Summer's Road (3 page)

She tilted her head and looked at me. “I’m tired of this conversation. Besides,
you
play with wood all day.”

She meant that in the literal sense, not metaphorical. I build custom furniture, cozy office or library pieces mostly. I even have a little reading corner in the shop where I sell books.

I mumbled to myself as I got up and walked to the door. Owning my own store, something that had been
her
idea, and dealing with suppliers or customers was entirely different than surrounding myself with dying kids who broke my heart. I liked wood. Wood couldn’t talk back. Wood couldn’t break my heart.

She stretched, raising her arms over her head. “How’s that rocking chair coming along for the Andersons? You were worried about getting the carving just right.”

Case and point. It was the anniversary of her father’s death and she asked how my day had gone. “Good. I’m nearly done. They wanted a distressed mission-style. I think it came out all right.”

Grinning, she shook her head. “It came out more than all right. The detail is amazing.”

My heart tugged and twisted. “Someone snuck into my workshop again.”

“I admit nothing. Except that I may or may not have seen you putting the finishing touches on it. You were engrossed. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She pulled something from her pocket, a scrap of paper, and tossed it into a desk drawer next to the dresser, then proceeded to stare at the drawer as if it might jump out at her and do a trick.

My heart bumped against my ribs in worry. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her upper arms to warm herself. The sound of skin brushing skin in the quiet of her room was thunderous. She had such perfect skin. Like warm milk.

She wasn’t
fine,
though. I could tell. I was beginning to despise the word. Perhaps she had herself convinced
fine
was the truth. I knew better, because those beautiful eyes of hers had a vacant expression and her hand trailed down to rub her right arm where it had been broken from a fall out of a river birch twenty years ago. A habit she used unknowingly when nervous or thinking of something that bothered her.

Today was the anniversary of her father’s death. She’d come a long way since then, but I knew just how hard it still was on her. Her father had been her only family, and if that hadn’t been tough enough on her growing up, it had devastated her after Tom died. Summer still had a hard time grasping I was right here in front of her. That I would never leave her. And our friends, Rick and Dee, who were right across town, would never walk either.

While standing in the doorway, I leaned against the jamb with my arms folded over my bare chest. After two plus decades of friendship, she hardly ever seemed aware of my body. Every woman in Wylie took notice, except the one I wanted to. I watched her put away the magazine I’d left on the bed, then stop to stare at me from across the room. So poised. So controlled. So beautifully broken, my best friend.

And damn those blue eyes of hers. They looked like the edge of twilight.

“How’s Matt?” I asked, not giving an actual shit to the answer.

Matt
. I used to like him a lot more when he was just her summer romance down at Seasmoke. Since last year’s trip to the coast, Matt and Summer had been dating somewhat seriously. I figured as long as Matt was still living a couple of hours away in Greensboro, that’s all it would be.

“He’s fine. I drove out there today.” Grabbing the beer from her nightstand, she handed it to me and walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. “He said he loved me.” She looked at me, stopping my heart mid-beat. “He’s coming over on Sunday.”

Crap. Matt was taking it to the next level. “You sleep with him yet?”

She sighed and whipped me one of those none-of-your-business looks. I grinned and shrugged. That meant no. No meant there was still hope for… “You know, you could be counting your blessings one day, too.”

She picked up her shoe from the side of the bed and threw it in my general direction in response to my sexual innuendo. I laughed, barely dodging it, and disappeared from her doorway to leave her sitting on the bed, contemplating.

And she would do just that
, I thought,
think about it.

Summer

I
growled deep in my throat and flopped back on my bed. I snuck a glance at my bookshelf, gaze landing Ian’s photo. His sharp facial features and chiseled chin. His eyebrows were low, almost masking the deep brown color of his eyes. He always looked somewhat dangerous until he smiled. He was a good looking man. But he
knew
he was attractive, as did the entire female population of Wylie.

