Falling for June: A Novel (21 page)

“You know what I just now realized?” I said. “I’ve spoken about my childhood exactly twice in my entire life. And the first time was this morning with Mr. Hadley. What a birthday.”

“I’m glad you chose to share it with me,” she said.

And she seemed to actually mean it too.

“And now I understand why you always order club soda, and why you had that glass of wine last night to honor your father’s birthday tradition. He sounds like he was a character.”

“He sure was. The tree-topping sommelier of Belfair. But he had some funky ideas about life and love.”

“Well, maybe he did the best he could.”

“You know what,” I replied, feeling my mood suddenly lighten, “he did do the best he could. And that was enough.”

We were looking across the table at each other when Georgie swung by with our check, since it was coming up on two and the place was about to close. Estrella reached for her purse, but I beat her to it and handed him enough cash to cover the bill plus a generous tip.

“This one’s a keeper,” he said when I told him to keep the change. Then he winked at Estrella before taking off on his closing rounds.

“You could have let me treat since it’s your birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday any longer,” I said. “And that’s just fine with me. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”

“I’m only a block away.”

“Then I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I’m not doing it because you need an escort. I’m doing it because I want the extra time with you.”

She smiled.

The rain had quit and the night was clear and cool with just a hint of coming chill in the air. It smelled like fall. We could hear laughter echoing in the empty streets as we walked, other Friday-night celebrants heading for home.

“So, what are you studying at UW?” I asked.

“Did I tell you I went there?”

“I’m a mind reader.”

“You are? What am I thinking right now?”

“How incredibly handsome I am.”

She laughed. “Oh my God, you are a mind reader.”

“Seriously though, I overheard you talking to the other bartender at work.”

“Oh, you’ve been eavesdropping too, not just staring at my ass. It’s good to know your interests are more than primal. I’m working toward my master’s in psychology.”

“Uh-oh, are you one of those women who have a
DSM-4
beside your bed all highlighted with your exes’ diagnoses? Wait, is
diagnoses
even the correct plural of
diagnosis
? I forgot I’m talking to a Scrabble champion.”

“It is,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

“Not bad for a community college kid, eh?”

“I’m more impressed that you know what the
DSM
is. But we’re actually on version five now. My plan is to be a high school counselor, not a practicing psychiatrist, so you don’t have to worry. And no, I don’t diagnose the men I date.”

“Would you ever consider dating a really handsome but slightly neurotic foreclosure counselor from Belfair?”

We had turned off Broadway by then onto a residential street, and she stopped on the dim sidewalk and looked at me. She cocked her head slightly and smiled. “Even though he’s on his way to Miami?”

She certainly had a point there, especially after my stupid speech the other day about only dating women I don’t like. I was searching for a response when she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Just a quick peck, but it caught me by surprise.

“Maybe,” she said. “But unlike you I only date men I actually like. Thanks for walking me home.”

She turned and walked away from me, through a gate and up toward an old Victorian house turned apartments. I hadn’t even realized we had arrived—maybe because I didn’t want the night to end.

“Hey, Elliot,” she said, turning back.

I was still standing there, thinking about that kiss. “Yes?”

“I had a question about the story you told me. About Mr. Hadley. It’s none of my business, but I was thinking since he offered you all that money, maybe there was some way he could use it to save his house instead. It’s such a lovely story between those two. It would be a shame for him to have to move.”

“That’s a good question,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

“Okay,” she said, lingering there a moment longer. “Maybe come by the bar and let me know how it goes.”

“You know I will.”

“And thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

I was thankful for being far enough in the shadows that
she probably couldn’t see me blush. “I had fun too. Good night, Estrella.”

Then I turned and walked back to my car alone, kicking leaves and thinking about a hundred million things all at once, but for some reason, still smiling.

29

T
HE PHONE RANG
fifty times before I quit counting. What kind of person doesn’t have voice mail, or at least an answering machine? But of course I knew the answer to my own question.

It wasn’t raining, so I went for a jog. It’s a great way to connect with people in the city. When you’re out walking, no one ever says hello. I think they’re afraid you might stop them to talk or something. And people are way too busy for that. But when you’re running, other runners, and occasionally walkers, will nod at you and smile, sometimes even tossing out a quick greeting as you pass them by. I think they know you won’t slow down and ask them for more than their simple hello.

After my run I sat on a bench at the waterfront sculpture garden and watched the ferries travel back and forth across the sound. For two hours I sat and thought. I thought a lot about Estrella. I knew the night before had softened me some, but I was still unwilling to change my position and let myself get wrapped up in love. And besides, I didn’t even think she liked me that much. And why would she? What did I have to offer? The only place I was going was Miami. But what I found myself thinking about even more than Estrella was Mr. Hadley and his story.

I had to know how things had finally come together for him and June. Did they have a happy life together when they returned from Spain? Before things turned too bad, anyway. It sure seemed like it from all the paintings she did. More than anything, though, I didn’t like the idea of his being surprised when he delivered Rosie her daily apple. But then he wasn’t answering his phone.

“Just drive out there, Elliot,” I told myself. “Quit being a chicken.”

A woman walking by on the path in front of my bench saw me talking to myself and quickened her pace. It made me laugh, after having joked the night before with Estrella about the
DSM-4
. What would she say if she could only see me now? I wondered, sitting there debating with myself. But somehow I knew what she’d say. She’d say to drive out and see Mr. Hadley.

There was a truck and flatbed trailer parked in the drive when I arrived. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Then I heard a tractor. When I turned around on the porch to look, I saw a backhoe working at the tree line at the far end of the property, beyond the barn.

