The scent of at least a hundred open lilies was giving Dean a headache, though it could also have been the lack of coffee… or nicotine. He thumbed the knot on his tie and smoothed the black silk, then fastened the bottom button of his blazer. “Would anyone else like to speak?” The minister looked around the crowded room. Dean stood and approached the podium.

Dean swallowed his smile, thinking about how much Saul would’ve hated the morning’s procession of memory and long, drawn out eulogy. Sure he would have liked the sentiment, free flowing liquor and dolled up ladies at the after party, but he would have preferred skipping the main event entirely. Still, Dean needed to speak. Even though everyone else had said their piece, he had been silent and the room was holding its breath.

Dean looked out at the sea of black suits with missing smiles and wanted to scream. There was no reason to feel somber. Saul finally got what he wanted. Today was a day of celebration; a time to bid farewell to the old man and memorialize what it was that made him so…unforgettable.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Whenever I’m watching an old movie, usually in black and white and often with plenty of dirt and scratches on the reel, I always think of Saul, a man who rose each day with the sun, gave every one his best, and did his damnedest to make sure I turned into the best man I could be. I am lucky to have had a man like Solomon in my life, unlike so many other fatherless boys. Saul was a product of the old days, when clothes were sharper, adolescence shorter, and the word man still deserving of the first spot in the word manners.”

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and looked over the pews, from the first row to the last. He noticed Saul’s three granddaughters sitting together, a daisy chain of fingers splayed across their laps; Brian’s arms were wrapped around Maya, their daughter asleep between them. Saul’s son in law sat next to his sister in the final row, his bloodshot eyes, clean shave and pressed suit making Dean think of a fresh coat of paint on a house with bad plumbing.

He continued. “It seems that these days there’s something missing from many men, and I don’t just mean their buttons and blazers. Those guys in the old black and whites had manners, at least for the most part. Even the bad guys never went outside without a hat, and it seems like no one ever forgot their pleases and thanks. Maybe it was only while the cameras rolled, maybe not, but I know Saul would’ve fit in just fine. He spent every day for more than a decade teaching me what it meant to be a man, at least the way he saw it. He not only taught me how to shave, fix an engine and throw a football, he also taught me to never walk off from what I know is right, and though it may be difficult to stand tall against my enemies, he said that it would always be harder to stand against my friends. Saul taught me to do both, always and without fail.”

Dean looked at Paige, smiled and went on. “Saul said that a man who goes along with what he knows is wrong, whether it is to belong, or simply because it is the easy thing to do, will see less than he should when looking in the mirror. As with most everything else in my life, Saul was absolutely right.”

Dean descended the three stairs which separated podium from pews. “For me, Saul’s word was Gospel. Days didn’t pass without him teaching me a lesson…or ten, even when he wasn’t trying. In between all those large lessons learned were the small examples set. Things which went unspoken, but rarely unnoticed, even if it took me months or years to see them clearly. I now know how to admit when I am wrong, but only because my friend Solomon never had the need to be right.”

Dean paused. Some members of the audience may have thought he was searching for his next words. Those who knew him well knew he held the right words like bills in a fold and was deciding how to spend them. “My father left when I was five. I’ll never know if it was because he didn’t care or couldn’t bear to, but Saul managed to make it matter a whole lot less. Maybe it’s because he too was dealing with loss, or maybe it’s just the way he was wired, but I always knew the old man had my back.”

Dean locked eyes with Olivia, tears turning her eyes to inky smears. “Saul, above all, recognized his duty to me, asked for or not, and never took it lightly. He understood that his word was my model and that it must never be broken. Saul never made me a promise he could not keep and chose every word as carefully as he did his commitments.”

My childhood was not easy, but Saul made it easier. I could never call the old man compassionate or kind…at least not to his face,” Dean allowed the room to settle into an expected laugh, “but now that I’m older I realize that’s exactly what he was. Those times when he was the hardest on me, were the times I needed it the most.”

Dean didn’t bother to wipe the sudden salt on his cheek.

“I let too many years fall carelessly from the calendar, allowing life to pass me by like reckless wind, but I am forever grateful for these last few months I’ve shared with Saul to speak of life, love and loss. I am only me because of the him that he never failed to be.”

Dean walked to the edge of the coffin and placed his lips on the closed lid, a palm on either side. “Thank you.”

Lemmin started to cry. Several women followed. The baby joined the chorus.

_______

“Graves are the footprints of angels.”

Paige smiled before Dean could finish the sentence. “Libby, right?”

“Well, she claimed it was hers, but I never took the time to look it up until yesterday.” Dean pulled the Marlboros from his jacket pocket and nodded his head toward the door. “Turns out she stole it from Longfellow.”

Dean had the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip before he stepped into the open air. Dean held the pack out for Paige. She drew a Marlboro out and put it in her mouth. Dean lit it.

“Figures,” Paige said. “One time I caught her trying to ape a quote from Oscar Wilde. Swore up, down and around the block that it was hers. Wouldn’t back down for anything, didn’t matter that Wilde died some seventy-five odd years before she was ever born.”

Dean laughed through a cloud of smoke. “Which quote was it?”

“If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they’ll kill you.”

“Ha,” Dean barked, choking unexpectedly on his laugh, “that’s because it sounds just like her.”

Silence. Then, both cigarettes nearly to filter, “So how you doing?”

“Fine.” Dean smashed what was left of his butt in the ashtray. “Isn’t like no one saw it coming, or like I wasn’t thousands of miles away until the very end.”

“Still,” Paige met his eyes and dared him not to turn away. “It’s different when the end is finally here. I loved what you said in there.”

“Thanks.”

“How long did it take you?”

“To write or to memorize?”

“Both.”

“Not long. I mostly made it up.”

“Not possible.” Just give me the truth, Paige said with a wink.

“Scout’s honor.” Dean held up two fingers and laughed. “I’ve never been a Scout, but that doesn’t mean I’m lying. Of course I had some of the best lines already in my head, but don’t forget, I’m used to speaking in rooms crowded with people in uncomfortable clothing, and often the audiences are far less forgiving. I always wing it, works out better that way. All I need is a few key phrases. A life well lived helps me fill in the rest.”

Paige looked dubious. Dean said, “You follow every recipe, or do you spread the ingredients on the counter and let your years of cooking move your hands?”

Paige laughed; a perfect little chirp which sounded to Dean like the only genuine note of joy he’d heard all day. “So what’s next?” Paige said.

“I have no idea.”

_______

The funeral’s aftermath left Lemmin with an empty tank. The death of Sheryl’s father was certainly no surprise, but it was as though the third funeral in less than a year was finally enough to gut him in full. The usual deja vu returned and Lemmin felt the world around him start to shimmer. He sat.

“How you doing?” His sister offered him a glass of punch and sat down next to him, even though the room had mostly emptied into the reception area next door.

“I’ve been better.” He put his big arm around Annabelle’s small frame and squeezed. “Thanks for coming, though.”

“Nothing to it. Paul’s watching the store, not that he needed to. No one ever buys books on the seventh day for some reason. Last Sunday we sold three.” Annabelle laughed. “Okay two, I gave a copy of The Inevitable away.”

“Jesus, Anna,” Lemmin shook his head. “I don’t know how you keep that place open.”

“Rent’s dirt cheap, the house is paid for, and Paul and I both love soup.”

“Still, with all you could’ve done, I’ll never figure out why you stayed there.”

“If you can’t figure it out after all this time, I’m sure as shit not gonna enlighten you today.”

“You shouldn’t swear at a funeral.”

“Ah, that old buzzard would’ve approved and you know it.”

“So go ahead. Enlighten me. Why the bookstore?”

“You know Carl, I’d say most natives in this big giant jungle of a world live and die without knowing what sort of difference they make, if any. I’m not claiming to be enlightened, but at least I have a clue.”

His sister was making him tired, just like usual. She talked too much and far too quickly, and loved getting him to explain himself. “I know that being a cop means making a difference. I save lives, stop the bad guys from hurting the good guys and help the innocent to sleep soundly. No disrespect big sis, but unless I’m missing something, you sell books, right?”

Anna smiled, the same self-satisfied grin that had been driving Lemmin nuts for forty, maybe fifty years. “You’re usually missing something, Carl. Sometimes it’s a twig and sometimes it’s a branch, but you could almost always benefit from taking a closer look.” Anna stopped talking and started tightening her bun of pure platinum hair. One of the things that infuriated Lemmin about his sister most was that she seemed to revel in delivering half completed thoughts and then drawing out the silence.

“The hell, Anna, do you really need to insult me at my father in law’s funeral?”

“I’m not insulting you, Carl, nor am I insulting your career of choice. If we turn back a page or two, I believe you’d see it was the other way around. You’ve embarked on a fine profession, no argument from me. But we part ways if you believe that you make any more of a difference than I do.”

Lemmin looked at Anna, the usual annoyed wrinkle curling his brow. He had no clue how he always managed to walk into the exact same trap of feeling both frustrated and interested in what his sister would say next. No matter how she led or how much he tried to redirect, the result was always the same. “So, how’s that?” he said.

“You’ve always made the mistake of assuming it’s the books that really matter. But believe me Carlito,” she slapped her hand on his knee, “they’re just the Trojan horse. The battle’s won because of what’s hidden deep inside the rolling beast.”

Lemmin felt tired. Annabelle continued.

“Because Providence has been so kind as to set me here with an example, I’m happy to elaborate.” Anna pointed to the beautiful woman with a pear half way to her lips sitting beside a man with delicate features and a closely cropped haircut. “Take her for example.”

“You mean Lisa?”

“I do.”

“What about her?”

“In the last four seasons she has gone from mildly happy though mostly alone, to constantly merry and in league with a soul mate. I ask you, Carl, is this an accident?”

“I don’t wanna talk about fate, Sis. Thanks, but no. You start talking about fate and I’m gonna wonder why fate decided to take Sheryl, and then…” Lemmin closed his mouth and sank in his seat.

Annabelle inched closer. “Fate is a cruel master. He sometimes takes more than he gives and rarely cares half as much as he should. That’s why people like me do as we do.” Annabelle waved her hand at John.

“John there, is a terrific gentleman. Maybe a bit too quiet for his own good and perhaps more blueprint than bouquet if you know what I mean, but a good, maybe even an old soul. How would you like to guess where they met?”

Lemmin didn’t feel like playing.

“Awww, come on,” Annabelle said, “I’ll make it a Daily Double.”

“A Likely Story.”

“That’s right,” Annabelle was glowing. “That young couple right there met in my bookstore. The next logical question would then be, was it by accident?”

“They met in your place,” Lemmin conceded, “but big deal. They could’ve just as easily met at that crappy restaurant next door.”

“But they didn’t. That day, as well as on many others, I was there to give Father Fate a helping hand.” Annabelle waited a moment for her brother to dig for more. He didn’t. She continued anyway. “There was nothing pre-mediated about it, exactly, but the second I saw them both in the shop, I knew I had a part to play.” Anna gestured toward Lisa’s swollen belly and gave Lemmin what he thought might have been the most self-satisfied smile he’d ever seen on his sister’s face. “You may help to save lives, baby brother, but every so often I get to help make ‘em.”

Lemmin stood. “You’ve always been pleased with yourself, sis.”

“The whole world orbits on ego, vanity and self-satisfaction, Carl. It’s nonsense to pretend otherwise. The best that we can do is our best, and that’s what it’s time for you to do. Simply living isn’t enough. I couldn’t be sorrier for all life’s seen fit to snatch from you this year, but really, tomorrow’s up to you. Take out life’s cause and you lose its effect.”

“You’re right,” was all Carl could say. He bent to the bench, kissed his sister on the cheek and stepped out of the church and into the crisp December air. The sun pushed it’s way through the clouds and warmed his shoulders.

_______

“I just wanted to say thanks,” Laney said.

“For what?” Lisa rubbed her belly, her head tilted against the wall.

“That book you told me I had to read. Everything you said was right. It really helped. I’ve never been happier.”

“I can tell,” Lisa laughed. “I’ve never seen you so… I don’t know…is giddy the right word?”

“Could be. Daniel told me I looked ‘tickled pink with blush colored feathers,’ whatever that means.”

“How long is he home?”

“Not long. He didn’t even fly in for Thanksgiving, but didn’t want to miss the funeral. Saul taught him how to throw a punch. It helped with him being in marching band.”

“So what’s going on with you and Jake?” Lisa changed the subject, “is it weird dating someone with a kid?”

Laney laughed. “It’s weird dating, period! I don’t know, really. I think we’re both happy, but too scared to make any plans, you know? All I know is that I might finally know what it’s like to feel like myself.”

“How about your mom and dad?”

“It’s been great. We had breakfast with them this morning on the way in. It went well, just like every other meal we’ve shared. I love Reggie, he’s a great kid and I’m really comfortable with him.”

“Are you still mad about the medicine?”

“Well, I’m not thrilled, but I understand that it’s helping and don’t want to ruin a good thing. I’m getting used to it and the doctor said it probably won’t be forever.”

“AHHH!” a sudden shriek from Lisa. “John!”

John was by Lisa’s side a second later. He took one look at the puddle of water pooled at Lisa’s ankle, took the phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

“911 – what is your emergency?”

Laney could hear the operator’s voice as though from a far off hallway. “You okay, sweetie?” she said.

Lisa’s eyes were closed, but she nodded.

“I’m going to need an ambulance,” John’s voice was slightly nervous, though mostly excited. “My wife and I are having a baby. Her water just broke.”

“I’m sending someone now.”

A crowd gathered around the couple. Brian and Maya stood, linked with a tiny hand between theirs, as the cool chill of warm memory washed their back.

Sirens rang in the distance.

_______

Mrs. Stamp never minded funerals, though she understood why they made most people so uncomfortable. Who knew what lay on the other side of death’s door?

But the way Anna saw it, most of life felt like such a struggle that surely whatever lay at the other side of forever had to be something better. All those stories – the untold millions of words she’d inhaled throughout her lifetime – Anna believed that when a person died, they went to the place where all those thoughts came from in the first place.

It was a good thought; everything was connected, all of it looping and winding in an beautiful circle. The day had poured life into death and death into life, like flowing water from a fountain.

Fearing the other side of death was only for those, she mused, who never knew what it meant to truly live.

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Paige followed Dean up the surprisingly narrow staircase, down a slightly wider hallway and into a small room with a ceiling that aspired to sky. He pointed toward a closed door at the other end of the room. “There’s a bathroom in there,” he said. “Take all the time you need. Libby said the two of you practically shared a wardrobe, so I took the liberty of getting you a dress in her size.” Paige didn’t know what to say, so she offered Dean a modest smile and matching nod then went into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind her.

