Always Florence (4 page)

He made a one-handed gesture of helplessness. “It is what it is—at least that’s what everyone says about things they can’t explain or do anything about.” He stopped on the lawn, his expression grim. “I guess the suggestion is that since you can’t change it, you have to accept it. I’m having a little trouble with that.”

She nodded in understanding, his admission forcing her to reassess her opinion of him. “I get that. I tore my curtains off my bedroom window when my mother died. I was in my teens. Then I had to replace a window in my kitchen door after my teacup went through it when I got my cancer diagnosis.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “Sometimes it’s just too hard to pretend that we’re adult and in control.”

He frowned as his eyes went to her hair. “I wondered if that was the case. Not that it’s any of
my
business.”

“It’s all right. Nothing secret with me, either. Millions of people deal with cancer every day, and my prognosis is better than many.” She ran a hand self-consciously over her head. “And my hair’s back. Well, mostly. So, all in all, things aren’t too bad.”

His eyes roved her hair, then slowly and with an interest that pinned her in place, moved over her face, feature by feature. He lingered for the barest moment on her mouth, then went back to her eyes.

“So, the cancer is gone?” he asked.

“Ah...” She had to pull her thoughts away from his close scrutiny. She swore she could feel fingertips everywhere his gaze had touched. “No. But I can live with it for a long time. It doesn’t go away, but it’s not as aggressive as other types.”

“You seem to have adjusted,” he said. “Or maybe the better word is
accepted.
How did you reach that point?”

She didn’t have to think. It was the decision to move to Florence that had finally put her on her feet. “You’re right. It is what it is. Nothing says it quite so well. I couldn’t change it, and I was tired of pouting and being scared, so I started to make plans.”

She began to walk across the yard. She was surprised when he kept pace with her.

“What kind of plans?”

“I’m moving to Italy after the holidays to pursue an art career.”

“I thought you had an art career.”

“What I do now is commercial. I want to go where the masters worked, to study their genius and try to learn and absorb. I want to see if there’s fine art in me. You know, art that changes the world.”

“That’s a big dream.”

“Well, when you flirt with death, you tend to think big. I mean—I think I have time, but I don’t have forever. So, if I’m going to get to it, it’s now or never.”

He took her hand as they reached the row of chrysanthemums that bordered his side of their adjoining driveways. She talked to cover a little nervousness. His grip was strong, the skin on his hands smooth. “And I feel really good. My father is a doctor and moved in with me during my treatments. He cooked all the right things for me, and when I came here, made up a diet that I try to follow. If he hears I’m eating badly he’ll come and take over my kitchen again.”

“Ah. The hovering parent.” Nate freed her hand and they walked side by side around his car, then her truck. “I know something about that. My mother died of cancer when Ben and I were in high school, but my friend’s mother is my housekeeper and she’s a dragon where the boys’ and my health are concerned. When she thought I wasn’t getting enough sleep, she bought me bed pillows made of Hungarian goose down mingled with herbs that are supposed to help with stress relief.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Bobbie said gravely. Then she smiled. “Buying you goose down pillows is just caring and concern. My father cooked every meal for me with fresh organic produce and grains, and hid all my chocolate.”

Nate questioned her with a look. “Isn’t
that
just love and concern?”

“I guess it is,” she conceded, stopping to study her dormant rhododendron. “He taught me to fend for myself, and now wishes he hadn’t. And separating me from my chocolate is a suicidal move.” She plucked at a dead flower in the middle of the bush.

“Stella—that’s my housekeeper—says it’s as important to accept help as it is to give it. Maybe you should give your dad a break. He sounds like a great father. And I’m just learning how hard it is to be a good parent.”

“He’s wonderful. But healing the body is simpler than healing the soul and the emotions.” She frowned sympathetically. “And you’re in pain, too. If you don’t feel like the perfect stand-in father, I think you should give
yourself
a break.”

She reached farther in for another dead flower. “My dad’s coming for Thanksgiving. He called me today to make sure I was getting out and meeting people and not spending every waking moment in my studio. I guess you have to be an artist to understand another artist.”

“Have you met people?”

“I’ve been here just a month. And I’m working on the commission, so there hasn’t been a lot of free time. But the friend who got me the commission just talked me into teaching art classes at the school once a week.” She laughed softly. “At least I’ll be able to tell Dad I know a lot of children.”