Wasn’t it against the laws of nature and rules of friendship to think of a best friend that way? Issue the
I could eat you alive, but wouldn’t dare
look? We’d grown up next door to one another. It wasn’t a brother-sister kind of relationship, but it wasn’t the kind to get all hot and bothered between the sheets either. Sex between us would ruin everything. Sex killed friendships.

So what was up with him lately? All the innuendos and wink-winks?

When we were fifteen, and I was dating one of the high school football players, I’d run next door to tell Ian about Scott Michaels kissing me before the game. I had been so very upset because he’d broken up with me right after.

“Maybe I’m really bad at kissing,” I’d confessed to Ian later.

Ian had looked pissed off. He’d hauled me against him, kissed me deliberately and thoroughly, and backed away from me quicker than a blink. “You’re not,” he’d said.

He’d acted like he wanted to say more, but the bubble of laughter rising in my belly couldn’t be swallowed. It had erupted in my throat, exploded out of my mouth, and caused me to grab my sides and double over. Ian had kissed me. To prove I was a good kisser. It had been hysterical. It was just like him to do something like that, too. I hadn’t even had enough time to process if the kiss was any good. But the absurdity of the situation and, I must admit now, the anxiousness I’d felt at the time, caused the frenzied laughter to envelop me. It had just been him proving a point, after all. But Ian’s eyes had narrowed to a sliver, jaw muscles clenching. He had not been happy by my reaction.

It was the only time, the one and only time, we had ever crossed that line.

I pinched my eyes closed now and banished all images from my mind, wondering where on earth that memory had come from. I blamed Ian and his damned
counting your blessings
comment. I hadn’t thought about that kiss in a long time. I’d hardly thought about it when it had happened.

Most people were wary of his occasional bad temper and black moods, which changed faster than I changed my mind. That was Ian, broody as all get out. He could also charm the pants off anything with breasts. I would never fear Ian or his doldrums, though. Possibly because I was entirely too used to them. He’d never laid a hand on me in anger, on anyone. Not unless he was pushed beyond the brink and the other guy had it coming. Usually in my defense. I was known to this small town as his only weakness. Ian was loyal to a fault and took care of those he loved.

But Ian didn’t see me as he saw every other woman. How could he? We were best friends. He had a precise way of dropping those irritating little comments now and then, though, that caused my artistic mind to play potential pictures through my head. Like giving him a taste of his own medicine by sliding a finger from his full mouth, down his bare chest, farther still to the waistband of his pants…

I resisted the urge to growl again.

Ian was a perpetual bachelor and I wanted a family someday. He wanted fun. I wanted real. It didn’t matter how many comments he made while goading or teasing me, or how many quick-flash fantasies popped in my head while he tried to get a rise out of me. He didn’t want me in a romantic sense. Which was reciprocal, right? That was the cold, hard truth.

And he was all I had left in this world.

I got up and opened the window a crack to let the scent of summer inside. Not enough to let the heat in, but enough for my mind to clear. I took a moment to linger by the window, wishing I could bottle the humid scent of warm, night breezes and open it whenever I desired.

There wasn’t much to disguise the stars tonight. Rick, another of my good friends, used to sit with me
counting stars
, as he called it. They don’t make Cary Grant men like Rick anymore. He once told me God must’ve hung the moon for me. Yeah, he always knew what to say to make me feel better. Where Ian would argue and throw down challenges, Rick would sooth and calm.

Now, if I could find a guy like Rick, who was a one-woman man, who doted on his wife and saw me as the only person in the world, then maybe I’d make that plunge. There was absolutely no sexual chemistry between me and Rick. Never had been. Even if there was, he was married to Dee, and they were so well suited for each other.

Mostly, Ian said all the wrong things and irritated me beyond all comprehensive thought, but he was always there. He knew me better than most people I allowed in. And under all that charisma, he was a good guy who did the right thing. At this rate, me and Ian would wind up in a nursing home together at eighty, still single and still arguing.

