He sucks in a breath. “Well, it is what it is.” He jerks his thumb toward the field. “So, you ready for this?”
“Ready for what?” I ask, as we start to walk slowly toward the field.
“Judgment day,” he whispers quietly.
Ethan turns as we get close to him, when he hears my voice. He smiles at me, but his smile fades when he sees Little Robbie.
“Ethan,” Robbie says with a nod. He sticks out his hand to shake.
I see Ethan visibly relax as he reaches out to shake with Robbie. Little Robbie turns it into a silly handshake with a few slaps, a handshake that Ethan seems to know. Ethan lets out a loud laugh after it’s over, and all the people in the stands turn to stare at him, some with their mouths open.
The coach blows a whistle and all the boys run toward the dugout. Ethan turns to me. “You want to go sit?” He points to the bleachers.
“I want to go wherever you want to go,” I reply.
His eyes narrow.
“What?”
“Did somebody already get to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did somebody already tell you?” he asks, his voice crisp and cool.
“Tell me what?”
“Stop jacking around, Abigail.”
Now I’m annoyed. “I’m not jacking around.” Then I realize that he probably needs to hear the truth. “There were two women talking in the ladies’ room,” I say quietly.
“What did they say?”
I think about it, until his stare breaks me. “They said the town would never forgive you.”
“Forgive me for what?” He stares at me. “Say it, Abigail.”
“The word murder came up,” I whisper next to his ear.
He straightens his spine. “Actually, it was involuntary manslaughter.”
I suck in an audible breath, and immediately hate that I did.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says. Then he goes to the stands, climbs up a couple of rows, and holds out a hand for me.
Even though I’m still reeling, I take the hand he holds out because I feel like he needs me to. I let him pull me up, and I settle onto the bench next to him.
He looks around, so I do too. I see hate-filled gazes pointed in his direction. “I want to hear more about your past, as soon as you’re ready to tell me.”
“Why? What’s the point?” He throws up his hands. “They already got to you.”
I lay my hand on his thigh and give it a squeeze, then leave my hand there. “You got to me first,” I say quietly.
I see him visibly deflate. “I’ll tell you everything.”
I shake my head. “Not now. Today is about Mitchell.”
He nods, suddenly looking world-weary and tired. “Okay.”
The Jacobsons show up and I see them look into the stands, so I wave. They see us and smile, and they climb up next to us as their son, Alex, runs to the dugout.
“You guys beat us here,” Katie says, as she balances a baby on her knee. Jake has a different one strapped to his chest, and a slightly older one is clutching Mr. Jacobson’s hand. Trixie and her massive dog climb up too and they sit down, side by side. Sally slurps his tongue up the side of her face, which makes her laugh.
“Well, you had more to pack,” I say lightly. “That’s why we beat you here.”
They all settle down at various points around us, and then I realize what they’ve done. They’ve formed a protective bubble around Ethan. He has no idea that’s what they’ve done. There’s one empty spot to the back left corner of the bubble, and I smile to myself as Shy stomps up the steps and takes that spot. He grabs my shoulders, gives me a squeeze, and points over my shoulder toward the field.
“That one with the curls, that’s my granddaughter,” he says.
“She’s got your smile,” I tell him.
“She’s a beautiful young lady, all right.” He beams with pride.
At the last minute, Ethan’s mother appears, looks into the stands, spots us, and climbs up. I move over to make room for her next to Ethan, but she sits on my other side and bumps me so that I scoot closer to him.
She looks around at all the people staring. She heaves out a sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she suddenly says very loudly. She motions toward the field. “There’s a whole lot more to see out there.”
Embarrassed gazes jerk toward the field, obviously feeling guilty for being called out for their rude staring.
She leans toward me and says, “You’d think they’d never seen an ex-convict before with the way they’re acting.”
“Ma!” Ethan hisses.
“What?” She leans toward him. “Wear it with pride, or they’ll feed it to you with shame, son. You did your time, and now you’re out.” She motions to the field. “Don’t let any stupid gossip ruin this for Mitchell.”
