Caribbean Crossroads (32 page)

“Something without oil. Or gravy.”

“Don’t I know it. I’ve been backed up since Tuesday.”

“I’ll confirm with Mike for tomorrow morning.” Bryant sat on the chair with his feet stretched out before him. He could have slept right then and there, but something kept him restless. He clicked the remote and channel checked. Nothing good on, not even a good game. Turning back to his cell phone, he skimmed the addresses looking for McIntyre and thumbed past “McCormick.”

Megan. He sat for several minutes, staring at the name, the number, his finger millimeters from the button.

Bryant scrolled on to McIntyre and pressed it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sitting on her bed, Megan sighed and picked up the cell phone. She paused, double-checking with herself one last time that this was the right thing to do.

After saying good-bye to Bryant, and knowing his final decision, there was nothing to be done. For whatever reason, she wasn’t able to commit, and he wasn’t waiting. Not that she blamed him. Megan clenched her fist around the phone. Why couldn’t she get over this? What was it that still held her back?

Timing. It had to be timing. And there was no forcing that. Abruptly, Megan remembered making bread alone for the first time as a young girl. She'd had all the right ingredients but the bread still fell flat. Loaf after wasted loaf, she was about to give up until one day she realized the yeast was the problem—it was out of date. It then made sense why there hadn’t been the froth, the chemical reaction she’d expected. After correcting that one issue, making bread was a cinch.

Yes, timing was crucial. Which meant a stalemate as far as she and Bryant were concerned. On the drive back from California, Megan had been sure that meant a yes for Mrs. V. and a new chapter in her life. And yet, the peace had not come. Until she considered turning the job down.

Megan looked down at her phone, thinking of the job offer. It had been five days and no real answer. But something told her if she took the job, she would be pushing that too. A perfect opportunity, with the right ingredients, but the date was all wrong. Praying that this was the right answer, she dialed Mrs. V's number.

“Hello?”

 “Mrs. Van De Morelle? It’s Megan McCormick.”

“Megan, dear, I’ve been looking for your call and finally, here you are—yes, Keenan, it’s all right, it’s on my direct number. Sorry, dear. All right, well, let’s get down to cases, shall we. You know how I despise the chitchat. Have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Wonderful! Believe me, dear, you will be just what the doctor ordered.” She went on to detail several notable people already involved in her new plan and Megan could hear the new energy in her voice. Every moment became harder for her to say what needed to be said, especially when she wasn’t completely sure of it herself.

And yet. Hadn’t she known from the first what she should do? If she were honest with herself, yes. Now it meant being courageous, doing the difficult thing, taking down other typical Megan wall bricks of Job Security and Future Plans. Well, that was all right. She was the Old-New Megan McCormick, and she could do hard things.

“—and the committee is completely on board with the idea. You’ll fit right in—have I been talking too much? I’m not overwhelming you, am I?”

Megan smiled into the phone. “Mrs. Van De Morelle, you are always a delight, and I mean that sincerely.” She paused. “I can’t express how much this offer has meant to me. It’s made me feel like myself again, back to being capable, and of bigger things. It’s clicked something for me, something important. So I want you to know that, and feel that from me. And,” she swallowed, “I have to say something difficult.”

“You’re not taking my offer.”

“No, I’m not taking your very generous and lovely offer.” Megan exhaled. Two bricks down. Maybe a whole section. “I know it’s unprofessional and, in fact, insane not to, and I can’t really explain my reasons.”

She heard a deep and elderly chuckle through the line. “Oh, I think I know. Bryant is a very good man, I’ve told you that before. And even though he’s not taking it either, and I am deprived of the help I want, I believe you’re both right, my dear. You two have something to develop right there at home.”

“No, no, it’s not entirely that. I don’t even know if anything will happen.” Megan faltered. It felt hollow and sad to articulate but the conversation was giving her answers, even as she spoke the words. “There’s no guarantee, is what I’m saying, but this time, I don’t feel there needs to be. I’m hoping, and trying, and still running around the next corner I guess, seeing where it will take me. And I don’t want to do anything that would keep me from making the best choice for what I really want.”

“And what’s that, my dear? What is it you really want?” She had that grandmotherly voice, and Megan could almost hear the pearl glasses tapping her chin.

