Before and Ever Since (9781101612286) (8 page)

He chuckled and stabbed at some food. “I don't think so. My adventures were much more—raw Americana than that.”

“Really?” Josh said, perking up. “See that's just the kind of trips I want to take. Down and gritty. See things like they really are, not the touristy version.”

Ben didn't say anything at first, just nodded very minimally and then set his fork down and wiped his mouth. He looked at Josh and then Cassidy, and I had to fight the urge to jump in front of her. His mouth opened to say something, then closed again, and he just kind of shook his head at his own thought and smiled at my mother.

“Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Lattimer, and for the recipe.” He held up the note. “It was amazing and you have a gift.”

My mom looked happy enough to burst, but Cassidy said, “What, you're leaving?”

“No, I'm going upstairs to work on the windows, but I appreciate the company.” He slapped Josh on the shoulder again, with a little less gusto than before. “Had a good time wrestling with you, bud.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Josh said, looking a little off-kilter.

Ben got up and washed off his plate and headed back around the bar. I didn't look up. I felt like I'd survived the first event in a triathlon. With many more to come.

•   •   •

M
Y DAD'S OFFICE WAS ALWAYS INTRIGUING TO ME.
P
APERS
stacked to look important, colored pens in a cup by an ancient solid-metal crank-type calculator that weighed five tons. I'd spend hours when I was little, typing numbers in and cranking the handle so that the numbers would print on the paper. I think it came from his mother or grandmother, and he preferred it with its old paper and could-crush-a-skull potential to using anything new. He'd pay bills and do the books for the hardware store he ran with his brother, read the newspaper—basically the room was what a “man cave” would be today, with less technology.

But he always had the most interesting things sitting around. A big wooden duck that his dad had made for him when he was young and went on his first duck hunt. Random drawings of tools that my uncle Tommy had done right after they opened the hardware store. Old tins that didn't hold anything anymore but sported sayings about tobacco or soft drinks or coffee. A whole corner of Gulf Oil memorabilia that he collected later in life when the company was no more. And a big, beautiful telescope.

The telescope always reminded me of the ones you see in movies that reside in old sailors' houses, up in some high room looking out a window. It was brushed brass and huge and seemed almost alive, like it couldn't wait to look at things with us. I remember thinking that my dad had to be really important to own such a thing. We'd aim it out his window and find all the constellations and planets we could find.

It was still there. Every time I came in his office in the thirteen years since he died, I was struck by how sad it was. Still sitting up there in its same spot, framed and tucked into the bay window. Like it was waiting for us, ready to discover something, ready to be loved, but just left alone instead with the lights turned out. I'd asked my mother a hundred times if I could take it home, but she always put me off. Just like his office remained decorated with the tins and the duck. We went through the papers for anything important, but the calculator, the telescope, the books, and everything else—all remained there. Including his desk calendar, with the yellowed page turned to May 7, 1998, the day he died. I think my mother was afraid we'd lose more of him if any of it moved. So there it all stayed, dusty and sad. Along with the faded poster of the world that was tacked up to the wainscot planks that they never got around to replacing with that horrid fake paneling.

The poster with the red circles drawn that actually weren't red anymore but more of a putrid orange. I traced a finger around one and felt the dust on it. I remembered the talks like Cassidy had described. The countless hours staring at all the places outside my little world and listening to him describe where he and my mother would visit one day. I looked at them—the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, New York, Alaska, then Greece and Australia and Japan and Egypt. I walked behind his desk and pulled out the top drawer, and there they were. The box of thumbtacks he bought, unused except for the four he had holding the poster up. Three actually, one appeared to be missing.

I typed in 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . on the calculator and pulled the crank, making the little metal typefaces lurch into action like they'd forgotten how. Just the sound of it gave me goose bumps and brought tears to my eyes.

“I miss you, Daddy,” I said, running my fingers over his desk, leaving trails in the dust that had settled there.

It hit me then, what was making this sale so difficult. What probably had Holly balking. My dad was there. He was everywhere, on the walls, in the cabinets he made, and especially in that room with all his things just where they were supposed to be.