And then there was Matt. He looked at me like I was...important. Most of the time. Actually, he acted more like I was a puzzle to figure out. But he was in Greensboro and I had no idea where our relationship was headed. He’d said he loved me today. That had to be good, right? There had only been a few men in my life who’d said those words—my father, Rick, Ian, and Jacob Johnson. Jacob didn’t count. It had been fifth grade and he’d wanted me to show him my bra. Yet, I didn’t get that ping of glee I figured I should feel at Matt’s declaration.

I pulled off my white T-shirt and put on a nightgown. Ian had given it to me years ago and I always slept in it. The soft, navy cotton fit me like a glove and reminded me nightly I still had at least him in my life. Almost everyone else may be gone, but he was still here. He’d tried to buy me others, but I wouldn’t have it. It was one of those comfort things I refused to part with. I had very few things these days that comforted me. I unbuttoned my khaki shorts and slid them down to a pile on the floor. They immediately went into the hamper in the closet.

Pewter chimes outside my window sounded musical through the small room and casted shadows across the ceiling in the moonlight. I curled up under my covers and rubbed my legs under the cool cotton sheets. Reaching over, I switched off the lamp.

And then the phone rang. Figured.

“Hey, beautiful.”

I secretly loved that Matt called me beautiful. What woman didn’t like being reminded she was attractive to her guy? “Hi, Matt.”

“Is Sunday still okay for me to visit? We can have a date, talk, you know.”

“Yeah, sure.” I hated that
I need to talk to you
line and my stomach twisted. “Anything wrong?”

“No. Well, at least I don’t think so. I think it’s a good thing and hoping you do, too.”

I grinned, but my stomach didn’t settle. “All right. I’ve got class in the morning, so I need to sleep.”

“Night, beautiful.”

His voice stayed with me as I laid back to close my eyes. Maybe things with Matt would work out. Maybe I’d finally get a chance to have a family again.

CHAPTER THREE

Eighteen Years Ago—Age Eight

I
was entirely too old to believe in this sort of thing. Even all the kids at school in my class were saying there was no such thing as Santa Claus. How could a guy only come out once a year, on a flying sleigh, and give gifts to every kid in the world? Come on! Though I didn’t tell anyone, not even Daddy, I wrote a letter to Santa one last time, just in case. I had even talked Daddy into taking me to the Concord Mall to see him. Because if Santa was real, he may be my only hope.

I was different from everyone else. Most kids asked for video games or movies or toys. I asked for my mother to come home.

On Christmas morning, I lay in bed, waiting to hear Daddy’s footsteps in the hall. I hadn’t slept much last night, but I was sure I hadn’t heard reindeer hooves on the roof either. Maybe Santa wasn’t real. Maybe I should just give it up.

Silent as a mouse, Daddy poked his head into my room. “Ah, you are awake. Should we go see if the jolly fat guy came?”

I grinned, threw off my covers, and ran down the stairs.

Only when I nearly plowed the tree down did I stop and look around. My heart started to deflate like a wilted balloon. No Mom. I rushed to the kitchen. No Mom. There was one place to left to look. Drawing open the front door, I glanced outside. The cold hit my face, then the defeat. No Mom.

“What’re you doing, darlin’? The presents are under the tree.” Daddy’s voice indicated he thought I was crazy.

I sucked in a breath.
Don’t cry on Christmas morning and ruin it for Daddy.
I bit my lip. “Just getting your newspaper.”

Setting the Charlotte Observer on the coffee table, I eyed all the presents Daddy bought me. Some were from “Santa,” some from him. Ian’s mama had taken me a few weeks ago to buy presents for Daddy, so he would have some from me, too. I had bought a bottle of perfume for my mother, just in case Santa pulled through, which I’d hidden under my bed.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” I said, when I really just wanted to crawl back in bed. Because Santa wasn’t real, my mother wasn’t coming home, and the magic was gone.

Present

I
stepped out of the shower with a towel around me and checked the time. Nine o’clock. I still had an hour before I met the kids for class. I wiped the steam off the mirror and surveyed my reflection. My mother’s blue eyes looked back at me.

