The Summer He Came Home (16 page)

Her son opened up for another mouthful and paused, spoon frozen in midair. “His mom is picking me up in the morning. They want to be at the campsite by lunchtime.”

“What time will Sharon be here?” The butterflies started almost immediately. Tomorrow. No child. Date night. Cain.

Maggie twirled the fork around her plate, not really hungry but thinking she should at least make the effort.

“Right after
Batman
.”

She smiled at her son.
Batman
was his favorite cartoon, and he watched it every morning. “All right, so I think when you’re done eating, you should hit the shower and get that out of the way before bed.”

“Yep, and I’ll pack my bag too.”

“Good idea.”

“Mom?”

Maggie gave up on the casserole and rested her chin in her hand. “Yes?”

A grin spread wide across his face, and her heart jerked, full of love as she gazed into his twinkling eyes. “I like your hair. You look extra pretty tonight.”

She rose from the table and dropped a kiss on his forehead. God, how she loved him. He was her life, and at the moment, her life was pretty much perfect.

Cain slid his ’68 Gibson Les Paul across his lap and leaned back in the chair as he looked out over the pristine blue lake in front of him. It was another gorgeous summer day, the breeze was slight, and the water was dotted with boats pulling skiers and tubers alike.

His long fingers slid up the rosewood fretboard, and he absently picked at the low E, caressing the note into a fullness that came naturally to him.

For as long as he could remember, the guitar had been an extension of his arm. His mother had given him an acoustic when he was eight. She’d gotten it free at a garage sale, along with a bunch of how-to magazines.

Cain had felt an immediate connection to the instrument. He’d tossed the magazines and taught himself how to play. It became an obsession, something he did every day, and for a child of eight, that was saying something. From then on, his life consisted of music, football, and his buddies.

All of it had led him to where he was today.

The notes he pulled from those six strings and the melodies he created were like magic. He lived for the thrill of creating something unique. He wrote songs from the heart, hard-rocking tunes, and soulful ballads. His unique voice—a blend of whiskey blues and hard-edged rock—bent and colored the melody in a way no one else could.

Cain Black sang the way he did everything else—at full tilt and full of passion. He’d never been afraid to put it out there…but would he be able to write without Blake? Would he be able to come up with the words that would blend perfectly with the melody? Did he have it in him?

These were sobering thoughts, and he frowned as the lightness he’d enjoyed for the morning disappeared. He’d done his best not to think about the band and what was in store for him when he returned to LA.

Christ, if he couldn’t carry his weight—write songs that were hits—would his dream be over before it had a chance?

He strummed a few more chords. Blake was the lyricist—had always been that guy. Could Cain do it?

“That something new?”

Mac strolled onto the deck, dark glasses covering his eyes and two days worth of beard shadowing his jaw. His
GQ
hair, however, looked perfect.

“You look like shit.” Cain ran a pentatonic scale, fingers flying over the strings, and shook his head. “How much vodka you throw back last night?”

Mac stretched and groaned. “Too much.”

Cain wanted to say more but decided to keep his mouth shut. Truthfully, he was worried about Mackenzie and thought that maybe he was hitting the sauce a little too heavy. But as Jake had pointed out the night before, Mac had always done things his own way and, if pushed, tended to hit back.

It was better to let him deal with his demons on his own terms, and if things got messy, they’d intervene.

“So what’s on for tonight?”

Cain’s fingers stilled. “I’m taking Maggie out for dinner.”

“The little redhead.”

Cain nodded.

“The little redhead of the sexy little boy shorts.”

“Yeah, that would be the one.”

Mac sank into the chair a few feet away and took a bite out of a large green apple. “So what do you got planned, Romeo?”

Cain’s fingers plucked out a soft melody—one filled with major notes, happy notes, and grinned. Oh, if he could only share the images in his mind.

“I thought I’d take her to Jack’s Hut.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Mac removed the shades from his face and shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked evil, with his forehead crinkled in disbelief. “Jack’s Hut is a dive. Why don’t you take her to Le Rouge at the Pine Resort? I’ve heard their food is phenomenal.”

“Nope. Jack’s Hut is more my style.” Cain snorted. “Besides, I don’t speak French.”

“You’re gonna blow it. This girl is going to think she’s not worth your time.”

Cain rose from his chair, the Les Paul cradled carefully in his hands. “Thanks for your concern, but I’ve got it covered.” He nodded. “I’ve got a couple errands to run in town, but I’ll be back later for a shower. What’s Jake got planned? You guys hooking up?”