I heard a noise and looked up from my reverie to see Ben walk in and stop short.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't think anyone was in here.”

I shook my head, although something in me didn't want him in there. Like it would take some of my dad's presence away. I guessed that's how my mother felt about us in there.

“It's okay.”

“I can come back.” He turned toward the door.

“No, it's okay,” I repeated. “Really.”

His eyes traveled the room, taking in every detail as usual. “Your dad's office?”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting on the desk.

He met my eyes. “I was sorry to hear about it—when he died, I mean.”

“You knew?”

He did a mini-shrug. “Bobby told me.”

I just nodded through the silence that followed, squeezing my other hand to keep from asking the questions that wanted out. I was afraid that if I put voice to them, I would never be able to close those gates.

He gestured toward the window with a caulk gun. “I need to get over there to seal up around the window,” he said. “Can we move the telescope?”

I did a head jerk back to the ancient piece of equipment I once thought was made of gold. Move it? Was that legal? Was it even possible? I'd never seen it moved from its sacred place there by the window.

“Uh—I guess so,” I said.

“Will you get in trouble?”

I slung a look at him and couldn't read his eyes to see if he was joking. “It's just really old,” I said. “We need to be careful.”

An old familiar smile tugged at his mouth, and for a second—just a second—I found myself missing that. “I'm not gonna throw it across the room, Em.”

I couldn't help but smile, but I hugged my arms around myself and looked away.

“Come on, come help me.”

He and I stood on either side of it and each supported the scope and legs to lift it. It was bulky, but lighter than I expected. I guess in my mind, it should have been anchored to the floor.

We shuffled to an open area off to the side and set it down, finding ourselves nearly nose to nose. The slow way we both straightened up, with his eyes boring into mine, made my skin tingle like I was some hormonal teenager. The pull nearly took my breath clean out of me. Then his expression went from soft to demanding, as if then
he
wanted to say something but wouldn't, and I stepped back a step to catch my breath.

Instead, we both blinked the moment past. He moved to what suddenly felt like an old, boring empty window. Without the telescope flocking the front, there was nothing special about it.

Ben set about caulking the seams, hitting a slow, precise speed. I watched him for a second, his expression hard and focused, and I felt a tiny pang of the old hurt nick my heart. We were once so in sync with each other's thoughts, so tuned in. And now we had nothing to say.

“Your daughter—she's nice,” he finally said right as I got up to leave. His voice was low, and once I got past the initial panic over him talking about Cassidy, I realized he'd been trying to think of something to say, too. “Reminds me of you back then.”

I licked my lips. “Thank you.”

He paused in his caulking trip down the side of the window and looked back at me, then let the gun hang by his side.

“Thank you?” he said, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

He faced me and leaned against the wall, propping one foot up. “What's happened to you, Em? You used to be so full of life.” He gestured toward me with the caulk gun. “Now look at you, arms crossed so tight you look like you'll break if you laugh.”

My jaw dropped, and I felt the heat of indignation wash over me.
Break if I laugh?
I'd show him just how full of life I could really be. Or was he right?

“Where's the crazy, fearless girl that used to climb out on a roof every night just to
stargaze
? That would shimmy down a tree to go swimming at the docks at midnight?”

It was everything I could do to keep a straight face and not flinch. “She's got a bad knee now,” I said, attempting light, but I didn't feel it.

“No, she's downstairs,” he said, ignoring me and pointing at the floor. “You have roof access at your house?”

I blinked twice at the connotation. “No.”

“Be glad. Because she'd be there. With that idiot she's hanging on.”

I had to quit talking about Cassidy or my head was going to start spinning around.

“Don't act like you know us, Ben,” I said softly. “You left.”

There. There it was.

“Yeah,” he said on a bitter laugh. “So it's just me being back here on this side of the window that's got you like this?” he asked, walking toward me. “Or did Kevin drain the life out of you?”

That actually struck me and a laugh came up on its own. A full-body one that started as a giggle and then took over, probably because it diffused the topic and let me breathe. For that moment, Ben lost his haughty rant composure and smiled.

