***
Autumn was alone in the living room when Catherine went back inside. She was sitting up, her bandaged left hand resting on a pillow and holding the cold pack. In her right hand, she clutched Gabe’s torn T-shirt to her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks. Catherine didn’t know what to do. She looked around the room.
“Gabe’s gone to look in the barn for Elvis,” Autumn said, her voice low and choked. She seemed like she was going to say more but couldn’t force out the words. Instead, she tucked her chin against the shirt she held as if it were a lifeline.
Catherine approached cautiously and sat on the ottoman next to the sofa. “Are you okay?”
Autumn shook her head slowly, her tears coming faster and dripping from her cheeks. When her shoulders heaved with a huge, suppressed sob, Catherine didn’t stop to think. She slid from the ottoman onto the sofa and wrapped Autumn in a hug. Autumn didn’t resist. She fit perfectly against her chest, and Catherine rested her cheek against Autumn’s head. She smelled of soft lavender, and Catherine closed her eyes against the emotion that gripped her chest and leaked from her own eyes.
Gabe’s fight with the boys had held their grief at bay, but the memorial service and Becki’s image and the finality of their loss came flooding back as they sat in the quiet, surrounded by everything that was Becki.
Autumn pressed deeper into Catherine’s embrace and found her voice after a few ragged sobs. “When I came for Grandma’s funeral, she wanted to talk, but people kept interrupting with hugs and condolences or questions about the arrangements. So she asked me to stay afterward. Then my parents and her parents showed up and caused a scene, and I did what I do best.” She began to cry again. “I left. I walked out when I should have stepped in and helped her.” She rubbed the T-shirt against her cheek as if she needed the connection to walk through this memory. “I gave her this shirt the last summer I spent here. When I saw Gabe wearing it, I couldn’t believe it had lasted all these years. I was shocked…she kept it even though I never came back.”
“It was her favorite.” Gabe, water droplets glinting among her dark curls, stood by the kitchen island. “She said the big sunflower on the front made her feel like the sun was radiating out of her chest and shining on everything around her.”
Catherine sat back but kept her right arm around Autumn as she extended her left in invitation for Gabe to join them. Gabe hesitated, then snugged herself against Catherine’s other side. The day had been an emotional roller coaster. Their dread of sharing their grief with so many other people, Autumn’s ill-advised liquid breakfast—thank the heavens she didn’t throw all that up—plus the strain of Becki so alive and flashing that big Julia Roberts smile on the video. Catherine recognized that the confrontation with the two boys, Autumn’s controlled anger and scary show, then their banter to distract Autumn from the stitches going in her thumb were a bit of weird hysteria.
The day was over, though, and that reality settled over them. Becki wouldn’t walk into the room and light it up with her smile. She’d never again tuck Gabe in at night, or kiss Catherine’s cheek and send her home with a bag of fresh-baked goodies, or hug Autumn and softly sing their favorite song in her ear when Autumn was sad.
A huge clap of thunder made them all jump, and Catherine pulled them even tighter together. The sky seemed to open and pour rain onto the metal roof of their snug cottage, but a mournful howl sounded over the storm’s drumming.
“Elvis was in the barn, curled up in his bed where he liked to nap while Mama painted,” Gabe said. “I tried to get him to come inside, but he wouldn’t budge.”
“Did you close the doors? Maybe he’s scared of the storm and wants to be inside with us now,” Autumn said, sitting forward to snag the box of tissues on the coffee table, taking a few before offering it as an alternative to Gabe’s use of her shirttail to wipe her nose. Gabe took the hint, and Catherine was surprised when Autumn tugged Catherine’s arm across her shoulders to snuggle against her side again.
“He has a doggie door. He’ll be here when he wants,” Catherine explained.
They sat quietly for several long moments, listening to the rain and Elvis howl two more times. Like a twenty-one-gun salute, seven rifles fired three times. Catherine almost expected a lone trumpet to begin playing “Taps.”
“Sometimes, the coyotes answer him,” Gabe said.
