Autumn Blue (24 page)

“Your sister called me today, Alex,” Amilia said. “She said to tell you not to forget about Manuel’s school play.”

“I already forgot,” he replied. “When is it?”

Amilia huffed indignantly. “Oh, I don’t know. In two weeks, I think. She said she already told you.”

“The fall play at the elementary school?” Sidney asked. They nodded. “It’s not this Thursday, but the next one. The twenty-seventh.
Rebecca and Sissy are in it, too.”

“Oh, how nice.” Amilia smiled, seemingly pleased that they had yet another thing in common.

“Tyson,” Alex said, leaning forward in his chair so that he could make eye contact. “You got a lot done out there today. Have
you ever formed up concrete?”

Ty shook his head. “Nope.” He was demolishing his third tamale.

“You’ll like that part. What we’ll do is form a sidewalk between the base of the ramp and Pop’s porch. If I can get the rest
of the ramp built this week, we can start that next Saturday. We’ll pour it in sections.” Sidney could see that the worn gravel
path that currently existed between the two houses was definitely not wheelchair- or walker-friendly. With all the rain they
got around there, the low yard was probably prone to puddling.

Ty reached for a handful of chips. “Don’t we have to set the posts in concrete?”

“Yes. But I’ll have the framing done, so all we’ll have to do is clamp the ramp sections together and dig some holes. Then
we’ll pour those along with the sidewalk.”

Ty nodded as if he understood. “We’d better cut the posts then. I can do it if you want.”

Alex nodded. “Sure. That’ll be great.”

The little exchange may have meant nothing to a stranger passing by, but to Sidney it was significant. Tyson had become interested
in this project. Her son, despite himself, was beginning to participate, growing, learning about being a man. Amilia noticed,
too. They exchanged subtle smiles.

Alex went into the house, returning with a bottle of
cerveza
for his father and a fresh pitcher of iced tea, which he poured into glasses all around. As he refreshed Ty’s empty glass,
Sidney saw them speaking but couldn’t make out the words. Amilia had been making her laugh, and once she got started, it was
hard to throttle the volume back. Ty stood and headed down the steps with Alex.

“Whoa,” Amilia said. “Where do you two think you’re going?”

“He’s going to show me how to fix Mom’s car in case it happens again,” Ty said.

“Oh, poo! That can wait.” Amilia reached for the guitar leaning against Enrique’s chair.

Alex shook his head, still avoiding Sidney’s eyes. “Not today, ’Milia.”

“Yes, today. You promised if I made you tamales—”

Alex looked at Tyson and shrugged. “Women rule the world, you know.” He obediently trudged back up the steps. “Pop, where’s
your violin?”

“It’s just inside against the bookcase,” Amilia answered. “You’ve walked by it ten times today.”

As the men tuned their instruments, Ty finally pulled up a folding chair, joining them on the porch instead of the steps,
where he had sat through most of their meal. Alex began to pick out a song on the strings of his guitar, a melody that immediately
caused Sidney to relax into the cushioned back of her chair. Enrique removed his straw cowboy hat momentarily to wipe his
brow, revealing a surprisingly thick head of silver-streaked black hair. He replaced the hat and began to slide his bow across
and down the strings of the violin, melting into Alex’s melancholy tune. Sidney closed her eyes, feeling as if she were slipping
down into the healing mineral waters of a hot spring. The sky was fading to violet-gray, and without direct sun the chill
fell quickly in the shadow of the mountains. When goose bumps appeared on her arms, she slipped into the house, found a fleece
throw and an afghan, and returned to the porch. Amilia’s eyes were half-closed, a smile of contentment softening her ruddy
face. She squeezed Sidney’s hand when she tucked the fleece blanket around her.

Sidney snuggled back into her own chair with the colorful afghan, the music itself a bright and intricate weaving of sounds
that enveloped her in comfort. Alex’s deep brown eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched his father’s hands and vice
versa, both of them skilled, their rhythm so tight that Sidney knew intuitively that they had been doing this together for
a long time. The next song was a ballad in a minor key. Alex began to sing with a voice so deep and buttery that she had to
catch her breath and look away. The song felt hauntingly sad. Enrique’s clear tenor harmony blended in with his son’s voice
on the chorus. Sidney didn’t recognize all the Spanish words, but she knew it was a love song. The melody was plaintive, Alex’s
voice conveying a lonely longing as if the words came from his own heart. Crinkles formed around his closed eyes, his white
teeth flashing between full, smooth lips. And then she saw it. She saw what Micki had seen earlier that day when Alex had
met her in the driveway. Alex Estrada was an absolutely beautiful specimen of a man.

