Long Shot (22 page)

“What? Do everything?”

Now Aimee was starting to sound like Mom. “Wait a minute. You called me here, remember?”

Aimee’s voice gentled, her eyes closing for a long blink. “I did. For the games. I know it’s in your nature; I should have seen this. But you swoop in, pick out all these other peripheral things that you think need fixing, and then take them on yourself, because you think you have all the answers.”

“Maybe I like to help. Maybe I like to see good things grow out of bad things, or out of other good things.”

The sigh Aimee let out was large enough for two people, and she lifted glistening eyes and a sad smile to the ceiling. “I know you do. I know you do.”

Was that . . . envy?

Jen started to pick at her French toast. Aunt Bev’s recipe, but somehow better because Aimee had made it, here in the kitchen that was now her own.

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on keeping the Thistle up and running,” Jen asked, “before even thinking about opening up something else?”

Aimee gave the kitchen a sweeping, loving look. “I have dreams now, too, you know.”

They ate in silence for a bit, their forks clattering on the porcelain, as Jen turned over and over in her mind all the ideas she’d had during that long drive up from New York. All the potential changes that could be made to make the town more conducive for events and tourism and marketing . . .

“I know things,” Jen said, unable to keep silent. “I know people. Let me—”

“Thank you.” Aimee set down her fork rather deliberately. “And I will probably take you up on that, too.”

Jen couldn’t deny the itch that burned just underneath her skin, that feeling of starting something and not seeing it through. Not applying her ideas, not giving input. It was like leaving dirty dishes in the sink from now until the end of time, and it made her dig her fingernails into her palms.

Then Aimee’s kind hand curled over hers. And suddenly Jen felt it: that feeling of being cared for, of being mothered. Of actually being the younger sister, and not having to act like the older one. This wasn’t a gradual role reversal over the course of years, but a turn on a dime, one that had her tripping over her own choices and actions.

“You can’t take on everything,” Aimee said. “I know you like to tell yourself that, but you can’t.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I actually have no doubt that if I hadn’t said anything today, you would’ve found a way to live and work in New York and also take on Gleann’s transformation single-handedly.”

Jen just sat there because she couldn’t deny that truth. The thought of working with Gleann to turn it around to attract potential events, and then assist in putting on those events . . . it was incredibly exciting. And it shocked the hell out of her because it was something she’d never before considered. In her mind, bigger had always been better.

Aimee released her hand and rose. “You’re my biggest influence, Jen. You always have been. You teach me, even when you aren’t here, even when you don’t know it. You saved my life.”

Holy shit
.

“But don’t you get it?” Aimee continued. “Everything you’ve ever done is to get out from under Mom’s shadow. Hers is dark and horrible, and I totally get that. But you throw a shadow over me, too, sis. It’s a good shadow—it’s always protected and directed me—but it’s time I cast it aside.”

Chapter

18

T
he bed in the 738 Maple house was way more comfortable than the one in 740. Leith should have tested each of them out before he’d dropped his bags in Mildred’s Old Lady Museum. Or maybe this mattress was better simply because Jen was curled up next to him in it.

On cue, her eyes cracked open. Since the sun was just coming through the window, they were a sparkling, sleepy green. The color reminded him of dew on early morning grass as he arrived on site for a day’s hard work. He could get used to waking up like this.

“Hey,” she said, stretching. The sheet slipped just enough to show the outer curve of her breast. He tried not to touch and failed.

Arriving back in Gleann late last night, he hadn’t even bothered pulling his truck into 740. He’d seen Jen’s kitchen light on, her silhouette pacing behind the curtains, and swerved right into 738’s driveway. She’d actually locked the door and he’d had to knock, but when she opened the door, the metal window blinds slapping against the wood, he’d immediately been on her. Pushed her against the bad wallpaper and kissed away all her excuses about having a million things to do. Turned out that he got rid of those pretty easily.

“What do you have to do today?” he asked, pulling the sheet down to give himself free access to her perfect nipple. It tasted just as amazing as it had last night, only for some reason her high-pitched sigh sounded even better.

“Everything.” She pushed at his head. “Someone distracted me last night and I’m behind.”

He came up on an elbow above her. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” She craned her neck to look at the clock, which showed six thirty, and winced. “I’ve got to get going. Tell me about Connecticut while I get ready.”

He was struck momentarily speechless as she slid from the bed and bent over for her robe. Throwing his bare legs over the side of the bed, he pulled the sheet over his lap. “It was great. Put a deposit on a new storage facility and signed a lease for an apartment until I can find a house I love, made nice progress in the Carriage assessment and planning. Still need the official sign-off and contract, but that’ll come this weekend when I go back.”

