Blue Sky Days (7 page)

I thought of the sandwiches I used to grab on the run at school—plain white bread, insubstantial slices of meat, wilted lettuce. Even the sandwiches my mother used to make for my school lunches when I was little were always stingy amounts of peanut butter or cheese spread. I would look at the other kids in class with their sandwiches overflowing with gooey peanut butter or slices of deli meat, and wish I had a mother who took more care with my lunches. Took more care with
anything
having to do with her only daughter.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I smiled at Nicholas and shifted to settle in beside him against the tree trunk. We ate in silence, listening to the birds singing or calling to one another, and watching them swoop around in an endless game of tag. Children in the park below did the same, chasing each other across the lush grass or around the play equipment, their laughter and cries of happiness floating up the hill.

When I popped the last bite of sandwich into my mouth—they were as delicious as they looked—Nicholas held out the container of cookies.

“They’re still warm,” I said, taking one and pulling it apart to eat it in bits.

“Yeah, I made them just before I picked you up.”

I sputtered over a bit of cookie and nearly choked.
 
“You
made
them? This
morning
?” I asked incredulously.

As he reached out to rub my back, Nicholas’s easy laugh had the butterflies in my stomach making a return appearance. “Yep. I love to cook and bake. I learned at an early age because I was on my own so much, so now it’s just second nature. How ‘bout you, do you cook?”

I blinked at him, still recovering, and then took a sip of my iced tea. “I haven’t really had much practice. My mother wasn’t much of a cook so we ordered in a lot. The most I’ve cooked for myself in the last few years was macaroni and cheese from a box, or frozen pizza.”

Nicholas laughed loudly, a wonderful sound that brought an even broader smile to my face. “Well, we’ll have to fix that. We can spend a day in the kitchen sometime and I’ll teach you to cook a proper meal.”

“I’d like that,” I said, blushing without really knowing why. Then I realized the reason: he was making plans for us. He was really serious about us being friends. I got the same feeling as the night before when Nicholas, Maggie, and Vince had been talking about their summer plans and had included me. It was an odd and almost surreal sensation, but at the same time it felt right.

“Great.” He brushed crumbs off his hands and leaned back against the tree trunk. I watched his face as he scanned the cloudless blue sky, his lips curving into a slight smile as his gaze followed the path of a kite being flown by a child down below.

For the next few hours, we sat in the shade of the huge oak tree, alternately enjoying that wonderful companionable silence and talking about our lives.
 
I learned that after graduating from high school and then completing courses in engineering, building, and architecture in college, Nicholas was hired on at a local construction site that built low-income homes in the area. He thought it would be temporary, but enjoyed it so much he’d been doing it ever since. He liked working with his hands, and it pleased him to know he had a part in giving people a place to call home.

“Building homes for families who really need them is such gratifying work,” he told me. “I’ve had countless people tell me how much they appreciate my contribution in making their dreams of owning a home come true.”

It hit me then how genuinely
good
Nicholas was. He was kind, caring, thoughtful, and selfless. I admired and respected him, not only for those attributes, but also because he had accomplished so much at such a young age. I wondered where I would be at twenty-two, and if I would be as proud of myself as I was of Nicholas.

“My dad’s a builder, too,” he said. “I learned my love of it from him. He was always building something, and when I was about six, he let me help. Small jobs at first, just sanding and hammering a few nails, but it didn’t take long for him to trust me with bigger jobs. Mom hated it when Dad let me use the electric saw, but he knew I had a steady hand.” He looked past me, his eyes clouding slightly.

“What is it?” I asked, drawing his attention back to me.

He shook his head as if to clear it, and met my eyes steadily. “My mom died of cancer when I was eleven,” he said quietly. “I’m so used to everyone around here knowing, it just kinda hits me hard when I have to tell someone who doesn’t know.”

