Authors: Kathleen Lash
At some point, it occurred to her he’d just kissed her in front of the kids. Not passionate in any manner, the public display still made her uncomfortable. Before she could retreat, he gave her a small, slim box, wrapped in gold paper. She opened it slowly, savoring the thrill of anticipation. She’d never received a true gift from a man, not father, husband or any other. She’d been given gifts, but there’d always been a stipulation or ulterior motive behind the offering. She doubted the small, golden, foil wrapped box came with strings attached.
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Kathleen Lash
Her fingers shook when she found the black velvet box inside. Opening it carefully, she stared at the diamond solitaire pendant surrounded by white gold on a chain. Stunned, she didn’t know what to say. “Whisper?”
It must’ve cost a healthy sum. And she’d done nothing to deserve it. No commitment lay between them. She couldn’t fathom why he’d thought to get her something expensive and beautiful.
“You don’t like it.”
“I’m at a loss for words.”
“Whisper?”
She finally tore her eyes away and gazed into his. He appeared uncertain and her heart broke, realizing he actually cared whether or not she liked the gift.
“Baby?”
“It’s amazing. I’d never—can barely comprehend…” Regardless of how the words came together, she’d never be able to express the emotions rolling through her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pulled up her hair as Keith took the necklace from the box and secured it at the back of her neck. When she tucked it into the front of the grey sweatshirt, he looked curious.
“I’d like it close right now, next to me, touching me,” she said.
Eventually, they focused on the activity in the room. Each of the kids checked out their gifts and examined what the others received. Nomad remained the only person still slowly opening presents. Keith settled back in the chair as she slid the ottoman next to him and sat. They enjoyed the others joking and fawning over Billy’s loot.
Nomad pulled the small wrapped gift from the stocking and thoroughly examined it before shaking 150
Whisper
the box. He took his time unwrapping, peeling the tape away, removing the stuck on bow, and disassembling the shiny emerald paper. Through glances in his direction, he’d opened each present as meticulously.
Keith leaned close. “He’s been here for Christmas for years, and still doesn’t get it. Believe it or not, he’s surprised each time he gets a thing.”
“I believe it,” she replied. One day, Nomad absently blurted out a single statement, which he’d obviously been told over a period of time.
She and Keith watched as he opened the box and pulled out the soft black leather wallet. She hadn’t counted on him going over it so thoroughly.
She’d banked on him looking inside much later. He pulled out the small piece of card stock paper and began reading. He turned it over and read the rest.
When he didn’t move, or look up, or react in any way, she excused herself and escaped to the kitchen to begin making breakfast. She’d made a mistake and upset him on Christmas.
Keith wondered why Nomad wore a strange expression. He kept reading and re-reading a small note that’d been tucked inside the wallet. Five full minutes passed. Nomad remained bent at the waist, the wallet on his knee, studying what he’d found. No one else seemed to notice.
Keith stood and hobbled over to sit down on the couch next to the kid. Nomad silently drew in an exaggerated breath, his chest swelling with it. He cleared his throat and a sound of emotion came out with it, all while he read and turned, read and turned the card. Keith never saw him so beside himself.
“Nice wallet,” Keith said. “You okay?” He nodded. “You showed me. All these years you never gave up on me. None of you did.” When he fell silent, Keith squeezed his shoulder.
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“You’re family. You’re home.”
“Mom never said nice—not that Whisper’s like my mom or anything. She’s too young, too damn pretty too. And women I’ve gone out with talk about themselves and shit that doesn’t matter.” He couldn’t fathom what Nomad tried to say and quietly waited for more. The kid didn’t look in his direction and slowly handed over the small card.
What in the hell could fit on a tiny two inch by two inch piece of paper that’d make someone like Nomad choke up? Keith read.
Distant, quiet, anxious,
observing with your eyes.
Feeding on the fringes,
of other people’s lives.
You’re not meant to stay there,
on the edge and all alone.
She lied to you, that woman,
there’s nothing to atone.
On the back:
I know that place you dwell in,
confusion, pain and hate.
Let all it lay behind you,
and lift that harmful weight.
