The Rebuilding Year (3 page)

“You have to keep three hundred acres groomed?” Ryan asked.

“No, thank God. At least not yet.” The man flicked a finger toward his whisky glass as the waitress passed. “Another of each, lovely lady.”

“Coming right up, John,” she said easily.

John. John.
Ryan committed the name to memory. “You really want another shot?”

“That I do.” The older man rolled his empty glass between his hands, staring at it. “I got a call from my lovely wife, Cynthia. Have you met Cynthia?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Of course not. Because she’s a thousand miles away, too. And not as lovely as she once was.” John tucked a bill into the waitress’s pocket and took a gulp of his fresh drink. “She never comes here anymore. But the kids do. At least they did. But according to Cynthia, they’re busy again. Not only are they not coming this weekend, they’re not coming this month. Or next month. She’ll pencil me in for November. Maybe.” He chugged his beer.

“Damn, that’s rough.” Even worse than not having kids would be to have them, and not get to be around them. His nephews were little hellions, and he missed them a lot.

“She has custody. She calls the shots. The tickets I sent were full price. She can change the dates. Again.”

“Mm.”

The man put out a big hand and wrapped his fingers around Ryan’s wrist. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to be dumping on you. You have a nice face, but you don’t need to listen to me complain.” He let go, and drained his glasses one after the other. “I’m lousy company tonight. I’ll head out and let you have the table.”

Ryan watched him stand. The guy was steadier than Ryan would have expected, after knocking back those drinks. He wound through the tables toward the door. Then Ryan groaned. John’s hand had dipped in his pocket and come out with a bunch of keys. Shit, no way was he okay to drive home, no matter how straight he was walking.

Ryan scrabbled for his cane under the table, hauled himself upright, and chased after the tall man. He caught up to John in the parking lot. The guy was fumbling to fit a key in the door of a battered pickup.

Ryan reached around and took the keys. “No way, dude.”

“Huh?” John blinked at him. “That lock’s just kind of tricky. I got it.”

“I don’t think so. You just had four drinks in fifteen minutes. Let me call you a cab.”

“Can’t leave the truck here. I need it in the morning. I’ll drive careful.”

“You won’t drive at all.”

“I don’t like cabs. I can just sit here for a bit. It’ll be fine.”

Ryan thought about it and sighed. He owed the man. “Get in and I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do.” He unlocked the door, shoved his cane and textbook under the seat, and swung himself in. It was an automatic transmission, thank God. His left leg wasn’t up to a clutch. He still missed his beloved Mustang.

He reached down and slid the seat forward. Way forward. Either John was even taller than Ryan realized, or he liked to drive like he was sitting in a recliner. For all its dents, the truck started up smoothly. John was still standing in the open door, staring at him.

“So get in already, and give me directions,” Ryan said.

After another moment, the whiskey-soaked neurons apparently started firing. John closed Ryan’s door, walked around, and climbed into the cab. “Left on Calder.”

The truck ran quiet. Two more turns, without conversation, and they were on Central, heading out of town. John sat slouched in his seat, rubbing a hand on his knee.

“I’m sorry,” John said eventually. “You’re right. Trying to drive was stupid. I usually keep things to two drinks, so I don’t have to worry. I just slipped.”

“It sounds like you had a reason.”

“I guess. All these years, she knows exactly how to get to me.” He blew out a whiskey-coated breath. “I love my kids, you know. And Cynthia makes it as hard as possible for me to see them.”

“Where do they live?”

“Los Angeles. Now.” John leaned back and sighed. “We lived in Chicago. When we got divorced, Cynthia moved to Springfield. So I moved too, to be close to the kids. I commuted to my job. Then after a year, she announced she was getting married and moving out here to York. I found this job, moved out, got an apartment. Then Cynthia started telling me my place was too small for the kids to stay overnight. They were too old to share a room. Which was true. So I bought the house. Plenty of space. Then she told me they were moving to LA.”

“How long ago?”

“It’s been a year. I thought maybe…but she went out of her way to tell me that her new husband’s position in LA is temporary. They’ll move again in another year or two. So I just stayed here.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“July. They were here a week, between camp and a trip to Europe with the new hubby. He has money. She said they’d come for this weekend—they have Friday off. Some school thing. I should be picking them up at the airport right now, with two and a half days before I’d have to drop them off again. But something came up. So then it was going to be in October, the school-conference week. But she just called. They were invited to someone’s mountain cabin to go horse trekking. And she knows I wouldn’t want to deprive them of the chance to make new friends. So maybe around Thanksgiving.”

“What do the kids say?”

“I don’t know.” John rubbed his forehead tiredly. “They’re teenagers. Talking to them on the phone is like pulling teeth. I call a lot, but they don’t say much.”

“You should get a webcam. Skype them or something.”

“Um, yeah, what you said. Except that I’m technologically incompetent, and barely manage to text on my cell phone. Which is the best way to talk to my kids, incidentally.”

Ryan had to smile. “That was last year. Listen, maybe I could come over sometime, help you get set up. With a webcam you can see them and talk in real time. Better than nothing.”

“Maybe.” John seemed distant. “Here. Turn in the drive with the yellow mailbox.”

Ryan took the sharp right and pulled in. The drive wound between two tall old trees, and then ended in a circle in front of a big, two-story house. The place looked like a farmhouse, with a gabled roof and long, wrap-around front porch. It was painted cream with butter-yellow accents. The trim had fancy gingerbread curlicues and it was well-maintained. Ryan pulled up in front and parked.

“Hey, nice place.”

“It’s too big. But the kids love it. And their rooms are here for them, when they do come. Right now it’s pretty empty.” He sat in the truck, staring at the house without opening his door.