“Astor School?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “The boys go to Astor. What grades?”

“It sounds like they’ll be combining a few of the lower grades for my class.”

“Sheamus is in second grade. Dylan, though, is a fifth grader, so he probably won’t have access to the class. And he’s the one who shows definite artistic abilities. He’s really smart all around. He’s crazy about the
MythBusters
. Do you ever watch that?”

“No. Not much time for TV. Except
Dancing with the Stars.”

Her neighbor closed his eyes. “Saints preserve me. Anyway, when I was just his uncle, we used to watch it together, and I used to think his love of exploring and experimenting was fun. The two hosts take accepted myths and action scenes from movies to see whether they could really happen. Even the president and his daughters watch it, and asked the show to prove an old myth about Archimedes’s death ray.”

“Archimedes...” Bobbie repeated the name, trying desperately to remember who he was.

“Among other things, he was a physicist and an astronomer. He’s supposed to have set fire to an invading Roman fleet by positioning his army to direct mirrors that reflected the rays of the sun. The hosts of the show used five hundred students with mirrors, but it didn’t work. Anyway—now that it’s my job to keep Dylan from killing himself, I don’t enjoy the show as much anymore.”

“You mentioned the power saw this morning. What was he doing when that happened?”

“Trying to build a bike ramp. We got off lucky. I hate to think what he could have done to himself with the saw or the ramp if he’d finished it. I locked up my power tools and asked Stella to be extra vigilant. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get him busy with something.”

“I have a thought.” Suddenly inspired with a positive solution for Dylan, Bobbie withdrew her hand from the bush and started off toward the house.

At the sight of a large spider on the back of her hand, she stopped in her tracks and shook her arm frantically. The spider held on. She screamed.

Nate caught her wrist in one hand and swatted the spider away with the other. “You confront a major disease with heroic resolve and freak out over a spider?” He almost smiled, but not quite. “It is Halloween, after all. They’re supposed to be here.”

She did a sort of all-body shudder and brushed both arms. “Okay,” she allowed. “But not on
me.”

“I guess Nature doesn’t know that.” The remark was teasing, but he still didn’t smile. “You said you had a thought,” he prompted.

“Right.” She gave up trying to figure him out and ran lightly up the back porch steps. “If Dylan’s interested in art, I can give you a sketchbook and some pencils.”

Nate hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. If you can spare them.”

“Come with me.” She pushed open the back door. “I’ve got pastels I never use, too. But that can get messy.”

He followed her inside. “I don’t care about the mess, if he’ll be occupied with something that carries low injury potential.”

“Great. Wait here for a minute. I’ll find some things for him.”

* * *

N
ATE
WALKED
INTO
her small living room while she disappeared into the back of the house. He was curiously uncomfortable in her presence, though he wasn’t sure why. Possibly because there was such brightness about her and it seemed intrusive in his dark, angry world. But if she had something that would interest Dylan, Nate would be happy to have it.

The walls in her living room were a go-with-everything off-white that would have seemed dull but for the berry-colored sofa and chair, the coffee table painted with stylized flowers and vines trailing down the legs, and all the unrelated but individually striking paintings on the walls. There was a seascape, a still life, a wild pattern of some sort, a languorous nude in the grass and a large canvas covered with what looked like a conveyor belt with rabbits on wheels careening off it. A bright sun shone, smiling birds flew around the rabbits and in the background ducks on a pond bathed happily. He stepped forward for a closer look.

The painting defied explanation. He’d always thought he preferred representational art—a pot of flowers, a portrait, a familiar scene—but this brought a smile and seemed to inspire in him a sense of good cheer. It was ridiculous, but somehow enjoyable. The signature on the bottom right read “RLM.”

He heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called
Hare Raising.
” It was Bobbie’s voice.

He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”

“I am.”

He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”

“Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”

“I think of myself as a traditionalist, but I really like it.”

“I did, too, when I did it. It was toward the end of my first round of chemo and I had to dig deep for energy and enthusiasm, so I tried something new. I had a dream one night about a similar scene. I added the birds and the ducks just because I like them. But I haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”

He looked at the painting once more, then at her. “The feeling of a frightened rabbit on a wild ride?”

