33 The Return of Bowie Bravo (8 page)

She ended up standing at the folding table, staring out the window above it at the barn.

The light was on in the workshop. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, worried it briefly and let it go with a sigh as she admitted to herself that she was concerned about Bowie.

He’d seemed so grim when he brought Johnny back from the visit with Brett. And he’d said no to hot chocolate—even though it would have meant a few more minutes with the son he was trying so hard to get closer to.

Something wasn’t right.

Mind your own business, Glory. Just leave the guy alone.
She needed to turn out the lights, lock the doors and go to bed. After all, she deserved every minute of sleep she could get. Sera would be awake again and making a racket in a couple of hours at the most.

But there was just something about that lonely light shining in the workshop window. She couldn’t turn and walk away from that, not after she’d seen that lost, glum look on Bowie’s face.

So she got her jacket and grabbed the baby monitor from the kitchen counter and went out the back door.

The last thing Bowie expected that night was a knock on the workshop door. He was sitting on the cot, his head in his hands when that knock came.

He dragged himself to his feet and went to answer. It was Glory, her arms wrapped around herself against the icy night air, clutching the baby monitor in one fist, her eyes very dark and troubled-looking. “What’s up?” A terrible thought came to him and panic unleashed its claws. “Johnny?” He croaked the word.

“Relax,” she said, and even put on a smile. “He’s fine. Sound asleep. Mind if I come in?”

He stepped back and gestured her inside.

She hesitated. For a moment he thought she would simply turn and go back to the house, which would have been fine with him. Or so he tried to tell himself.

But then she moved forward. He shut the door behind her and then stayed there, back to the door, waiting for some word from her, some explanation as to why she’d come out here.

She set the monitor down and slowly circled the space, moving first to the working side of the room, stopping by the new table saw, pausing again at his lathe and yet again at his router table. “Got all your new tools ready to go?” she asked with an oblique glance. At his nod, she continued her slow circuit of the room. Finally, she stopped by the stove and held her hands out to warm them. “Cold out.”

“Yeah,” he said, still waiting. And still wondering what she had on her mind.

She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of an old wooden rocking chair. Finally, she gestured at the cot and the open duffel bag half-full of his clothes. “Planning a trip?”

Out of nowhere, he wanted a drink. Jack Black straight up. A double.

The desire shocked him a little. He’d come a long way from the days when he thought about drinking most of the time. Now, the hunger came infrequently.

And when it did, he recognized the sudden, sharp longing for what it was: a yen to escape something scary or difficult, a need to get away from a moment too painful to face.

He admitted, “Okay, Glory, yeah. I was thinking about leaving. About how maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

Her mouth pinched up. She glared at that duffel bag. “That bag tells me you were
more
than just thinking about it.”

“Glory, come on…”

She whirled on him, brandy-brown eyes flashing, cheeks hot with color. “Don’t you
‘come on’
me, Bowie Bravo. What was your plan, then? To just take off, with no goodbyes and no explanations? Just disappear in the middle of the night?”

“No, that was not my plan.” The words came out low and rough. Raw. “I…didn’t have a plan, okay? I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do. I only knew that Johnny wouldn’t have nine stitches in his hand if it wasn’t for me.”

“How long were you planning to be gone this time, huh? Ten years? Twenty?”

“Stop it.”

She came at him, fast, right arm raised. He was certain she was going to slap his face and he braced himself for the blow—but when she reached him, she only let out a low, furious growl through clenched teeth. “I would like to slap you silly about now.”

“Got that. And go ahead. Be my guest.”

She let her arm drop to her side. “And give you an excuse to make
me
the bad guy? No, thanks.” She turned away, went to the rocking chair and plunked down into it. “Listen,” she said, rocking furiously.

Like he had a choice. “What?”

She stopped in mid-rock. “You told me you were here to try and get to know Johnny, to be part of his life.”

“That’s right, but—”

She cut him off. “There are no buts when it comes to being a dad. No buts. You don’t get to just take off because you feel
bad,
Bowie. Things go wrong and you know it’s your fault, so what? You fix it the best you can and you work hard not to make the same mistake twice. And you keep on. Got it? You stick around, no matter what.”