Megan thought for a moment. “Peace. And to be loved by someone good. I want …” She wanted Bryant. A warmth, sure and blanketing, filled her insides even as she thought it.

“Then you’re absolutely right. Let me tell you, dear, all this”—Megan could see her gesturing before the cruise line cabin—“is not worth more than my Harold. He made it fun. Now, it’s just a chore, really. Always the handout, the connections, everybody wanting something all the time. Harold gave it meaning. Whatever you do, Megan, be with someone who gives it meaning.”

The elderly woman sighed. “All right then, I’ll take my double losses. I’ll return to my committee and discover yet another spritely, intelligent couple who can immediately replace you both. No harm done, my dear, but if you should have any news, of any sort”—she heard the deep laugh again—“don’t hesitate to give me a call. Or an invitation.”

How Megan loved this nosy, elderly woman. They said their good-byes with promises to keep in touch, and hung up. Part of her felt relief and clarity, the kind that comes from discovering what you feel only in the moment of saying it. And part of her felt . . . she couldn’t say.

Megan surveyed the room. So, what now?

Thinking, she walked downstairs to the kitchen, weighing her options. Facing a full-time work week at the temp agency with its pale yellow walls and worn foyer furniture was not a joyful prospect. And yet, the decision to reject the cruise offer felt right. She knew it. But what did that mean from here?

Okay, God. No exotic cruise job? Fine. What's the next best thing?

Opening the fridge, she pulled out the orange juice. Pouring and drinking a glass of it, she stared at nothing in the kitchen—thinking, wondering. Should she call Jillian? With Derek’s job in Arizona and Jillian a new wife, connection hadn’t been as frequent or easy. But with Thanksgiving weekend approaching, Jillian would be here visiting her family, and they could see each other at least for a few days. Together they could think of
something.

 Besides, Megan had bigger things to deal with. Kara and Jackson were visiting for Thanksgiving too, and already a thin dread wound up through her esophagus every time she had to talk about it. So, she didn't.

Megan sipped her juice, looking aimlessly at the cozy kitchen in its red and white gingham curtains, scrubbed white walls, and knickknacks of deep red ceramic roosters and green apple placemats. 

Slowly, she put the glass down. Clear and simple, Megan knew exactly what to do. Picking up the cell phone, she pressed Sylvia’s number.

Before the week was out, more than one brick would come down.

***

Several weary days later, Bryant and Bertie ambled into the trailer office. Ross swiveled in the office chair and laughed at their rumpled clothes.

“Well, well, you’ve returned with the spoils of plunder, I hope?”

Bryant sank into the nearest chair. Bertie slapped his portfolio and briefcase down on the desk, flopping into the chair next to Bryant.

“‘Victor and Victorious,’” said Bryant, and closed his eyes. “I never wanna see fast food as long as I live.”

“So?” Ross leaned back with his cowboy boots on the desk. Bryant stirred, eyes closed, unmoving, raising his hand in a thumbs-up. “All 11 stores, on board.”

“Well, ain’t that something,” said Ross, laughing softly. “Now there’s nothin’ left to do but the work.”

Bryant and Bertie knuckled each other, barely opening their eyelids.

***

Bryant breathed in the smell of pine—at once it reminded him of Megan, that quiet morning on the back deck. He wondered for the hundredth time if she had ultimately taken the job, which he was sure she had. And how she felt about it, if she thought of him, of them, and had made any headway with her emotions at all.

Bryant shook off the questions—it was over. She wasn’t calling to say differently and he had made it clear where his loyalties were right now. He watched Mitch work over a small fire pit in the clearing, the tall crowded mountain forest surrounding them. Mitch’s wife had sent them up with homemade chicken potpie. That, the pine trees, and a slow fire were just what he needed after being cooped up in a car and hotels.

Mitch hopped up next to Bryant on the tailgate and offered him a bottled lemonade.

“Congrats on the sweet job offer,” said Bryant, clanking his bottle with Mitch’s. “Got life by the tail, man.”

“Give or take,” said Mitch, but his expression held a clear contentment. “I’ll be glad when the move is over. It’s just a few days now.”

“No sympathy here. Especially when they’re moving you. And paying housing the first year. Not bad at all.”

“What about you? How’d the road trip go?” said Mitch.