The bathroom was small but opulent. An intricate pattern of sage green and bright white tiles ornamented ninety degrees of the room, stopping just beneath a small window that opened to a view of the front drive. Paige poked her head outside, surprised to see a scattered collection of minivans and Japanese sedans. A small vase of rust colored roses and lavender tulips sat on one side of the counter, the subtle scent of narcissus drifted from the candle flickering on the other.

Paige noticed the dress hanging on the door and felt like crying. It was a simple dress that had probably cost Dean no more than thirty dollars, but it was a near replica of the one she was wearing in her favorite photograph of she and Libby together.

Paige stepped into the shower, turned the water all the way to searing and thought that although Libby had regularly babbled endlessly about Dean, she hadn’t said nearly enough.

She finished her shower then took her sweet time getting perfectly ready. Her hair was too short for a ponytail, but she wasn’t exactly going to wear her hair net to dinner. She combed it back, blew it dry and ignored the thought of the hair clip sitting on the passenger side floor of her Prius. Paige looked in the mirror a final time and then descended the stairs into the kitchen. She looked at the food with a smile and walked to the counter.

“You must be Paige,” a heavy-set woman, maybe in her late fifties, greeted her with a gentle touch to the shoulder.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Sophia. Mr. McGee said to tell you to go ahead and go on inside. Enjoy the fiesta, he said. I’ve got all this covered.” She noted the look on Paige’s face and added. “I know what everything is and I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go.” She punctuated the end of the sentence with what was perhaps the kindest smile Paige had ever been given. “Promise.”

“Well okay then!” Paige raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “Thanks.” She crossed the quiet kitchen and opened the door to a flurry of noise on the other side. Paige entered the room in half disbelief. Most of her had believed that Dean was only being modest. The words intimate affair hadn’t rinsed her of the expectation of evening gowns and dinner jackets. She didn’t anticipate short sleeved shirts or denim, and certainly didn’t expect to see children, but there they were. In the corner were two girls and a boy sitting in a sem-circle with a pile of Uno cards face up between them. The boy yelled, “uno!” and the oldest girl released a sigh Paige could clearly hear even from her side of the room.

Solomon was still in bed, but the TV was now off and a small crowd of people draped him like a comforter. There were three matching boy girl sets, but Paige couldn’t see any of them clearly. A bristle of instinct told her the tallest guy was familiar, but then again the entire evening had started to feel like deja vu and despite her craving for a strong drink, she was starting to wonder if it was such a good idea.

The kitchen door opened and Sophia entered the room with a giant bowl filled with soup, which she then placed on the buffet. The tall man turned around at the sound, looked slightly confused for a moment as the warm draft of recognition passed between him and the fair hair girl standing at the far side of the room. He said, “Paige?” in a voice which harbored only the slightest uncertainty.

Paige nodded. Hunter whispered something to the woman standing next to him, then kissed her on the cheek and crossed the room. “Wow, it is you. It’s me Hunter, we met once up at the Grove about three years back. I told Libby she had to let me take her to see The Dark Knight. She said sure and then brought you along because she said you’d help her hate it less.”

“Of course,” Paige smiled. “I remember.”

“What are you doing here? You friends with Dean too?”

“Nope, just met him this morning. Until then our relationship only existed through the endless ramblings of your sister.” A quiet current of knowing laughter passed between them. “I’m the cook, Dean invited me to take care of the spread. I guess he wanted me to mingle too.” Paige raised her eyebrows.

“Got it,” Hunter nodded.

A long silence lingered in the air. Finally, Paige said, “I’m sorry I didn’t go to the funeral. I just… couldn’t deal, you know?”

Hunter nodded. “I do.”

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Hunter said.

“What is all this?” Paige made a little circle with her pointer finger.

Hunter sucked in his breath. “Let’s see now, where do I start? The old guy over there is my wife’s grandpa. Apparently, he took all kinds of care of Dean when he was growing up. You know how his mom was always loaded right?” Hunter covertly gestured toward an older woman sitting on the edge of a sofa holding her arms out to a baby that looked about a year old as it tried to stand for a few seconds before collapse. “That’s her. Apparently they’ve made up.”

Paige looked surprised.

“I know, but the world keeps turning I guess. In the it’s a small world department, my best friend Brian is married to Dean’s sister Maya. She says their mom has been better for years and that mostly Dean just harbors a grudge. But you know, two sides and all. That’s Brian over there.” Hunter nodded toward a good looking guy with a goofy grin standing next to an exhausted looking woman in a loose fitting blouse.

One of the three couples that had been standing by Solomon’s bed turned around to head for a buffet now entirely filled with everything Paige had prepared. The man was nice looking and struck her like the quiet type. The woman on his arm looked to be about ten months pregnant. They both nodded at Paige as they passed.

“Who are they?” Paige whispered.

“That’s John and Lisa. Lisa is also Saul’s granddaughter. Nicest girl in the world. She was a location scout until last March when she decided to ditch her job to marry that dude right next to her. And that’s his other granddaughter Laney and her boyfriend Jake.” Hunter pointed to a somewhat awkward looking woman with strawberry blond hair standing next to a man who looked like the super sized version of the kid who was crying uno! when she first walked in the room.

“Wow,” Paige said. “Thanks for the rundown.”

“No prob. Only one we missed is Saul’s son in law. He’s this real big guy, a cop. He was married to Saul’s daughter, but she died earlier this year. He was here earlier, but he disappeared. I heard he’s been in bad shape since he lost his wife. I met him a couple times before and he always struck me as kind of an asshole. Today he just seemed… I don’t know, sad I guess.”

“Makes sense,” Paige said. “So which one of these girls is his daughter?”

“None of ‘em. They never had any kids. Hey, mind if I ask you something.” Hunter changed the subject.

“Not at all.”

“It’s kind of random.”

“Some of the best questions are.”

Hunter laughed. “Is that the same dress you’re wearing in that picture with my sister? The one where you two are at the fair or something and Libby has an ice cream cone and the top scoop is about to fall off?”

Crimson bloomed across Paige’s cheeks. “No,” she shook her head, “but Dean had a change of clothes for me. Maybe he thinks this is the only thing I wear and I have a closet full of them.”

“Like a cartoon character.”

“I was thinking more like a super hero.”

Hunter laughed. “I should get back,” he said after a few seconds of silence, “but it was great to see you again.”

“You too.” Paige smiled at Hunter and watched him walk back to the bed. Three seconds later she heard a soft chorus of laughter with Solomon smiling in the middle.

Paige stood still, feeling as though she was wearing someone else’s dress over another person’s skin. The call of the kitchen was loud. She backed out from the living room and headed toward the certain comfort.

“No, no, no.” Sophia wagged a thick finger in an exaggerated gesture. “Mr. McGee said I am not to let you back in the kitchen. “

“I just want to get a drink.”

“The bar is in the living room.”

“Fair enough.” Page smiled into an about face. Guess I’ll just jump in, she thought. Paige never had difficulty with social settings, at least once she was warmed up, but the first few minutes of introduction always seemed to hold a rather specific sort of torture. Exiting the kitchen, Paige collided with the missing guest.

“You!” she gasped.

Lemmin dropped his drink sending shards of glass sailing in every direction.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Paige spit, almost feeling sorry for the sad sack of shit trembling in front of her.

“I’m spending Thanksgiving with my father in law.” He looked down. “Excuse me, I need to clean this up.” Lemmin dipped his head, took a step back, then turned around and retreated to the kitchen.

Paige stormed across the room and into the fresh air outside, cigarette lit before she ever smelled ocean. “You’re supposed to smoke after dinner.” Dean was sitting in one chair with his feet resting on the one next to it.

“Sorry. Guess I’m restless. Why’d you bring me here anyway? Did you know he would be here?”

“Of course I knew. I invited him, and I invited you because Libby loved you.”

“Couldn’t you have sent me a card or something?”

“No, tonight’s a special night and Libby would’ve wanted you to play a part.”

“I don’t understand and I don’t appreciate being manipulated.”

Dean’s eyes, arrogant just a moment before, softened. “Libby told me one time that your food was what she imagined the Gods must’ve feasted on up at the top of Olympus.”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “She said the same thing to me a bunch of times, usually when she wanted something.”

“She also said that anyone dying with a kind heart still inside them deserved a last meal as fine as all that. That old man is important to me, and everyone in that room is important to him. There are others, sure, but that in there is the best I could do on short notice. I gathered the farewells, you supplied the meal.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Paige snapped. “I doubt he has a taste bud left, and you’re talking like you have his death certificate already filled out. You can’t predict death unless it’s on purpose.” Paige put the cigarette to her lips, closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Wanna bet?” The arrogance had returned to his eyes, though it was more playful than anything. Paige said nothing, just blew the smoke in a neat stream headed toward the sea. Dean continued. “Saul won’t eat a thing. Even if he had every taste bud still sitting on his tongue, he’s got a hole whistling in his stomach that should’ve killed him six months ago. But I guarantee you, he’s laying in that room right now happier than he’s been in maybe ten years. He may not be able to smell the food, but he can see the looks on everyone’s faces.”

Paige was quiet. Finally she walked over to the ashtray on the end table in between the two chairs and smashed her cigarette to a nub. “Thanks for including me,” she said. “I’m glad to be here. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks for being here.” Dean smiled and nodded. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

Paige imagined Libby. Her bright smile and constant desire to make everyone happy. Dean was right. This was exactly what she would have wanted. “My pleasure,” she said.

Paige went back in the house and piled a plate full of food, then made camp next to the newly expanded game of Uno that now included the boy’s father Jake, John and his very pregnant wife Lisa. “Can you deal me in for the next round?”

“Of course,” John said.

“Actually, you can have mine.” Lisa handed her cards to Paige, obvious relief on her face. She rubbed her belly and said, “I was looking for a way out.”

Paige balanced the plate on her lap while holding the cards in her left hand. She chewed slowly. Looking around the room, she noticed that everyone else was doing the same, as though every bite mattered for everyone. Lemmin sat alone, sipping his soup and holding each spoonful in his mouth before swallowing. Something in Paige crumbled. She finished the game, then surrendered her cards to the pile and crossed the room.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” she said.

Lemmin looked up, his eyes were hollow sockets of sorrow. He choked through a thank you and then said, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Paige squatted beside him. “How would you like some chocolate?”

“I’d like that.”

Paige brought over a full plate and the two of them passed chocolate between them, allowing the memory of their mutual friend to linger. From the other side of the room they watched as Solomon’s eyes brightened and dimmed along with each new wave of passing family drifting by his bed, holding his hand or whispering a joke, sometimes for the third time that night. Finally his eyes grew heavy and his smile started to fade. At eleven minutes to nine, he closed them for the final time, an eternal smile frozen on his face forever.

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Paige pulled an impossibly long drag, drawing every last bit of life from her cigarette before crushing it to nothing and abandoning it in the ashen graveyard already littered with a hundred or so other butts and stubs.

This is bullshit, she thought; the tenth such thought in half as many minutes.

What the hell was she doing driving all the way down to Malibu on Thanksgiving morning, just to cook dinner for some rich dude she knew only from magazine spreads and the lusty late night ramblings of her old best friend?

Life was odd. Paige would never have believed it just a year ago, the way the last few months had unfolded. What was that expression? She exited the highway and accelerated the Prius, pulling alongside a row of tall palm trees tickling the sky. Oh yeah, stranger than fiction. This was definitely that.

The drive was gorgeous; nothing at all like Paige had expected. She knew the view would be impressive, but never imagined the trip would be entirely void of traffic, even on a holiday morning. Despite working everywhere from La Jolla to Bel Air, Paige had never been to Malibu. She pictured the houses as overbuilt track homes with ridiculous price tags, but was surprised by the character of the glass mansions and sweeping Spanish villas she passed along the highway.

What the hell am I doing?

Paige pulled onto a sweeping drive, approximately the same square footage as her apartment complex, and swung her car to the front of what she thought was the rear entrance to the modest sized Mediterranean villa. She removed the sunglasses from her face and tossed them onto the passenger seat, then leaned down and flipped the latch that opened the trunk. She took a final glance in the rearview mirror then stepped out of the car.

“You must be Paige?” The statement disguised as a question came from a strong yet gentle voice behind her. The man standing there was tall, with thick dark hair that hung past his eyes just enough to indicate he answered to himself first. He looked different in person than he did in the media, though the reality suited him. Paige had been a professional chef long enough to know the difference between the two sides of the camera. The ridiculously rich were rarely more than shadows of their projected image; always smaller and sometimes mean. In Dean McGee’s case, there was no comparison. Dean was handsome in a home town boy makes good sort of way, but it wasn’t possible for even the glossiest page to capture the depths of kindness and pain which coalesced in the sparkling sea of his slate colored eyes.

“That’s me.” Paige held out her hand. Dean took it with his right, packaged it warmly in his left and delivered a soft handshake that somehow managed to send a shiver of chills rolling through her body.

“Can I help you with any of this?” Dean gestured to the pile of ingredients, bagged in canvas and filling every square inch of Paige’s rather large trunk. She looked away, then back at the trunk. “That’s okay,” she said. “All part of the job, really.”

“Nonsense.” Dean smiled and grabbed two bags for each hand, then took a step back from the Prius. Paige accepted the gesture, reluctantly on the surface though inside she felt girly, giddy and caught completely by surprise.

They made several trips inside the house, down a long hallway with nothing on the halls, through a cavernous living room with barely any furniture, and into a cozy kitchen with every accoutrement imaginable. A set of French doors opened onto a small private cul-de-sac where Paige saw an ancient Porsche with cherry red paint. For some reason the car reminded her of a bathtub.

“Guess it would have been easier if I’d parked outside the kitchen.”

“Nah,” Dean said, setting the bags on the counter. “It’s never too early to start working off your dinner. Did you bring the chocolate?”

“Sure did.” Paige smiled, remembering the fifteen pounds of dark chocolate wrapped in a towel and sitting on the floor of her backseat.

They made several trips, mostly in silence. After the final bag was set on the counter, even though they both knew the trunk was empty, Dean followed Paige back outside. A gentle wind flew in from the Pacific, fluttering the fabric of her dress and sending a second shudder through her body. Dean produced a pack of Camels from nowhere and offered one to Paige. “Interested?”

Paige was grateful. “I didn’t know you were a smoker,” she said.