Mack finished his apple and shrugged. “No clue. I’ve got some work to do, a few loose ends to tie up on my last project, and I might swing by the Edwardses’ later. He’s not going back to Afghanistan—you knew that, right?”

Cain nodded. “Yeah, he told me, gave me some technical term about the last surviving child that got him out of the rest of his tour.”

“Something’s up with him and Raine. It’s not good.”

“Was it ever? I mean, for Jake?”

Mac grimaced. “It’s more than all that old shit.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “God, we’re a sorry-ass bunch.”

Cain flipped his middle finger in salute. “Speak for yourself. My immediate future is looking pretty damn fine.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

Cain disappeared inside and put the guitar back in its case. The Goldtop Deluxe was his pride and joy. He’d bought it privately from a collector, had paid a hell of a lot for it, but didn’t care. It was signed by Les Paul himself, the legendary guitarist and designer of the instrument, and honestly, he’d have paid triple what he had.

It was nearly noon. He grabbed a bite to eat, pulled a T-shirt over his head, and slid into a pair of jeans. His clothes had finally arrived a few days earlier, and he was thankful to have his own stuff and not have to borrow Jake or Mac’s shit. He’d only brought a few things with him when he arrived for the funeral. Hell, he hadn’t planned on staying longer than a few days, and sure there was a stash of clothes at his Mom’s, but most of it was old and ratty.

Springsteen was on the radio, “The River,” blasting through the speakers as he pulled out of the driveway and navigated up the narrow lane. Tall evergreen trees bordered the road and gave the impression of deep woods. With the lake behind him and cottages hidden like a secret, Cain welcomed the absolute wash of peace that surrounded him.

His mood was light as he drove toward Crystal Lake, and it didn’t take long for him to cross the small bridge that led to the northern side. He hadn’t been downtown yet and whistled as he feasted his eyes on the new and improved center of town. It had had a complete redo, with an emphasis on quaint, an obvious attempt to lure the tourists who spent their dollars and propped up the local economy. All the storefronts had new facades, and the light standards that lined the streets resembled something out of Dickens’s England.

Cain pulled into an empty space in front of the Rose Garden and cut the engine. The sidewalks were full, couples strolled hand in hand, and he was happy to see the town thriving.

The bell that tinkled when he walked through the door of the Rose Garden alerted the woman behind the counter that she had a customer. Mrs. Avery pushed her glasses higher up her nose and smiled heartily when she spied him.

“Cain Black! I heard you were in town. So nice to see you.” She moved from behind the counter, beaming.

“Hi, Mrs. Avery.” He nodded. “Feels good to be back.”

She shook her head. “It’s Mary. I feel silly having a grown man call me Mrs.”

“How’s Frank?” Her son Frank had been a bit of a hell-raiser back in the day. He was a few years older than Cain, and they’d played ball together a couple years.

Mary’s face glowed. “Oh my goodness, he’s wonderful. His wife, Robin Travers…remember her? She’s about to have their third child—a boy! They’ve got two girls, so we’re quite excited about this little one.”

Son of a bitch. Frank Avery—the punisher, as he’d been called on the field—was a dad.

“That’s great. Give him my best.”

Mary’s eyes crinkled in her plump face, and she laughed. “I will, but I’m sure you’re not here to talk about Frank. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like some flowers delivered this afternoon, if possible.”

“Sure, that won’t be a problem. Do you know what you want?”

Cain smiled and nodded. “Tulips if you have them. Deep red ones.”

“Let me check the cooler. I think we might be able to help you out.”

Mary popped back out after a few moments. “I’ve got two bunches, and if we need more, my supplier is due in a few hours, so we’re in luck.”

Tulips were simple and elegant and totally Maggie. She’d mentioned they were one of her favorites, a little tidbit he’d stored away.

“Can you arrange them in a container of some sort? I’m not sure what she has.”

“Of course.”

Cain reached for his credit card and handed it over.

“Is there a specific time you’d like these delivered to your mom’s?”

He signed the receipt. “Ah, they’re not for my mom. I want them delivered to Maggie O’Rourke. Not sure of the proper address, but she’s renting Old Man McCleary’s house.”

If Mary Avery was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Why yes, I know Maggie. Lovely girl, and that son of hers is such a polite young man.”

“Great! Thanks for this, and hopefully I’ll see Frank around.”

Mary’s pale hazel eyes were intent as she stared at him. “What would you like on the card?”

“Nothing.” Cain turned. “She’ll know who they’re from.”