“Pretty good.”

“Really?”

“Ah, the tone of surprise,” said Bryant. “Better than good, to tell the truth, but I can’t take the credit. Bertie is God’s gift to lumber.” He shared some details of the trip and Bertie’s master plan. 

“Who knew.” Mitch looked genuinely impressed then took a swig of his drink. “Good job taking it to the next level, bro.”

Bryant’s face reddened. “Mitch, you had a family and were running a yard. You were basically hanging off a cliff. Somehow I don’t think innovation was high on the list.”

“Yeah, it figures you’d find easy street after I leave.”

“Hey, I’m actually working here.”

“A first for everything.” He lobbed a large wood chunk from the pile in the truck into the fire. “I’m proud of you, Bry. Stepping up, taking care of everything the way you have. You’re sure making Dad happy, being here full-time, taking the reins.”

“Well, smile maybe.”

“How’s he doing, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“Stable. Sometimes he still doesn’t recognize Jakey, remembers me three times out of five. But he seems to have mellowed for good, which is incredible, and not giving the home nurses grief. So the operation did something good.”

“Speaking of something good, heard from Megan?”

With one word, Bryant’s heart clenched like the wood floor grips in the yard—squeezing, pressing, strong and unrelenting.

“No,” he finally said, and watched the firelight fingerlings as they reached up and sideways. The sun dipped low in the background.

“Sorry, bro.”

Pressing, pressing.

“It is what it is,” he said, taking a drink from the bottle.

 “Gonna do anything?” said Mitch. “Or you just gonna let it go?

 “Already have.”

Mitch shook his head. “Sounds like it’s stretching you, B-man. That's a good thing. Trust me, marriage is pretty much all about that. It's good to get a bit of it beforehand. Helps you know what's coming and not be so frustrated when it does.”

 “No one’s getting married here.”

Mitch smiled.

 “I can't even get her to seriously date me. Not exactly progress after five months.”

He kept smiling.

 “Besides, it's time to acknowledge it's not going to work and move on. Focus on the yard. Date the Clawson girl.”

Mitch looked surprised. “Well, this is a turnaround. All the same things Mom said last year.”

“Yeah, but don't tell her. She'll never let me hear the end of it.” The sound of his own words—the yard, the Clawson girl—hung in the air, a heavy blanket covering his heart. The yard was going great. Kelly Clawson was great. But neither of them felt great in his soul. Neither of them filled that hollow hurting curve in his heart. He tossed a wood chunk.

Mitch nodded and leaned against the side of the truck edge. “You know, Trisha played a little hard to get. And I didn’t like it, not one bit.” He chuckled. “She’d been dating some guy, one of those wannabe muscle shirts with the big head, but I just knew she was for me. Can’t explain it. So I saw them at this bowling alley on a date, there was a whole group of us guys and girls. And I made a beeline straight for her, with muscle shirt standing right there, and said to her, ‘You might be with him today, but you’ll be going home with me tomorrow.’”

Bryant laughed into his drink. “So did she?”

“The guy turned around with a bowling ball in his hand. What do you think? But she was impressed anyway. Called me up, said okay slick, you’ve got one date. And that was that.”

“Your point?”

“You gotta humiliate yourself.”

“Been there, done that. Not enough.”

“If she’s not with you, something’s missing.”

Bryant glanced at him sideways. “I can’t control this one, Mitch. She’s not playing hard to get, it’s something else. I’m thinking for once it’s not about me. It’s like a waiting game for her to figure it out. But now she’s got this job and I just can’t play it anymore.” It hurt too much, but that wasn’t something he’d say to Mitch.  

“So let her figure it out. Give her some room and she’ll come to her senses.”

“Yeah.” The tone was final, without hope.

They both sat in silence for a bit, each steeped in their own thoughts. Mitch shifted. “Well, I better get home or Trisha will have my backside. No peace, man. You single guys got it made.”

“You know it—stale pizza and sweaty socks. I’m living the dream,” said Bryant, finishing off his drink then hopping off the tailgate to put out the fire.

Bryant knew what Mitch was trying to do but he had heard the satisfaction, the energy in his voice. Mitch was about to start a great new job, with a wife he adored and three kids he craved to be with. Life was sweet.