And that comment—that is what pulls Ethan out of his funk.
He’s totally engrossed in the game. He occasionally calls out words like “way to watch” and “good look.” But I have no idea what any of it means.
He leans toward me. “Haven’t you ever been to a baseball game?”
“Never,” I admit.
“Why did you come?” he asks, and I can hear the uncertainty in his voice, which nearly kills me.
I give him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Because you invited me, dummy.”
Mr. Jacobson chuckles from his seat in front of us, but he doesn’t turn around.
“I’m still in like, Abigail,” Ethan says quietly.
“Me too,” I reply, and I smile at him.
It’s not until the game is over that Ethan truly tenses up. We are standing next to the fence waiting for Mitchell to come out of the after-game meeting, when a man and woman walk up. The man is red-faced and primed for a fight.
“Now, Derrick,” Ethan’s mom says, as she steps between him and the man. “This is not the time.” But Ethan reaches out his hand, holding it suspended, waiting for the man to take it. Instead, the man slaps his hand down. Ethan lets out a heavy sigh and squares his shoulders.
“Derrick,” Ethan says with a nod. Then he addresses the woman that’s holding on to the man’s arm. “Imogene. Hope you’re doing well.”
“You have some nerve coming here,” the man they called Derrick says, seething with anger.
“My son wanted me to come and watch him play ball,” Ethan explains, his voice perfectly neutral. He holds his hands out to the sides. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t want you to kill our daughter, but you did.”
Ethan winces when I suck in an involuntary breath. I try to hide it, but too late. It’s out there.
Derrick advances toward Ethan and pokes his finger in Ethan’s face. Ethan stares at the finger, not moving. He doesn’t retreat, but he doesn’t try to protect himself either. He just stares.
“Derrick!” I hear Ethan’s mother say. “I suggest that you back off.”
But Ethan holds his hand out like he wants her to be the one that backs off. He addresses Derrick and Imogene at once. “As much as I’d like to say your anger is unfounded, we both know it’s not. Your daughter is dead and it’s my fault.” He lays his hand upon his chest. “But what you’re forgetting is that Melanie was my wife, and she was Mitchell’s mother. You’re not the only ones who have grieved her loss.”
Imogene opens her mouth like she wants to speak, but he’s not finished. “You may hate me, and I may deserve it, but my son, he’s out there, and he wants me to be here, and I’ll be anywhere he wants me to be. I don’t care how many people hate me in this town.”
“Plenty!” someone calls from the stands.
Ethan hangs his head and takes a deep breath. Then he straightens his spine. “Hate me all you want. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay.”
He turns and rests his elbows on the top of the fence again, and I can tell this conversation is over.
Derrick reaches to spin Ethan back around to face him, but suddenly Mr.
Jacobson squeezes between them, forcing Derrick to step back. “I suggest you leave the man alone,” he says, his voice deadly serious.
“This doesn’t concern you, Jacobson,” the other man says, stumbling slightly as Mr. Jacobson advances and moves him back even farther.
“This young man may as well be part of my family now. He lives at my place, and he’s become pretty special to all of us. So I suggest you find somebody else to pick on, unless you want to pick on somebody who will pick back.” He thrusts out his considerable chest as he leans toward the man and says very clearly, “That’s me, in case you were wondering.”
“Well, I never!” Imogene sputters.
“Get over it, Imogene,” Mr. Jacobson says. “Let it go, forgive him, push it to the back of your mind… I don’t really care what you do. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by holding on to the hatred.”
Mr. Jacobson turns away and rests his forearms on the fence right next to Ethan, who looks over at him and just stares. “Thank you,” I hear him say quietly. He bumps Mr. Jacobson very gently with his shoulder.
“Shut up,” Mr. Jacobson replies, which makes Ethan laugh.
Mitchell runs up, carrying a bag of chips, a popsicle, and a juice pouch. “Can we go to the lake now?” he asks.