She blinked and stared. He was obviously on target, but he felt sure she didn’t appreciate it. Something shifted in her eyes as she lowered them and closed him out. He could almost hear the sound of a slamming door.

She gave him an artificial smile. “Yes. That was perceptive. I think you probably understand the boys better than you think you do.” She walked ahead of him to the door and opened it for him.

He paused in the entry before she physically pushed him out. Instinct told him that was coming next. “Thank you.” He held up the bag. “Dylan will be very happy.”

“You’re welcome. See you on Halloween.”

He stepped onto the porch as the door began to close.

It was clear that, for whatever reason, she didn’t like being understood. Which was probably best. He didn’t want her to become a chummy neighbor and understand that he was a deeply angry man who wasn’t dealing very well with his life, and had no idea how to raise two lost and frightened little boys.

God, he missed Ben.

CHAPTER THREE

“C
OOL
!”
Dylan studied the art supplies spread out on the kitchen table. He picked up a sketch pad and flipped through the blank pages. “Really?” he asked Nate for the third time. “Bobbie gave you all this for me?”

“Yeah.” Nate turned off the burner under the whistling teakettle. “She was telling me she’s teaching art at your school until the holidays, but just for the lower grades. I told her that was too bad, because you like to sketch. She thought you might like to have some stuff to work with.”

“Wow.” Sheamus hung over Dylan as he zipped open a green fabric envelope that contained pencils, some new, some stubs. There was a large-format paperback on basic sketching and a box of pastels. Dylan held up a two-inch-square gray object wrapped in plastic.

“What’s that?” Nate asked.

“The wrapper says it’s an eraser.”

“I’ve never seen one like that.”

“It’s probably for real artists. Wow.”

Nate turned back to the stove before Dylan could think he was too interested. That would certainly ruin his own fascination with Bobbie’s gift. After pouring boiling water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, Nate added two ice cubes to each, then topped them with miniature marshmallows. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

He put the cups on the end of the table, away from the supplies. Sheamus, wearing a pout, sat down in front of his cup. His hair was disheveled and a smear of dirt ran across his cheek like a scar. Stella would be horrified that Nate had seated the boys at the table without making them wash first, but there should be some advantages to an all-male weekend.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” Sheamus asked, his voice a little strained. “’Cause I thought she was a witch.”

Nate gave him a gentle shove. “Of course she likes you. But this is for Dylan because he’s interested in the same thing she’s interested in. And she gave you a carved pumpkin to hang in your room.”

That didn’t help. “But Dylan got one of those, too.”

“Remember when we bought you a new winter jacket, but we didn’t get one for Dylan because he didn’t need one?”

Sheamus was horrified by the comparison. “That’s clothes! Who cares about clothes?”

Nate bit back laughter, having to give him that one. “I’m sorry. You can’t have everything he has, and he can’t have everything you have. It’s the way the world works.”

“It sucks!”

“I know.”

Sheamus blew out air and sipped carefully from his cup. He gave Nate a pleading, put-upon look over the rim. “Can we buy me a new game for my Nintendo?”

“No.”

He sighed noisily. “Then can I have a cookie?”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Dylan put everything in his bag and picked up his cup. “I’m going to look at this in my room.”

“Bobbie said the pastels are messy,” Nate warned. “So be careful, okay?”

“Okay.” Dylan walked away, the bag slung over his shoulder, the cocoa held carefully ahead of him. Arnold, curled up under the table, stood—unsure whether to follow Dylan or stay with Sheamus. Then he heard the cookie jar lid and the decision was made.

Sheamus came back to the table with three cookies. He handed one to Nate, held one out to Arnold, who snatched it greedily without touching the small hand with even a tooth, then sat down again.

“Thank you,” Nate said. Sheamus sloshed his cocoa and Nate handed him a napkin.

“Maybe I could be an artist, too.” Sheamus twisted his sandwich cookie apart and scraped cream off the bottom half with his teeth.

“Maybe you could. I have paper in my office. We’ll get you some.”

“Artists use
special
paper.”

“Right. Maybe Dylan will give you a sheet.”

Sheamus gave Nate a look that told him he knew better than that.

“My mom would buy me something to make me feel better,” he said, trying another tack. “Maybe some different kind of art stuff.”

Nate pushed his cup aside, crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “No, she wouldn’t. She never let you whine, remember? And she didn’t like it when one of you had to have something just because the other one did.”