“Glory, I—”

She rolled right over him again. “Refresh my memory for me, will you?”

“It’s just that—”

“I seem to recall that when I said you could stay here, you promised you wouldn’t go running off, no matter how tough things got. I seem to recall your swearing to me that you wouldn’t desert Johnny again, no matter what.”

“I know that. I—”

“Just tell me. Just say it. Did you make that promise or did you not?”

He sagged against the door. The woman exhausted him. She always had. “All right. Yeah, I made that promise.”

“And do you intend to keep that promise?”

“I do, yes.” He said it with feeling. Because it was true.

She scoffed and pointed. “That duffel bag over there tells me differently.”

He straightened from the door. He was taller than her by more than a foot. And he had at least a hundred pounds of muscle and sinew over her. Yet somehow, she always seemed to know how to make him feel like something small and slimy that had just slithered out from under the nearest rock.

So what if she happened to be absolutely right in what she’d just said to him? Her rightness didn’t take any of the sting out of her harsh words.

“Well,” she prodded, sitting forward in the rocker, gripping the arms. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

He grunted. “You know, you always did have the knack of making me feel about two inches tall.”

“Are you leaving?”

“No, I’m not. I got out the bag and stuffed a few things in it. And then I just sat there, on the cot, thinking about how I despised myself, and knowing that I was going nowhere.”

“Good.” The rocker creaked as she let it roll back again.

“What’s good? That I despise myself for what happened tonight—or that I’m not going anywhere?”

“I think you can figure that out for yourself.”

He dared to take a step away from the door. She had rested her head against the rocker back, shut her eyes and started rocking again. The fire was getting low. Leaving her a wide berth, he got a log from the wood basket and put it in the stove, then took the poker and stirred the coals a bit. He shut the stove door, put the poker away and sat in the easy chair.

She opened her eyes and looked across at him. For once, she spoke softly. “He’s going to be fine. And he told me that you warned him not to touch the knife.”

He admitted gruffly, “I should have protected him, not set the knife where he could get at it.”

She laughed then. The soft sound reminded him painfully of the old days. Of the nights in his room up under the eaves at the Sierra Star, of how happy he’d been just to love her and to know that she loved him back. “Look at it this way,” she said, “that’s a mistake you’re unlikely to make again. But don’t worry, you’ll mess up in a thousand other ways you never imagined you could. It’s the nature of being a parent.”

“If you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.”

“Me? Reassure you? Hah, like that’s ever gonna happen.” She rose from the rocker.

He looked up at her, thinking that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. And wishing she wouldn’t go.

Wishing she might just sit a little longer. She wouldn’t have to say—or do—anything. Just her presence would have been enough.

He would have enjoyed imagining for a few too-short minutes that they were together and staying that way.

Then again, maybe it was better if she didn’t stay. After all, it was over between them. Long over. Better for him that he didn’t try and pretend he could earn again what he’d thrown away by his brawling and drinking and general bad behavior.

She asked, “So can I trust you now not to run off?”

He nodded. “I’m staying right here. You might never get rid of me.”

“Okay. Now I’m
really
starting to worry.” She grabbed her jacket, picked up the baby monitor and went to the door, pausing to look back at him with her hand on the knob. Dimples flashed. “You made progress with him tonight. You get that, don’t you?” When he only grunted, she added, “He didn’t even want to come out here and say good-night to you. He did come, though, because I insisted.”

“So maybe you shouldn’t have insisted.”

She gave him a chiding look. “Let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“What I was getting at is, after he cut himself, it was
you
he wanted to drive him to the clinic.”

“You’re right.” The realization helped. A lot. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“How could you? You were too busy beating yourself up.”

“Yeah, I guess I was—and worrying that if I was the one driving him to see Brett, I might somehow mess that up, too.”

She pulled open the door. “Good night, Bowie.” And then she was gone.

The fire crackled in the stove. The workshop was cozy. Warm.

But still, it felt empty now that Glory had left.