One
down, two to go.

He decided to leave his truck parked where it was and walked to Jack’s Hut, which was located at the end of the main drag. It was exactly what the name implied—a small dwelling with a thatched roof that looked out of place in northern Michigan. But the beer was cold, they served the best damn wings he’d ever had, and he was hoping the jukebox still worked.

The owner owed him a favor from way back, and he was kind of hoping it wasn’t too late to cash in.

Twenty minutes later he’d finished his business at the Hut and crossed the street, his eyes fixed on the Super Drug Store that was up the way.

Large glass automatic doors slid open for him, and Cain walked inside. A wall of cool air greeted him, and it felt damn good. He glanced around. The place hadn’t changed at all. It still held that antiseptic scent that, if inhaled for too long, was nauseating.

The store was well lit and busy. Shit. He kept his head low and cursed the fact that his trusty Bruins cap was on the seat of his truck.

He paused for a moment, not liking the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his belly. It had been so long since he ran an errand like this that he felt like a damn teenager. With Natasha there’d been no need, and while on tour, well, there were always roadies to do this sort of thing.

Cain slid through the aisles, his focus on the last one to his right. If his memory was correct, that’s where the condoms were. And Lord knows his evening wouldn’t progress the way he wanted unless he was equipped. He somehow didn’t picture Maggie as the type of woman to keep a box full of rubbers by her bed.

He sidestepped an elderly man—“Sorry”—and peeked into the aisle. Yep. There they were. Right beside the jock-itch powder—and Mrs. Lancaster. Her pink and red dress was damn hard to miss, but it was the white hair and black rubber boots that gave her away.

He groaned inwardly and glanced at his watch. It was now nearly two in the afternoon. He’d told Maggie he’d pick her up at five. Time was running out, and though he’d have liked nothing better than to grab them and go, there was no way in hell he was going to pick out a shiny box of condoms while Mrs. Lancaster stood inches away.

He scowled. And really, why the hell were the boxes so damn shiny anyway?

He headed down the next aisle, not really focusing on anything and hoping like hell Mrs. Lancaster would leave already.

“Hey Cain.” It was Dave Edmonds, his old football coach. The gravelly voice was distinct though not as robust as he remembered.

It seemed his delicate mission was going to be interrupted by every damn person he knew. Figures.

The man shuffled over from the pharmacy counter, and they chatted for several minutes about the weather, football, music, and the upcoming fundraiser. Coach Edmonds had aged, but his humor was as sharp as ever, as was his opinion, which was strong on most every subject imaginable. He thought Cain’s music was crap and that he’d be more successful if he had a banjo in his band. And a fiddle.

“Well, sorry to bother you, Cain. I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing.”

He shook Coach’s hand and then gestured crazily. “Thanks, I’m just trying to find the right ones…” His words trailed off as Cain took a second to glance at the shelves in front of him. They were crammed full of products—feminine products, to be exact, in all shapes, sizes, colors, and—he cringed—wings. What the hell? His eyes narrowed. They even had them for thongs?

Coach Edmonds frowned and shook his head, a weird look in his eyes. “Sorry. This is beyond my scope. I can’t help you with this.” Coach took a step and paused, laughter underlying his words. “Good luck with that.”

Cain grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” He waited until Coach was gone and crept to the end of the aisle, a smile widening his mouth as a memory rushed through him.

The first time he ever bought condoms, it had been a group effort. He’d come in with the boys—Jesse, Jake, and Mac. It had been late, a Friday night. The Super Drug was open until midnight, and they’d waited till Brenda Borstrano had left for the night, leaving only one of their schoolmates at the register. If not, she’d have spread it all over town that the Bad Boys were rubbering up.

They’d had no clue what to buy and in the end had grabbed a box of every kind that there was. Size large, of course.

He smiled at the memory. They’d spent a small fortune, and as it was, most of the condoms they bought had never been put to use. Even then their dreams had been larger than their reality.

Cain pretended to walk by the aisle, shot a covert glance toward his prize, and was happy to see that Mrs. Lancaster had moved on from the jock itch. He turned quickly and headed straight for the rack of condoms. His eyes scanned the variety that was there, and for a second he was that kid from back in the day. Confused and entirely way too excited.

He had no idea there was so much to choose from, mostly because he’d only ever had straight-up, normal condoms.

Where to start? Christ, there were glow-in-the-dark condoms, flavored condoms, studded-for-his-and-her-pleasure condoms, and warming condoms.
Warming?