My mother
. I was still reeling from the intrusion. What if I couldn’t keep the house? I wanted no part of my so-called mother. I’d gotten over the void long ago. Moved on. Except now, things were different. Maybe I should call her and try to be nice. If nothing else, try to gauge what she really wanted.

Matt wanted to talk to me, too. Perhaps he was feeling neglected since we didn’t see each other often. Or maybe it was just me, being my paranoid self, throwing up a roadblock when one wasn’t needed.

Foregoing makeup, I decided to visit Dee before class. I had this restless sort of energy I needed to get out. Dee would do that for me.

When Dee had moved to Wylie our freshman year of high school, I’d been immediately threatened by her. She was energetic and fun and wild. Everything I wasn’t. I’d had a strange feeling Dee would pull Rick and Ian from my world, take them from me, making me obsolete. It had always been the three of us growing up, doing everything together. A newcomer threatened my bubble.

I should’ve had more confidence in our friendship, our bond. Instead of driving a wedge between us, she’d completed us. Dee could distract me from my troubles. She was a friend to talk to about girly issues I couldn’t with Ian and Rick.

I put on cut-off jeans, splattered with paint in every color, and pulled on a white T-shirt. That was the beauty in being an art teacher. No one cared what I wore. During the regular school year, I was more conservative, but this was my Saturday art therapy class. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door.

Heavy humidity slammed me immediately. The crickets and fireflies from last night were gone and replaced with the calls of a whippoorwill and the heron that was frequenting Lake Wylie recently. Breathing deep, I took it all in for a moment to compose myself, and rounded the car port next to the side of the house, my feet crunching on the gravel drive.

Bypassing the Jeep I only drove in winter and my reliable Cavalier, I went right to my dad’s 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. Slipping behind the wheel, it started it on the third try, so I gave it a silent
hoorah
and stroked the dashboard. Someday, it would finally give out on me as everything else did, but I hoped that someday was far away. Climbing out, I put the top down, eying the cherry red paint on the hood.

My mind drifted to when we were five and Daddy had taken a picture of us. Ian had been behind the wheel of this very car, me in the passenger seat with a bottle of champagne. Rick had been in the backseat holding fluted glasses with his feet crossed and propped on the center console. My father had taken the picture in black and white, giving a copy to the boys’ parents. Ian’s folks had just bought their Seasmoke home in Myrtle after vacationing near there every year.

I could still hear my father’s laugh echo as I pulled out onto the street.

I parked in Rick and Dee’s driveway, cutting the engine as Dee jogged out to meet me. Their two-story home was on the edge of town in one of Wylie’s newer subdivisions. It rose high on a hill, which was what had sold Dee in the first place. There weren’t any beautiful flowers scattered around, like at my home, since Dee liked the way the structure was on its own. Rick mowed the lawn like clockwork, unlike at my place. A few bushes lined the red brick, also trimmed routinely.

“It must be summer if the bugs are out.”

I laughed at the reference to my car and gave my friend a long hug. It had been a few weeks since I had seen her, as they’d just gotten back from a trip to Virginia to visit Dee’s family. “I can’t stay long.”

Dee made a pout face and gestured to the door. I followed her up the stone steps and into the house. Rick rushed up, a wide grin on his face, and before I could brace for impact, he threw me over his shoulder and spun me around. I screeched and slapped at his back as the room whirled around me.

“Come on,” Dee insisted. “You’re going to make her throw up all over my clean floor.”

Rick set me down as I placed a hand on my head to stop the spinning. He grabbed a rubber band from his wrist and pulled back his shoulder-length, sandy blond hair. His features were softer than Ian’s, making it difficult to take him seriously when he grew angry, which rarely happened. Rick’s mellow temperament seemed to contradict his pure Irish heritage. Leprechauns didn’t get angry, I suppose. Maybe I’d paint him as a leprechaun one day.

“I thought you had class,” he said.

“Your place is on the way to the school.” I shrugged. “Just wanted to say hi and bug you for a minute.”

He frowned. “Girl talk or regular conversation?”