Refuse to be a shadow.
The chains that bind you—break!
Your needs and dreams; they matter.
You were never a mistake
!
He found himself flipping the card to read it again.
“You told her about your mom?” Keith asked.
The carefully printed words didn’t come from a book.
Whisper wrote them. No one could’ve pegged Nomad 152
Whisper
with such clarity.
“Not exactly. I was fixing the washer one day.
Like a jerk, I forgot to turn off the water. I loosened the fitting and she got soaked. Figured she’d rip my ass. And then the crescent wrench slipped. Dropped on her bare foot. I didn’t apologize. Probably should’ve. Told her instead I was a mistake. You know, I say it when I screw up. Didn’t think about it.
It was a goddamned joke.”
Nomad had done exactly that for years. It’d become his manner of an apology. Keith heard it so often, the expression eventually held no real meaning, other than to say he was sorry.
Nomad leaned against the back of the couch.
“She didn’t laugh. Wanted to know who told me that.
I told her
some bitch.
”
“I guess she didn’t like
some bitch
saying you were a mistake.”
“Guess not. The rest of it though—all that other stuff.”
“Go on.” Whisper made some profound statements, nailing the manner in which Nomad lived.
“I never said shit to her about anything else.
How the hell would she know that stuff?”
“Simple. She cares.”
“Why?”
“You’re worth caring about.”
Nomad let out a heavy sigh. The kid didn’t believe him. Or maybe he couldn’t believe
a woman
cared. God knew his own mother hadn’t. He asked about another facet of Nomad’s existence which remained somewhat of an enigma. “You’ve had ladies in your life. Tell me none of them cared.” Nomad stared at him, telling him plainly, no one really gave a shit about him personally. Reviewing his own feminine interests, Keith could boast the same percentage, although the numbers were 153
Kathleen Lash
greatly less than Nomad’s. From what Keith could remember, his own mother wasn’t rotten or abusive, but she’d been distant.
“You think she’s weird?” Nomad asked.
“No.” He’d known women who cared, albeit, about someone other than him or the kids. He knew that type of woman existed. “Why the hell do you date around so much, if not one of those women give a shit about you?”
Nomad’s eyebrows rose.
“No.” Keith scoffed at the prospect of Nomad getting intimate with all those females. “There’s no way you’re dating that many women and,” his voice dropped, “sleeping with all of them.” Nomad cocked his head to the side and smiled.
“Bullshit, you’re not that good looking.”
“That’s what I can’t figure out. I’m not sleeping with Whisper and she reads me like a book. Women I’ve slept with, some more than five or six months, don’t know what color my eyes are.” His reference about having sex with Whisper wasn’t easily overlooked, but Keith took the meaning and tried to let the rest slide. Mulling it over, maybe Whisper
was
strange. Keith shook his head and handed the card back. After he stood, he rubbed Nomad’s head affectionately. “Take the woman’s advice. Get off the sidelines and into the game. Stick your neck out and take a chance. Maybe make the first move and start a conversation with someone, and if you trust them, open up a little.” He’d gotten two hobbles away when Nomad asked, “Keith?”
“Yeah?”
“The jacket. It’s bad ass. Thanks.” Nomad’s glance scanned the people in the room. “Being here means even more. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, kid.” And it was. The merriest.
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If he took it slow, he did fine without a single crutch. In the kitchen, Christy, Heather, Billy and Whisper made breakfast. He grew weak with the smells coming from the room.
“What’s on the menu?” he asked.
“Quiche, ham, fruit salad, strong coffee, and homemade croissants with jam,” Heather said.
“Quiche.” He’d meant it to come out with enthusiasm. It sounded more like,
what the hell is
quiche?
Whisper laughed. “If no one likes it, I’ll get some regular scrambled eggs together with six pounds of bacon. Deal?”
He thumped across the kitchen and opened the oven door. Four pie plates filled with half-baked ooze smelled heavenly. “Quiche,” he said, believing it might be something he’d like.