“There it is,” he said. “In your eyes. I knew you were still in there somewhere.”

I forced myself to look away, and he was too close for comfort. “I've always been here, Ben. I just grew up since you left.”

“Bullshit.”

I gave him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Everybody grows up. You have a chip on your shoulder about something.”

I chuckled again. “You think?”

He narrowed his eyes, and it amazed me that he actually looked confused by that. He shook his head. “About what?”

About what?
Unbelievable. But instead of flashing in anger like I always thought I would, I smiled and crossed my arms again—tight, so I wouldn't fucking break—and gave a little laugh.

“You know what? Nothing,” I said. I walked around him to the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

CHAPTER

6

W
HEN
I
WAS MARRIED TO
K
EVIN, BASIC MAINTENANCE AROUND
the house was fairly easy. The house was clean because there was very little in it; the yard was easy to maintain because there was essentially just grass there. In retrospect, that could have been his reasoning all along.

After our divorce, I did what most divorcees do—go ass opposite on everything. I cluttered up the house with stuff, subscribed to every magazine I could find, and redesigned my backyard.

I rescued a great swing from the garbageman three blocks from my house one day. It was old with peeling paint and a broken armrest. Always wanting a swing, I maneuvered the thing home by way of a guy that kept calling to ask me out. I wasn't ready for the guy, but I thought maybe that would push me into having lunch with him if I felt obligated. Anyway, I sanded down the swing, fixed the armrest by way of that same guy, bought a frame and some chain, and painted the whole thing fire-engine red.

Because everything looks better in red.

The guy didn't last but a few weeks, but the swing persevered. One of my favorite stress relievers was to sit in it with a tall glass of sweet tea at sunset or a steaming cup of coffee at sunup, with hummingbirds whizzing by my head like fighter jets.

That swing was the only part of the new-yard marvel that I could lay claim to. The rest—the bushes, the special little trees with the knobby leaves that I couldn't remember the name of, the ivy, the flowers that seemed to bloom from different places at different times of year, the rocks and the Pavestones and the fountain and the little statues of cherubic children—all that was my mom and Holly. Even the arbor over the stone table and the flowers on either side of my hot red swing—that was their doing. My dad could kill cactus, and I inherited his thumb.

It being a Saturday, I had to sort of get semi-ready and then do whatever needed doing while waiting for inevitable phone calls. I was more likely to have to work than the rest of the working world, because Saturdays are when people have time to go looking.

That day's
whatever
was sitting in my wonderful red swing with a hot mug of coffee that turned into the tall glass of tea an hour later. It wasn't too cold out, it wasn't muggy; it was one of those days I was really hoping the phone wouldn't ring. I didn't even want to go to my mom's house. I wasn't in the mood for packing or memory lane or somebody else's memory lane. Or Ben. Especially Ben.

I heard the side gate open, and I waved at Holly as she came in with her arms wrapped around a new statue.

“What on earth?” I said, rising to help.

She waved me off with one hand, so I figured it wasn't too heavy and sat back down.

“They had these on sale two-for-one at that gardening place. I knew it would look fantastic over there next to the arbor.”

She pointed the way as she carried it there, plopped it down, and fussed with it till it was angled just right. It was of a man picking grapes, so the grapevine she had growing on my arbor looked really cool hanging down around him.

“Think he'll scare the birds away from the grapes?” I asked.

Holly shook her head and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Nah. More likely, they'll just have another place to sit and poop while they eat the grapes.”

I chuckled and held a hand up. “Well, as long as it's useful.”

“I just couldn't resist.”

“You're right, it does look good there,” I said. “Where'd you put yours?”

Holly's yard made mine look like a dump. She had hers set up like a Roman courtyard. “In that corner off the patio next to the stone fireplace where the vines are hanging off that beam,” she answered, her voice lilting up as if it were a question.

I nodded. She sat on the swing with me and we pushed it lightly with our toes, having exhausted any real conversation. Or actually, just waiting for the real reason Holly bought me a statue and carted it over to my backyard.

“So, how's it going with lover boy?” she asked, leaning away from me with a small grin.