“Only in California.” Dean set the cigarette between his lips. “I used to smoke in high school. Guess there’s something about the left coast that makes me want so suck on death.” Dean laughed and held the lighter under Paige’s cigarette as she inhaled.

“I know what you mean. I only started smoking when I moved out here, and I always feel like I have to hide the habit, especially when I’m working. Thanks for being cool.”

“Nothing to it.” Dean nodded.

They smoked in silence as quiet anxiety crawled across her flesh. It wasn’t that Dean was rich, it was that he was Dean McGee; darling of the New Economy and childhood lover of her old best friend. “So is this gonna be the usual see and be seen sorta shindig?” Paige finally said to break the discomfort of an awkward quiet.

“Hardly. It will be an intimate gathering with a handful of guests.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said on the phone,” Paige flicked her ash into a pot of antiqued hydrangea, “but you’d be surprised how often I hear that only to show up and find a red carpet.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?
 “Be surprised.”

“Oh,” said Paige, “I guess not. So what is it then, family?” Paige exhaled into Dean’s long silence then said, “Sorry if I’m prying.”

“Not prying at all. You’ve a right to know who you’re cooking for, and eating with.”

“Eating with?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to cook on Thanksgiving and not join the jamboree. That’s not cool. You’re welcome to stay and I’ll be injured if you don’t.”

“I’m not really comfortable eating on the job.”

“Once the food is cooked, consider your job done.” He stared into Paige’s eyes for a moment, then leaned about an inch and a half closer. “Just say yes. It’s Thanksgiving after all. You’re the one doing me a favor.”

“It’s not that big a deal, really. My family is all back East.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m originally from Jersey. I’ve been out here for five years. I would have probably just spent the evening alone anyway.”

Dean was smiling. “Libby never told me you were from Jersey.”

Paige looked surprised. “I didn’t know Libby said anything about me in the first place. When did she start running out of interesting things to talk about?”

“You know Libby, she talked about everything. Didn’t you know I was her long distance cure for insomnia?”

Paige laughed. “Yeah, she mentioned that a few times. Said you were the easiest person in the world to talk to. Truth is it always made me kinda jealous.”

“Shouldn’t have. Libby loved you. We had history is all. We liked to bitch about the same stuff, you know? Common shit makes enemies friends and friends closer.” Dean walked over to the hydrangea, smothered his cigarette in the dirt and covered the evidence. Paige, not quite sure what she should do, did exactly the same.

“Ready for the day?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.” She turned to walk inside. “Thanks for the smoke.” Dean nodded.

Paige entered the kitchen and began to free the elements of the evening’s feast while staring at the Pacific in quiet awe, watching the waves break against the shore and wondering how it was possible the same sea could look so much more majestic just a few miles south.

The rich, she mused, apparently had access to better oceans.

Paige started to prepare the pumpkins for the puree soup she planned to serve with a porcini potato soft cheese carrot crepe roll. The salad would be simple; wild organic greens with edible blossoms, served with a strawberry balsamic dressing. She had wanted to serve braised lamb shoulder for the main course, but the only thing Dean had insisted on besides chocolate for dessert was turkey. “Too traditional to ignore,” he’d said. He had told her that as long as there was turkey on the table she could dress it however she liked. It took Paige a second to decide on a maple marinade and mixed herb pork sausage stuffing, with carrots and buttermilk mash and a thyme infused turkey jus.

In addition to the chocolate, Paige was preparing a pumpkin cheesecake with a lemon eucalyptus white chocolate ice cream, drizzled with nasturtium syrup, balsamic reduction and a real nasturtium bloom as garnish. Paige was supposed to prepare the chocolate in as many ways as she could think of, “without overdoing it.” She had a half dozen baskets of strawberries, each berry roughly the size of her fist. She would melt the chocolate and dip the berries, leaving them hours to cool. She would also shave it, chunk it and turn it into truffles.

Paige looked at all the color she had added to the counter and sighed. There was something in that moment that always filled her with a bit of sorrow. She loved every step in preparing the food, from the pictures in her head to the items in her basket, but seeing the abundance spread before her never failed to remind her of the wide chasm between what she had and what she never would. The urge to smoke was always strongest right after she finished the first part of the preparation ritual, but smoking in the kitchen was a cardinal sin. It didn’t matter how cool Dean was, she could imagine lighting up in the kitchen about as easily as she could imagine wearing a red dress to a funeral.

She stepped outside, breathed the salty scent and collapsed into the seat of a worn chair that looked older than Dean’s name on the deed. She allowed herself to sink into the moment, knowing full well it would be the final one.

“Paige?” She turned around and saw Dean standing in the kitchen admiring the counter display. “Everything looks beautiful. Mind if I borrow you for a minute?”

“Of course.” Paige was suddenly glad she decided not to smoke.

Paige followed Dean through the kitchen and into the living room where she saw an old man in a portable bed, sitting in front of a 42” LCD screen watching an old western, Paige was pretty sure it was one of the ones where Clint Eastwood played the man with no name. The old man looked happy, staring at the picture with a smile nearly as wide as the screen.

“Saul,” the old man looked up at the sound of Dean’s voice, “I’d you to meet our special chef for this evening.” Dean then turned to Paige. “This is Saul, our guest of honor.” Paige crossed the room and offered her hand to Solomon.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“And I’m pleased as hell to meet you.” Solomon turned his attention back to Eastwood staring down a pack of rabid bandits. Only then did Paige realize the high cost of the old man’s greeting. His voice had sounded like a whisper with talons and his face was a Halloween mask. Like an optical illusion, the intimate view swallowed the far kinder one she had found on the far side of the room. From the entrance Solomon had looked moderately healthy, up close he looked like death’s broken promise.

Paige did the unexpected and bent over the rail of Solomon’s bed. She kissed the old man on his weathered face, scratching her soft freckled skin on a thick burr of his patchy silver thatch. “I’m going to make you the best meal you’ve ever had.”

“I expect it,” Solomon almost said just before he fell into a fit of wheezing, but Paige knew what he meant anyway.

Dean gave her a warm nod and she slipped from the room and back into the kitchen. What was that all about? she wondered. Who was that old man? Was he related to Dean?

She turned her attention to the meat and allowed the questions to fade as she dipped into her culinary rhythm. Hours fell from the clock as Paige kept pace with the meal. Eventually she heard the chime of the doorbell punctuate the dim echo from Solomon’s marathon of westerns.

Commotion soon filled the house and Paige wondered what was next. This job was unique. Her instructions were usually explicit, with no margin for error or improv. She knew Dean wanted her to join the gala, but the thought brought a lump to her throat that she had been trying to swallow since the first suggestion. The cool reality now lay just a few minutes away and she felt as though she was wearing nothing but freckles. The food was prepared and grouped on the counter, just as she had been asked. Any minute now she would have to wash up and make nice. Oddly enough, it was only at that moment when Paige realized she had nothing to change into. She never expected to join the party and hadn’t come prepared. She felt filthy, and even though she knew it was mostly in her head, she couldn’t imagine feasting on a meal fit for a prince while feeling like a soiled pauper.

She heard the telltale sound of feet on stairs behind her. Paige turned around and noticed a narrow staircase spilling into an alcove on the other side of the kitchen just as Dean landed on the final step.

Paige smiled. “Every thing’s ready,” she said.

Dean smiled back. “I know. They can smell it all the way to the canyon.” Paige looked down and let her even tresses of flaxen hair cover the blush on her face. “How would you like to freshen up before joining us?”

“I would love to,” Paige said, “but I don’t have anything to change into and I feel dirty.”

“All taken care of,” Dean said. “Just follow me…”

Due to the length of this chapter, it will be concluded tomorrow.

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Laney opened the door and beamed at her newest student. “You can go ahead and get started,” she said, looking over the top of Reggie’s head and into the empty street. “Will your father be joining us this morning?”

“Nope, he had to head in to work for a few minutes. Weekend emergency, he said. He promised he’d be here to pick me up though. Said he really wanted to hear what we’ve been working on.”

Laney leaned down in front of Reggie and looked directly in his eyes. “It’s okay if he doesn’t make it. You know that right? I’m sure he’ll do his best, but he’s trying to juggle a lot of balls right now. If he misses something, it isn’t necessarily his fault.”

“I know,” Reggie shrugged. He’d been hearing his father say the same thing for a few years, but it felt kinda weird hearing it from another grown up, almost word for word. “Should I warm up?”

“Yes,” Laney nodded, rising to her feet and picking up her violin along the way. “Go ahead and start with Twinkle.”

Reggie placed the violin beneath his chin and pointed his toes, then closed his eyes and put bow to string using the near perfect hold he had been practicing for a few hours each day since the final week of summer. He glided through the piece without a single pause in rhythm or awkward moment to mar its beauty. Laney beamed.

“Just extraordinary, Reggie. I’ve never had a student take to their instrument quite so naturally before. You really should be very proud.”

Reggie’s face felt suddenly hot. He wondered if he was blushing. “You’re a great teacher, Ms. Laney. That’s all it is, really.”

“I thank you for the compliment, but I assure you it isn’t me. You have a natural ear and are willing to do the hard work. Believe me, that’s a pretty rare combination for any teacher. Most of us know it as soon as we see it and the smart ones know enough to compliment it and do all we can to keep it going.”

Now Reggie was positive he was blushing. “Hey Ms. Laney, you know you probably shouldn’t say anything bad about your other students.”

“I wasn’t. I was simply drawing a comparison that was perfectly appropriate to the compliment. If I can’t offer an honest reflection between my students, I’m not running much of a studio. Besides, I feel as though you and I can be direct, especially considering what’s going on with your father.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Reggie said. “What do you want me to play now?”

“I would like you to try and play Cambia Espeta.”

Reggie whistled, a nervous sort of half twitter. “I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Just try,” Laney said. You’ve watched me play it for you every Saturday morning for the last six weeks. I know you’ve been paying attention. We have two more weekends to get this in shape before the recital, where I expect you will be playing it perfectly.”

“The recital? There’s no way, Ms. Laney. I can’t play Cambia Espeta. Not in two weeks. How about I play Hot Cross Buns? I’ll kill it!”

“I’m sure you would make it beg for mercy, but Hot Cross Buns is for beginners. I want you to play something more advanced. You can and you will. Follow my lead.” Laney glided through a stunning, though abbreviated version of the piece, then smiled and curtsied to Reggie, who then cleared his throat and crunched his way through an awkward yet reasonable echo.

“Wow,” Reggie said, dropping the instrument to his side. Laney just smiled.

“So how many other kids are going to be at this recital?”

“Twenty-one,” Laney said, tasting the number on her tongue. “Including you.”

Reggie whistled, full bodied this time. “That’s a lot.”

Laney agreed. “I never thought I’d have so many students, but when I moved out here at the beginning of summer, most of my old families followed. Plus I’ve picked up a couple of new students each month since. I think I’m gonna have to hang a No Vacancy sign on the doorknob any day now.” An accidental giggle escaped Laney’s lips and she leaned down and whispered in Reggie’s ear. “You’re still my favorite though. Okay, back to practice. This song isn’t going to learn itself.”

Reggie smiled, then put bow to string and played the piece a second time from memory. Finding comfort and confidence together, Reggie hit the notes slightly sweeter; the bow finding its way against the strings seemingly by instinct. Reggie finished and said, “Hello toes,” as he took his bow, then grinned at Laney. “How was that?”

Laney beamed right back. “Just beautiful,” she said, shaking her head in a mild cocktail of slight disbelief and undiluted wonder. “You’ll be playing it perfectly by the time of the recital, don’t you worry one bit. Let’s roll through it a few more times, and if you keep playing so sweetly, I might just have to go ahead and give you a cookie.”

“I knew I smelled them!” Reggie smiled. “What kind did you make this week?”

“Snickerdoodles. I think I read somewhere that they were the one cookie no kid could resist, though I just wanted to make them because I never have before.”

“Never?”

“Nope, never. So far, I haven’t made the same cookie twice. There are just too many to try and I’ve only been cooking for a few months now.”

Reggie was missing something. “What do you mean?”

“That’s my first kitchen.” Laney threw her right thumb behind her shoulder. “When I lived at home, my mom cooked every meal. Now I do everything myself.”

“When did you move out?” Reggie knew she had only lived in the house for a few months, but was having a hard time imagining she had still lived with her parents until then. She looked about his dad’s age and the idea of a grown up old enough to have kids almost ready for middle school still living at home was a bit weird. But Ms. Laney was super nice and surely had a reason.

“Three months ago,” Laney laughed. “I know, I know. What was a woman my age doing living with her parents for so long.”

“I get it.” Reggie nodded his head. “Your parents did everything for you, right? And you got to keep all the money you made from teaching because you didn’t have to spend it on stuff like food and rent and stuff. Makes perfect sense to me.”

Laney’s face was blank. “Something like that,” she finally said.

“Well, that’s probably why you’re so happy all the time.” then after a pause he added, “We’re you always this happy?”

Reggie thought that in that moment, Laney looked about as sad as a lady could ever look. He felt bad for having maybe pried and found himself suddenly wishing he’d never said a thing. “No, no I wasn’t.” Laney gave Reggie a weak attempt at a smile and then said. “Now let’s get back to the lesson. We’re almost finished and your father will probably be here any minute.”

They flew through the exercise a few more times, then Laney instructed Reggie to put his violin away while she played a string version of Green Day’s Basket Case just to make him smile.

“That was awesome, Ms. Laney,” he said.

“I really wish you would drop the Ms.,” she said. “Laney is just fine.”

“I know. I will.”

Laney went to the kitchen and placed an oversized sized snickerdoodle onto a napkin, folded it over the cookie, then brought it to the front room and handed it to Reggie. He took the cookie and stole a glance at the clock. It was five minutes after the hour. “Thanks for the cookie Ms… er, I mean Laney. I’m going to save it until I get home. I’m sure my dad’s gonna want half after having to spend a Saturday morning at work. He might already be waiting at home for me too. I should get going.”

“He’ll be here,” Laney said. “Just be patient.”

As if on cue, they heard the crunch of gravel as Reggie’s dad took the short cut through the rock garden like he always did. A second later the doorbell rang and echoed through the house. Reggie looked up at Laney and saw a smile so big that it easily reduced the sad look on her face just a few minutes before to barely rumor.

They rose from the sofa and Laney opened the door. “Hi there, handsome,” she said.