It was a nice sunny fall day, but the damp grass still soaked my shoes as I crossed the field.

“Hey there!” I waved to get the driver’s attention.

He was pushing dirt into a large hole, and when he saw me he lifted the bucket and turned the engine off.

“Howdy,” he said, touching the bill of his cap.

“Do you know where Mr. Hadley is?”

“The old man? I’m not sure. He walked me out here to show me where to dig. I asked him if he wanted me to come and get him before I put it in the ground—sometimes they like to say a few words or something—but he said no.”

He paused to gaze off toward the house.

“Funny thing is he told me he had to go somewhere and tell someone that her favorite horse had died, but then I never did see him leave the house.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I know where to find him.”

He touched his hat. “Righty-oh.”

I heard the backhoe start up again as I walked away.

I saw him as soon as I rounded the bend that led into the glen. He was sitting beneath the oak tree on the hill, next to June’s grave. His back was to me, but because the waterfall was running lower today without the rain, I could hear that he was talking. I knew it was June he was talking to, and the thought of it melted my heart. I just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him. I turned and walked back the way I had come.

I was sitting on the back porch an hour and a half later when he came limping slowly down the path. He was having trouble walking, even with his cane. Still, the way the path was worn I could tell he hadn’t lied when he’d told me he went up to Echo Glen every day. He was halfway across the bridge when he saw me. I thought he might ask me why I was there but he didn’t.

“You came back for the MoonPies, didn’t you,” he said.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But I also brought you some tea.” I held up the box. “A Stash sampler. You can’t be drinking that Smooth Move all the time or you’ll never get off the pot.”

“Son, when a man’s almost eighty years old the toilet is his throne. That’s why us old folk always have padded seats. Come on inside and I’ll put some water on to boil.”

It felt strangely familiar inside the house, considering I had only been there for the first time the day before. As if it were more a homecoming than a second visit.

Mr. Hadley took the tea sampler into the kitchen and put water on to boil. “Seems awfully hard to choose with so many flavors,” he said, looking at the box.

“I like the Chai Spice.”

“Chai Spice it is then.”

After he had taken down two mugs and put the tea bags in, he opened the drawer beside the phone and handed me his foreclosure file. “You left this here yesterday.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s a rookie mistake that’ll get you fired in my business. Did you read it?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t mine to read.”

“You could have read it and not told me.”

“Is that what you would have done?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That’s because you young people are loose with the truth. My generation gets a stomachache if we lie.”

I hadn’t thought about it before, but he had a point. The truth did seem to be a somewhat pliable enterprise for my peers and me. Especially in my line of work. I made a mental note to try to be more honest, even with the little things. And as long as I was being honest, I felt I should confess something.

“Mr. Hadley, I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your and June’s love story last night with a friend of mine. With that girl from the bar I had told you about. The one I kind of like.”

“The one with the beautiful Spanish name.”

“That’s her. Estrella. Anyway, I didn’t mention anything about June being the Barefoot BASE Jumper, since you said I was the only one who knew. I hope that’s okay.”

He was fiddling with the teapot but I thought I saw him smile. “It makes me happy to think that you found our story interesting enough to share.”

“Oh, I did. And she did too. That’s why I came back. We have to know what happened in Spain. Or at least that’s one of the reasons I came back. I wanted to tell you about Rosie, but I see you already know. I tried to tell you last night.”

He gazed out the window in the direction of the field.
“That’s Mr. Thorpe’s son out there with the digger. I had him bury her beneath her favorite live oak. She used to stand beneath it for shade in the summer, smelling the air and feeling the breeze. It’s strange that you can bury a horse on your property no problem, but you need a silly cemetery permit to lay your wife to rest on the same land.”

He looked very tired and very alone standing there in the light of the window. The silence was interrupted when the teapot began whistling. He went over to the stove and filled our mugs.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Hadley?”

“Sure, Elliot. But please, call me David. It’s my belief that our spirits don’t age and mine is too young to be called Mister.”

“Sorry.”

“No need for sorry.”

“Okay. What I wanted to ask was . . . well, instead of going to all the trouble of getting the bank to sign off on that short plat in exchange for you leaving, why don’t you try to save your property from foreclosure instead?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, handing me my mug of tea.

“Well, since you have twenty-five thousand to part with. You did offer me that much, didn’t you? Why don’t you let me try to negotiate some kind of mortgage modification that will allow you to catch up and keep the property?”

“I’m so upside down in this place,” he said.

“But what if they’d lower the payment?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s no incentive for the bank to sign the quitclaim unless they’re getting something in return. And my agreeing to sign over the property in lieu of foreclosure is our bargaining chip, you see.”

“Yes, but what if I could somehow get them to do both?”

“Oh, I doubt you could do that.”

“I can be very convincing.”

He sighed, looking around the kitchen. His eyes settled on June’s painting of Echo Glen.

“No,” he said, “I think it’s almost time for me to leave this house anyway. No sense in dragging it out. And besides, the money I had intended to pay you with is tied up right now.” He looked back at me, a serious expression on his face. “Let’s just focus on getting the short plat signed, if it’s all right with you.”

“Sure. But I just thought—”

“Enough of that talk,” he said, cutting me off. “Didn’t you say you wanted to hear the rest of the story? Let’s take our tea into the living room and I’ll tell you. I think I left off with that crazy wife-to-be of mine racing me to Aranda de Duero on a rusty bicycle. I wanted a pillow and she wanted some wine.”