He reminded himself—again—that she was through with him, that what they’d had was long over and done and he needed to remember that. She was only trying to do what was right for Johnny, fighting to make sure her son didn’t get hurt any more than he’d already been. Trying to give him his father so he wouldn’t turn out like Bowie had—lost and angry without a dad’s guiding hand.

He sat in his chair and he waited for a long time, to make sure she’d gone up to bed. Then, taking extra care to be quiet about it, he took the key she’d give him from the hook near the door and left the barn. Outside, the cold winter night seemed dipped in silver. The sky was so clear, thick with stars, and the moon just a tiny sliver hanging near the tops of the pines that covered the mountains. He stood there, midway between the house and the barn, looking up, thinking how beautiful the night was.

Finally, he shook his head and moved on, entering the darkened house on tiptoe. He used the toilet and brushed his teeth.

Back in the workshop, he banked the fire and stretched out on the narrow cot and closed his eyes—and saw Glory’s face.

Not the face she showed him nowadays, but her face the way he remembered it, back in the good times. Soft, with a glow to it, eyes shining, mouth tipped up, waiting for his kiss.

For him, the face he saw alone at night was always Glory’s face. In the years he’d been gone, he’d tried to banish that face from his mind and his memory. And from his heart.

Sometimes, he’d almost succeeded in making himself believe that he was over her.

Almost.

But not quite.

Chapter Seven

T
he next evening, Bowie took his mom out to dinner at the Nugget Steak House on Main. He joked with the owner and head waitress, Nadine Stout. And after Nadine brought their steaks and left them alone, he told his mom about the scary incident the night before.

Chastity sighed. “Poor little guy. I hate it when they bleed. But it sounds to me like it all worked out in the end.”

“He wanted me to take him to the clinic so Brett could stitch him up. Me, in particular.”

“That’s good,” said his mom. “Real good.” She talked about her longtime boyfriend, Alyosha Panopopoulis, a good-natured guy who’d retired to the Flat and still worked as a handyman to bring in extra cash. She said she and Alyosha were getting along great. They liked each other—and no, she didn’t think they’d get married or anything. They both enjoyed their independence.

He said, “You seem pretty happy, Ma.”

“I am. I made a lot of mistakes and I regret every one of them. But I don’t spend my days dwelling on them.” When she said that, he thought of Glory, the night before, telling him that mistakes were part of the bargain when you were a parent. His mom added, “What matters is, I survived. And yes, you and your brothers have had your problems. But as of now, I’d say you’re all doing just fine.”

“Wow, Ma, did you just say you think
I’m
doing fine?”

“Yes, I did. I’ve been suspecting as much for a good while now. I’m glad you finally came back to town so I could tell you so to your face.”

He thought about his father then, about the man he’d never known. Blake had died over a decade before. In his lifetime, he’d married any number of women—and never divorced a single one. Bowie had half siblings all over the country. Each of Blake’s wives had believed she was the “only” one. But it wasn’t his long string of wives that Blake was most famous—or rather
infamous
—for.

More than forty years ago, he’d kidnapped his own brother’s child. A ransom in diamonds was paid, but the child, an infant at the time of the kidnapping, was never returned. When it happened, no one knew that Blake was the culprit. The whole story had finally come out around the time of Blake’s death. And the kidnapped baby had been found, alive and well. And all grown up, with no idea of his real identity.

Bowie said, “Remember how sick you got, when you found out that my father was dead?”

His mom’s eyes grew shadowed. “I do remember. I went to bed and didn’t get up for two weeks. Worst time of my life. I finally had to face the truth then, after all those years.”

He thought he knew what truth she meant. “That he was never coming back?”

She made a snorting sound. “Bowie, I might have been a fool for a very long time over a very bad man, but even I figured out a few years after you were born that we’d seen the last of him. What was harder to accept—what I refused to admit until I learned he was dead—was that I’d loved a man I didn’t even know. I not only loved him, but I
kept
loving him, even though he was hardly ever home and my sons were growing up without a dad.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, and almost smiled as the words escaped his lips. It was essentially the same advice Glory had given him the night before.

His mother shook her head. “I should have done better by you and your brothers.”

“I get that. I do. Just like I should have done better by Johnny.”