Sheamus’s eyes filled with tears suddenly. Nate could see this was no artful manipulation, but real emotion. “I don’t like to remember,” he said, a quiver in his lips.

Nate reached for his arm and drew him onto his lap. “I know. Sometimes I don’t, either. But if you don’t ever think about them, then you can’t remember the really nice things.”

Arnold whined in concern and came to sit beside them.

Sheamus leaned into Nate and kicked out with a grubby tennis shoe. “When I think, all I think is that they’re not here.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t deny the truth of that. “I really miss them, too. When your dad and I were little, we were a lot like you and Dylan. We did a lot of things together and we fought a lot, but when we got older, I realized how smart he was. We stopped fighting so much and started helping each other. Someday, you and Dylan will be like that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. And when your dad met your mom, I would have been jealous because she was so pretty and so special. But she and your dad were so happy, and when you guys were born, it was hard not to be happy with them.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Sheamus asked worriedly, “Do you think they’re still happy?”

“I do. They’re together, so they’re happy.”

The boy thought about that, then sat up in Nate’s lap and rested an elbow on his shoulder. His blue eyes were troubled. “Okay, but you’re not going anywhere for a long time, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” He prayed that fate would support his conviction.

* * *

N
ATE
DROPPED
THE
boys off at school Monday morning, then detoured a block and a half to the Astoria Coffee House to pick up a triple Americano. By the time he parked in the transit center lot just steps from his office, his cup was almost empty.

It had been an awful morning. Mondays were tense for the boys anyway after two days of not having to conform to a schedule. But today was Halloween and Sheamus was so excited he was practically airborne—without benefit of a spiderweb. Nate hated to think what the added sugar after trick-or-treating would do to him.

Dylan pretended to be taking the day in stride, but Sheamus was driving him into a foul mood more easily than usual. The ride to school had been loud and contentious. Trying to focus on the road, Nate had heard Sheamus accuse, “You’re on my side of the seat!”

Dylan rebutted with typical hostility. “How can I be on your side? You’re in a stupid little-kid seat!”

Nate looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Sheamus fling a hand at Dylan. His brother caught it and squeezed. Sheamus’s screech felt as though it drove a spike through Nate’s ears.

He’d pulled up to the school and turned to frown at both of them. Sheamus was crying and rubbing his hand, and Dylan’s expression could have drawn blood.

“I’d love to make this trip once,” he said, suppressing the bellow in his throat through sheer force of will, “without the two of you screaming at each other before we even get here.”

“He broke my hand!” Sheamus wept.

“You hit him first.” Nate came around the car to help Sheamus out of his seat. “When you react by hitting, you have to expect the other person to hit back.” He leaned over the little boy and gently manipulated his hand. It felt intact, though there was a slight bruising on the back. “Can you close it tight?”

Sheamus made a fist and didn’t even wince.

“I think it’s fine. Now, don’t hit anybody else, okay?”

Sheamus looked abused and misunderstood. “I don’t ever hit anybody. I just hit
him
’cause I hate him!”

“I hate
you
more!” Dylan replied venomously.

“You don’t hate each other,” Nate insisted, pained over the thought that they really might. “You get angry because life is hard, and you take it out on each other.”

They looked at him as though he were a Klingon come to life. It occurred to him to be grateful that at least they agreed on that.

“No,” Dylan insisted seriously. “We really hate each other.”

Nate gave Sheamus a gentle shove toward the school yard, where kids ran and shouted and waited for the bell to ring. “Remember that tonight you’re Spider-Man and everyone’s going to give you candy.”

“We have to go to Bobbie’s,” Sheamus said over his shoulder. He’d stopped crying, and excitement now battled the misery in his eyes.

“Right. First thing.” Nate caught Dylan by the shoulder and stopped him from following Sheamus.

They boy squirmed, trying to escape. “I’m going to be late!”

“You’ve got four minutes.” Nate held on to him. “Look, Dyl. You have to stop being so mean to Sheamus.”

“But he...”

“I know. He swung at you first because he’s even more scared than you are, and you’re always awful to him. I know he can be exasperating for you, but try to have patience. Try to help him out a little.”

“He’s a dork.”

“He’s seven.”

“I’m not scared. I’m just...”