But they heard no answering howls tonight. Not another clap of thunder. Even Autumn’s constantly pinging and vibrating cell phone was silent. The room had darkened with the sky, and they simply sat and listened to the rain.
***
Autumn jerked awake. The sun was boring through her eyelids and spiked into her eyes when she opened them. Her mouth tasted and felt like she’d been licking a glue stick. She rolled away from the window and struggled to figure out where she was. The pillow under her head smelled distinctly like sandalwood. It felt familiar. Was it a scent Becki had worn? Her eyes settled on familiar photos of Gabe. It must be Becki’s scent because she was in Becki’s bed. She sat up, alarm flooding her. She was in Becki’s bedroom, in her bed. How’d she ended up here? Gabe would freak. She needed to get up and get out before Gabe saw her. Besides, she’d planned to be on the road to Atlanta at daybreak, and she’d obviously slept well past that. She put her hand out to push up to a sitting position and hissed when pain shot up her left forearm.
“Fuck.” She stared at her bandaged thumb, and glimpses of the previous evening trickled into the conscious—make that barely conscious—part of her brain. She’d stupidly cut her thumb. Tall, butch, and married had sewed her up. Becki’s, no, Gabe’s torn shirt. The last she could recall was her, Gabe, and Catherine huddled on the sofa, listening to the rain. Catherine warm and solid, her arm around Autumn’s shoulders strong and sheltering. Yes. She could understand why Becki had called Catherine her anchor.
But the memory of snuggling against Catherine’s side was stirring more than feelings of security. Nope. Not going there. It was too ridiculous to consider. Just a weak moment of vulnerability caused by, you know, her cousin dying and the pressure of a daunting to-do list. Because she couldn’t possibly be interested—
The smell of bacon penetrated her semi-panic, and her stomach growled loudly at this new information. She dangled her feet off the bed and took stock. Jeans, check. V-neck shirt, check. Shoes gone, but that was understandable. She narrowed her eyes and put her hands to her breasts. Bra, gone. Hmm.
She made the bed and found her bra neatly folded on top of her shoes in the ladder-back chair by the door. Someone obviously knew she’d slept there, so erasing evidence of her trespassing was stupid. Wait. She might be emotionally trespassing, but not illegally. She owned the house now until she died or signed it over to either Gabe or Catherine. She shook her head. She had to stop holding conversations with herself. She needed therapy. Better yet, she needed to follow the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen.
Autumn dropped her things in Gabe’s room, where she’d been staying, and shuffled through the living room to see who was cooking. To her surprise, Gabe stood at the stove, flipping French toast and keeping an eye on a pan of sizzling bacon. Catherine sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper.
“French toast and bacon?” Gabe asked.
Autumn eyed her. There was no broad smile she’d expect if Becki had been the one offering, only a raised eyebrow that perfectly mimicked Catherine. She tried to speak, but her tongue was still stuck to the roof of her mouth. She cleared her throat and dislodged her tongue. “That smells awesome, but I have to shower and hit the road.”
“You’ve got time for breakfast,” Catherine said, lowering her paper. “Dish her up a plate when it’s ready, Gabe.”
Autumn’s jaw clenched at Catherine’s assumption. Nobody told her what to do. Her parents hadn’t since she was about ten years old. And some bossy butch wasn’t going to now. She opened her mouth to tell Catherine that, but stopped when the bossy…uh, oh my god, wonderful, thoughtfu
l woman held up a huge thermos, unscrewed the top, and filled the coffee mug at the place setting closest to where Autumn stood. She nearly swooned at the aroma. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled.
“When I went back to my place this morning to collect eggs and take care of the morning feeding, I brewed some Americano for you from my special blend. I see you’ve already added a French press to the kitchen, though, so feel free if you prefer to brew your own.”
Autumn was already sliding into the chair, her eyes fixed on the steaming mug. “No, this is fine.” She took her first sip, closed her eyes, and hummed. “If you tell me that you secretly love to dress up in a sexy cocktail dress and go dancing on Saturday nights, I’ll have to get down on my knees right now and propose.”
Gabe’s laughter rang through the kitchen, and Catherine even smiled a little.
