters, one of my favorite shows on television. “The first room is the master. It’s not huge, but they were able to give you a small bathroom of your own. And because you love purple, I chose it for you.” But it’s more than just purple. It’s the very shade of purple on the ends of my hair. The bed has been assembled. But what I fixate on is the design of the headboard.
“As you know, I’ve been working on a new line of headboards. And, you get one.” It has stars etched into it like Maguire is designing for the crib. “I wanted to pay tribute to Scott with the crib. But as I’m designing it, I’m also making headboards with stars carved in them, too.” Maguire wants some sort of symbol for Scott since he died protecting the stars and stripes of the American flag.
I walk back to the baby’s room, not much bigger than a supply closet. “I wanted the baby to have his or her own space. It’s not huge, but it’s big enough for a crib, a rocking chair, and a dresser.” I had picked blue for the room, knowing I’d decorate it Americana to continue the theme of the red, white, and blue.
Overwhelmed with my lip quivering, tears threaten to spill over. “Do you like it, darlin’?”
I don’t think. I only react. I throw myself in Maguire’s arms. “I don’t like it, I love it.” And just like we had been a couple weeks ago, in his truck before Ned drove up on us, our lips are alarmingly too close to one another.
“Darlin’?”
“Yeah?” I ask, my head resting in the crook of his neck.
“You okay?” His voice dips down an octave or two. Am I okay? It’s not a specific question. I mean, am I okay in his arms? I’m too okay in his arms, probably a little bit too comfortable. Am I okay while I’m taking in the deep aroma of his unique smell? As it’s been since the day I hugged him at the funeral home, it’s an earthy woodsy pine sort of fragrance. But since returning to work, it’s the same but now combined with sawdust. Am I okay with his hard muscles in contrast to my soft curves? Am I okay that I feel his erection growing between us or that the wetness between my legs almost longs for him? I’m okay with all of this and because I’m too okay with him, I back up. Giving me space. Giving us space.
“Yeah, Maguire, I’m okay. I’m just tired all of a sudden. I better head back to the house, I think my bed is calling me.”
I step away from his grasp. He doesn’t stop me. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for this or disappointed.
Saturday morning rolls around. The California sun only has a couple more weeks of weather warm enough to justify a trip to the lake. My body, for a matter of fact, only has a couple more weeks of bikini wearing, too. Hopping out of bed early, well, early for me, I slip on my swimsuit and a sundress. Grabbing my large brimmed hat and sunglasses, I have my bag and towel slung over my shoulder. In the kitchen, Maguire is finishing up his boring breakfast. I’ve gotten an early start; he’s gotten a late one. His eyes require a double take when he whips his head around a second time, zeroing in on my short dress.
“I’m heading to the lake for the day.” I’m rummaging through his refrigerator, looking for easy snacks to bring. Maguire only has a few on-the-go kinds of foods, as he insists on cooking a meal each night. Moving to the pantry, I grab myself a can of chicken, attempting to open it.
“What in the world are you doing?” He’s taking the can opener and chicken out of my hands.
“Making a chicken salad sandwich,” I answer in my duh kind of way.
“Okay, you in the kitchen makes me a bit nervous.” He puts everything up. “Listen, head to the lake. I’ll be out after I get some chores done around the house. Maybe an hour. I’ll bring lunch, got it?”
“I’m not helpless, you know.”
He scoffs at me. The man dares to physically mock me. “In the kitchen, you kind of are.” Giving him the bird, I’m almost out of the house, though I have a companion, Ranger, following behind me. I smile because his dog loves me more than him. Score one for me.
Popping my head back in, I’m in the mood to goad him a little. “I’m taking Ranger with me. I’m convinced he likes me better.” Maguire has some half-assed comeback, and I ignore him, closing the door behind me.
I pull up to my dock and the second I do, the hairs on the back of my neck raise. Josh Elton is with Holland. He’s known as a player around town and is standing over her in her very revealing swimsuit. I should know, it’s the same one I remembered from the hotel several weeks ago. Josh is one hell of a craftsman. I snatched him up a year ago. He’s probably one of my best, well after Teagan. But when it comes to Holland, he’s about to see a different side to his boss.
“Hey, Mr. P!” Josh shouts, taking a dive into the water. Yeah, this riff-raff better fucking dive into the water.
I’m getting closer, leaving the cooler and chairs in the truck. My aviators are masking my scowl. Holland is sitting on a towel on the dock with Ranger, happy as a clam.
“You didn’t tell me Josh lives right down the road,” she mentions, surprised.
“Yeah, he lives with his mom, in her basement,” I bite back a little harshly.
She cocks her head to the
side, ignoring my snarky remark. “It’s nice having someone close to my age, someone I can hang out with.”
“Josh isn’t a kind of hang out sort of boy, if you get what I mean.”
She nods her head, watching Josh swim back to the ladder leading to the dock. “Well, that doesn’t really matter, right, since I’m not that kind of girl. So no need to worry, Sarge.”
Holland has this ability to call me Sarge when I’m a bit overbearing. Though I won’t apologize since I’ll run off every twit I think wants to get into Holland’s pants. Waiting for the punk to pull himself out of the water, I call over to him, “Hey, Josh, want to help me with the stuff from my truck.” Walking on the narrow hundred-foot dock, we get to the bed of the truck when my warning is clear. “Hey, I want to make sure we’re on the same page. Holland won’t be one of your conquests. You get me?” I ask.
His eyes widen as he backs up. “Um, Mr. P, I love women as much as the next guy. But Scott was my friend. Even I have standards and morals when it comes to getting some.” He whips his wet hair to the side as water lands on my cheek.
“Good to know we’re on the same page.” I pull for the ice chest as he grabs the chairs.
Setting them up for us, he turns to Holland. “Hey, I better run. Have a couple errands before I head out for the night.” He waves at her, but my daughter-in-law’s glare is solely on me.
“Hungry? Thirsty?” I pull out a beer, popping off the top when I can’t ignore the contempt on her pouty lips. Pushing up her glasses, she rolls her eyes, her arms crossed over her tempting cleavage. “What?” I ask innocently.
“You said something to him, didn’t you? And let me guess, he told you he was Scott’s friend.” She pulls her own aviators back down on her face.
“Yeah. Scott hung out with him from time to time when he was here.” I remember this. I mean, I like the kid, but my focus will always be on the promise Scott asked of me.
Like Father Like Son Page 12