She peeked her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out between her lips, her hair in that messy knot on the top of her head that, for some reason, drove him crazy. “So you came back to get the rest of your equipment? Start moving things down by the weekend?”

Though he responded with a “yes,” the weird, uncomfortable twinge in his chest told him there was something else he had to do before that happened. He turned to look out the window toward town.

Jen finished brushing her teeth and came out to kiss him with a minty mouth. Then she took his hand and placed it high up on her inner thigh, where she knew he liked to touch. “Sure I can’t convince you to stay for the games?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with being convinced.”

Suddenly he remembered what she’d said to him the other morning in the kitchen of her city apartment:
Your dad. The house. You haven’t dealt with losing him yet, and going to the games, which was such a huge part of growing up—for both of you—would be too painful a reminder.

The house.

The tightness in his chest now had a name, a purpose. That house was why he’d truly come back. Because once he started transferring his big equipment and computers and supplies down to Connecticut, he would convince himself there would be no reason for him to come back to Gleann. Except that there was. Da’s house was still sitting there, filled to the brim with things of a life gone, and it would sit there forever if Leith didn’t do something about it.

“I know,” Jen said softly, and moved to the closet to pull down one of the long sundresses he loved on her. He watched her dress, watched how the fabric flowed over her body.

She’d been inside Da’s house, had seen how he’d left it, how he’d locked up his emotions. For a moment he was moved to ask her to come with him that day, but she was already starting to talk to herself, her lips moving through silent lists, her brow furrowed in a look of concentration, and he knew that her mind was already back at work. He’d already stolen a lot of her time last night.

Besides, he wanted to sort some shit out on his own before he talked to her about his mindset.

Before she left for a meeting with the caterer, he kissed her with resolution. He liked that, kissing her good-bye in the morning. He wanted that every day. But first there was something he needed to do.

After he made one phone call to an old contact who could help him out on short notice, he called Duncan and then Chris, asking them both the same thing: “Hey, man, you busy today? I kind of need your help.”

* * *

L
eith was standing on the flagstone path leading up to Da’s house—the closest he’d gotten to the front door in three years—when Chris pulled up in his crappy Chevy two-door. Leith’s lone remaining employee got out of his car, worry plastered on his face, his shoulder-length hair bed-messy.

“I just did the yard two days ago,” Chris said. “Everything okay?”

“No, no, the yard looks great.” The younger guy had taken too much off the euonymus shrub there in the corner, but it didn’t matter now. “I need you for something else.”

Duncan arrived then, heavy metal screeching out from behind the closed windows of his SUV. He parked crookedly in the grass on the opposite side of the road and crossed to the two men, his shaved head already shining in the hot summer sun. He slapped palms with Leith and gave a polite nod, hands on hips, to Chris as Leith introduced them. Duncan shaded his eyes with a hand as he took in the tiny, dark ranch house. “So what the hell is this place? What do you need help with?”

Chris gave Duncan a funny look, like he should have known this was the place where Leith had grown up, but Duncan was a throwing buddy, not a Gleann local, and Leith had already moved out of here by the time they’d become friends.

Just then came the rumble of a heavy truck at the top of the hill, then the shrill
beep beep beep
as it reversed down the slope. It took several attempts and lots of time between the three men to direct the truck down the curving road, but eventually it deposited its load in the MacDougall driveway.

As the disposal company truck struggled back up the hill, Leith surveyed the giant Dumpster now sitting in his driveway, the one his contact had pulled through at the very last minute. He took a deep breath. Words still wouldn’t come out. He cleared his throat. “I need some help cleaning out my old man’s house. Do you mind?”

And there it was.

Though he didn’t look at his employee, he knew Chris’s face would be twisted in a confusion he’d never voice to his boss. But Duncan, in his trademark “Fuck it. Whatever” attitude, just clapped his hands and said, “Let’s do it.”

Yes
, Leith thought.
Let’s
.

The keyhole was much stickier than he remembered, the doorway much tighter. He’d waved off the guys, telling them to wait in the driveway and give him a sec. If they saw his sorrow and his discomfort, so be it. It was time to stop hiding it anyway.

The door opened inward, throwing light into the tomb. He didn’t smell the must and dust, as he knew he should. Instead he smelled Da’s old pipe filtering in from the front stoop where he’d smoked every evening. He smelled Sunday morning bacon and the fresh Christmas tree they’d chopped themselves and that stood tilted in the corner every year. He heard Da’s old folk albums, played on that turntable still sitting on the coffee table, and the yap of the small mutt they’d had when Leith was a boy—the best dog neither of them had been able to replace because there simply was no replacement.