“Eggs,” Whisper began, “heavy cream, sausage, different cheeses, thyme, pepper, hint of onion, pinch of garlic, cloves, mushrooms and other stuff.” They worked slicing and dicing fruit. Billy took blueberries and threw a few into the large bowl every now and then. Keith leaned against the counter and watched. Whisper’s adeptness with the paring knife amazed him. He asked, “Where’d you learn to cook?”
Her fingers flew as she sliced strawberries then bananas. “Mom.”
Heather glanced up before concentrating real hard on the cantaloupe.
“Your mother taught you?”
“Worked a small restaurant with her. Spent most days after school there.” Whisper’s accent grew more pronounced. “Extensive menu. Saturday night in a small town left few dining options. When they were backed out the door, it was every hand on deck.”
“How old were you?”
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“Little. I was about Billy’s age when I could help out. Been there for years by then.”
“Did you like hanging out at the restaurant?”
“Sure.” Both Heather and Whisper worked faster. “Your mom never taught you to cook?”
“No,” he replied, slowly, casually. “She probably didn’t know much herself beyond the directions for macaroni and cheese. I never complained though because she baked it with love.” Whisper glanced up. “You don’t bake it.”
“I read the box when I was about eight and knew. I never had the heart to tell her though. Those crunchy little noodles got rid of some baby teeth for me.” She started laughing and the rest joined in. Her expression relaxed and she worked more carefully. “I guess I was lucky then. Gorman the cook, Maude the baker, and the waitresses were like family.”
“Any fun pastimes other than working at a restaurant?”
“School, church, work and chores.” She spit the items out like a soldier would repeat his purpose in the military. The response came out automatically and with a tinge of resentment.
“No friends and hanging out?”
“No, sir, idle hands are the devil’s tools. You chop enough onions though, and the devil won’t want anything to do with them.” The kids laughed. Whisper smiled but again, the response had been so automatic, it’d been something she’d either said frequently, or thought about often.
He couldn’t believe she’d been so sick a few days before. She recovered quickly, he hoped in part, to the kids sharing the burden of household duties. If everyone pitched in, it took much less time.
“Are you going to spend all day cooking?” Keith asked.
“No. Simple Christmas dinner.” 156
Whisper
“What would that be—sandwiches?”
“Prime rib, twice baked potatoes, salad, homemade rolls, au juice, horseradish sauce for those with an adventurous spirit, asparagus in lemon garlic sauce, and corn. Our Billy loves corn,” Whisper said.
“Simple, huh?”
“The prime rib cooks itself. Nothing to salad or veggies. I made up the rolls and froze them. The potatoes are ready to stick in the oven. They only need heating.”
“Dessert?”
“Cheesecakes. Whisper’s specialty,” Heather said. “Turtle cheesecake with caramel and chocolate, cherry cheesecake, lemon cheesecake and sour cream New York style. And for those not fond of cheesecake, we made two peanut butter pies.”
“Peanut butter in a pie?” He couldn’t put it together.
“Graham cracker crust,” Whisper explained,
“peanut butter, butter, confectionary sugar, vanilla, milk and tons of whipped cream.” She was a walking recipe book. “Blend it together, spoon it in the crust, top with shaved chocolate and more whipped cream and freeze. Easy breezy.”
“How long will it take to make?”
“Done. It’s waiting across the street.”
“When did you have time?”
“A little here, a little there. With all the laundry being done, I had plenty of time. Besides, after lying around over here, when I went home I couldn’t sleep.”
Tomorrow. He’d definitely start watching what he ate then. “You had the kids pick up the stuff you needed, didn’t you?”
“Pardon me?”
“The food. You didn’t buy it, did you?”
“I contributed.”
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“I told you…”
“And I told you, I don’t feel right about not paying rent.”
“Why should you? You’re over here most of the time cooking, cleaning and doing laundry.”
“I enjoy it.” Her voice sounded small.
In truth, he felt as though he’d been taking advantage of her. With the fruit salad put together and everything else laid out, he looked at the kids and motioned with a jerk of his head for them to go into the other room. They left, probably glad to get back to some gifts.
When Whisper strayed close to throw the knife in the sink, he eased his arms around her and pulled her between his slightly spread legs. Reluctant at first, she glanced around before leaning into him.