“You
are
doing better,” she reminded him gently.

He confessed, “Johnny said he hated me that first day. I knew exactly how he felt because I’d hated my father for most of my life.”

His mother asked wryly, “Do you see a pattern here?”

“Yes, I do. And it’s a pattern I plan to change.”

“That’s the spirit.” She picked up her water glass and toasted him with it.

Bowie walked her back to the B and B at around seven and went in for a last cup of coffee and a big slice of the carrot cake she’d made fresh that afternoon. He was back in the barn behind Glory’s house by seven-twenty-five and got right to work on the train set for Johnny.

At seven-forty-three, Johnny tapped on the door.

Bowie grinned to himself. “It’s open!”

The door swung wide. Johnny came in and shut it behind him. He was wearing a pair of Toy Story pajamas, a different jacket than the one he’d worn the night before and his boots. “I came to say ’night.”

“Can you stay a few minutes?”

Johnny frowned, his small brow furrowing, as though the question required deep thought. Finally, he decided, “Well, just for a little while.” He went and climbed up into the rocker where his mom had sat the night before. “I
like
rocking chairs.” He rocked happily for several seconds, the old rocker creaking the whole time in a cheerful sort of way.

Bowie kept whittling.

“I got to show-and-tell about my
injury.
” He said the big word with pride as, still rocking, he held up his bandaged hand. “And it hardly hurts at all today.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The rocker went silent. Johnny was watching him. “You never said who the train was for.”

Bowie gave up trying to figure out just the right way to deliver the news. “It’s for you.”

Johnny tried not to grin, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I knew it.” And then he started rocking again, with enthusiasm, for maybe thirty seconds. After which he got down. “I think I better go to bed now.”

Bowie wished he wouldn’t go, but it seemed a little early in their new relationship to say that. So he only nodded. “Well, all right. Sleep well.”

“Will you be making breakfast in the morning?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Can we maybe have pancakes tomorrow, you think?”

“Yes, we can. And we will.”

“I
like
pancakes.” Still, he didn’t make a move for the door. He twisted his mouth to the side for a moment, looking uncomfortable. And then he burst out with, “It was Bobby Winkle who said you were a drunk and a crazy man. He said that you were my
real
dad and my real dad was a drunk and a crazy man.”

“I see,” Bowie answered because he really wasn’t sure what he should say.

“That was right after my dad died, when I was feeling really bad.”

“He was a good man,” Bowie said. “Your dad, I mean.”

“He was the
best.
And I didn’t do anything to Bobby Winkle for saying that you were drunk and crazy and that my dad wasn’t my dad. But I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.” Johnny thought for a moment. “Sometimes I still want to punch him in the face.”

“But you haven’t.”

“Nope.”

Bowie set the finished train engine on the table next to his chair. “That’s good. Sometimes, you have to fight. But most of the time, there are better ways to handle things. I didn’t learn that the way you have. Not until I was all grown up.”

“So…you think I did good?”

“I do. Yes.”

“I think my dad would have said that, too.”

“I think you’re right.”

Johnny was looking at the wooden engine. “Engines are usually black.”

“Yes, they are.”

“But I would like it to be blue—like Thomas, the tank engine.”

“Well, all right, then. Blue it will be.”

“Pancakes, huh?” Glory said the next morning when she came in the kitchen and found him whipping up the batter, the griddle nice and hot on the cooktop.

“Johnny asked for them last night.”

She put the baby monitor on the counter and went and got the water going for the tea she liked. “You’ll spoil him.”

“That’s my plan.” He sent her a glance.

She was smiling—and so beautiful that it hurt him to look at her. In old jeans and a faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway to her elbows, her brown hair loose and shining on her shoulders. She did look a little tired, though. Sera had probably kept her up half the night. She got down a mug and put a tea bag in it, poured in the hot water from the teapot he had heated for her and then gestured with the full mug at the table. “Even got the table all set, I see.”

“I like to do my part.”

She pulled out her usual chair and sat down. “Are you sure you’re the same Bowie I used to know?”