After several silent minutes, Ryan figured he’d better make the first move. He slid out of the cab, taking the jolt of hitting the ground on his good leg, and walked around to open John’s door. “Come on. I’ll walk you in.”

John seemed to come back to himself with a jerk. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’ll get out here. Except this is my truck, so you can’t get home. Shit. Here, I’ll call you a taxi. On my credit card.” He fumbled for his cell phone and wallet. The phone went onto the gravel. The wallet ended up on the cab floor.

Ryan laughed. “Maybe I’d better do that. Later. Come on, I want to see what this place looks like on the inside.”

“It still needs work.” But at least John was moving toward the door. Ryan stopped to retrieve his book and cane and lock up, and then followed with the keys.

The entry hall was floored in old wide-board maple that glowed softly as John snapped on a light. Off to either side, dark rooms waited, while ahead a kitchen sat bathed in a bright gleam of moonlight.

“Come on in.” John headed for the kitchen. “Can I get you something? I don’t keep alcohol in the house but I have coffee, tea, apple juice, Mountain Dew.”

“Coffee would be good.” For both of them.

“Coming up.” As John slowly and carefully filled the kettle and set it on the stove, Ryan looked around. The kitchen was an odd mix of old and new. The cabinets were lovely wood, stained and varnished, with small glass panes in the doors. The countertop was old, stained Formica. The floor carried the same wide satin boards as the hallway, topped with a rag rug that had seen better days. The stove was old, the refrigerator ancient. The small kitchen table was a piece of art. It looked like a slab of huge tree trunk in a three-foot-long oval, deep-grained and lovely, supported by curving legs that looked too slender to hold its weight and yet balanced it perfectly. The chairs were metal, old and clearly the type that were made to fold. Although judging by the warp of the legs, they might not manage that anymore.

John turned on the stove, and then reached to fumble with the switch of a small lamp. It was carved from dark wood. Cupped inside the swirled branches of a fanciful tree, the bulb sent out soft rays of light. “I like the moonlight,” John said, gesturing at the huge picture window. “It’s just not quite enough to see by.”

“That lamp is cool,” Ryan said. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Yeah?” John shrugged. He pulled coffee out of the freezer and set a cone on top of a big plaid-patterned thermos. “I’m going to make extra here. It will only take a few minutes.”

Either the man was really into retro, or he was short of cash. Ryan pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m in no rush.”

“So what about you?” John had his back to Ryan, peering into the refrigerator. “You have family?”

“Two brothers.”
Now.
“Sister-in-law, two nephews. All on the west coast. My dad lives out in Oregon. My mom passed away ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ryan shrugged. She had died two months before 9-11. Three months before David did. Maybe it was for the best. She’d always been a happy woman. He pulled his thoughts away from the past. “No wife, no kids. I’m starting to regret the kids.”

“You have time. Although if you don’t regret the wife, that may be a problem. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope. Not right now.”

John straightened. “No milk, sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

John slowly poured hot water into the cone, and then leaned up against the counter and peered at Ryan.
Still a little drunk
, Ryan thought.

“What about that little blonde?” John said. “The one with the cute nose and curly hair. She looks like she’s interested in you.”

Ryan blinked.
How does he know?
It was a bit creepy.

“I saw her chase after you out on campus,” John said, apparently sober enough to catch the recoil. “A couple of times.”

“Oh. Yeah, she might be interested. But she’s so freaking young, you know. Not just years, although I’m betting she’s barely over twenty-one. But in experience. She comes off pretty shallow.”

“Don’t need deep to have fun.”

“Mm. I’ve done that but…I think I’m done with shallow.” Because the next girl he went to bed with would have to look at his leg, and his scars, and be cool about it. Which he had trouble imagining. Which was why he hadn’t gotten laid in a year. Hell, the closest he’d had to a tender touch was this guy cleaning up his head injury. Maybe he could stage another fall, in front of that tall redhead. She looked like she could handle it. Maybe.

“That’s okay,” John was saying. “That’s good actually. Shallow can get deep all of a sudden, and then you end up married to someone you thought was just a fun time.”

Ryan softened his voice. “Is that what happened to you?”

John turned away, pouring coffee from the thermos into mugs. His voice was muffled. “Not exactly. Here. Best coffee in all of York.”

Ryan took a sip and blinked. That was amazing. “Wow. I might stop by here sometime, just to hit you up for more of this.”

“I get it mail order. Grind it fresh every morning. It’s my biggest indulgence.”

“Worth it.” Ryan drank again.

“So.” John seated himself at the table. “You know my whole sorry history. What brought you out drinking by yourself on a school night?”

Ryan laughed. “My roommate is definitely not done with shallow. In fact, he’s a master at it. I’m waiting until the heat of passion cools a bit, so it’s safe to go home.”

“You don’t like his girlfriend?”

“That’s girlfriends, plural. No, even that’s giving him too much credit. It’s one-night stands. And he likes them young, loud and cheap. And did I mention loud?”

John smiled. “So you escaped to a pub.”

“I like a beer or two. The Copper Stein seemed like a decent place.”

“My favorite. The music’s decent and played at a reasonable volume, the bartender knows his stuff, and the bouncer doesn’t tolerate much nonsense. They even have some live music on Saturday nights that can be worth hearing.”

Ryan let a sip of liquid darkness flow down his throat.
Mm, good.
“I’ll have to check it out.”

“Not this week. Girl with a harp, and way too much affection for Irish ballads. Next weekend though, there’s a decent trio with a fiddler who can burn up the strings.”

“I’ll remember that.”

John pulled out his cell phone. “You must be tired of hearing me blather on. I’ll call you a cab.”