I elbowed her. “Cute.” I did a neck roll. “He thinks Cass is nice and like me when I was her age.”

“She is.”

“I wish she'd quit going over there.”

“Well, she probably wants to visit with Mom before she takes off for the wild, wild West,” Holly said snarkily.

And—there it was.

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. But it's giving me an ulcer.”

“Are you going over there today?” she asked.

“I guess. Was kind of hoping to ignore it today, but I'll probably end up there.” I looked at her. “Why?”

She shook her head and gazed out at the pretty picture she'd made with the statue. “Just wondering.”

“Yeah, I still have to finish my room, and I was thinking there's probably a ton of crap in the attic. Mom doesn't need to be climbing around up there.”

“I can't believe she's actually doing this,” Holly said, crossing her arms.

I looked at her profile. The perfect white skin that showed tiny lines around her eyes. The perfect red hair that no one ever saw messy. The pale blue eyes that were always so set and serious. Holly always did things the way they were supposed to be done. She always followed the rules. Always stayed in the lines.

She would never sell a rock-solid foundation to live on wheels. She would never climb out a window and sneak down to the river to go swimming or drink a beer. Or crawl up in the tree over the house to disappear. Or have sex on the garage roof.

Holly lived safe. Stiff. With her arms crossed. My stomach burned as I saw her with different eyes and thought of Ben's words. Was I becoming my sister?

“She appears to be,” I said, not really hearing my own voice as that thought bounced around.

“Do you know what the tax ramifications will be if she doesn't buy another house?” Holly asked.

A little laugh came out. “Yeah, actually, I do know a little about that.”

She cut her eyes at me and sighed impatiently. “I know you do. Does she?”

“I don't know, but she's a big girl, Holly. You're not her mother. She'll figure it all out. She can put it in a trust or investment and be just fine.”

“And everything they worked for their whole life was for nothing.”

“That's not our call,” I said, and then gave her a double take. “Is that really what's got you so bugged on this? Mom's tax issues?”

“Doesn't it bother you?” she asked, reaching for her hair. That told me she was more eaten up than she let on.

“Sentimentally, yeah,” I said, pushing off with a toe again. “But not for the reasons you're saying. There are a lot of memories there.”

“Exactly.”

I stared at the statue, wishing so badly that I could tell her what had been happening at the house. “Lately, even more than I realized.”

“And how can she just walk away from that?” Holly said, twisting furiously at her hair. “Dad would be mortified.”

I frowned in her direction. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he worked himself to death for that house. So they wouldn't lose it when the store went under.”

I blinked at her adamant tone. I'd never heard her so opinionated about it before. “Okay,” I said. “He also wanted nothing more than to travel. So I think he'd be happy for her.”

Holly got up so fast, I had to grab on to the swing to steady it back out. “You think he'd be happy that she's going to drive around the country with another crazy old woman in a gas-guzzling unreliable piece of shit? He had a cow when we didn't check our oil every three thousand miles, and we were still living at home!”

I had to laugh at that; she did have a point. “I know.”

“And calling that thing Big Blue—” Holly shook her head. “
All the time
. Like it's a person or a man in her life or something. Makes my skin crawl.”

My cell did its little chime thing, telling me I had an e-mail. “Hey, I'm just saying it's not for us to get all mad about.”

“Well, you can be okay with it all you want,” she said as I typed back to a client that I'd meet them in thirty. “I'm not.”

I glanced up at her as I hit send. “No secret there.” I got up and brushed my pants off. “I've gotta go change and meet a client over in Garwood Estates to show a house. I'll probably go to Mom's afterward if you want to meet me there.”

Holly sighed and smoothed her hair, visibly attempting to regain her famous self-control. “Call me when you're on your way,” she said calmly. “I'll see what I'm doing then.”

•   •   •

G
ARWOOD
E
STATES WAS THE NEWEST ADDITION IN TOWN, ALL
shiny and polished with the best of everything. In ten years, after the baby trees grew up and offered some shade, I could see the appeal, but it was a bit too new and sunny to me. I preferred some charm and character to a home. But I suppose every house had to start somewhere. Everything was new once upon a time.