Ethan settles his hand on top of Mitchell’s head and gives it a scrub. “Let’s go.”
He leans toward Ethan and asks, “Is Abigail going with us?”
Ethan grins at me. “She is. Is that okay with you?”
He shrugs. “Fine with me. She’s nice. Even if she is a girl.”
I laugh to myself as we get Mitchell’s booster seat settled in the car, put his overnight bag in the back of the truck, and then I get in the middle seat. I watch out the front window as Ethan and Mitchell say goodbye to Ethan’s mom. This is harder and easier for her, in equal measures, I can tell. Ethan and Mitchell finally get in the truck, so I scoot over as far as I can go to make room for Mitchell’s booster seat. I’m over so far toward Ethan that I have to put one leg on each side of the gear shift, and Ethan grins at me as he reaches to shift into reverse.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he says.
“You’re very welcome,” I reply.
Once or twice, as he drives us back to the lake, his arm drops a little low as he shifts gear, and his forearm rubs my inner thigh. I don’t say a word, though. Instead, I try to put the pieces of the puzzle together in my head.
But I’m still missing some vital parts. I assume he’ll explain it all to me when he’s ready.
18
Ethan
When we get back to the lake, I drive straight to my campsite rather than to Abigail’s cabin, mainly because I’m hoping she might want to hang out with us for a little while.
“Oh, my gosh!” she suddenly says, as she gets out of the car. She looks around frantically. “I just realized that Wilbur wasn’t with us.” She walks to the tent and shakes the side of it. He doesn’t come strolling out like he normally would, because he’s not there.
“Where’s Wilbur, Dad?” Mitchell asks. And I get all mushy inside because my son is here and he’s calling me Dad.
I tousle Mitchell’s hair affectionately. “He’s with his girlfriend.”
Mitchell’s mouth falls open. “Wilbur has a girlfriend?”
“He does.” I get Mitchell’s bag from the back of the truck and set it in the tent.
“Why did he have to go and get a girlfriend!” he exclaims, and he makes it sound the same as if he’d said “get his appendix taken out.”
“She might not be his girlfriend yet, but he’s seriously working on it,” I say. I wink at Abigail and her cheeks turn rosy. She looks toward the water, like she’s looking for Wilbur. “When I took him swimming this morning, he paddled right out to where the other duck was. They had a little conversation, and he followed her right around the corner.” I shrug. “I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight.” I grin at Abigail again, and she rolls her eyes at me.
“So he’s gone?” Mitchell asks, his voice small.
“For now.” But I’m really not sure if he’s going to come back or not. I hope he does, and yet I hope he doesn’t.
“We could go look for him,” Mitchell says hopefully as he kicks at a rock with his shoe.
“You want to walk down to the lake and see if we can find him?” I glance at my watch. “It’s almost bath time.”
Mitchell glances around the campsite. “Where do you take a bath?”
I shrug again. “In the lake most nights. Or you can go take a shower at the bath house, but the water there isn’t always warm.”
“They should really find a handyman to work on that,” Abigail says with a grin.
“I know, right?” I could have already fixed it, but the Jacobsons haven’t considered it to be a priority, since the season is officially over. It just runs out of hot water quickly. All it needs is possibly replacing an element, or at worst a bigger water heater. Right now, this time of year, it really isn’t a problem.
“So can we go take a bath in the lake?” Mitchell dances in place, which makes Abigail laugh.
“I guess we could. We need to go see if Wilbur is there, anyway.” I raise my brows at Abigail. “Do you have a swimsuit, Ms. Marshall?” I waggle said brows. “Care to join us?”
“I actually do not have a swimsuit here. But I’ll walk down with you.” She looks me in the eye. “I’m kind of worried about Wilbur, if you want to know the truth. I know you love that little duck.”