“God, I hope not.” He turned the fire down under the griddle and started pouring pancakes. The batter sizzled a little as it hit the hot surface, telling him he had the temperature right.

Johnny came bouncing in. “Pancakes. Yeah!” He went to the fridge, got out the pitcher of orange juice and carried it carefully to the table, where he poured with great concentration, his tongue caught in the side of his mouth.

Bowie flipped the pancakes. They were ready in no time. He transferred them to the platter he’d heated in the microwave.

Johnny got the first two and Glory took the two that were left. They were spreading on the butter and syrup when Sera started fussing. Glory sighed and pushed back her chair.

“Let me get her.” He said it too fast and much too eagerly.

Glory almost said yes. For a moment, he could see relief and gratitude on her sweet face. She could let him get the baby for her, and eat her pancakes before they got cold. But then she pressed her lips together. “No, it’s okay. Thanks, though.” Those were her words. Her eyes said something altogether different. They were guarded against him.

Upstairs in the master suite, Glory put the yowling baby to her breast. The ensuing silence was a truly lovely thing. She sat in the pretty white rocker by the window and stared out at the overcast sky. More snow was predicted for that night.

And she really did need to watch herself.

It was one thing to help Bowie and Johnny find their way to each other, one thing to establish a solid and cordial relationship with the father of her son. But it was something else altogether to let herself start playing house with him. Yeah, it was great if he wanted to help. She could use a little help around the kitchen, an extra hand at the hardware store.

But she couldn’t start counting on him. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in by him, let herself get too close to him.

Nights like last night, when she’d given in to her concern for him and sought him out alone…

Uh-uh. Not going to happen again. That would be plain idiocy on her part, to get involved with him now—or ever. She’d already paid and paid dearly for loving Bowie Bravo. Never again.

She just had to watch herself. Keep her distance. Remind him of the boundaries and make sure they stayed firmly in place.

From the nightstand, the picture of her and Matteo on their wedding day seemed to reproach her. She stared at her lost husband’s pleasant face, his kind eyes. She still remembered that day, the day they got married, like it was yesterday. They’d exchanged their vows at the courthouse and then gone back to her mamma’s house for a simple reception, just the family. Next to Johnny—and now, Sera—Matteo was the best thing that had ever happened to her. A good man, solid. Loving. Funny. Smart.

They should have had a lifetime together. She hated that he was gone. And the least she could do after losing him was to remain true to his memory and not end up throwing herself at the man who’d abandoned her and her child.

That day, the shipment of reclaimed red oak Bowie had been waiting for arrived. He got started on the table for the customer in Oregon. At lunchtime, he walked over to Main Street and ate at the diner.

On his way back to the barn, he stopped in at Rossi’s Hardware Emporium, next door to the St. Thomas Bar, just to see how things were getting along there. He’d always liked the Rossi store. It was one big room, packed to the knotty-pine rafters with gardening tools and supplies, general household equipment and anything you might need for a home improvement project. One whole wall was dedicated to every nut, bolt, washer and screw of every size ever invented. As a kid, he’d loved going in that store. Matteo’s dad always treated him like a regular person, not like some wild fool who might steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. And Matteo took after his dad, a good man who didn’t judge others. Five years ahead of Bowie in school, Matteo always greeted him with warmth and courtesy when they met on the street or in the store.

Bowie went in and saw that Glory was there at the counter, behind the ancient National cash register. She waved when she saw him come in, but she didn’t smile.

She seemed kind of preoccupied.

Or maybe it was something to do with that moment at breakfast, when he’d offered to go get Sera for her and her warm, open expression had suddenly closed tight against him. Maybe she’d decided she’d been acting too friendly with him.

Scratch the
maybe.
He knew that keep-your-distance expression when he saw it.

He went to the counter anyway. After all, as he kept reminding her, he was there to help. He saw that she had Sera, asleep in the stroller, back there with her. “Just checking in,” he said. “Seeing if there’s anything I can do around here.…”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. Del’s in the back if I need him.” Del Paxton was about a hundred years old and her only employee. “I’ve got it handled, thanks.” She smiled. But it was a flat sort of smile, all tight and strictly business.