As I walked through the house at 459 Lance Street, waiting on the couple to show up, I scrunched my nose at the wood laminate flooring that echoed under my heels. For what the prices ran in that addition, they could have put in actual wood floors. The ceiling in the entryway was easily thirty feet up, which to me was a waste of utilities to heat and cool the place. That space could have been lofted and made into a sitting area or playroom or recreation area and been really interesting. And the stone fireplace, while gorgeous—was faux fronted. And electric.

Okay, I was nitpicking, I knew that, but where was the charm there? I knew many people who loved the convenience of fake fireplaces—just flick a switch and voila! Personally, I want some wood. I want some aroma. I want some sparks and embers and I want to get in there with the poker and mess around with the wood while it's burning.

I heard the knock and put on my sales face, leading the eager-faced couple around the house, pointing out the built-in appliances that gleamed from their ordained places. No stains tainted their fronts. No tiles were chipped in the immaculate cooktop island. No grout was discolored anywhere in the almost three-thousand-square-foot masterpiece.

“It's so beautiful,” the lady breathed to her husband. “I'm almost afraid to touch anything.”

The man nodded, his eyes taking in the crown molding that laced every room. “I know, it's kind of hard to imagine actually living here.” He looked at me and laughed. “Our two kids would have this place destroyed in a week.”

“I don't even know if my furniture is worthy,” the woman said, laughing, too. She nudged her husband. “We'd have to buy new. Ours is too grungy.”

I thought of my mother's house and its banged-up appliances and worn-out carpet that would likely come out. The old wood floors underneath. The solid wood bar with the handmade cabinets. The old Formica bathroom counters. The gas heaters in the walls and the wainscot wood paneling still upstairs in my dad's office because they never got that far in their redo.

“I know what you're saying,” I said. “If you're more interested in an older home, I have some nice ones I can show you next week. Just need to arrange it with the owners.”

The couple exchanged glances. “Yeah, let's do that,” the husband said. “Gives us some options on which way to go.”

I smiled. “Sounds good.”

It was beginning.

When I made it to Mom's house twenty minutes later, Holly was already there, which surprised me because I forgot to call her. To my additional joy, Ben was there as well.

“Damn it,” I said to the steering wheel as I pulled in. “Can't he take a day off?”

I went in the front door, deciding that when the house did sell, I was taking the knocker with me. I filled my lungs for inner strength as I entered, not expecting to be accosted by fumes.

“Jesus, what the—”

And then I saw what. As I walked past the stairway, I was stunned. From the kitchen, all the way through to the den, the old paneling was gone. I had to blink to adjust my vision to the brightness coming in the windows. The windows with no curtains. Or TV in front of them. Or tables next to them. Or furniture facing them. The room was empty except for the plastic across the carpet and Ben standing in it rolling paint on the wall.

Holly sat at the bar watching in silence, and Mom was at the sink chopping a mountain of potatoes.

“What the hell?”

Even Tandy stayed in her bed and didn't bother to come growl at me. It was like even she was traumatized.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom said without turning around. “What do you think of the new color?”

“Really?” I said, feeling a little like Holly for a second. “That's not my first thought.”

Mom looked back over her shoulder. “What?” she said, looking confused as she held a knife with little bits of raw potato stuck to it.

I pointed. “Where is—everything?”

“In the storage building,” Mom said, going back to her chopping as if that made perfect sense. “I told y'all I got one.”

I shook my head, thinking that there were no more words. I nudged Holly, who hadn't even twitched.

“You could have warned me.”

“I—sort of forgot everything when I got here. Sorry.”

She looked defeated, and I felt bad for her. I looked at the bare, bright room being doused in a shade of taupe that was actually pretty. But it no longer resembled the room where we used to have blanket forts and slumber parties.

Ben had already painted the ceiling, and two of the walls, and was going at the third like we weren't even there.

“How did—I mean, there was—actual furniture in here,” I said. “Yesterday.”

“Yes,” my mother said as she calmly diced five million little potato cubes. “Ben and Cassidy and Josh came and the four of us got everything brought over there last night.”