“Hi, Sweetheart.” Reggie’s father took Laney by the waist and kissed her softly on the lips. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Reggie grinned and the three of them walked onto the drive, across the street, and just around the block. Reggie lifted the latch to the fence, which had been sticking a bit ever since his father had fixed it earlier last month, then held it open for his dad and the new girlfriend squeezing his arm.

“So how did the prodigy do today?” his dad asked.

“Your son is a dream.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” Reggie’s dad turned his attention to Reggie. “So, you gonna play at the recital”

“Like a dream…” Reggie said with a far off whisper, then rolled his eyes and laughed. The laughter felt good, and he was glad it had been coming a lot easier lately. He wasn’t sure if it was the lessons, his dad’s new girlfriend, or the combination of both, but Reggie was feeling better than he had in years. Despite what he might tell his dad or Laney, he wasn’t scared to play at the recital at all. He was looking forward to it. Most of the kids at his school were assholes, and three of the worst happened to be part of Ms. Laney’s studio.

Lincoln Armatto would probably choke on his Lemonheads when he heard him playing Cambia Speta, especially considering Reggie heard him warbling his way through a broken version of Hot Cross Buns the week before while waiting outside for Lincoln’s lesson to finish. Amy had also started taking lessons right after Laney moved in, and though he hadn’t heard her playing, she always thought she was at least twice as good at everything than she actually was.

“I can’t stay,” Laney kissed his father on the cheek, “I’ve got someone coming in fifteen minutes and another tray of snickerdoodles in the oven.”

“See you tonight, yes?”
 “Of course! Aren’t we still on for the Indiana Jones marathon?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“Hey, Ms. Laney,” Reggie called as she was half way out the door.

“Laney,” she said.

Reggie smiled. “Sorry, I’ll get used to it. I promise. You think that maybe someday you can teach me the score to Indiana Jones?”

“I think that if you keep practicing, little man, someday I’ll be asking you to teach me a thing or two.” Then she added, “Of course, I’ll teach you anything you’d like.”

The door closed quietly behind her and Reggie’s dad approached him from behind, gently squeezing his shoulders. “Thanks for being so great about all this,” he said. “You’ve really made it easy.”

“It’s nothing dad. It’s great to see you so happy.”

“I know you want me to be happy, I know you want us both to be happy, but I don’t ever want you to feel like my relationship with Laney, or anyone else, has anything to do with my feelings for Mom.”

“I get it, Dad.”

Reggie’s dad stared at his son, his expression a blend of gratitude and wonder. “You’re a great kid, Reggie. I’m really lucky.”

Reggie blushed.

His father stood, tousled his hair, then walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He emptied the rest of the apple juice into a tall glass and began to gulp it down, trying to ignore the feelings of guilt and regret that had slowly mounted over the last few dozen months. Laney was a godsend, and whatever had brought her into his world and set her up just a dozen houses over, well it was something well worth his worship.

He walked into the living room, sat in a chair and picked up the top book from the short pile he’d been reading, An Unearthed Era, a recommendation from his good friend John. John had handed it to him about six months back, just before he left the country on an extended honey moon with a new bride he’d met maybe five minutes earlier. John had said, “You’ll love this book, buddy. I promise. It changed my life in more ways than one.” Pressed for details, John said nothing, just winked and gently pushed the book into his hands. The last thing he had felt like doing was reading and something about the title had pissed him off, so he had carelessly tossed the novel onto one of the few clean counters in the house the second he got home, where it had remained until Reggie’s second violin lesson and his first date with Laney. It was only when he was making a mad dash through the house to organize or toss everything in sight that he had stumbled upon the forgotten treasure. He set the book on the coffee table to read later, but was blindsided the following week when a look of pure delight luxuriated Laney’s long face. She saw the book on the coffee table and squealed. “I read that book about six months ago. It totally changed my life.”

Wow, he had thought. Now he couldn’t wait to turn the pages. So far he was only a third of the way in and didn’t quite know what to think, except that he did love reading it with the sound of Reggie playing his violin in the background.

He couldn’t have been prouder of his son and couldn’t wait to hear him play at the recital. He believed every word of Laney’s praise. Sure, she wanted to please him, but there was something about his boy that brought out the best in his girl and he could see it plainly on Laney’s face. It seemed as though all three of them had something to prove, each in their own way.

By the time the recital rolled around, Reggie could play Cambia as though he wrote it. Both his father and Laney held hands and watched him play through it for the final time without a larger audience, each of them dropping a tear for a different reason.

They both clapped. “That was beautiful,” his father said.

Reggie placed his instrument in its case with the care of a loving father, then latched it shut and said, “Well, I guess that means I’m ready.”

It was a short mile to the recital hall, a community center with a lone ping pong table that needed to be pushed to the corner, covered with a cloth, and converted to a dessert bar. Reggie was surprised by his own lack of nervousness. He felt nothing but excitement and perhaps the slightest bit of pride. “So we’re here,” he said, “Anyone want to turn this thing around, go back home, and watch the Matrix or something?”

“Kind of,” two voices from the front seat said together. The car filled with laughter and three doors opened in unison. Outside the car, Laney turned to Reggie and said. “If you want to know the truth, this is the first time I haven’t been scared out of my wits right before a recital. Usually I’m running in circles in my head.”

“You’ll do great,” Reggie winked.

“You too.”

There was an hour worth of prep and setup before the recital began. The entire time Laney buzzed cheerfully about the room, eagerly greeting each new family as they walked through the door. At two minutes after the top of the hour, she gently clapped her hands, stepped up to the stage and started the recital.

Reggie did nothing to stand apart from the other students, fading into their harmonies like a whistle in the wind. Even though it was clearly printed on the program, there were a few surprised giggles when Reggie’s solo was announced and he took the front of the stage.

Reggie placed the violin under his chin, closed his eyes and thought about his mom, heard her whisper encouragement from some far off nowhere, then put bow to string and filled the air with splendor.

Amy Davis dropped her bow about thirty seconds into the piece and Lincoln Armatto swallowed his gum. Most of the audience was crying. Laney was swimming in slightly removed deja vu as she stood in front of the podium. Reggie’s dad looked on them both, giving his son the widest smile to spread across his face in at least three years.

Reggie bowed to his waist then rose from the floor beaming. It was only then, standing fully straight and staring at the audience, that he saw him – the man leaning against the exit, pride and wonder written on his face and a beautiful girl leaning on his arm.

How long had it been? Reggie wondered, counting back the near year in his head. It was all he could do not to leap from the stage and run toward the door.

The remainder of the recital passed in adagio. Laney ended the recital with a performance of Mendelssohn in E Minor. Reggie hurried through his final bow, then ran off the stage and toward his “Uncle” slightly faster than his legs were willing to go. He stumbled and flew forward, but John caught him at the last second, just before he would’ve toppled right into the lady now sitting beside him.

“Careful there young buck,” John grinned. “My lady here is delicate.”

It was only then that Reggie noticed the swollen belly, hidden before beneath the rows of chairs. Reggie’s dad came up behind John, slapped him on the back and then pulled him into a tight embrace. “How have you been, man? It’s good to see you. And you…” he turned to Lisa. “I heard, I just didn’t believe. You are every bit as beautiful as John said.”

“Yeah, Uncle John said you were pretty, but I think you look like a movie star.” Lisa blushed. “When is the baby due?” Reggie asked.

“In another two months. If I can make it that long.”

“So….” John said to his brother, wondering when he was going to meet his best friend’s new better half.

“Just be patient,” he said. “She’ll be over in a second.” Reggie’s dad caught Laney’s eye and silently pulled her toward their huddle. She practically skipped over and said, “So, I finally get to meet the famous John.” She held her hand out, but John ignored it and pulled Laney into a tender hug. “It’s wonderful to meet you,” he said.

John offered his hand to Lisa and gently pulled her to her feet. “This is my wife, Lisa,” he said.

Lisa gasped.

“We’ve met,” Laney said.

Writer Dad

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It took Dean three decades and two divorces to finally realize he’d gathered his life’s most valuable lessons from the crusty old timer with no hair and two perfect rows of teeth who had lived right across the street his entire childhood. He was always there, living in the neighborhood’s only pink house, always ready to give him a meal or a scolding, whichever one he needed most. His own mother barely did the one, and though she did the other, it was seldom from the right side of sobriety.

It had been a decade since Dean had seen Solomon. Most days he thought of the old man at least once, other times he would go a month without a thought. Sometimes, Saul barely strayed from his thoughts the entire day.

Dean had waited until about five minutes after graduation before getting the hell out of Dodge. He managed to finish high school, but did so while sleeping a few hours each night on the floor of his own apartment after pulling grave yard at the gas station. He lived in a single room above a garage, rented by a kind family of four who pretended not to know he was only seventeen. Once the caps were thrown in the air, Dean was a dust cloud. He loved Solomon, though not enough to ignore the proximity to his mother, and felt bad about leaving his fifteen year old sister behind, but Maya was whip smart and plenty capable of taking care of herself. Dean saw his sister through high school and college, always tending to her every need. It was at a distance for the first couple of years, but had always been as close as she wanted since.

After trading coasts and spending the next couple of tattered chapters of his life building a thriving business and destroying a marriage, twice and each time in that order, Dean finally returned to California and settled right on the sand of the Pacific.

He could have easily bought a first class ticket for him and all three of the friends he still spoke to in Jersey, but chose to drive cross country instead, stopping for a day or two in every other state and usually at a waffle house. The three day drive took nearly a month and when Dean was finally racing the sun into the edges of the golden state for the first time in fifteen years, something inside him did a little dance. He realized he was excited to be going home, and that home might not be such a bad word after all.

Though he should have gassed up before crossing the Arizona border into Cali, Dean found it difficult to pass a perfectly good chance to race against a dipping red line. He ended his trip in a fit of laughter, slapping the steering wheel with nothing but fumes in the tank, parked beside a pump at the same station where he’d mapped out maybe two-thirds of his future dreams. Dean walked into the station and saw his old boss a second later, fifteen years later and looking thirty years older. His boss had always been kind, working his fingers bloody for thirty years with little hope of retirement. After a quick handshake and So how’ve you been? Dean offered him twice what the station was worth, in cash, and even threw in the faded black F 150 sitting idle by the pump. “You’re responsible for filling her up,” Dean said with a smile, tossing his old boss the keys.

This was more than a homecoming for Dean, it was a reboot. He had spent the last decade and a half with his eyes fixed just enough on his future to make him turn a deaf ear toward his present. Now something inside him was stirring. It was high time to reconcile all that lay behind him with everything still sitting in front.

He was back in town for three days when one of his best buddies from high school, Jake, came into the station for a pack of cigarettes.

“No shit! If it isn’t muscles McGee.”

Dean smiled. He hadn’t heard the nickname in half a forever. “What the hell are you doing in town? And why are you standing behind bulletproof glass inside this old shit hole? You didn’t get caught doing any kinda dumb ass insider trading or whatever it is you guys get caught doing, did you?”

“Nope, just thought it was time to come back home.” Dean pulled down the same pack of Marlboro Reds he used to sell Jake back in high school and slid them under the glass. “On the house,” he said.

Jake smiled. “Thanks, man. So you just filling in for grins or what? You planning to stay in LA long?”

“I’m here for good, least until I get restless. Bought the gas station so I’d have a place to think.”

Jake laughed. You always were a little more loco than the rest of us. “You been home yet? I haven’t seen you around the street. I moved back myself a while ago. Mom and Dad died in a giant pile up ‘bout seven years back and I’ve been living in the old fortress ever since.”

Dean shook his head. “Not yet, but I’ll get there eventually.”

“So you two made up yet?”

“Nah, we haven’t spoken in ten years. But I was thinking of going to see Saul. You have any idea if he’s still around?”

“For now, but I don’t know how much longer that’s gonna last. Poor old dude’s gotta hole in his stomach. His granddaughter said it’s easy enough to fix, but he doesn’t want anyone touching him. Says he’s ready to hit the white light and doesn’t know what’s taking so goddamn long.”

Dean grinned, picturing the tough old bastard. Saul spit the sort of dialogue you usually had to rent a movie to hear. “Any idea how long he has?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Jake said. “They said up around a month, maybe three or four months back. Everyone on the street started bringing over those trays of casseroles and baked ziti like he always liked, until old Saul slammed the door on Mrs. Rassmussen’s face and told her he never liked ziti in the first place and wasn’t gonna spend the remainder of his days acquiring a taste.” They both laughed. The only thing Saul liked putting to his lips more than a plate of pasta was a sip or two of scotch. That had been three months ago. It was now the end of September and Dean had gone to visit Solomon every day since. The first day had been especially strange. Dean entered the old house, always his favorite in the neighborhood from the outside with its oddly placed steeple, leaded glass windows, and pink paint chosen by a spouse who had doused a part of the old man’s spirit forever when she passed away from a coronary ten years earlier. He stepped past the nurse and into an instant rush of nostalgia. A scent with claws slapped his face, exactly as he remembered; mildew, medicine and something sharp that Dean was no closer to identifying even after traveling to two dozen countries.

“Dean!” the old man shouted, though the greeting left his mouth in a gravel washed whisper. At seventy, Solomon had looked 55. Now he looked like he was nudging a century. His skin was paper stretched to membrane, barely shielding the few sharp angles that remained on the decay of his once powerful frame. Something inside Dean withered as he remembered what Solomon had looked like the last time they saw each other, before the last few years had stacked up to strip him.

“It’s good to see you, Saul,” Dean said. He turned and whispered a thank you to the nurse and then headed toward the bed. The last thing Dean wanted to do was cry in front of Solomon, but Jack was already out of the box and there was nothing he could do to stop the set of tears, one running down each side of his face.

“Pussy,” the old man wheezed.

That brought a smile to Dean’s lips. He pulled a chair next to the bed and pulled the old man’s hand into his. “How you been?” he said.

“Well, I’m still here.”

“Yeah, about that…” Dean looked dead in his eyes and cut right to the chase. “I heard you were refusing a simple procedure. Can’t you let them patch you up without the gloves?”

“I was half dead ten years before I met you, kid. Been waiting for this for a long time. That operation would just leave me lying in the same old hell. Just a fresh coat of paint is all, and I’m happy to give a giant no thanks to that.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Nah, feel full as a tick. Mostly I just feel pissy.” The old man crackled through a short series of splintered laughs. “I’m ready to go, but I’m glad I haven’t gone yet. I would’ve hated to miss seeing you.”

“I would’ve come sooner if I’d known.” Dean swallowed. “Sorry,” he added, just above a whisper.

Why hadn’t he come? How long had he expect the old guy to live?