I do love that little duck, but he needs to have a happy life of his own, one where he can be a duck. “I feel confident that the new lady duck in his life is going to fall madly in love with him right away, and they’re going to be a little ducky family.” I set my hand on top of Mitchell’s head, and he immediately tips it back to stare up at me. He grins.
“So can we go?” he asks.
“We’ll need to change clothes.”
He dashes toward the tent and begins to pull things—everything—from his bag. He tosses it piece by piece behind him. When he finds his swimsuit, he holds it up. “Got it!”
“You change first,” I tell him. “Then I’ll go.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I doubt you’ve got anything I don’t got.” He shrugs. “But whatever.”
My jaw drops. I look over and find Abigail standing with her hand over her mouth, holding back her laughter.
“You think this is funny, huh?” I advance toward her, but she doesn’t move. She stands her ground, even going so far as to lift her hands to lay them on my chest when I grab her and pull her against me.
“You got anything he don’t got?” she asks me.
“I got all sorts of stuff, and if you don’t stop talking about it, you’ll find out exactly what I got.”
She laughs. “Don’t make promises that you don’t intend to keep,” she taunts.
I stare into her eyes. “Oh, I don’t. Not ever.”
She has to be the one who breaks the stare. She looks up when Mitchell comes out in his swimsuit. His scrawny chest is bare. He has little rabbit muscles and I can see his ribs. He looks just like I did at his age, so active that it’s impossible to put any bulk on him.
“Nice trunks,” Abigail says. She gives him a thumbs-up.
“You had better hurry, Dad,” Mitchell warns. He looks up toward the sun. “It’ll be dark soon.”
I go and change, walking back out the same way Mitchell did, with no shirt on. Abigail licks her lips. Her eyes dance across my chest, and I feel them move over me like a physical caress.
“Let’s go, Dad,” Mitchell says. I grab the cake of soap and the shampoo, and I pull two towels off the clothesline.
When we get down to the lake, which is not much more than a short walk, Abigail shields her eyes with her hand to keep the setting sun out of them and looks around the still surface of the water. “I don’t see Wilbur,” she says. She looks at me like she’s worried. “If he comes
back, you should get one of those little tracker things so you can keep up with where he is.”
I think it might be better if I don’t know where he is, or I’ll worry about him non-stop. I’ll think he’s clamped tightly in the jaws of a red fox, if I can’t find him. At least if he goes and does his own thing, I can let myself believe he’s fine.
And besides, after my recent incarceration, I’m loath to impose any sort of restriction of freedom on any other living creature. Even a duck that thinks he’s human.
Suddenly, Abigail points up toward the skyline where a small flock of ducks are coming in to land on the lake. “Can Wilbur fly?” She looks at me, expectation on her face.
“He couldn’t this morning. But by now he could have learned all sorts of things.”
“Can I go in the water, Dad?” Mitchell asks.
Suddenly I freeze with uncertainty. “Can you swim?”
He punches his hands onto his hips, tips his head to the side, and glares at me with one eye open and one eye closed. “Of course, I can swim,” he says, and he looks so much like old pictures of me in that moment that I do a double take. I can see his mother in him, too. That smile is all hers.
“Then go for it,” I say, and I motion toward the lake.
Mitchell grimaces as he walks gingerly into the water, holding his breath, because the water can get really cool this time of the year.
“Are you coming, Dad?”
“I am,” I say. And then I do something that I know ahead of time may very well get me slapped. I bend, shove my shoulder into Abigail’s midsection, and haul her out there with us. She screams and pounds on my back as I walk deeper and deeper into the lake. “Better hold your nose!”
Then I flip her off my shoulder, into the water. Her eyes aren’t even open yet when she comes back up and says, “I can’t believe you did that.” Water runs down over her face, and she blows her lips to clear them.
“Sorry, not sorry,” I say flippantly.
Then she suddenly launches herself at me. She hits me so hard that I fall backwards into the water, with her on top of me. I reach to wrap my arms around her and hold her close. “Sorry, not sorry,” she says, repeating the words I just used on her.
Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher Book 3) Page 13