Always Florence (14 page)

“Dad wouldn’t know how to hurt anyone.”

“So, if they develop a relationship, you and I might be connected beyond January. I mean, what if they end up together and you come to visit? I’ll be here, disturbing your uncomplicated artist’s life.”

“If they got serious,” she speculated, peering around the canvas at him, “she might quit her job. Then you’d have to get married. Maybe call that client in Portland or the model. One of those variable women might have had a change of heart and decided she’d like a family, after all.”

“You know, for someone who doesn’t want a relationship, you tend to bring it up a lot. Maybe deep down you wish you had one. Or—and this is just occurring to me—maybe you don’t know how to have one.”

She blew air between her lips in a very unladylike raspberry. “How hard is it to have a relationship? You have things in common and you care about each other. Big deal. Anybody can do it.”

She knew she was talking nonsense, but didn’t want to get into a serious discussion.

Sheamus appeared suddenly in the doorway, holding up a bag of cookies. “Can we have one of these?”

Bobbie dropped her brush in a jar of water. “Lunch before cookies,” she said. “Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches?”

Sheamus cheered, hearing the menu, and went to tell Dylan.

“You can move now,” she told Nate as she dried her hands on a rag, pretending she’d forgotten about the subject under discussion.

Nate took the old hat off and placed it carefully on a bookshelf.

“Now you go from artist’s model to sous-chef,” she said. “First, we have to take this off.” She went to help him remove the jacket, and hung it back up in its paper wrapper. He had to think she was as removed as she pretended to be.

He carefully pulled off the shirt and stood there in a white T-shirt molded to a sturdy chest and shoulders.

The urge to touch him was overwhelming. His watchful gaze caught hers. He took her hand and placed it on a warm, solid pectoral muscle. “Nothing to be afraid of,” he said softly. “It’s just me. Or does that scare you? If you really believe what you just said about relationships, it’s clear you haven’t had one. Been too devoted to your art, maybe? A little bit afraid of a world that doesn’t exist on canvas or pretty paper, but in real flesh and blood?”

* * *

H
E
HAD
HER
. Her eyes went darker, wider, and in her small, pale face they seemed enormous. Her lips firmed, but her hand under his trembled. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “That I’m a poor, repressed innocent and that’s why I won’t be anything but your neighbor? Did it ever occur to you that I may just not be attracted?”

“Oh, you’re attracted,” he said with a small smile. “You can deny it all you want, but your body betrays you. Every time I touch you, you tremble. You’re just afraid of the kind of intimacy we could share, because you’re not sure you’re strong enough to care for me and still walk away.”

“I told you once,” she said, enunciating carefully, “that I can stand up to anything.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Big talk.”

He got precisely what he wanted when she grabbed a fistful of the front of his T-shirt, pulled him down while she stood on tiptoe, and claimed his mouth. Then he lost awareness of everything but the warm, mobile lips reshaping his, the hand that still clutched his shirt, the other that wandered over his shoulder and into his hair.

He was out of breath when she finally drew back and gulped in air. She looked into his eyes with a shocked and horrified expression. Then she ran from the room and left him standing there.

* * *

A
FTER
LUNCH
, B
OBBIE
wrapped kitchen towels around the boys’ spindly bodies, and everyone was given a job. She made quick bread biscuit dough, spread it on the floured countertop and rolled it out. She gave each boy a glass with the rim dipped in flour, and placed them at either end of the flattened dough. She showed the two how to cut a biscuit with the rim of the glass and place it on the parchment-covered tin.

Nate watched her work. The unspoken rule seemed to be to pretend that the moment in her studio had never happened. She was doing it beautifully, but he felt the effort like an anvil on his shoulders.

Apart from that, he’d have liked to employ her method, whatever it was, of getting the boys’ rapt attention. She watched them begin their jobs, seemed satisfied with their efforts, and handed Nate the jar of mincemeat.

“I’ll pour that into a piecrust,” she promised, “if you can get the lid off.”

“What? Out of a jar?” He gave the lid a quick turn and handed it back to her. “No large stone pot with bits of lamb and beef and fruit and brandy?”

“Get real, Raleigh. Thank you.” She walked across the room to where the piecrust waited, then smiled at him over her shoulder. Brat. Like smiling at him wasn’t hard at all. “This is the here and now.”