“Ah, it ain’t nothing. Not like there’s any shortage of news about you. Looks like you done better than anyone expected.”

“Not true,” Dean said. “You always told me I could do whatever I wanted, and that one day I was sure to do something great. I don’t know if I did great, but I guess I did better than most.”

“Don’t start that shit with me,” Solomon said. “I’m sure as hell not going to spend my last days listening to it.”

Something in Solomon’s voice put a wince on Dean’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked, then studied the old man’s face, waiting for any small shift in expression.

“You know exactly what I mean, and there ain’t no reason I got to waste either of our minutes telling you what we both know. You like to lay on the cross as often as you can. You want to give and give and give and never take, and you always have to be embarrassed when something good comes your way.” Solomon stopped to catch his breath, along with a few specks of blood that looked like red mist on the white tissue. Saul tried to speak again, but the first few words hit the air like they were scraped on sandpaper. Dean handed the old man a glass filled with tepid water from the nightstand and a pink twisty straw coming out the top. He took three sips then set the glass on the nightstand and leaned forward. “Self interest and generosity are best not separated, but you keep on making the mistake of thinking they’re enemies.”

Solomon collapsed on the pillow.

Dean stared, embarrassment surrounding his anger and begging him into surrender. “You’re right,” he said after only a couple of seconds thought.

“Damn hell I’m right.” The old man started laughing, which sent him into another wiry fit of rasping that lasted for a good three minutes.

Dean held Saul’s hand and the old man allowed it.

After that, words flowed like blood from a cut. Solomon had said what needed saying and Dean had traveled a few thousand miles to hear it. It was no surprise when Dean finally stood to leave several hours later and Saul hit him with, “I’m assuming you haven’t gone to see your mother.”

“No,” Dean said.

“You gonna?”

“Not today.”

That’s how every exchange had ended each day since.

It was the final week of September by the time Dean finally decided to cross the street and deal with the delayed inevitable. It was the time of year in Southern California when hot Santa Ana winds blow through the southern part of the state, withering vegetation and stripping the vigor from a million or so citizens. Searing winds had nothing to do with Dean’s fleeing the state, but he had grown to love the East Coast Septembers that hinted at a changing season. In California, shifts between the four seasons existed in barely a whisper.

Dean stepped into the street and briskly approached the house that had harbored five years of impossible happiness, followed by a baker’s dozen of misery, torment and the wretched feeling of constant uncertainty that is worst when cast on a child. Dean wondered if there was something in a human’s DNA that kept them from ever truly hating their own mother. He didn’t know. He did know he’d sent wide rivers of money into a vast sea of charities, though he doubted he could find it in his heart to cross the street to save his own mother.

He flexed his fists, wondering how hard he should pound on the door. Despite knowing he would eventually face her, he had done nothing to prepare. The door swung open before he ever raised his knuckles to the wood.

“Three months it takes you to come see me,” his mom said.

“Hello, Olivia.” Dean stepped past his mother and into the house. He threw a glance around the room. “Looks nice,” he said. “Different. Guess it’s a good gig, getting a steady paycheck for nothing.

Olivia tilted her head and said nothing.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said. “I know Maya sends you money every month. She pretends it’s all for her, I pretend to have no idea, and we both pretend not to know the other is pretending. We’ve been doing it for years.” Dean walked to the secretary desk and started looking through the drawers. Without turning around he asked, “You have this place professionally aired? Smells sorta normal.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” Olivia said. “I haven’t had so much as a single drop all year. Check the house, rummage through every cupboard. There’s nothing to find.”

“No thanks,” Dean growled, “I got bored of doing that back in junior high.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic.”
 “Dramatic! You serious? Dramatic was when I had to take the bottle of vodka from my seven your old sister because you were either too drunk or too fucking stupid not to leave it on the floor where you passed out. All three of us are fucking lucky she didn’t unscrew the cap and start chugging ‘Mommy’s water,’ so don’t tell me I’m being dramatic because I’ve got no reservations about walking out that fucking door and never looking back.”

“You’re so boorish,” Olivia said. “Really, did you need to say ‘fucking’ three times in a single tirade. I would’ve given you far more credit.”

Dean stood there silent, reducing the insides of his cheek to raw meat. Finally he turned to leave. “I’m out of here,” he said.

“That’s it?” Olivia stepped toward her son and grabbed him by his left arm. “After all this time you’re gonna up and leave, just like that? You’re not looking to solve anything, so why the hell did you even come back?”

“I did it for Saul.”

“You’re just telling yourself that,” she said. “You did it for you. It’s exhausting hating your own mother. You knew it was time to finally put it all behind you; time to apologize for abandoning me.”

Dean shook her hand from his arm and leaned into her face just enough to make her take a giant step back. “I don’t regret that moment for a second,” he said. “You know the night I left, you were out cold on the sofa with a lit cigarette still dangling from your mouth. Last thing I did before slamming the door was put it out. Only reason I didn’t leave it lit and let it burn you alive and let you get an early glimpse of hell was because Maya was asleep in the next room.”

The room was still. Dean’s anger slowed to a heavy exhale and the two of them stood staring. After a minute, Olivia started to quietly shake until her composure shattered into a million shards of regret and self loathing. A tsunami of heaving sobs wracked her body and dropped her to her knees. For several minutes Dean continued to stand over his mother as her sobs grew louder. After a while he walked to the dining room table, pulled out a chair, and dragged it to five feet in front of her and sat, still watching.”

When her sea had turned to desert and her face looked like a slab of uncooked meat, something inside Dean melted. “I’m sorry if I was harsh,” he said.

“Harsh?” Olivia cackled. “You just orally drop kicked an old defenseless woman. But I deserved it. Can we be finished? I’m ready to start over. Can you at least hear what I have to say?”

“Sure,” Dean said, “but don’t give me a reason to walk out the door. I’m not even looking for a big one.”

Olivia laughed. “Well, hell’s bells. If I’d known all it would take was a tongue lashing, I’d have invited you to go off on me a long time ago.

Dean wasn’t amused. “It isn’t because I got anything out of my system. It’s because Maya says you’ve been better for years, and that this last year you haven’t even seemed like the same person. She’s been begging me to come by since I came back. She and Lisa both. I would’ve eventually. Saul just made it happen faster.”

“You’ve met Lisa?”

“Of course.”

“When?” Surprise or confirmation crossed his mother’s face, Dean wasn’t sure whcih. “Never mind,” she said, “it’s none of my business. You tell me what you want, whenever you’re comfortable.” Olivia offered Dean a smile he barely remembered. “Now how about you let me to make you dinner. Maybe fish sticks and Mac & Cheese?”

“That was my favorite meal when I was ten, Mom.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s already made.”
 “You have fish sticks and macaroni already made?”

“I’ve made it every night for three months,” she said.

Something inside Dean broke, or maybe knitted. “Sure, mom. I’d love some Mac and Cheese.” He went to the table and sat down and Olivia started bustling around in the kitchen. A whisper told him to go and check on Solomon, but he ignored it. He was being silly. The nurse was there and knew to call him the second anything went wrong. It would be rough losing the best teacher he’d ever had. Dean wondered if he would ever shed the regret of allowing so much time to pass. He smiled, remembering the final words from the old man’s mouth before he’d left an hour ago.

“The slower we move the faster we die.”

Hell if he wasn’t right like always.

Writer Dad

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Caitlin stepped into the air conditioned hallway and set their bags on the sofa. Hunter shut the door behind her. She exchanged a smile with her husband, knowing they would remember the afternoon forever. Not because their purchases were substantial, but because it was one more sign that their children were growing all too fast.

“Do I look like a kindergartner?” Melissa’s voiced faded at the far end of her twirl. She looked ready for first grade, though that didn’t make either of her parents any more ready for her transition. Amy was three years older than her sister, and though they had experienced a particular pain in releasing their first born to the unknown, it was a sharper cut knowing the first verse of their collective song was ending.

“You look beautiful, Sweetheart,” Hunter said, finishing the sentiment with a kiss on his younger daughter’s cheek.

“You do look quite pretty,” Caitlin agreed, “but I think that one looks a tad big on you.” She was right, the navy blue tennis dress hung on Melissa like a pea coat on a coat hanger. Caitlin turned to Hunter and softly shook her head. “You were right, we should’ve ordered online.”

“Nah, no big deal,” Hunter smiled. “We would have had to wait for shipping anyway. If I get online right now we should still get the new dresses a week or so before school starts.”

“I could wear the dress,” Amy offered.

“No, you can’t, it’s too small.” Caitlin chewed on the edge of her lip. Most of her wanted to give Amy the response she’d been looking for since her first little outburst at breakfast, but the mother in her was now nearing a decade and getting wiser by the day.

Caitlin turned to Melissa, “Daddy’s going to order you a couple of tennis dresses that fit.” Then to Amy, “Why don’t you both come help me get ready for dinner.”
 Hunter smiled, grateful for the even trade and eager for a minute alone. He retrieved Caitlin’s laptop from the table then claimed her groove in the couch. He lifted the lid and went straight to the browser’s history, trying to remember if it was just the day before or the day before that when they had been LCD window shopping for school uniforms. Hunter scrolled down the History and let the blue bar blink on the address he was looking for.

The name he prayed he’d never see again was staring up at Hunter from the bottom of the page – Garrett. He saw it for only a second, but that second was enough to bristle every hair on his body. Confusion danced with horror as Hunter sent the browser away from the uniforms and back toward the White Pages directory search showing the first and last name of the final man his wife had slept with before saying “I do.”

She wouldn’t dare.

A hot gust of dry August air wafted through the window and pulled Hunter’s mind toward a long ago summer afternoon when he had been laying on her bed, alone in her apartment, with a pillow covering his ears as the third voice mail of a friend or family member saying, “Give my best to Garrett!” issued its final click.

Even after a year of dating, Hunter had still felt like a perpetual secret, but that was long ago and mostly forgotten. They had spent the last decade blending future with family. Why would she be looking him up now?

Worse, why would she be keeping it a secret?

Nightmares of suspicion shook the bars of Hunter’s sleep for the next two nights, leaving him agitated by daylight as envy and insecurity set up camp in the halls of his brain. Hunter was in constant quiet rehearsal, forever attempting to string the right sequence of words together. He wanted to be ready to speak when he finally gathered the courage to open his mouth. Though when the time did arrive, Hunter could only surrender his thoughts to timidity while doing his best to ignore the bitter taste of betrayal that coated his tongue.

“You okay, or has part of you gone on holiday?” Caitlin asked, approaching her husband from behind and pressing her thumbs gently into the small of his back as her fingers kneaded the base of his neck. He was sitting in his favorite chair, clearly not reading the book in his lap.

Hunter took a look at the page number, then closed his book and tossed it on the coffee table. “I’ve been dreaming that you cheated on me,” he said, sheathing his hurt in an awkward smile. “For the last couple of nights now.”

“Cheating on you,” Caitlin laughed, “with what time?” She stepped in front of Hunter and sat beside him on the sofa, then removed her glasses and looked him in the eyes. “Don’t be silly. You know I’ve never cheated on anyone, and I sure wouldn’t cheat on you. You are everything to me. You’ve either been watching too much trashy TV or reading way too many tabloid headlines at Albertson’s.”

The inner coward was thick in Hunter’s throat. “You’re right,” he said.

Caitlin brushed her hands across his legs, kissed Hunter on the cheek, then left him behind. He was oddly comforted. Was he really that naive, or did Caitlin really have nothing to hide?

Hunter almost laughed out loud as he realized for the first time that there might be something more to what he saw. Perhaps she was even doing something for him. He had been miserable at the office without a hope of promotion. Garrett, he knew, was the hiring manager at one of the best accounting firms in the city, one that would likely pay a healthy percentage more in tangible take home and probably pay as much as double in appreciation.

Things at work had been growing increasingly difficult and Caitlin could probably nab him the new job with a simple phone call. Still, if that was her plan he certainly deserved to know.

Two weeks passed without incident and the initial episode wormed its way to the back of Hunter’s thoughts to settle in with the rest of life’s unfinished business.

“I need your phone,” Caitlin said as she plugged her pink LG into the charger and dropped Hunter’s in her purse. “Mine’s about to die.”

Hunter smiled at her usual routine. “Drive safe,” he said with a playful salute.

“I don’t know about that,” Caitlin laughed. “If Amy gives me any more attitude, I might just find a nice brick wall to plow into.”

It wasn’t until Hunter decided to order a half cheese, half pepperoni pizza about half an hour later, when the green demon returned to its nest. He flipped Caitlin’s phone open to search for the number to Mossimo’s, but his eyes instantly fell on the row of numbers two-thirds to the bottom. Numbers are second nature to Hunter and it took him all of a second to recognize Garret’s seven digits staring at him on the screen. He clicked view, heart thudding just loud enough to hear, and saw that Garrett’s number had been dialed the previous Friday morning, about five minutes after he had left the house.

There’s nothing to worry about, man. You’re being silly. She’s doing something for you. Hunter almost had himself convinced. Even so, Caitlin’s quiet cut like the mean side of a fresh razor.

Hunter checked the time, quickly calculated the 40 or so minutes before Caitlin would return with the girls, then quickly walked toward the bedroom and headed straight for Caitlin’s laptop and the people search he’d landed on a couple weeks before.

What he saw gave birth to an instantly dry throat and complete hollowness in his bones. Hunter stared at the screen for seconds that felt like minutes, flirting with the thought of sifting through Caitlin’s entire hard drive. Instead, he closed the browser, shut the lid and returned her laptop to the nightstand next to her journal. Though it was tempting to tear through the pages in search of the truth, if the Universe was testing him, Hunter intended to pass.

His mind’s eye rewound to the last time he almost went too far, during their first “break” when he had spent Super Bowl Sunday driving through Garrett’s hoity-toity neighborhood, trying to get a glimpse of Caitlin’s lime green Neon. This was back in the late nineties before the Internet had crept into every unguarded corner of the country. Now finding the address of your rival was almost as easy a few diligent points and clicks. Back then it had required the investment of an aimless afternoon.

Hunter had driven around for a couple of blocks, then turned the car around, angry at himself for each of the hundred thousand things that had led him to that moment. He drove the 40 minutes back to his hotel room in the pouring rain, tears streaming down his face as a series of intentionally sad songs sounded through the radio. They had made up the following weekend and Hunter admitted he had spent Super Bowl Sunday looking for her. Caitlin had rolled her eyes.

“Why would I be there?” she asked. “I haven’t seen Garrett once since I met you. Honestly,” she shook her head, “I have no idea why you give him so much power.”