“Menstrual cycles and bikini waxes.”

“In that case,” he tugged on his wife’s long, brown curly hair, and gave her a resounding kiss on her round cheek, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Dee smiled as he ran up the stairs. “I’ll teach him manners someday.”

I laughed and plopped on the couch, dangling my feet off the arm. The clock in the corner of the room ticked, and I loved its lonely, miserable sound. Dee had their house adorned with clocks, moons, and suns—her three obsessions. The large space had two walls painted burgundy. It would feel small if not for the enormous window facing east. The kitchen, which couldn’t be seen from where I was perched, was on the other side of the house, where the aroma of one of Dee’s baking creations lofted in.

“What smells so good?”

“Apple pie. Rick’s parents are coming for dinner.” Dee had a look on her face that said she wasn’t buying my “stopping by” story. “What’s up?”

Not bothering with the “nothing’s wrong” automatic response, I sighed. “Matt said he loved me yesterday. Then he announced he was coming into town Sunday and has some news. He wants to talk.”

Dee appeared to mull that over. “Last I checked, that’s what people in relationships do.”

In contrast to myself, Dee could sit and talk for hours about nothing. I would rather listen and nod appropriately. I knew Dee wondered if I ever really listened. I did. Just because I’d rather keep some things private didn’t mean I couldn’t socialize. “Very funny. I wonder if he’s moving closer? Or seeing someone else?”

She leaned back in her chair. “Do you want either?”

“We agreed to casual, you know? I don’t know.”

Dee pressed me with an expression that told me she was really picking my brain apart with her eyes. “Maybe he wants more.” She leaned forward, forearms on her knees. “Are you ready for that?”

“With Matt?” I thought about it, not liking the anxiety clawing my stomach. “I’ll find out what he wants on Sunday,” I said instead. “How was Virginia? Your parents? Everything good?”

She rolled her eyes, the avoidance obviously not lost on her. “Everyone’s great. They say hello. You better go. It’s almost ten.”

I checked my watch and stood. “See you soon then. We’ll talk more at lunch tomorrow. You can tell me about your trip.” I kissed her soundly on the cheek and bellowed upstairs to Rick. “I guess we’ll have to get it on later since Dee was home.”

Dee smacked me playfully and pushed me toward the door.

A thunderous roar of laughter was Rick’s retort from upstairs.

I pulled up to the elementary school I once attended and snatched my bag from the backseat, mentally preparing like I did every Saturday. The kids were already inside with their parents, but when I counted heads, I was missing one. Scanning the room, I discovered who it was. Jon Melbourne. I had gone to grade school with his mother before they moved out of the county. She had been one of the only people who was nice to me in school. Jon may just be absent because his oncologist hadn’t released him for class, so I tried not to panic. Sometimes, with aggressive treatment, the doctors wanted the kids in the hospital or to remain in a more sanitary environment to avoid stress and contamination while the immune system was down.

Hiding my dismay, I unlocked the supply closet and put a small canvas by every easel station. The room was too small for a class my size and always smelled like sweaty, rancid gym socks, but it was the only room in the building for art. I opened a window to get some air. There was a board budget meeting coming up and I fully intended to voice a complaint. The arts were the first to be cut, “expeditionary” in their opinion. It was a proven fact that kids who were involved in arts and music excelled in other studies. The hierarchy didn’t care. Well, they would when I was through with them. If not for my yearly charity auction, my art therapy class would have been cut years ago.

I’d accepted the teaching position in the York county school district immediately after college. The previous art director had resigned that year, leaving not only the elementary program open, but the high school one as well.

But teaching art wasn’t enough for me. When one of my students had been diagnosed with leukemia my first year, I discovered just how much painting got him through it. It had also helped me cope with my father’s death. So, I’d proposed my idea for the specialty class to the board, who’d only agreed if I paid for the supplies. That next year, I met Eric Holcomb through the Charlotte Art Museum, and my annual art benefit has thrived since, raising money for treatment, research, and my class.