The first batch of biscuits went into the oven and the boys began to work on the second tin. Bobbie handed Nate a bowl with pumpkin puree in it and seasonings on top. “Would you mix those in, please?” She stuck a wooden spoon in the bowl and placed a prepared piecrust on the table beside him. “Then turn it out into this.”

“Gotcha,” he said.

As she went back to check on the boys, she gave him another look over her shoulder that he interpreted as “No, you don’t,” though she didn’t say the words. What was he going to do, he wondered, if she could just walk away?

He mixed the spices in and caught the familiar aroma of traditional pumpkin pie. It took him back to his childhood and the loud, cheerful holiday celebrations with grandparents and aunts and uncles who were all gone now. The nostalgia was poignant for a moment. Then he caught sight of the boys and thought of life carrying on despite loss.

The back door opened after a brief two-rap knock and Sandy walked in, carrying a plate of what looked like homemade candy. Hunter followed her, seemingly relieved to see Nate there.

“Hey!” He walked around the women, slapped each boy on the shoulder as he passed and came to greet Nate. “What are you up to? I didn’t know you had culinary skills.”

Nate pulled a chair out for him. “I don’t. I’m just stirring. Hard to get that wrong. What are you doing?”

Hunter sat as though he really needed to. “Sandy had a bunch of errands to run for her mom, who’s cooking tomorrow, so I’m providing chauffeur service.”

“Your mother still thinks you’re going camping?”

“No. I finally told her the truth. Then I brought Sandy and the girls by to introduce them. You were right. Mom was a little annoyed with me for not being honest with her, but thrilled that I’m seeing someone and that she has children. Sandy’s mother invited her to join us, but Mom told them she was cooking for all of you.”

“I’m sorry. She could have gone with you. We wouldn’t have minded.”

“No, she wants to cook for you. And...” He leaned closer to say quietly, “I think she likes spending time with Bobbie’s father. Last time I talked to her she seemed happy as a clam. Where does that expression come from, anyway? How do we know clams are happy?” Hunter kept smiling though his eyes were troubled.

“You okay?” Nate asked in a low voice.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’m just glad to see another guy. I’m on estrogen overload today.”

Nate laughed sympathetically. “Come on over Friday. The boys and Bobbie’s dad and I are going to watch college football all day, and guy movies. The girls are going shopping.”

“Great. I’d love to. I’ll bring pizza.”

“Good.”

“Hunter?” Sandy said his name with a sweet lilt Nate wasn’t used to hearing in her voice. Stella always said Hunter’s name with pride, and at work, the women either spoke his name with playful abuse or reverence when he found solutions for impossible clients.

He gave Nate a harried look before he pasted on a smile and turned to Sandy. “Coming.”

She caught his hand as he went toward her, and they walked out together. Nate had never seen Sandy so taken with a man. And he’d never seen Hunter look so frightened. He followed Bobbie out into the chill air to wave them off.

A crash reverberated from inside and Sheamus shouted as they turned back to the house. Bobbie ran in, Nate right behind her. They found Sheamus standing in the middle of the kitchen, with unbaked rolls all over the floor. His chin quivered and his blue eyes were wide with guilt.

“I hit the tin with my elbow,” he said as Dylan picked up the circles of dough. Nate got down to help him. “I didn’t mean to do it, it just—”

Bobbie put a fingertip over his mouth. “It’s all right. It’s just dough.”

“It
was
an accident,” Dylan corroborated, getting to his feet, dough in hand. “He was reaching for the glass and accidentally hit the full pan with his elbow, and it tipped off the counter. Shall I throw these away?”

Bobbie glanced at Nate, who looked up from his task in surprise. She must have recognized, just as he had, that it was unusual for Dylan to come to Sheamus’s defense.

“Yes. I’d made extra, anyway, so we’ll still have plenty.” She pinched Sheamus’s chin. “You’re more important to us than the rolls, Sheamus. Everything’s okay.”

He sniffed. “I’m really sorry.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. Go ahead and finish. We’ll take a break when the last batch goes in the oven, and have milk and cookies.”

Sheamus smiled, his eyes bright, and went back to work.

“I’ll scrub the floor for you,” Nate said, tossing the rolls he’d picked up into the trash, “as soon as we’re all done. Do you have a swab mop,” he asked, “to help me get into character?”

“Aren’t you cute?”