“Now that’s something I’ll never live long enough to see,” Gabe said, nearly dropping the plate she handed over to Autumn.
“Me on my knees?”
Another burst of laughter. “No. Cat in a cocktail dress and heels. I’d have to wash my eyes out.” Gabe turned off the stove and brought a plate for Catherine and herself to the table, sitting across from Autumn.
“You’re really funny, kid. Keep it up. I was just thinking that the chicken coop still hasn’t been cleaned.”
“Aw, Cat. You said you’d take me fishing today.”
“I did. But I looked in my closet this morning, and all I have to wear is the same T-shirt I wore fishing last time. I might need to go shopping at the mall first. I mean, what if we see somebody else at the lake. It’ll be all over town that I wore the same shirt fishing twice in a row.”
Gabe barely managed to swallow the orange juice in her mouth, then pealed off another loud round of laughter while Catherine smiled and shot glances at Autumn.
“Go ahead and make fun of the femme,” Autumn said with haughty affectation, chuckling along with them while she delivered a gentle slap to Catherine’s forearm.
After their laughter died down, an uncomfortable silence fell, and they all stared at their plates. Autumn looked up when a wind chime tinkled outside the window behind Gabe. A cloud beyond moved against the vibrant-blue spring sky, and the emerging sun was caught by a single pane of stained-glass at the window’s center, flooding the kitchen with its rainbow-colored message. Here Comes the Sun.
Autumn nodded. Message received. She picked up the bottle of maple syrup and drowned her French toast. “It’s okay, you guys. Becki wouldn’t want us to mope around. If she was here, she’d laugh, too. She’d be really happy that we’re becoming friends.” She hesitated, tripped up by a nudge of uncertainty. “We are, aren’t we?”
Catherine smiled and picked up her fork. “You’re okay for a city girl.”
“Woman,” Autumn said, pointing her own fork at Catherine. “I stopped being a girl when I turned eighteen and was old enough to drive, vote, and sign a contract.” She frowned when she tried to pick up her knife to cut up her toast. “Shit. I mean, ow.” This sore thumb was a nuisance.
Gabe gave Catherine an exaggerated guess-she-told-you look, then came around the table and quickly cut Autumn’s food for her. Autumn was a bit startled by the act. Maybe they both were. They exchanged tentative smiles, and then Gabe went back to her seat.
“So,” Gabe said around a mouthful of syrup and toast. “What shirt are you going to wear to the fishing hole? Because, you know, I don’t want to wear the same thing either. People might talk.”
Chapter Eight
Autumn rubbed her eyes. Six hours on the road, then four hours answering email and reviewing her presentation for her first new potential client had kept her up until three in the morning. Then her alarm began barking at five thirty. She usually thrived on catnaps amid the fast pace of her city life. This morning, she felt jet-lagged, like she’d just flown back from the other side of the world and crossed twenty time zones. That was ridiculous, of course. But even a semi-cold shower—because nobody really turns on only the cold water and stands under it, do they?—hadn’t perked her up. So she’d texted Jay at six o’clock. Bring juice. Only Jay would know that she was referring to energy, not fruit juice.
“Thank the goddess,” she groaned when his trademark knock sounded at her apartment door. She almost resented his bright eyes, perfectly shaved face, and big smile. Damn, he looked as fresh as a tomato just picked from the garden. She groaned again. One week in the country and she was thinking like a farm wife. Wife? Her subconscious must be operating in an alternate universe today. “You look like a perfect Ken doll. I hate you.”
Jay air-kissed both sides of her face, then held up a large cup and a pastry bag. “You look horribly worn out, girlfriend. But you can’t hate your main man, because he brought you a triple-shot Red Eye and orange juice and a fresh-out-of-the-oven huge cinnamon roll.” He looked around the apartment. “Where’s the kid? I brought an orange juice and another cinnamon roll for her.”
“She’s with Catherine, probably until school starts. I guess I’ll have to eat two.” She did a brief happy dance. “All by myself.”
“Who’s Catherine?”