The bow of the violin sliced through her soul like a sharp blade. It was almost too much to bear.

Oh, where was that love? Where was the passion that could fill her like this, so intensely beautiful that it almost hurt?
She tried to think about Jack. She would see him tomorrow. But at the moment all she could envision when she closed her eyes
was the mysteriously brooding face of Alex Estrada. Music could do that to people. Any woman would be drawn to him at this
moment in this perfect atmosphere, she reminded herself. She knew better than to succumb to fleeting emotions. This attraction
was physical just as it had been with Dodge. And the music. Another common thread. Dodge had been incredibly gifted, with
a voice and mannerisms that wooed women like smooth, rich chocolate. Unwelcome tears began to gather at the corners of her
eyes.

The song ended, leaving Sidney swaying near the edge of an emotional cliff. It was time to go home; she sensed it with a sudden
urgency. Reaching for a lunch napkin from the table beside her, she dabbed at her eyes in an attempt to blot up the evidence
before anyone could see what a sap she was.

The gentle strumming of Alex’s guitar caused her to cast a covert glance his way. His gaze was locked on her face—the first
time their eyes had met all day—and for a long second, neither of them looked away.

M
ILLARD SHOWED UP
on Sidney’s doorstep at precisely one o’clock. The Seattle Seahawks/Dallas Cowboys game was already tuned in on the television.
She hugged Millard, took his jacket, and steered him toward her most comfortable chair, the green wing back. Rebecca and Sissy
had already claimed the sofa, saving the middle section for their new hero, Jack, who had not yet arrived.

“Hello, young ladies,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair. He sat erect, his hands placed awkwardly on his knees.

“Hi, Mr. Bradbury,” they replied politely almost in unison. They quietly stared at him as he glanced around the room, nodding
from time to time at nothing in particular. Apparently the girls had never made conversation with the old man before.

Sidney wasn’t sure how to put him at ease, but food seemed like a good icebreaker. She brought out a tray of spiraled cream
cheese roll-ups. “How about being my first taste-tester, Millard?”

“Oh, glad to.” He plucked one from the tray, but an edge unraveled and it fell to the floor. “Oh!”

“My fault, Millard.” She bent to snatch it from the carpet. So did Millard. Their heads bonked together and Sidney, losing
her balance, landed on her backside. The girls, of course, found this hilarious. Sidney chortled too as she and Millard rubbed
their heads. “I’m sorry,” she said amid gales of laughter as she picked herself up off the floor. Millard’s face went from
startled to the slow spread of an unnatural smile. He forced a couple of chuckles, obviously still grasping for the humor
in it all.

“I forgot the little plates!” she said in apology as she left the room.

“Where’s Jack, Mom?” Sissy asked when she returned.

Sidney presented Millard with a plate and napkin along with a glass of cold cider. She was wondering the same thing, more
uncomfortable with every passing moment that she did not see Jack’s dark SUV in the drive. It didn’t seem like him to miss
the opening kickoff of the game. “Well, I don’t know. He must have been held up in traffic.” There was little traffic to speak
of on the highway between Dunbar and Ham Bone on a Sunday afternoon unless somebody’s cows got out and were playing chicken
with the cars on the road.

“Our friend Jack is supposed to join us today, Millard,” she said. “I think you’ll like him. He’s a big Seahawks fan. Actually,
he likes any game that involves a ball or a puck.”

“He took us bowling,” Sissy said. “My ball went backward,” she added with a giggle, “so he made me do push-ups.”

“If you get a gutter ball, he makes you kiss his feet.” Rebecca seemed fine with that concept. Fortunately, there was still
plenty of time to shape her little mind before it sank in too far.

“Oh, well,” Millard said in mock alarm, “I don’t know that I’d like to go bowling with him.” He leaned forward to look down
the hallway. “Where’s Tyson today?”

“He’ll be out in a minute.” Sidney hoped, anyway. “He just wanted to finish up a computer game.”