“So you’ve told me.”

“You’ll have to use a Swiffer. In reality, we’re stuck with this century.”

They looked at each other, all the complications of their nonrelationship and the kisses that kept happening anyway as visible in her eyes as he was sure they were in his. While he might pretend to accept that there was no possibility they could sail off to Europe together as their turn-of-the-century counterparts might have done, he refused to give up hope. In the past or in the present, he just wanted to be near her. He found himself ignoring the cost of caring about a woman who didn’t have forever because now seemed to stop time in its tracks.

CHAPTER TEN

N
ATE
HAD
TUCKED
in the boys, and sat down with a glass of brandy to read the
Daily Astorian.
He found a Black Friday sale insert and put it aside for Stella, who was planning to shop with Bobbie and Sandy. She was out to dinner with Dennis tonight.

The pair had spent the afternoon cleaning and preparing vegetables and making dressing. There was an interesting looking corn concoction in a bowl in the refrigerator and a cranberry-and-orange mixture Nate presumed was a fancier take on cranberry jelly. She’d mashed carrots and rutabagas together—a dish Dennis always made, apparently—and there was a plastic bag of brussels sprouts that were Nate’s particular favorite.

So preparations for Thanksgiving were under control, and the boys were excited that Bobbie and Dennis would be here to celebrate with them. Nate had had trouble getting them to go to bed.

It was nearly ten o’clock. He’d brought up the card table from the basement and washed it as he’d promised Stella.

He was happy to have time to read the paper. He didn’t want to sit in the dark and think about the turn-of-the-century captain and the suffragist, who might have had different options than he and Bobbie had. He didn’t want to remember the sadness in her eyes when she’d looked at him in the captain’s clothes, and he didn’t want to recall her sweetness with Sheamus when he’d dropped the rolls.

Nate did, however, like remembering the way she’d grabbed him and kissed him. He let himself dwell on it for a moment, then groaned and forced himself back to reality.

Finding the sports section, he folded the paper back to study the stats. The brandy glass had almost reached his lips when he heard a sharp “Pssst!”

He looked up to see Dylan hanging over the railing. Nate opened his mouth to warn him of the danger of falling when the boy straightened and made an urgent beckoning gesture, then put his fingertip to his lips for silence.

A little concerned, Nate started quickly up the stairs, and Dylan turned to shush him. At least he was smiling.

Nate followed him to the half-open door of Sheamus’s room. Dylan pointed through the opening to his brother, who sat on the floor in front of the closet door, his back to them.

The little boy was looking up at the poster of Bill the Monster, one arm around Arnold, who sat beside him.

Sheamus seemed to be speaking to the door, or, rather, the monster on the other side of it.

“...not afraid of you anymore,” he was saying. “I used to feel all alone, and that was scary. But I feel better now. And Bobbie says I’m more important to her than the biscuit dough. Biscuits aren’t very important, but not getting mad when somebody’s messy is. And I’m more important than that.”

Sheamus got up on his knees. Arnold rose to his feet, tail swishing, awaiting his master’s next move. “It’s starting to get cold,” Sheamus told the closet door, “and I want my scarf. And my coat. And my boots. And my basketball. Bobbie said she likes to play basketball, but she doesn’t have a ball. I’m gonna let her play with mine.”

His voice got a little louder. “I’m gonna open the door, so if you’re in there, Bill, you better go. Arnold might hurt you.”

When Sheamus stood, Dylan shifted his weight anxiously, as tense as Nate. Placing a palm on his nephew’s shoulder, Nate watched as Sheamus reach for the doorknob.

Arnold pranced a little, as though a steak waited on the other side of the door.

Nate held his breath as Sheamus turned the knob. Then with a mighty yank, he pulled the door open and jumped back. Arnold barked and wagged his tail. No steak? No monster?

Sheamus giggled and stepped cautiously forward, his hand on the dog’s collar. He looked left, then right, pushed clothes aside and peered under them, got down on the floor and crawled back and forth. Arnold, enjoying the game, licked his face.

Dylan turned to look up at Nate and said with sudden seriousness, “He did it. He finally did it.” Then, after a moment, he walked across the hall to his own room and closed the door.

Nate felt as though a part of his life that had gone missing when he’d lost Ben and Sherrie had been restored. He felt lighter, strangely hopeful at the little boy’s victory.