The world shifted and Leith sagged against the big hutch, a few unknown items rattling around inside. Without realizing it, he’d moved deep inside the living room, the light from the front door like a faraway mouth to a cave. Nothing had been changed, nothing moved, yet everything seemed different. Felt different. He was a man separate from the one who’d buried his beloved father, literally and figuratively, and he hated that he’d allowed himself to split apart like that.

He hated what he’d allowed this house and his memories to become.

Pushing off the hutch, he skirted around the coffee table, and edged along the kitchen counter pass-through. To the left stood the door leading into the garage, and as he went toward it, his thigh brushed the folded afghan crocheted by his mother long before he’d been born. A plume of dust shot up, tickling his nose and settling into his eyes. He rubbed them. Damn, the dust was making him tear up.

The garage was pitch-black, so he left the house door open to guide him as he went to the single-car rolling door, bent down, and heaved it up manually. The screech of metal on metal made him cringe, but not as much as what filled the garage floor.

Growing up, he’d watched Da lean back on that workout bench and do reps using those ancient black weights on that tarnished bar. When Leith was little, he used to sit on his bike and count while Da used the big dumbbells to do curls. And when he was old enough, when Da finally gave him the okay and taught him proper technique, Leith had learned how to lift.

And then Da had taught him how to throw the traditional Scottish events.

The old hammer still leaned against the back wall. So did the weight used for the height throw—a round metal ball topped with an attached ring for your hand. The weight for distance—its ball on the end of a short chain—sat in the corner. The caber, the one they’d used to practice with, was sitting pretty in the town park.

He remembered Da perched on the edge of the bench, the weight-for-height on the floor between his feet.

“Come ’ere, boy. Pick it up.”

So excited. At nine, Leith was so excited he didn’t recognize the teasing gleam in Da’s eyes as he braced his feet on either side of the weight and yanked. The ring didn’t budge. Leith stumbled.

Da chuckled, slapping his knee. A good-natured laugh, though Leith didn’t realize that at the time.

“Someday, boy. Someday, I can already tell, you’ll be a better man at this than I.”

Impossible
, Leith had thought.

He still thought it.

Leith just stood there, looking at all the equipment. He could still feel the roughness of those bars in his palms, could still hear Da coaching him from the lawn chair when he’d gotten too weak to lift himself—though he often tried to lift anyway, covering up his disappointment over aging and illness with self-deprecating laughter.

“You ready for us?” Duncan called from where he’d taken to leaning against the landscaping truck.

“Not yet,” Leith said over his shoulder. “Just give me another moment.”

“Take your time.”

He’d already taken three years, but he only had his friends for today, and he needed to determine what would go and what he’d keep this week, before it came time to move away for good. Passing back through the living room, he headed down the creaking, claustrophobic hallway to the bedrooms, thinking how much longer the hall had seemed when he’d been a teenager.

He knew what Da had turned Leith’s old bedroom into after he’d moved out: a monument to their relationship. Documentation of pretty much every feat Leith had ever performed. That level of pride was still too much for now, so the door remained shut. Instead, Leith turned another doorknob and entered his father’s bedroom.

He didn’t remember making the bed the last time he’d been in here, but the blanket was pulled neat and tight over the mattress, the pillows still propped against the chipped headboard. If he’d sit down on the bed, he knew it would squeak something terrible, but that’s not why he’d come in here.

Why had he come exactly? What did he want from this room? The hat on the dresser and the cane still leaning by the door? Yes, definitely. His father to still be sleeping in here? Absolutely.

But instead Leith headed for the closet. He was drawn to it without explanation. As he cracked open the door, the smell of old wool and leather leaked out. Leith flicked on a flashlight and peered inside. All the sweaters and pants and coats he remembered, still in a neat line, waiting to be worn by a man who’d never come back.

Oh God. Oh
God
.

The stale air in the room—the whole house—caved in on him. Three years of loss that he’d buried somewhere outside under the new viburnum and roses slammed into him, knocking out his knees and collapsing his body to the floor. He sat there at the bottom of Da’s closet in a heap, gasping for breath and pounding a fist into the plaster. The loss was too great for tears. Crying simply wouldn’t be enough, although if Da were here, he would have clapped Leith on the back and told him to let it out, and to take his time doing it, because that’s what a real man did.

His eyes stung and burned, and his chest heaved with great effort, but the tears still wouldn’t come. Leith pressed his back to the closet wall and lifted his head to look at each article of Da’s clothing, recalling days and moments when the older MacDougall had worn them. Leith reached out and thumbed through them . . . until he got to one piece in particular, and stopped.