“I’m so sorry, Nicholas,” I said. I felt awkward, unsure of what else to say, so I reached for his hand and held it between both of mine.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly and he squeezed my hands. “It was a long time ago, but sometimes it feels like yesterday.” He looked down at our entwined hands and a lock of hair fell over his forehead, making him look younger somehow. “Anyway, my dad and I still live together. A few years back he was offered a position as one of the heads of the building company we work for. The company builds homes and offices all over the province, but within a year of my dad being promoted, the company had grown so much they expanded and started branches all over Canada.”

As Nicholas spoke, he turned my hand over in his and began idly tracing patterns in my palm with his fingers. It made sense now why his hands were so strong and why his fingers were calloused. At times, I found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying because of the oddly intimate gesture and the way his touch sent my stomach fluttering.

“Dad’s gone a lot,” Nicholas continued, his fingers straying to my wrist. I wondered if he could feel my pulse throbbing under the skin. “I don’t mind living on my own most of the time, and we talk nearly every night when he’s away. After my mom died I learned never to take my dad for granted, and when he got this job it made me appreciate our time together even more. Probably sounds pretty cheesy.” He cringed slightly, looking apologetic. “And I just realized I’m talking
way
too much.”

“No, not at all,” I said quickly. “I like learning about you and your family. I’ve never had friends to share things with or had anybody open up to me like this.” His eyes softened around the edges, crinkling in a small, warm smile. “And I don’t think it’s cheesy at all that you love your dad so much and get along so well. In fact, I’m a bit jealous. I’ve never had that kind of relationship with my parents.”

“Never?” Nicholas asked, his brows drawing together.

Just when I thought he couldn’t be any cuter, his look of concern made my heart melt. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t say
never
,” I said slowly, thinking back to my childhood. “When I was much younger I was daddy’s little girl. But as I got older, and my mother got harder to deal with, I drifted away from my dad. My mother controlled him so tightly that I felt like he was her puppet, saying and doing the things he thought she wanted him to say and do. My mother and I are very different and I always knew some part of her resented me for that. I think she believed having a daughter would be like having a carbon copy of herself, and when I didn’t live up to those expectations, she was disappointed. It was obvious she wanted a daughter to do girly things with—shopping, manicures, pedicures—and there’s nothing wrong with those things, I just never had any interest in them. That’s when I tried to make it up to her by doing well in school. I’d hoped it would have an impact on her, but no matter how hard I worked or how well I did, it was never enough. Never mind the fact that while half my classmates were getting into trouble doing stupid things, I skipped the whole teenage rebellion thing. There were times when I think she would have been happier if I
had
rebelled, because I would have been more ‘normal’ in her eyes.” I was speaking quietly, but I hated the bitterness in my voice.

Lost in the past, my hand clutching Nicholas’s as though it were a lifeline, I went on to tell him how even after my dad had turned into my mother’s puppet he still showed me in small, odd ways that he was proud of me. He would give me money or gifts whenever I excelled in school, but it felt so distant. What I really wanted was for him to take an active interest by coming to the award ceremonies or teacher reviews and expressing support. I never expected that of my mother, but up until a certain point, I held out hope for my dad.
 
I knew he loved me, he just had trouble showing it; he wasn’t comfortable with it, but he cared in his own way. My mother didn’t even try.

I looked up to meet Nicholas’s eyes. He was watching me, his face serious, and he nodded for me to continue. “I wanted to prove that I could make it on my own and be my own person without conforming to what they thought I should be, whatever that happened to be. But I had never really defined what being my own person meant, and that’s where I ran into trouble after graduation. ‘Being my own person’ had led me as far as top marks in all my classes, a diploma, and an identity crisis.” I shrugged helplessly. “I suppose now I’m hoping to make up for the past few years and have a fresh start. Make a decision about what being my own person really means to me.”

I let out a long sigh and leaned back against the trunk of the oak. Like the night before at the diner, I felt exhausted after revealing these things to Nicholas. They had always been such private thoughts, ones I never spoke aloud to anyone, but it felt good to talk to Nicholas. Or rather,
at
Nicholas, I realized. “Now it’s my turn to apologize,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to go on and on.”

