yesterday already—after she’d been stung.
She’d only be returning the favor.
But she remembered his deeply sarcastic tone when he had said earlier today: Kayla to the rescue.
And then, a certain wryness in his tone, he had remembered her working at that camp, those children trailing her through town.
Really, more of the same.
Kayla to the rescue. It made her aware that she needed to resist whatever was going on in her.
She was going to go to bed, and she was going to mind her own business and not feel the least bit guilty about it, either.
Not even when she peeked back out her window and saw him dragging a thick cushion off the patio furniture down the deck steps and onto the lush grass of his mother’s backyard.
She watched him lay it out a few feet from the bottom of the steps, and then lie down on top of it, on his back, his face toward the sky as if he could not get enough of the stars tonight. Some tension left him, and she was not sure she had ever seen a person look more relaxed.
And she envied him for the place he had among the stars. Had she offered her couch and had he taken it, she would have deprived him of this moment.
It occurred to her that maybe that’s what rescuing did: gave the rescuer a feeling of power while keeping the rescued person from their own destiny, from finding their own way to where they were supposed to be.
And in light of her relationship with Kevin, that was a deeply distressing thought.
Kayla decided, right then and there, that she was going to avoid David for the rest of the time he spent here with his mother.
She did not need the kind of introspection he seemed to be triggering in her. And she certainly did not need the complication of a man who could cause her to ache with yearning just by touching her hair!
DAVID CONTEMPLATED THE STARS above his head. He could sleep in his car, except he had put the roof up at dark and locked it. His keys were inside the house. Ditto for his wallet, or he could go get a hotel room somewhere, though of course hotels would be booked solid at this time of year in Blossom Valley.
If his mother managed to get out the back door again, he had her escape route, and the route to the garden shed, blocked.
What do you mean “at first”? Kayla had asked him about his choice not to marry, not to have children.
At first it had been because he had never found the right person. Now it went so much deeper. Some forms of his mother’s illness had a genetic component. What if he had it?
And his father had died young of heart disease, plunging the family he had protected so diligently into a despair deeper than the ocean.
David’s doctor had assured him his own heart was the heart of an athlete. And the other? There was a test they could do to determine the presence of the “E” gene.
But so far, David had said no. Did you want to know something like that? Why would you? Just for yourself, no. If there was someone else involved in his life...?
Was it the strangely delightful evening with Kayla making him have these wayward thoughts?
He decided firmly, and not for the first time, that he was not going there, that these kind of thoughts were counterproductive. They had snuck by his defenses only because he was exhausted. He closed his eyes, drew in one long breath and ordered himself to sleep. And it worked.
David woke up feeling amazingly refreshed. The sun was already warm on his face, and he glanced at his watch, astounded by how late he had slept and how well. He realized he was glad to have slept outside.
The inside was not really a house anymore: doors locked, cleaning supplies hidden, windows never opened, stove unplugged. One of the live-in care aides had moved into his boyhood bedroom, and he was relegated to a tiny den with a pullout sofa when he came.
David got up swiftly, not wanting to dwell on all the depressing issues inside his mother’s house. He returned the cushions to the deck that was never used anymore, except by that care aide he suspected of slipping outside to sneak cigarettes.
What had he said last night to Kayla? That his mother’s house looked like normal people lived here. He was aware, the feeling of being refreshed leaving him, that he had probably kept that particular illusion alive too long.
It wasn’t safe for his mother to be here anymore.
He would look at options for her today. He was aware of feeling that there was no time to lose.
He would look after it and leave here. For good, this time.
David knocked on the door, and this time it was opened by a new aide, who must have arrived to help the live-in with morning chores. She looked at him with an expression as bewildered as his mother’s.
“It’s a long story,” he said and moved by the aide.
His mother was in the kitchen, toying with her breakfast, an unappetizing-looking lump of porridge that had been cooked in the microwave. At one time David had hired a cook, but his mother had become so querulous and suspicious of everyone that staff did not stay no matter what he offered to pay them. Then there had been the issue of her sneaking down in the night and turning on the stove burners.
But this morning his mother was dressed, and everything matched and was done up correctly and her hair was combed so he knew she’d had help. The thorn scratches on her arms had been freshly treated with ointment but were a reminder of what he needed to do.
He left the house as soon as he had showered and put on a fresh shirt and shorts from a suitcase he did not bother to unpack. He went downtown and had breakfast. His mother, obviously, had no internet, and for many years he hadn’t stayed long enough to miss it. Now, after a frustrating phone call, he found out it would take weeks to get it hooked up.
He drove down to the beach, still quiet in the morning, and began to make phone calls.
The first was to his assistant, Jane, a middle-aged girl Friday worth her weight in gold.
With her he caught up on some business transactions and gave instructions for putting out a few minor fires. Then, aware of feeling a deep sadness, he told Jane what he needed her to research. A care home, probably private, that specialized in people with dementia.
“See if you can send me some virtual tours,” he said, stripping the emotion from his own voice when she sounded concerned. Then, as an afterthought, maybe to try and banish what he was setting in motion, he said, “And see what you can find out about an ice cream parlor for sale here in Blossom Valley. It’s called More-moo.”
He was aware, as he put away his phone, that his heart was beating too fast, and not from asking his assistant to find out about the ice cream parlor.
From betraying his mother’s trust.
Not that she trusted me, he reminded himself, attempting wryness. But it fell