He didn’t know then and wasn’t sure now.

Of course that all happened before the girls. With two daughters, one with his exact same brooding shade of hazel in her eyes and the other, with her father’s mottle of chestnut hair, life was good. He and Caitlin had never been closer and he hadn’t a single legitimate reason to doubt her. Yet the possibility was there; a wind’s whisper turning to argument.

Hunter heard the key turning in the lock and felt grateful he had let his Jiminy Cricket do the walking. The door swung open and all three of his girls poured into the room. “It’s so quiet in here,” Caitlin said.

“I was just thinking.”

“Yeah, but you’re usually just thinking to some Hendrix, maybe the Stones if you’re feeling thoughtful,” Caitlin said.

Hunter laughed, Caitlin’s calm repose massaging the doubt from his mind.

“I guess I was feeling quiet more than thoughtful.”

“Ah,” Caitlin smiled. “Are you feeling quiet like a glass of wine quiet, or quiet like you need some time alone in your office quiet?”

Hunter exhaled and tried to decide. Not only what he thought he should say, but the true tenor of what he was feeling. After a long pause he said, “I don’t really want to be alone right now. I’m glad you guys are home.”

Melissa crawled like a kitten into her daddy’s lap.

“Mommy said she would take us to story time at the library tomorrow, but Amy said she was too old for stupid baby books, so mom said she could just stay home and stare at the grown-up books on the shelf.”

“Well, maybe your sister is jealous that story time is more for you than her these days,” Hunter said, “Sometimes we don’t like it when the spotlight isn’t on us.”

Melissa smiled and Amy scowled. Hunter could hear the sound of clinking wine glasses coming from the kitchen.

Dinner was delicious and Hunter found it relatively easy to relax into the full body of his aged wine. After a quickly-abandoned game of Monopoly and a drawn out round of bedtime stories, Hunter and Caitlin finally found themselves alone on the couch.

“It’s hot tonight,” Caitlin said, pouring the last drop of wine into Hunter’s goblet. “You trying to get me drunk,” he said.

“It’s never taken much.”

“Nah, I’m only pretending. You’ve never actually seen me drunk.”

Caitlin’s rolled her eyes. “Brian, Maya and everyone at their wedding would disagree.”

Sudden laughter drifted into lingering silence. Half a minute later, Caitlin picked up her glass and grabbed her tongue from the cat. “You still think I’m cheating on you,” she asked somewhere just above a whisper.

“I never thought you were cheating on me.”

Their eyes met, the room now just dark enough to prompt shadows to dance by the light of the single candle flickering on the coffee table. Caitlin pulled Hunter into her gaze and smiled. “I love you, Hunter,” she said, eyes fastened to his. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” She set her glass on the table. “Nothing. If there’s something on your mind, you have to tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know and I don’t really feel like guessing.”

Hunter squirmed against the challenge, cast a glance at his empty glass and then picked up Caitlin’s, swallowing the four year old Merlot in three rapid gulps.

“When’s the last time you’ve spoken to Garrett?”

As though his nerves weren’t already in ragged spools of frayed wire, Caitlin gave vent to a cool laugh. “Is that what this is about?”

Hunter quickly drifted from confusion to anger. How could she be so dismissive? Mounting ire sharpened his tone. “Why are you calling him?”

“I’m not calling him, Hunter.” All levity fled from her tone. “I called him once and let it ring twice before hanging up.”

“Why?” Memories like smudged fingerprints began to blot his ability to reason.

“I don’t know really,” she said, “I guess I was just curious. He crossed my mind, I wondered why, then did something about it.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what? That I called an old friend to see how he was doing?”

“No.” Hunter was seized with a sudden urgency to flee. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but knew if he didn’t face the darkness, he would live with ripe regret for who knew how long. “You should’ve told me you were calling the one who got away.” Hunter’s voice quivered at the edge of composure before collapsing completely into a cold puddle of gradually gathered sorrow.

Caitlin did the unthinkable and surrendered to a dizzying fit of guffaws and giggles as Hunter’s heart continued to shatter. A chill like a knife slipped into his side. There it stood – the undeniable fact – he was lying waist deep in the cracked fissure of betrayal and all she could do was mock him.

What had happened and where had he gone wrong?

“Hunter, honey,” Caitlin pulled her husband toward her, swept the hair from his face and then lowered his head onto her chest. “You’re sitting on a broken pew in the wrong church. There is no one walking on this big blue marble that I’ll ever love more than you, and our two girls are marching right behind. There’s no room for Garrett or anyone else. Yes, I called him. I’m not even sure why and I’m sure as hell sorry I didn’t tell you when I decided to grab the passing whim. But believe me, it had everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. You have to stop giving him power. We’ve been together for more than 10 years. That’s longer than I’ve been with anyone and nearly a quarter of the time I’ve been walking on the planet.”

“But I was always a secret with your little crowd, never good enough to introduce. If you hadn’t met me you would probably be married to him right now.”

Caitlin sighed, then slid into the cushions, lifted Hunter’s chin and locked their eyes together. “I’m human, and since I’m human I’m going to occasionally do some stupid shit – no different from you. Gun to head, I probably wanted Garrett to know that you and I were happy and maybe see if he was happy too. Maybe there’s a part of me that saw it as an open loop that needed closing. I’m not sure, and we either need to open another bottle or you can take the girls and give me a long afternoon of think time to figure it out. Either way, we’re fine and this has nothing to do with you. Yeah you were a secret. You were my secret, way too dear to share with that gaggle of shallow people who would have loved nothing more than to tear you down. You meant too much to me to share. Every day I was with you, they meant less. They were my past, you were my future and every moment widened the gap. I love you, Hunter. And I’m sorry. What more do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” Hunter smiled and put his lips to hers. “I was so scared.”

“You don’t ever need to be. Not with me.”

Hunter stared into her eyes and let relief color the desert of his previous two weeks. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” he said, hating himself for thinking of Maya.

Writer Dad

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Reggie was the kind of kid who would gladly bend over backwards onto a pile of rusty nails if he thought it would seize a few seconds of his father’s attention. Unfortunately, it seemed that between baseball and beer Reggie was receiving less and less of his share. Knowing his father’s affection for history and encyclopedic knowledge of seemingly every battle ever fought where someone lived to write about it, it took Reggie all of two seconds to decide the subject of his summer project.

“I’m doing my project on the Civil War,” Reggie proudly announced to Ms. Fisher three days before the end of the school year. At least if he had to do homework over the summer, he could work on something that would make his dad proud.

“Why the Civil War?” Ms. Fisher had asked, though Reggie noticed no wonder on her face.

“Because my dad says that if you know all about old wars, it’s easy to understand what’s happening now. History repeats itself, it’s our job to look for patterns.” Ms. Fisher only smiled, but Reggie could practically feel his father’s hand tousling his hair.

He ran every other block the entire trip home, even though he knew he’d have at least an hour to kill before the old man stepped through the door.

Turned out it was two, maybe three or four. Reggie decided to stop clock watching soon as he felt the hunger rolling through his stomach. He microwaved himself a burrito, then headed online to read up on the War Between the States.

“Hope you’re not looking at anything you’re not supposed to,” his dad said, shutting the front door behind him.

“Of course not,” Reggie shook his head and pointed at the screen. “I was reading about the Civil War.”

“Civil War, huh?” Reggie’s dad looked past his son’s tufts of dirty blond hair and onto the computer screen at a browser filled with old faded photographs of rolling knolls of piled bodies. Some wore uniforms of deep blue beneath the sun, but they were all forever captured in shades of dingy gray beneath the fading black and white of antiquity.

“So why are you reading about the Civil War?” Reggie had to guess at the end of the sentence as his father trailed into the kitchen.

“It’s our summer project. Ms. Fisher said we could either write a story that we make up ourselves, or we can do a research paper, but we got to decide on whatever subject we wanted. I chose the Civil War.”

“Oh yeah?” Reggie’s dad cracked the pop top of his Coors and brought the thin tin to his lips and guzzled. “Why’d you decide on the Civil War?” he wiped his mouth. “Why not World War II or at the Spanish Civil War or even Thermopile? Civil War’s been done.”

He didn’t wait for Reggie to answer. Just picked up the remote from the coffee table in exchange for his half empty beer can and then plopped his body onto the couch.

That was a month ago.

Reggie had been working on his project every day since. He’d spent the first couple of weeks online. He had the house to himself all day and loved getting lost in the endless sea of links, starting each morning at Wikipedia and then seeing where the day took him. But after a while he grew tired of staring at the same screen and decided he’d rather make the relatively short mile and a half walk to the library instead.

“Idiot!”

Reggie was on his way back home from that day’s jaunt to the library and approaching the end of the block when he heard the usual insult chased by the giggle he’d grown to loathe during the last eleven years of his life living in the second to the last house all the way at the end of Eureka Ave.

“Retard!” he heard a slightly older voice agree.

Reggie kept walking. “Sticks and stones…” he heard the voice of his mom, now almost three years silent. He tried not to spend too much time missing her, but it was always in moments like these when her memory snuck up and slithered inside him with the sudden dull thud of sorrow.

His dad had promised to come home early, the two of them making plans the night before to hit the batting cages. It didn’t matter what the Davis sisters had to say, he was an hour or so away from sharing a plate of nachos with his dad and waiting for his turn in the cages. That was all that mattered.

Reggie set his book bag on the concrete and pulled three days worth of mail from the box, mostly junk, then gave a subtle kick to the gate. The lock had been busted for almost three years, but the padlock was still there and people always assumed it was locked. His dad had moved the mailbox from the front door out to the fence since every time there was a shift change at the post office they’d end up going a week without getting their mail.

His dad said it was easier to move the mailbox then it was to fix the latch.

Reggie fished around in his pockets for maybe a minute and a half before surrendering to the reality of a lost key. He was locked out with nowhere to go and had at least an hour to kill before his dad would be home. He yanked on the front door knob, even though he knew there wasn’t the slightest chance it would budge. After all, he was the one who who had locked it in the first place.

Reggie tucked his bag beneath the bougainvillea that draped over the front side of the house and headed back to the sidewalk to retrace his footsteps, scanning the pavement a few squares in front him. He made it two blocks down Eureka, right to where he would’ve needed to turn onto Burnett, when he decided to abandon his search and head home to wait for his dad on the porch. His dad would be pissed that he’d lost his key, but would be twice as pissed if Reggie wasn’t there waiting when he got home.

Reggie strolled down the street, picking up his pace only when making a quick dash across the Davis’s front yard. “Fag,” he heard, “dumb ass” right behind.

He didn’t bother checking any of the other doors or windows since he always made sure everything was sealed before he went anywhere. Reggie sank to the ground, put his back against the front door, then opened his bag and pulled out a large volume so swollen with tattered and dusty pages, Reggie wondered if the Civil War was a recent event when the book first went to print.

He slowly thumbed through the pages and did his best to lose track of the passing minutes, but found it impossible to ignore the sun dipping behind the far off hills two hours after his father swore he’d be home.

At least it was the middle of summer and the batting cages would be open late. Reggie’s stomach surprised him with a sudden growl and he realized he hadn’t had a thing to eat besides a bowl of cereal early that morning and the half banana he’d chewed on before deciding to dump it into the first trashcan he’d passed on the way to the library.

He ignored the rumble and went back to the book, running his fingers along the pages and picturing his finished project along with all the pride that would march behind it. Reggie knew his father loved what he was doing. He had been leaving evidence of his progress on the table at night. Mostly photo copied cut-outs, though there were a few pages he’d printed from the computer and some handwritten essays in rough draft. Even though he left a mess on the table every night, his father hadn’t asked him to clean it once.

When would he be home?

Another two hours disappeared and Reggie found himself with his back pressed against the front door, now without the book and doing his best to ignore the ominous shadows around him. Every noise rang through the dry air with the echo of a threat, every car a broken promise.

Reggie heard the cackling laugh of a madman, or perhaps the crack of breaking, brittle leaves, and gave involuntary vent to a squeal that barely squeezed through the narrow hose of his throat. His face was crimson from the heat of embarrassment as the sound of mocking laughter from the Davis sisters standing above him.

“Look at the retard playing camping trip on his porch,” Amy sneered.

Jess, the younger of the two, took her cue. “Maybe he’s too stupid to realize he dropped this.” She wagged his house key in front of his nose, then snatched it away at the final moment, sending the two sisters into a riot of giggles.

Reggie could feel the rage inside him rolling toward a boil. He made a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that his father wouldn’t drive up at that moment only to find his son about to lose his temper at the two neighbor girls.

“Give it back to me,” Reggie held out his hand.

“Make me, re-tard,” Amy sneered.

The two of them laughing should have launched Reggie to motion, but instead he let his anger and embarrassment mingle around and bubble beneath his skin.

“Tell you what,” little Melissa Davis pointed her tiny nose at Reggie. “You tell me that I’m the prettiest girl in school, and the nicest, I’ll give it back to you.”

Instead of saying no, Reggie threw a rise into his shoulders and lowered his body so he was hovering over little Melissa. “Even if you were the prettiest, you would never be the nicest and that makes you ugly to me. You can keep your key.”

Melissa turned around and put all her tiny weight into hurling the possible evidence as far as she could into the ink black street. The clinking thud sounded a second later, somewhere in the distance, perhaps against a car and into grass. The Davis sisters stormed off.

Jake collapsed against the door again. Why had he let them get to him? Why hadn’t he just played their game and earned his key. He could already be in the house and his father would never know what happened.

He slammed the back of his head against the front door. Headlights flashed against the side of the house bringing Reggie to his feet. Something about the swath of light didn’t feel right and he knew it probably wasn’t his dad, but cars at this time of day were a rarity at the dead end of Eureka.

The car sidled toward the end of the street as though in search, then spun around and headed in the opposite direction. Reggie felt a cold chill rattle his body as he realized he was starting to feel truly frightened. His dad was getting later all the time, but this time it felt different.

Panic was a rising tide inside him as Reggie realized his father might have been trying to call for hours and he never would never have been able to hear a single ring.

The next hour crawled. The house had become a tangled shadow of earth tones behind him, and even sitting under a star filled sky, Reggie could not draw enough light to untangle the text in his book.

What if his father was dead?