Sheamus got to his feet, reached up to the pegs on the inside of the closet door and pulled down the simply knit yellow scarf Sherrie had made him. He twirled it around his neck and wrapped his arms around himself.

Nate walked into the room, trying not to make a big deal out of what this meant. He had to clear his throat.

“Hey,” he said. “You opened the closet. And you found your scarf.”

Sheamus beamed up at him, then without warning, shed a very large tear. He held up an end of the scarf and rubbed it against his face. “My mom made this.”

Nate squatted down in front of him. “I know. Now you can wear it all winter long to stay warm.”

“I’m gonna wear it to bed, okay?”

“Sure.” Nate untangled it from around his neck and placed it so that the ends fell loosely. “We won’t tie it, so it doesn’t choke you if you roll around. Want me to tuck you in again?”

“Okay.” He climbed into his bed and lay back against the pillow.

Nate pulled up the blankets, tucked in Sheamus’s feet, then leaned over to kiss his forehead.

“I did it, Uncle Nate,” he said, wriggling a little in his excitement. “I opened the door.”

“I told you you would when you were ready.”

“Where do you think Bill went?”

“I think when you stopped being afraid, he left.”

Sheamus gave him one of those insightful looks. “Does that mean he wasn’t really there?”

Nate laughed. “It means that when you’re afraid, it feels like there’s a monster in your life, but when you do something brave, you realize how strong you really are, and monsters go away like they were never there.”

Sheamus reached his arms up and Nate leaned down for a hug.

“I love you, Uncle Nate,” he said.

“I love you, too, buddy.” Nate arranged the blankets around his shoulders, ruffled Arnold’s ears, then turned off the light and left the room, leaving the door half-open.

God, he needed that brandy.

He passed Dylan’s closed door and knocked lightly once. “You okay in there? You need anything before I go downstairs?”

There was a moment’s silence, then Dylan replied, “I’m sketching because I can’t go to sleep. Okay?”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Good night.”

* * *

T
HERE
WAS
MORE
FOOD
ON
Nate’s table, Bobbie thought, than she’d eaten in the last year. Even her father refrained from cautioning her against a second helping of dressing or that wonderful corn pudding. He was eating nonstop himself.

She loved to listen to him talk to Stella. Bobbie didn’t think a great love affair was in the works there, but they seemed to have a lot of cultural memories to share, and were on the way to developing a strong friendship.

The boys apparently had undergone a change. Nate had told her that Sheamus had had an epiphany and opened his closet door. She was so happy the boy had taken such an important step, and it was clear that Nate was, too.

Sheamus seemed to swagger just a little as he did what he could to help in the kitchen. He took Bobbie’s hand and dragged her to the toy box to show her the basketball.

“Is that the one from your closet?” she asked, pretending ignorance.

He nodded, beaming. “Uncle Nate says we can play basketball after dinner.”

“Wonderful.”

Dylan was also different, though the change was a little harder to figure out. He was polite and helpful, but more restrained than usual. There was no hostility, no biting humor, no harassment of Sheamus.

Stella put a hand to his head when he turned down Bobbie’s offer of pumpkin pie. “Are you okay?” she asked in concern. “You haven’t eaten very much, and I’ve never seen you refuse dessert.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I had three dinner rolls, and I think I just filled myself up. I’ll have some pie later.”

Stella would have persisted, but Nate shook his head at her. “He was up late last night working on his sketch. You want to lie down for a while, Dyl?”

“Yeah. May I be excused?”

“Sure.”

Dylan smiled briefly at everyone, then walked away from the table.

“What’s wrong with him?” Stella asked Nate softly. “I know he didn’t have three rolls. He had one, and left half of it.” She pointed to his plate, which had most of the food still on it. Then she frowned as something seemed to occur to her. “Oh.” She’d started to clear away some plates, then stopped and sat down again, looking at Nate. She handed Sheamus her water glass. “Would you get me some more, please?” she asked.

He took the glass and went for the filtration pitcher in the refrigerator. While he was busy, she asked, just above a whisper, “Do you think he’s missing his parents? He’s told me several times how much they loved the holidays. This must be hard.”

“Thanksgiving was always a big deal for our family,” Nate said. “Dylan’s been convinced since we began planning it that it would be awful this year. But he was happy that Bobbie and Dennis were coming. I thought it might be all right for him, after all.”