When Dylan hesitated, Nate offered carefully, “Lonesome?”

Dylan looked into his eyes and for just an instant the vulnerability he struggled so hard to hide was visible. He opened his mouth to speak. Nate waited, hoping. Then the bell rang and the moment was gone.

“Now I
have
to go,” Dylan said.

Nate dropped his hand and straightened. “Right. Try to have a good day. Think candy.”

Dylan seemed to consider whether or not to be amused by that blatant example of bad adult advice, but decided against it. He simply turned and ran for the door, his Iron Man pack slapping against his back.

Nate returned to the present as Hunter pulled open the office door for him. His friend took one look at him and the empty coffee cup and made a face. “Rug rats getting to you, huh? I want to sympathize, man, but the Astoria Food Bank Fund-raiser Committee is in the conference room and they’ve been waiting for you for a good fifteen minutes.”

Nate said something he’d never let the boys hear. “Forgot they were meeting here today. We have to get doughnuts.” Not only had he taken over Ben’s place in the Astoria office of Raleigh and Raleigh, but he’d found himself taking over his brother’s place as a community volunteer. He could deal with never having a free moment, but with charity work he faced a learning curve, since most of his previous activities—both professional and social—had been focused on self-interests. Still, the people involved in this particular fund-raiser were hardworking and appreciated the use of the office conference room. And they probably accounted for all he had in the way of a social life these days.

“Jonni went to Danish Maid Bakery, and Karen is making coffee and hot water for tea and cocoa. I told your committee that you had to stop first at a client’s.” He pointed to the cup Nate still clutched. “The Coffee House is a client. I didn’t say you were doing business, just that you had to stop there.”

Hunter was several inches shorter than Nate, but had a build more appropriate to a quarterback than an accountant. He had the dark blond hair and blue eyes of his mother’s Scandinavian ancestry. Ben had trusted him completely, and now Nate did, too. Hunter had saved his hide more than once in front of clients. He never missed a detail and seemed to have memorized the tax code, complete with current changes.

Nate felt fractional relief. “You should have been a lawyer rather than an accountant.”

His colleague laughed lightly. “They don’t have a tax season. Who’d want to miss that? Here’s Jonni.”

An attractive woman in her mid-fifties wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket ran from a silver compact at the curb to the office door. Nate held it open for her. She was the workplace counterpart of Stella, without whom nothing would function smoothly. She had bright blue eyes, silky blond hair and an easy, efficient manner that had saved him more than once.

She handed him the bakery box and a tub of cocoa mix with one hand, and took his briefcase with the other. “Go,” she said. “Karen and I’ll bring in the coffee and water. Your committee notes are on your chair at the conference table.”

“You’re a treasure,” he told her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen as Nate carried the appeasing doughnuts into the conference room.

The previous renter, a law firm, had had a nautical bent, and the walls of the room were decorated with ship’s wheels, navigation charts and paintings of ships. The pictures made him think of Bobbie and the bright artwork on her walls. These pieces seemed suddenly pale and staid in comparison.

The five people around the table greeted him with pointed verbal abuse.

“Just because you’ve recently adopted two children, don’t think you can keep us waiting.” Sandy Evans, who worked for his attorney and was in charge of developing concepts for the fund-raiser, harassed everyone with equal fervor. “I mean, one of them is ten years old. I have two under five and I was here on time. And I don’t have the luxury of meeting in
my
office.”

“Go easy on him.” Jerry Gold was the shop teacher at the high school. He was very tall and reedy and wore a University of Oregon jersey over jeans. His wife had given birth to their first baby in August. “He probably got to sleep in and had trouble getting moving. I mean, I haven’t slept in weeks, so it was easy for me to be on time.”

“And I came from across the river.” Clarissa Burke had a fashion boutique in Long Beach, Washington, and one in Astoria. She was a white-haired woman who was the epitome of grace and style—even after her husband left her for one of her young sales associates. “And you’ll see that I—”

Nate put the doughnuts in the middle of the table. “I know. You probably braved pirates to get here in a leaking kayak you had to drag across the river the last mile with a length of rope in your teeth. Right?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “It was a length of leather,” she corrected, “and I was still here on time.”

“And remarkably dry.” Mike Wallis owned the building and The Cellar, a wine shop in the basement, under Nate’s office. He was small in stature but big in ideas.