“Her other guardian. I’m co-parenting. It’s complicated, but I don’t have time to explain right now. I need energy and for you to catch me up on business.” She set the goodies on the dining table next to her laptop and dug the treats out of the bag. “This isn’t Starbucks.”
Jay stood over her, his hands on his hips. “Of course not. They’re from the Sweet Bean.”
She peeled away a piece of the fluffy roll, studded with raisins and dripping with sugary glaze, and popped it into her mouth. She raised both eyebrows at him and hummed her approval. It seemed to melt in her mouth. “Sweet Bean?”
“It just opened last week. You know that storefront we were wondering about because the windows were covered so we couldn’t see in? Well, the paper came off the windows Tuesday, and they opened Wednesday. It’s a coffee house slash bakery, owned by Sasha Steele. She’s the coffee expert, and her wife is a pastry chef.”
She was only half listening because she was savoring another huge bite. “Should I know who Sasha Steele is?”
“You are an epic failure as a lesbian. She’s like a soccer legend, retired after the last World Cup because she’s like thirty-something, and that’s old in soccer years.”
She shrugged and tested the heat of the coffee before taking a big sip. Jay knew just how she liked it. “I don’t know anything about soccer.”
“They want to talk to you about handling their social-media marketing.”
“But I can learn. Alexa, add ‘research Sasha Steele’ to my work list.”
The Amazon tower lit up and recited, “Adding ‘research Sasha Steele’ to your work list.”
The cinnamon roll was huge, so she decided to save the second one for later, when her sugar rush began to wear off. She closed the bag and set it next to the Keurig. Sighing, she thought of Catherine’s wonderful coffee bar. Someday, she’d have one just like it. But only if she worked hard. She refused to think of the money from Becki that would have transferred to her account on Friday. She washed the sticky residue from her hands in the kitchen sink before returning to her laptop. “It’s six thirty. Tell me what I’m doing the rest of today.”
***
“You’re very quiet today. You okay?” Catherine cast her line in an efficient arc that plopped her bait and bobber about ten yards into the pond. She glanced at Gabe, who had been staring blankly at her own red-and-white one.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?” She worried again that Gabe was holding her grief inside, rather than working through it. Should she make an appointment with a child psychiatrist? Not for Gabe, but for herself so she could get some coaching on what to say or do to help Gabe. What signs would tell her that Gabe’s sadness was turning into dangerous depression? She knew too well the suicide rate of soldiers returning from war. And she was awa
re of the high rate of suicide among teens. Gabe would be twelve in a few weeks, but it was obvious from the changes in her body that she was one of those girls who hit puberty early. To complicate things, she had the intellect of an adult. So Catherine wasn’t sure how to treat her. Like a kid, like a teen, or more adult? She so needed help.
“Yeah.”
They watched their bobbers ride the ripples of the water’s surface. Catherine was thinking she should take Gabe higher in the mountains and teach her to fly-fish, when Gabe spoke up.
“I miss her most at night, I guess.” She glanced over at Catherine. “After I climbed into bed each night, she would come in and always ask me questions.”
“Questions?” This type of parenting was foreign to Catherine. She’d always put herself to bed every night with a book for company.
“Yeah. What did you learn today? What are your plans for tomorrow?”
Catherine nodded. Good questions, the second ending Gabe’s day by looking ahead.
“Then she’d ask what she called a wild-card question.”
“A wild card?”
“Yeah. If you could be anybody in the world for a day, who would it be? Or if you had the power to change one thing in this world, what would it be?”
“Hmm. That’s a lot to think about.”
“Sometimes we’d talk for a whole hour.”
Catherine’s days weren’t that interesting—cleaning the chicken coop, adding peppers to her huge garden, Skyping with Peter on business matters. He’d saved her when she was at her darkest, when she was drowning in an abyss of night terrors, daytime flashbacks, and the remnants of physical damage that’d allowed her to opt for a military discharge rather than transfer to army financial services. She’d pretty much reached her potential there because the PTSD in her medical record would make promotions hard to come by.
Ordinary is Perfect Page 10