Sheamus was back with Stella’s water. The conversation stopped, a slight pall falling over the sunny afternoon.

“I’ll have pumpkin pie,” Sheamus said excitedly. “With ice cream and whipped cream.”

“You don’t have room for all that,” Bobbie teased, squeezing his shoulders as she passed him. “I’ll give the ice cream to Stella and half of the pie to Uncle Nate.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then, realizing she was playing with him, laughed with everyone else.

After dessert, everyone pitched in to clean up. While working with Stella on making all the leftovers fit into the refrigerator, Bobbie received a text from Laura and Sean, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving.
Know that I’m thankful for you,
it read. She held the phone to her chest for a moment.

“Old boyfriend?” Nate asked with a grin.

“My friend Laura.” She put her phone on the table. “We had chemo at the same time. We helped pull each other through.”

“Ah. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right.”

Nate transferred the turkey carcass to a smaller platter while Dennis cleaned off the table. He gave Sheamus the cotton napkins to take to the laundry room.

Dennis held up the salt and pepper. “Do these stay on the table?”

“Leave them out for sandwiches later.” When everyone looked horrified at the thought of more food, Nate added, “We’re going to play basketball and work off all those calories.”

“I could play with the Trailblazers for a whole season,” Bobbie said with a laugh, “and not be ready for a sandwich.”

Dennis cleared his throat. “I’ve thought about joining Doctors Without Borders,” he said, rolling down the sleeves of his blue flannel shirt. “But I’m afraid to commit to taking off at a moment’s notice for an emergency, or agreeing to spend time halfway around the world.”

Bobbie kissed his cheek as she reached past him to the table for the place mats. “That’s because you don’t want to leave me, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be in Florence, so there’s no need for you to stay handy to take care of me. And there’s also the fact that I’m just fine.”

“I know that. I’d just like you to be able to reach me if you need me.” He looked at her directly, daring her to argue.

Stella closed the refrigerator door and dusted off her hands. “I’m probably going to die on the job,” she said, “and be carried out of here in an apron with a spoon in my hand.”

Nate put an arm around her shoulders. “Good. Not your being carried out of here. I mean, your wanting to stay. I promise you regular raises and combat pay. And vacations.”

Tired of the adult chitchat, Sheamus announced, with a smile in Nate’s direction, “I’m going upstairs to get my cold weather jacket.”

He smiled back. “Okay. You want to check on Dylan while you’re up there? If he’s awake, ask him if he wants to join us.”

Sheamus ran off.

Dennis shrugged into his jacket, handed Bobbie’s to Nate and helped Stella into hers. With her back to Nate, pushing her arms into the sleeves, Bobbie watched her father treat Stella with his customary gentle care. “You’re never going to retire?”

“No.” Stella turned to Dennis, snapping her jacket closed. She made a wry face. “If you’re joining Doctors Without Borders, it sounds as though you aren’t, either.”

His brow furrowed. “Aren’t you tempted to travel, take up a hobby?”

“These guys are my hobby and I love my home.”

Dennis pushed the door open and they walked out into the brisk, brilliant autumn afternoon. Bobbie hurried to catch up, not wanting to miss their conversation.

“I knit like a fiend in my spare time.” She kicked at the rusty mountain ash leaves all over the driveway. “And I’m taking an online class in design.”

Bobbie wondered if her father was thinking about how he could fit into such a life. Or if Stella could fit into his. But there seemed to be no urgency with either of them.

Nate’s voice came from behind Bobbie. “Stella, are there things you want to do for yourself that you’re not finding time for? Because we can work that out somehow.”

She shook her head. “No. I do enjoy having a male coffee and dinner companion, though. That way the conversation doesn’t always come down to grandchildren—of which I have
none.
”

“Ah, but Hunter’s dating now and Sandy has two little girls.”

Stella nodded, a smile forming. “That’s true. But it’s still nice to have a man around.”

Nate turned to Bobbie. “Told ya!”

Bobbie laughed and hooked her arm in his. “Get over yourself, Raleigh. You’re about to be trounced at basketball by the Free Throw Champion of Whittier High School women’s basketball team.”

He gave her a light shove on the shoulder. “Oh, yeah? Shall we make a wager on this? Because I was Facts and Figures Club captain at Oregon State.”

She blinked at him. “And how does that relate to basketball?”