“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry,” Nicholas said, shaking his head and leaning back against the tree, his shoulder brushing mine. “That’s what friends are for.”

Friends
. A slow smile spread across my face. I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders and carried away on the soft spring breeze. “Thank you,” I said, shifting to face Nicholas.

“For what?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“For listening to me ramble on about my life, even if that
is
what friends are for. And for letting me release a lot of pent-up emotions. I think it’s helped me figure some things out about who I want to be now.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Emma, but if my listening helped then I’m glad I could be here for you.” He smiled almost shyly, his gaze lingering on mine. There was a momentary pause where we just sat and stared into each other’s eyes, smiling. Everything around us faded into the background—the bright sunlight, the chirping birds, the giggling children on the playground below. I took a deep breath, and as I slowly let it out I looked away, feeling the blood rising in my cheeks again.

Nicholas let out a soft sigh as he looked away too, and began packing up the picnic basket. I helped him, and when we were done he looked at me again and said, “Do you like strawberries?”

I laughed at the sudden, off-hand question and replied, “Yes.”

“Great!” He stood up, holding out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Have you ever been berry picking?”

“No…” I said slowly.

“Great!” he said again, flashing me a dimpled smile. “Come on, then.” He hauled me to my feet, gathered up the picnic basket and blanket in his free hand, and we headed down the hill at full speed. The wind whistled in my ears as the now-familiar scene of the park blurred around me while we ran. Slowing to a walk when we reached the bottom of the hill, we wound our way to the far end of the park, down a path through a small but dense forest, and came to an old wooden fence that separated the forest from a large field.

Nicholas climbed to the top and straddled the highest plank of the fence, which came to my shoulder. Reaching down for my hand, he helped me up, and when I got to the top, he hopped down on the other side before gripping my waist so I could jump down. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to worry about being clumsy or awkward, and I actually managed a semi-graceful landing thanks to Nicholas.

“This is Farmer Milligan’s property,” Nicholas told me, sweeping his arm in a wide gesture that encompassed the seemingly endless field around us. “He’s a good friend of my family, and he lets me come whenever I want to pick fresh fruits and vegetables. Strawberry season’s early this year, so I’ve been coming almost every day. He doesn’t even like strawberries; I think he plants them just for me,” he said with a laugh.

As Nicholas set the picnic basket down and took out the plastic container that had held the cookies, I chuckled to myself at his enthusiasm. He practically sparkled with it, his eyes always bright and a smile never far from his lips. He was almost childlike in a way, brimming with excitement and happiness. I had been such a serious person for so long I didn’t even know how to have fun, but his eagerness was like a magnet, not only drawing me in, but also drawing something from me that I didn’t recognize. I had a vague recollection of being a happy, carefree child for the short time Daisy had been in my life before her move to Riverview. Being with Nicholas felt the same, like I could easily be swept up and carried away by all the happiness surrounding me, and I wouldn’t mind in the least.

I watched as Nicholas squatted down and began picking berries off the vine. His fingers were slow and patient, and he would occasionally bring a perfectly ripe, bold red berry to his nose to sniff appreciatively before putting it in the container.

After a minute, I crouched a few feet away from him and began picking, glancing at him every few seconds. I liked watching him. He was so agile, his actions relaxed and uncomplicated, and I loved the way he took things in with all his senses.

I didn’t realize I had stopped picking to stare at him until he looked at me and smirked. “What?”

My face burned as I turned back to the vines and laughed nervously. “Nothing.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me with a mischievous grin on his face before turning back to pick more berries.

There was a delightful breeze moving across the field, unhindered by buildings or trees. It rippled across the low-lying greenery surrounding the strawberries, sending the mouthwatering scent of ripe berries into the air. The wind moved around us, teasing the hem of my shirt and ruffling Nicholas’s hair so that it fell forward across his forehead, giving him a slightly roguish look that had my fingers itching, as they had before, to touch his hair. To touch
him
.