The football players on the screen had begun their usual scrambling and tumbling. Sidney had little interest, though it occurred
to her that she had better develop some if she ever wanted to have something in common with Jack. Sissy asked which players
they were rooting for and Millard pointed out the dark blue Seahawks uniforms. Rebecca shared her mother’s lack of passion
for the game. She started reading her latest girl sleuth book while craning her neck toward the window every minute or two
looking for Jack.

He showed up at the end of the first quarter. Sidney acted nonchalant, accepting his grocery bag full of chips and soda cheerily
with no questions. It was something she had learned to do during the Dodge days. No questions, no arguments or lies. Besides,
she had no claim on Jack Mellon’s life. He and Millard introduced themselves, and the girls eagerly beckoned him to his assigned
seat between them on the sofa. He sat down, knocking the girls’ heads together as they protested with loud giggles, and then
he flashed a wink at Sidney.

Sissy patted Jack’s arm. “Can you come to our play? I’m a pumpkin in the pumpkin patch. Becca’s just a bus driver. She has
to talk and stuff, but the pumpkins dance. You wanna see?”

While Sissy twirled, shooting her arms dynamically back and forth across her chest, Sidney went into the kitchen, pouring
Jack’s bag of greasy potato chips into a bowl, warily regarding the log of summer sausage in her hand as if it were a grenade
that some suspicious stranger said was disarmed and perfectly safe. She sighed in resignation, sliced the log into disks of
fatty, hormone-fed beef and chemicals, and arranged them on a plate around a ramekin of mustard.

At the sound of shouts and yelps from the other room, she smiled. A football game on a Sunday afternoon. It brought comforting
childhood memories of her dad. This was what life was all about. Family, friends, and fun. But Tyson was still in his room.

She marched down the hall and peeked into his doorway. “Hey, why don’t you come out and join us?”

His swivel chair twisted toward her. “I don’t really like football, Mom.”

“I know. I don’t either—yet. But I think I’ll learn to like it. I just haven’t taken the time.”

“Well, I already like this game.” The primitive characters on his computer screen were busily building their own civilization,
harvesting resources, constructing houses and fortresses with the ultimate goal, it seemed, of going to war.

“Millard has been asking about you. And Jack is here now. He’d really like to get to know you again.”

At this he swiveled his chair so that his back was to her again. “Why? Is he planning on sticking around for a while this
time?” There was a bitter edge to his question.

She didn’t know how to answer that. “Maybe. I really don’t know, Ty. We’re good friends. Let’s just see where it goes.”

“Not interested.”

“Tyson Holyfield Walker! Snap out of it! I’m not asking you to do anything weird here. Just come out and be a part of this
family.” Her anger surprised her. She turned on her heels and started out the door, pausing at the threshold. “For heaven’s
sake, there’s food out there. Come out for that if nothing else.”

He did wander out about five minutes later. Jack stood and leaned across the coffee table with an extended hand. “Hey, buddy.
How are ya? Man, you’ve grown!” Ty shook his hand and Jack slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You look like you could take
me now.”

Ty glanced fleetingly at Millard as if somehow embarrassed by the comment and scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Rebecca and Sissy had lost interest in the football game, so Ty took the empty spot on the end of the sofa nearest Millard,
propping his sock-covered feet on the edge of the hand-painted red coffee table. Sidney was on the other side of Jack, her
feet pulled up and her chin resting on her knees. She caught Ty’s eye, giving him a subtle Mona Lisa smile. His mouth did
that thing that was supposed to be an acknowledging smile but couldn’t seem to get the corners of his lips to pull into anything
but a straight line. In their own dysfunctional communication style, Sidney knew they had just made amends.

Millard leaned forward, slapping the arm of his chair. “Oh, for crying out loud!”

“Let’s get some defense in there!” Jack shouted. A minute later, both men were laughing and hooting as a Seahawks player intercepted
a Cowboys pass.

Sidney tried to stay focused. She could learn this game. She knew she could. Normally she would be baking and cooking on a
Sunday afternoon, getting healthy foods ready for the week to come. But Jack was beside her, the answer to her prayers, right
where she wanted him. What would it be like to have him there every Sunday afternoon? Sissy and Becca adored him; there was
no problem there. And Ty—he would come around. She imagined the comfort of coming home to a husband at night. A good man at
the head of their dinner table. A man in her bed. It had been so long.