The thought was enough to jar Reggie from whatever peace he had any hope of finding. The sudden realization that God might be planning to finish off what he’d started when he stuffed his mother full of cancer three years earlier began to suffocate Reggie’s otherwise sound reasoning. He buried his face between his knees and tried to control the chattering of his teeth as a torrent of heaving bellows shook his entire body, starting with his heart and working outward until all ten toes were twisted with grief.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Reggie began to rock back and forth, losing himself in the metronomic chant, slowly convincing himself his father would return home any minute.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

Please, please, please don’t let my dad be dead.

His dad wasn’t ever coming home. It was nearing ten. He was dead in a car accident, lying on the side of the road. Alone. And Reggie would be alone for the rest of his life. They would come to the house, take him away and throw him into a big room filled with all the other kids without moms, dads, or thinnest beam of hope.

A thin shaft of light pierced the thick mottle of bougainvillea and Reggie once again rose to his feet, face streaked and shoulders shaking from the acute terror of a worst possible future.

A sound that settled somewhere between a purr and a growl seemed to oscillate through the Juniper tree in the side yard causing Reggie’s heart to stop. The pool of sweat on his face was suddenly covered by a sea.

The sound rattled through branches again, this time closer.

Something leapt from the tree and landed at Reggie’s feet. The scream that wanted to leave his throat died a grisly death at the edge of his lips. Suddenly brave, he ran right past the modest sized raccoon that may as well have been a dragon, and into the street toward the oncoming headlights below the clattering engine he’d been waiting hours to hear.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Reggie murmured, swallowing the series of sobs and snivels that were barely holding back the vomit in his mouth.

Reggie’s dad exited the car and slammed the door. “What in the hell are you doing out here?” he asked, “and why aren’t there any lights on?”

Reggie was grateful for the abundance of shadows, glad his father couldn’t see his tear streaked face. It was over. His father was home. Everything was better now. Reggie allowed a final succession of shivers to flutter through his body before finally opening his mouth to answer. “I was locked out,” he admitted. “I lost my key.”

“Why the hell didn’t you head over to the Davis’s? How long have you been sitting out here for?”

“I was waiting for you,” Reggie said. “You promised you’d be home early and we’d go to the batting cages. Where were you?”

“I went out, I needed a moment.” Reggie could taste the missing apology like every granule of sugar stripped from a gallon of Kool-Aid, but it didn’t matter. His dad was home. He followed his father up the porch and waited for him to open the door. It made no difference that he was cold and alone, hungry and scared.

His dad was home. Everything would be okay.

Reggie’s father bent down to retrieve his son’s bag and saw the open library book lying face down. He picked it up and stepped in the house, then flipped on the light and looked at the cover. “The Civil War, eh?” He looked back at Reggie with a hint of approval wrapping around the edges of his mouth. “What got you interested in this?”

“It’s for my summer project,” Reggie said.

“What project?” his father walked into the house and headed for the fridge.

Writer Dad

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We’ll get back to Four Seasons tomorrow, with July. Today I’d like to send you somewhere else. I promise it’s well worth the few minutes, and will take only about 25% of the time as one of my long-winded stories. : )

James Chartrand, of Men with Pens, has always been an inspiration to me. A frequent writer for Copyblogger, I found both his home site and Copyblogger on the same day. Both sites were featured on a list of high quality sites about writing. It was on a Sunday afternoon, maybe two away from me deciding I’d make the leap to being a writer full time. Both sides landed in my reader that day and have been visited often. The always solid writing advice on both sites, discusses not only what it takes to be a better writer, but what it takes to be a better writer online.

James revealed something at Copyblogger this morning that was deeply touching. I don’t want to say what it is, because I feel it will be best if it hits you cold, as it did me.

Thank you, James. And Bravo.

Writer Dad

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(This one not only has naughty words, they start immediately.)

Kkkkkkkk…Kkkkkkkk…Kkkkkkkk…Kkkkkkkk…Kkkkkkk..

Fuck!

Lemmin slammed his palm on the steering wheel just hard enough to add a swatch of purple. “You know you don’t have to swear,” he heard his wife from the passenger seat. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t there or that she hadn’t really spoken. It was what she would have said. After thirty years together, the sound of Sheryl’s voice in his ears was like water spilling from a busted faucet.

He would have tried the engine once more if he’d believed that the forty-eighth time could be the charm, but Lemmin was already running late and knew another try might easily push anxiety to anger. It was his fault in the first place, he should’ve heeded the obvious and bought a battery, the one under the hood was two administrations old.

Lemmin stepped from the car, slammed the heavy door of the old boat, and slipped his key into the front door. “I’m taking the Mini Cooper,” he called, pulling a key that hadn’t been turned in six months from the dish by the door.

“Wait!” He heard the ring of Sheryl’s voice. “I’m coming with you.”

Lemmin said nothing. What was the point? Sheryl had always done as she pleased, and the last six months she’d been hanging over him like a shadow in the longest days of June.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be nice.”

Lemmin was glad he’d listened to whatever whisper had urged him to park the El Camino on the street. He would have wanted to push it down the drive to make way for the Mini about as much as he would have wanted to make the entire trip on foot.

Lemmin unlocked the garage door, flipped on the light, and squeezed his tall frame into the tiny cabin. Sheryl was already inside. Goddamn coffin, he thought.

“I didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t have to.” Cheryl from the passenger seat. “Let’s get going. You’re late.”

Lemmin turned the key and the Mini Cooper purred. Nothing like his Camino, or the Crown Vic that kept him company most of his days along with the occasional night. “What are you waiting for?” Sheryl asked.

“Not sure, exactly.” Lemmin traced his fingers across the steering wheel. “I guess maybe any reason not to go.”

Silence. Then, “You have to go. You don’t get a choice.”

Lemmin didn’t answer. He adjusted the mirror, then backed out of the driveway and into the street. He closed the garage with an absent minded flick of the remote, put the car in drive and headed toward the highway. At the first red, he flipped on the satellite radio that had come pre-installed in the Mini Cooper.

“Can’t we just listen to quiet?”

“Someone should get some use out of it,” Lemmin said. He took his right hand from the wheel and held the tip of his finger against the up arrow on the receiver, scrolling through a long string of titles far too fast to read. He paused at the bank of numbers where he thought he remembered the country stations being the last time he drove the Mini, then moved his hand back to the steering wheel just as the slide of a steel guitar confirmed his instinct.

“Are you trying to agitate me?”
 Lemmin grinned. “I figured you were well beyond agitation.”

He could feel Sheryl’s snide smile, but the cabin was otherwise quiet. The only sound was the moonshine rinsed warble coming from the speakers. He reached for the knob and lowered the sound just as he saw the sea of red in front of him.

Sheryl’s voice rang as an echo to his thought, “You’re late.”

Lemmin sighed at the standstill and felt the familiar sense of deja vu slither up his back and settle at the base of his spine for the third time that day. Foot on the brake, he closed his eyes and rocked his head back and forth, letting the cool air from the air conditioner slap the sides of his face.

“You’re doing some weird shit lately.”

“No different than normal, honey pie. Only difference is that these days you’re seeing it.”

Sheryl might’ve snorted. Lemmin’s eyes were still closed, but he imagined her rooting through her purse in search of a cigarette. She considered traffic an invitation to smoke.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the red in front of him fade and the long serpent of vehicles slowly slither to life. The respite was short lived. Ten seconds and Lemmin was looking at endless taillights coming to life. His eyes fell to the dash and the needle flirting with the red. He threw on the blinker, pulled to the right and bounced through a pothole about fifteen miles shy of painful.

Freaking LA, Lemmin thought. The torn roads and congestion clinging to every stretch of concrete were as bad as the smog clinging to the sky above. Fresh roads were rare and clear days occasion for news. From the passenger seat, “We should’ve left the city ten years ago.”

Lemmin said nothing.

One of Sheryl’s favorite fights – she’d been saying “We should’ve left the city ten years ago” since it was actually ten instead of twenty. Truth was, they never would have moved. Moving from LA might have been the only thing more expensive for them than living there.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Sheryl said, even though he’d said nothing. “There are plenty of places in this world a hell of a lot cheaper to live than LA. We could have made our home in damn near any one of them. Instead we just rotted away here in this place with plenty of mountains and beach, but not enough soul.”

Lemmin parted his lips, then closed them again.

“And if you have any hopes of that job of yours getting any better, well you can just keep dreaming, they’ve been putting out your fires since February.”

Lemmin swallowed hard at the memory. Not like it ever left, but vented through Sheryl it held a few extra barbs. January could have changed everything. Instead, it was only the start of an unexpected nightmare.

He had come home that New Year’s morning almost jolly, swimming in the strongest deja vu he’d felt in more than half his own forever. He came home to see Sheryl sighing quietly under the sheets, went out running and came back an hour later to make her breakfast. They’d stared into each other’s eyes over pancakes, for maybe the first time in a year as she listened to his parade of promises. Everything would change he said. She believed him. Every single word.

And things had started to change, almost immediately, each great day falling right into a better one. Until the unthinkable happened; the impossible tearing open a wound to the inevitable.

“Looks like traffic’s making itself comfortable.” The words just sort of fell from Lemmin’s lips, directed at no one, except maybe himself.

“You can’t just hand everyone a ticket.” Sheryl snorted the same snort he always hated, yet seemed to almost miss when it wasn’t around. “Bet you miss that siren of yours right about now.”

Lemmin lifted his head to look at the overpass, as if an extra half inch would allow him to see past the hazy glare, through 100,000 tons of steel and into the tangled center of whatever trouble was intent on taking his day from bad to worse. He saw nothing, but figured he could gas up, cross the tracks and grab the freeway a mile up, maybe leaping past the largest part of the gridlock.

A minute off the freeway, Lemmin spied a horse with wings jumping from the center of a faded blue circle, swore to himself that the particular brand of station was long extinct, then flashed the blinker on the Mini Cooper and pulled up next to a washed out pump to fill his dying tank. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He didn’t look at Sheryl or invite her along.

The tinny ding as Lemmin entered the liquor store pulled his thoughts from Sheryl, though only for a second. Stepping behind a guy he probably could’ve smelled from outside, Lemmin’s mind drifted back to thirty years before and the constant thought that he’d always be alone. He’d spent an adolescence waiting for someone to ask him about the scar on his cheek or the one just above his eye. He practiced his answers in the mirror so they would sound polished when finally heard.

But nobody ever asked. Either nobody wanted to know or nobody wanted to be impolite. At least no one until Sheryl, curious as she was brash.

They had known one another for maybe five entire minutes before each was making promises neither could keep, knowing they had just enough in common to keep things interesting. It was another good five years before her two main food groups turned to Slim Fast and Valium, and a decade before long intervals of regular silence papered their walls.

“What can I get you?”

Lemmin lifted his head and the wave almost knocked him over; the deja vu so strong it was like been there, done that shot from a scattergun. The man behind the bullet proof plexiglass rapped his knuckles against the partition and pulled Lemmin from his daze with a bright smile begging for an answer. Lemmin tried to focus, wondering first if this was the real deal or if his mind was playing marionette the way it sometimes did.

Seemed like the guy staring at him from behind the glass had a story Lemmin should know. He seemed somehow out of place behind the fingerprint smudged opacity. He was maybe six-foot-four, with a smile as wide as a bumper and teeth like a fluorescent. His five simple words were filled with friendly confidence. He had to be the owner. No way pretty boy blue was pulling a paycheck in this dump.

Or maybe he was just thinking too much. Lemmin slid a fifty under the bullet proof divider. “Fill up on six,” he said.

“You don’t look well.” The attendant’s kind tone almost made it sound like a compliment.

“I’ve been better.”

“Air’s kinda sick outside. Earthquake weather some might say.”

Lemmin wondered how many times the attendant had delivered that line already, then looked up at the marquee. Almost four bucks a gallon. At least the Cooper only held thirteen. Even on fumes, he had change coming. “Hit me for this too,” Lemmin pulled a Twinkie from the counter and started peeling the wrapper. Half of it was in his mouth before he hit the door.

“See ya’ later,” pretty boy said.

Lemmin waved his hand in back of his head.

Lemmin leaned against the fuming metal, thought about the inevitable discomfort lingering no more than twenty minutes away, and swallowed the hard lump swelling the back of his throat. He heard the click from the nozzle, then squeezed the trigger to top off, filling the air with the sharp scent as gas spilled over and splashed on the ground. $48.16. Not enough left to go back inside for change, but Lemmin felt a beat in his conscience reminding him he didn’t say bye.

What did it matter? He looked up and through the doors. The attendant was tossing him an adios in a sort of half salute, a grin behind it. Lemmin shook his head and smiled in spite of himself, then opened the car door and entered a silence that clung to the cabin for five minutes; down the ugly boulevard that ran beside the sound wall, past the crowded corners and empty parking lots, and back onto the freeway.

Whatever the trouble had been, it was starting to clear. Lemmin could see the empty stretch ahead, flashes of color racing ahead one by one as though a pace car had just pulled to the right.

The silence inside the car felt odd. It wasn’t Sheryl’s nature to stay quiet in traffic. “What,” Lemmin said, mostly to himself, “Finally run out of things to say?”

“Feeling lonely?”

Lemmin imagined Sheryl smiling from the corner of his eye. His knee started to bounce as the Cooper surged for a second before stopping short, maybe a half dozen cars from freedom. Lemmin looked to the left without surprise. The accident was barely a fender bender, but he knew well enough – it took a special sort of human to pass a collision without wanting a ticket to the show. Bad traffic was as contagious as Bird Flu. Lemmin pulled to the front and floored the pedal.

“Did I ever tell you about my theory of Deja Vu?”

“No,” Sheryl breathed through a cloud of cigarette smoke that suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. “Might’ve been the only one you ever missed.”

Lemmin bit his lip, swallowed a sigh, then opened his mouth. “When I was young, I mean real young; maybe four or five or even younger, I remember slipping and falling beneath this big sort a swing thing they had at my pre-school.” Lemmin pulled all the way to the left and lowered his foot.

“The swing was set on this big rectangular sheet of plexiglass with these long cords of fraying red rope where the kids could sit – you know? The swing was the kind of cool they could never get away with in a daycare today, like a merry-go-round I guess. Anyway, this was the ride to ride, you know? One day, I was waiting for my turn for what felt like forever until I was finally next in line. I was so excited I was sort of bouncing around at the edge. I slipped and fell underneath while the kid ahead of me was still swinging. I knew I couldn’t budge or I’d get whacked on the side of the head with the swing. So I just lay still beneath the swing, frozen like Han Solo in carbonite. Then, all of a sudden, I went from trying to stay frozen to being frozen, end of story. I couldn’t move if I tried, and sure as shit I did. But it was like I was just writhing around along the sides of my soul or something because I couldn’t move a muscle. Oddest thing that had ever happened to me, and the first time I remember feeling deja vu.”

