him long for things he was aware he could not have?
Drawing in a deep breath, David went through Kayla’s back gate. He would hang the sweater on her back door, then walk to the lake and swim. He was developing a routine of sorts, and he loved the cold water in the morning, when the beach was still deserted.
He went up the stairs to Kayla’s back deck and eyed the patio furniture—four old Adirondack chairs, grouped together. Once, he seemed to remember, they had been light blue, but now the wood was gray and weathered. The chairs looked like they would offer slivers rather than comfort. The deck was in about the same condition as the chairs. It had not been stained in so long that the exposed wood had rotted and was probably past repair.
He went to hang the sweater on the back door handle. He noticed only the screen door was closed, the storm door open behind it, leaving a clear view into the cheeriness of the kitchen.
Was that safe? Even in Blossom Valley?
He had just decided it was none of his business when Kayla came to the door. She didn’t have a scrap of makeup on and had her honey-colored hair scraped back in a ponytail. She was wearing a bib apron tied over a too-large T-shirt and faded denim shorts.
The contrast to his world of super sophistication—women who wore designer duds even when they were dressed casually, and who were never seen in public without makeup on and hair done—was both jarring and refreshing.
Kayla looked real. She also looked as if she had been up for hours, and the smell of toast—so normal it hurt his heart—wafted out the door.
For a moment she looked disconcerted to see him—not nearly as pleased to be caught in such a natural state as he had been to catch her in it—but then her expression brightened.
“Have you heard something about Bastigal?” she asked eagerly.
“No, I’m sorry. I just brought you back your sweater.”
“Oh.” She looked crushed. “Thanks.”
She opened the door, and it screeched outrageously on rusting hinges. He noticed she didn’t even have the hook latched on it.
“Do you have a phone yet?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“You should get one,” he said, “and you should lock your door. At least do up the latch on the screen.”
She looked annoyed at his concern, rather than grateful. “This is Blossom Valley,” she said. “You and I ‘prowling’ was probably the biggest news on the criminal front in years.”
“Bad stuff happens everywhere,” he said sternly.
“If it’s safe enough for you to sleep out under the stars, it’s safe enough for me to leave my screen door unlatched.”
He glared at her.
“The latch is broken,” she said with a resigned sigh. “The wood around it is rotted.”
“Oh.”
She bristled under what she interpreted as sympathy or judgment or both. “And how are you sleeping in the great outdoors? Fending off mosquitoes?”
Did she mutter a barely audible “I hope”?
Was he trying to control the locks on Kayla’s doors because his own world seemed so unsafe and unpredictable—beyond saving—at least where his mother was concerned?
Several retorts played on his tongue, never better, reminds me of my boy scout days—but it shocked him when the truth spilled out.
“I hate it in that house,” David said, his voice quiet. “I hate how the way it is now feels like it could steal the way it once was completely from my mind. Steal Christmas mornings, and the night I graduated from high school and the way my mom looked when my dad pinned that rose corsage on her for their fifteenth anniversary, right before he died. The way that house is now could steal the moment the puppy came home, and the memories of the dog he grew to be.”
He blinked hard, amazed the words had come out past the lump that had been in his throat since his mother had thrown her porridge at him, but then remembered the backyard skating rink.
David was both annoyed with himself and relieved to have spoken it.
Kayla’s bristling over her unlocked door, and her glee at his sleeping arrangements, melted. “Oh, David, I’m so sorry.”
He ordered himself to walk away, to follow his original plan to go to the lake and let the ice-cold water and the physical exertion take it all.
Instead, when the door squeaked open and Kayla stepped back, inviting him into her house, he found himself moving by her as if he had no choice at all.
He entered her kitchen like a man who had crossed the desert and known thirst and hardship, and who had found an oasis that promised cool protection from the harshness of the sun, and that promised a long, cold drink of water.
He looked around her kitchen. He had spent a lot of his growing-up years in this room and this room was as unchanged as his own house was changed.
A large French-paned window faced the backyard. It was already a bright room, but Mrs. Jaffrey had painted the walls sunshine-yellow, and though the yellow had faded, the effect was still one of cheer.
The cabinets were old and had seen better days, and nobody had that kind of countertop anymore. The table had been painted dozens of times and every one of the color choices showed through the blemishes in the paint. It was leaning unsteadily, one of the legs shorter than the others. The appliances were old porcelain models, black showing through the chipped white enamel.
The kitchen was unchanged, but still he felt something catch in his throat. Because although the room was the same, wasn’t this just more of the same of what was going on next door?
He could practically see Kevin sitting at that table, gulping down milk and gobbling down still-warm cookies, leaving dribbles of chocolate on his lips.
He could see Kevin’s devil-may-care smile, almost hear his shout of laughter.
David realized he had lied to Kayla when she had asked him why he had never chosen marriage and a family.
And when she had asked him if he ever missed this, for this kitchen was really the heart and soul of what growing up in Blossom Valley had been.
Right now, particularly vulnerable because of what had just happened with his mother, he missed how everything used to be so much that he felt like he could lay his head on that table and cry like a wounded animal.
Kevin was dead, but even before his death, had been the death of their friendship, which had been just as painful. Now, the Jaffreys had moved. It seemed shocking that Kayla was Mrs. Jaffrey now.
Really, with the death of his father, David felt as if he had begun to learn a lesson that had not really stopped since: love was leaving yourself open to a series of breathtaking losses.
And still, this kitchen softened something in him that did not want to be softened.
The