Lemmin was enjoying the story. Maybe not more than he’d expected, but more fresh water on a parched tongue than he’d imagined. He smiled and continued.

“Now this is an intense memory, still to this day. Reason being, it was an uncut out of body experience, long before I knew what such a thing was. I could feel the world echoing around me, like I was caught between the ripples from a stone’s throw in a pond. Course I say this all in retrospect. At four, I only knew some strange things were afoot down at the Romper Room. As I got older, I tried to manipulate the feeling, see if maybe I could recreate it on my own. Though I could never make it feel nearly as powerful as it did when it happened on its own, I found I could recreate at least a dim sense of already seen by standing in the same exact spot while repeating my thought and kind of forcing my brain into a hiccup.”

Lemmin looked toward the passenger window. “I had to be about fifteen before I realized I had a theory.”

“And what’s that?”

Lemmin smiled. “Glad you asked. I think deja vu is some kind a flash of something that’s happened before. Maybe like a beam of light in a dark room from a life you already lived or something, or maybe you’re catching a glimpse of some other side of somewhere else. Either way, your brain knows about it and doesn’t want to let it go. It just keeps holding on as long as it can, unwilling to let the feeling fade into some far off forget about it. Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe in some other once upon a time or once upon a right now but somewhere else, I got my head crushed in by some swinging piece of lumber and so I was stuck beneath the swing with some sense of my inner me yelling to stay down, you know?”

Lemmin smiled, glad he’d gotten it out just as his exit appeared at the edge of his vision.

“You’ve had this theory since you were fifteen?”

“Ish.”

“Why are you talking about it now?”

“I guess there’s a whole lotta stuff we never said to each other.” Lemmin chose his words. “And I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.”

The passenger seat stayed silent.

Lemmin sailed through a yellow, entered the church parking lot, pulled into one of the hundred or so available spaces, killed the engine, and sat.

And there he was again, frozen to the tan leather of the still new Mini Cooper, fixed in place as if by some preternatural pressure. He felt dizzy, thoughts slipping in and out of one another like stitching in a quilt. Lemmin couldn’t focus on a single thread. He was permeated by his own puzzle, just as he had been for days.

Why wasn’t he crying?

His grief ran deep. He’d only just met Libby three months before. Their connection was instant, despite the fact that she could have been the daughter he never had. Or perhaps because of it. He certainly never expected to see her eyes to the sky in a coffin less than one month later.

The first ray of hope he’d had since the death of Sheryl and now she was gone too.

Perhaps he was finally at the age where life elected to take more than it was willing to give. A lonely tear slid down Lemmin’s cheek and the fog lifted. He opened the door, wiped his hands across his spotless suit, and looked at the large crowd of gathered shadows standing in the distance.

“You coming?” Libby said.

“I am.”

Writer Dad

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“I’m not eating her egg rolls and I don’t care if they’ve gone from honorable to third at the Strawberry Festival – they’re still filthy, and barely egg rolls.” Brian barely muttered the last bit under his breath. He waved a red Grand Am in front of him, shuddered at the memory of goat cheese and ginger lingering on his lips, then traded one freeway for another.

“You don’t have to eat the egg rolls. I already told her you’re lactose intolerant.” Maya put her hand on Brian’s knee as he relaxed into the rhythm of the new freeway, then added, “Just be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“I know,” Maya said, “but today you need to be Mother’s Day nice.”

“Mother’s Day nice? That woman hasn’t so mush as wished me a happy birthday in the six years we’ve been together.”

“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Brian could have said, of course you feel that way, she’s your mother, but couldn’t see the thought filling the air any differently than the approximately 4,738 times he’d said it before. Maya was perfectly aware of each of her mother’s million and one faults, and could probably recite them backwards in Greek if she were to ever start talking in tongues, but it was her mother and Maya’s instincts had been well oiled over a lifetime. Her immediate response was always the same; dim the defects of her mom while shining a bright light on Brian’s own melodrama.

Brian stared at the road and tried to read the license plate three cars in front. Maya fiddled with the stations. Michelle cried from the back seat, suddenly awake and sure to be hungry. She’d managed to stay asleep from cradle to car seat, and stayed that way during the last two hours, nestled deep in the freeway’s lullaby.

Her sudden cry split the moment. Maya started digging through the diaper bag in search of a bottle. Brian tried not to sigh. Maya’s mother, Olivia, was a royal pain in the ass and though already plenty tolerant of her bullshit, he’d be a lot more able to swallow it all with a smile if Maya could at least admit it.

Olivia’s husband had left her back when Maya’s brother Dean was starting kindergarten and Maya was still in diapers. She had then spent the subsequent years drowning deeper in delusion. At first Olivia had believed, despite the absurdity, that she and the man who had left with her little besides a last name she’d always hated were destined to be together. As soon as she realized he was a dirty scumbag who believed cheating was fine as long as you’re breathing, Olivia started to see life as she and Maya against the world and any man walking it.

Dean followed his father’s lead without a single look back, but Olivia had managed to maintain a tenuous grip on her daughter, despite ethanol fueled mania being nearly as constant as the sunset and more consistent than dinner.

Brian was sure that Maya defended him whenever one of Olivia’s unnecessary arrows was especially sharp and he wasn’t around to deflect it, but they both knew that if Maya were to spend her minutes defending everything that left her mother’s mouth, there would never be breath between monologues.

It was always easier to simply agree.

“You can never count on a man,” Olivia would say. Maya would answer, “Brian’s never let me down before” or maybe “you can’t generalize everything, Mom,” but her protests were never met with anything more than a dismissive whistle or abrupt change of subject.

Brian half glanced behind him then crossed four lanes, drifting toward the exit with the sort of fluid sweep only possible in and around LA on a Sunday. The car was still silent, save for the barely audible backbeat of an old and almost forgotten one hit wonder that only Maya could ever remember the name to amid the sound of Michelle drinking her bah-bah in the car seat behind them.

Family was best not brought up, like politics or religion, or student loans or bachelor parties. Mostly, it was a topic that had long been stripped of any nutrients. The subject would surface, Brian and Maya would each say slightly more than they should and far less than they really meant, then let awkward silence fill the space between them while counting the long seconds until it was safe to fill the air again.

The baby made everything easier.

She’s so beautiful,” Brian said, moving his two o’clock from the steering wheel and adjusting the rear view mirror to gather a better look at the pursed lips and wide eyes of the beautiful four month old baby in the back seat suckling her bottle.

Brian smiled, his face instantly defrosted. Maya absorbed the warmth. “So do you think your mom will be up or down today?” she asked.

“We referring to mood or weight?”

“Is there a difference?” Maya laughed a few degrees deeper than needed. Brian joined her as he pulled a left onto her mother’s tiny cul de sac. Maya stared at the old pink house sitting just across the street from the memories of her miserable childhood and wondered how Solomon, the old man who lived there, was doing. Saul may have been the only person in her life who had always been ready with a compliment or perhaps a piece of candy. Saul had never discussed Maya’s mother, though his eyes said enough. Saul had always helped her to feel a little less alone, and was the closest thing to a father that her brother Dean had ever had.

Brian killed the engine and kissed Maya on the forehead. He opened the door then walked the foot path, up the small set of steps that separated the porch from the driveway. He knocked on the door while Maya wiped Michelle’s face and unloaded her from the car. It had been their silent tradition since January for Brian to stick his finger in the wind of Olivia’s temperament before bringing the girls into the milieu.

Brian knocked a second time, slightly louder. Olivia hated the “shrill and obnoxious sound of the doorbell,” but usually had the TV up so loud she couldn’t hear the knock. He turned around, waved at Maya as she closed the car door and gave the door a swift kick with the heel of his boot. This newest tactic made him quietly happy. Though Brian was the only one who knew it was there, any set of eyes which took the time to study would be able to find the small spot on the front door, slightly concave to the approximate size of a 10 ½ heel.

“Hi Olivia,” Brian said as the door swung towards him. Her eyes wore a few red webs, but he couldn’t smell any alcohol.

“Hi there,” she kissed Brian on the cheek, squeezed his shoulders, then trotted to Maya as she was ascending the final stair.

“How’s my baby? Oh, there she is.” She clapped and then turned her eyes to Maya. “She’s just so alert, and twice as big already!” Maya handed Michelle to her mother with a split second of apprehension everyone pretended not to notice. “Happy Mother’s Day,” she said, punctuating her greeting with a soft kiss on her mother’s hot cheek.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Olivia said with a smile not usually seen outside the company of an empty bottle or two. “Come inside.”

She smiled again at Brian as she brushed by, then slipped through the open door. Brian leaned into Maya’s ear. “I couldn’t smell a thing. It’s gotta be Vodka.” He couldn’t hear his wife sigh, but felt it like a cloud passing over the sun. He pulled Maya’s hand into his and they crossed the threshold together.

The house was brighter than usual, an extra fixture or new bulbs Brian couldn’t tell. “What’d you do, Mom?” Maya threw her eyes around the room. “The house looks great.”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” Olivia beamed, “and I have company. I even thought I’d make a batch of Brian’s favorite cookies.”

The scent curled into his nose and Brian wondered how he could have possibly missed it – hot sugar coalescing with the scent of toasted coconut. She’d made these cookies just twice before, six years earlier.

The adults leaned against the island in the kitchen while Michelle occupied the fourth side in her portable highchair. They quickly fell into a more relaxed version of their usual banter, Olivia’s eyes occasionally breaking rhythm as she played peek-a-boo with Michelle. She was always overly friendly with the baby, but today, Brian thought, her affection seemed dialed to about 12.

He and Maya continued to exchange glances edged with years of intimacy, and at one point, Brian tipped his hand back, to indicate he was CERTAIN Olivia was drunk. Maya kicked his shin under the table – soft enough to be playful, but hard enough to lodge a chunk of cookie in his throat.

“You okay, honey?” Olivia asked.

Brian nearly choked again. Honey, now? Yeah, the old lady had to be drunk.

“So, what do you think of Lisa’s new boyfriend?” Olivia asked, the edge of her usual bitter tone suddenly dragged across the whetting stone for the first time that morning.

Ah, here’s the Olivia we all know and loathe, Brian thought.

Maya bristled. For ten years it had bothered her that her mother felt it necessary to call her best friend on the phone, now she’d added email to the mix. Lisa was far too nice and had always felt sorry for Olivia, ever since they were teenagers. “Sounds like a great guy,” she said.

“Great?” Olivia said as though Maya had just suggested that Hitler too was a great guy, “The man is 40!”

“So what’s the big deal?” Maya asked, instantly regretting the decision to engage her mother, but plowing full speed ahead, anyway. “She’s only six years younger, it’s not like he’s an old man.”

“What kind of 40 year old man drives a 15-year old Corolla?” Olivia asked, the last four words flirting with an exaggerated gasp.

“Yeah” Brian teased, “flash forward two years and I’m sure we’ll see his neighbors on TV one day telling reporters, ‘he was a quiet man who kept to himself’, he drove a 15-year old Corolla, we should have known about the bodies in the basement.”

Brian smiled. Olivia ignored his comment. Maya scowled.

“Hey, it’s about time Lisa met someone who will treat her right,” Maya said. “From what she says, he’s perfect for her; romantic, thoughtful, caring, sensitive…”

“Sounds like a queer to me,” Olivia said, a self satisfied chuckle painting her face in the garish hues of a well practiced drunk.

Maya glanced at Brian as if to say, don’t you dare laugh at that.

He didn’t. He grabbed a cookie and shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

“Well,” Olivia said without a trace of a slur, “we’ll get a chance to inspect him for ourselves soon enough. I invited them over for Mother’s Day. She’s stopping by to visit Saul, and I told her we’d all be here. I saw no reason not to.”

Maya’s face flushed.

“You better not tear him down when they get here!” Maya warned, “You’ve ALWAYS criticized Lisa’s boyfriends. I’ve know idea why she even tolerates you. I have to, you know, blood and all.” She allowed a second of silence to settle, then drew in her breath, considering her words like arrows in a quiver. “It’s not like you’ve made the best of choices in men, yourself.”

Olivia stared at Maya, eyes narrowing into flint marbles behind a frozen mask.

Brian flinched – this wasn’t about Lisa’s new boyfriend. It was about Olivia’s picking on Brian, and he wanted to get the hell out of Dodge as quickly as possible before the O.K. Corral got riddled with bullet holes.

He could see Olivia’s wheels turning. He glanced at Maya, wondering if she knew what she was inviting, their daughter oblivious but beside them nonetheless. Both women were standing. Maya, staring at her mother, tears swelling in her eyes; chin out, as if to say, bring your best shot.

Olivia’s hand raised, pointer finger extended, and Brian was pretty sure a full head of steam was about to billow from her head.

In the thick silence, the doorbell sounded like a gunshot.

Brian had never been so grateful to hear a doorbell. He didn’t care who was at the front door, even if it were the agents in Kafka’s The Trial coming to arrest him for reasons unknown, anything to stave off the looming battle.

Olivia went to the door, leaving Maya and Brian alone with the aftermath of her anger. Brian put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Don’t let her get to you.”

Maya started straight ahead, not wanting to give in to the tears, nor wanting to put a damper on the fire which Olivia had stoked. Brian had only seen his wife like this on one other occasion, one which they agreed never to speak of and he’d prefer never to recall.

Brian looked up as Olivia led Lisa and her new boyfriend into the kitchen.

“There are fresh cookies on the table and I’ve got more tea on the stove,” Olivia said, sliding into that super friendly voice again as she went to the cabinet to get some plates.

Brian stood up to greet Lisa with a hug and then shook her boyfriend’s hand.

“Hi,” the boyfriend said, “I’m John.”

“Nice to meet you,” Brian said, as he watched Maya and Lisa hug tightly. Maya whispered something into her ear, which Brian only tried to hear.

As Olivia returned with two small plates and a smile, John reached into a paper sack he’d been carrying and handed Olivia a single red rose.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he said.

John then reached back into the sack and retrieved what looked to be a book wrapped in brown paper. “Lisa says you don’t like modern fiction,” he said, “well, a dear friend of mine guaranteed you will just love this book.”

“Really, guarantees?’ Olivia said as she reached out to take the gift.

“Yes,” John said, turning to Lisa and smiling the most genuine smile Brian had ever seen from a guy, “and Mrs. Stamp is never wrong when it comes to knowing what people will like.”

Writer Dad

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