Amber Sky, page 8
Opening the drawer, I pulled out the shiny, white photo frame and stood it up next to my iMac screen. I’d fill it with an image from my next sonogram. Memories weren’t meant to be hidden away and forgotten. My father was right, as always.
I thought of Marc and all the memories of his past he’d hidden from me. Was it possible to be so connected to someone that their memories became yours?
I hoped so.
I arrived at the Philadelphia Museum of Art at a few minutes before my seven p.m. date. And I found my dinner companion sitting on a bench near the espresso bar. He was sipping a hot drink and wearing a crisp white button-up with dark jeans. He looked relaxed. He wasn’t nervous about our date.
As I approached, his eyes found me, and his handsome face stretched into a gorgeous smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” I remarked.
He stood from the bench, and his gaze roamed every inch of my body before he spoke. “This is the place we agreed on, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “You’re the one who suggested the museum.”
His eyes locked on mine, and his smile dimmed. “You look tired.”
“That’s no way to greet a lady on a first date.”
“Of course,” he replied. “Where are my manners. Can I buy you a coffee?”
I glanced at my belly and shook my head. “I’ll have a sparkling water.”
He chuckled as he headed toward the espresso bar counter. “Oh, so you’re one of those girls who only orders water and salad on a first date?”
“One of those women?” I corrected him. “Keep needling me and it might just be our last.”
As he ordered my sparkling water and paid for it, I felt that familiar sensation of butterflies I got whenever we did this. Every year, since Marc and I started dating in college, we took separate modes of transportation to meet at the Museum of Art, where we loosely reenacted our first date.
Last year, I used the occasion to tell him I was nine weeks pregnant with Mira. Instead of pushing my memories of that day aside, I allowed myself to remember the guarded hope in Marc’s eyes, the way the smell of the salad dressing had made me queasy.
We usually met in the museum restaurant, the way we did on our first date. But the restaurant closed after lunch service, and today I spent the afternoon with my father, or rather what was left of him. Life had sure changed since that first date.
We took our beverages and sat down at a table nearby to chat, as we did ten years ago.
“So you’re into pregnant women, huh?” I teased him, still pretending to be on our first date.
He smiled and studied my face for a moment before he spoke. “Do you want to talk about your day?” he asked gently.
It was difficult to hide anything from Marc, which only made it more infuriating that he could so successfully hide things from me.
“It was harrowing,” I replied. “I left feeling guilty because I realized I had treated him just like everyone else — like a child. I should have been better to him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Cass. You’re just trying your best. No one can fault you for that. Least of all your father. He worships you.”
“Which is exactly why my visit should have been a respite from all the down-talk and coddling. I failed him today. But I won’t do it again. I’m going to talk to Robert tomorrow about starting my maternity leave ASAP. I want to be able to help my mom occasionally. She shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.”
“She has a full-time live-in aid. She’s not alone.”
I looked him in the eye as I replied. “That’s not the same.”
“Are you sure you—” Marc stopped at the sound of my cell phone ringing.
The futuristic alien ringtone echoed in the vast corridor of the museum. I’d designated this ringtone to my sister Lina many years ago, as a reference to an inside joke. The first time Lina got stoned, she swore she saw a UFO in the sky. She refused to believe it was the altitude warning lights perched atop a nearby hill for passing airplanes.
“Hello?” I said, answering after the first ring.
A loud sniff followed by the most alien words I’d ever heard, “Dad’s dead.”
Violent Tremors
Walker has been working on my SUV in the scorching August heat for three hours straight. Meanwhile, I’ve been sanding the peeling white paint on the banister. I had plans to slather on a shiny, new coat of the black paint I found in the garage.
The house is so old. And not a criticism of Walker, but it’s pretty poorly maintained. I imagine these small home improvement projects will keep me occupied while Walker works on my car. I try not to think about the possibility I’m inhaling lead paint particles as I rub sandpaper across the old banister. Besides, only children have to worry about lead poisoning, right?
I should know the answer to that question, but this damn head injury has turned me into an idiot. A selective idiot.
I can remember the titles and publication years of most of my father’s books, but I can’t remember if either of my siblings is married. I can’t even remember if I’m married, though I have a feeling I’d remember something that significant.
I tie the bottom of the T-shirt I borrowed from Walker, securing the knot right below my bra to get the sweat-soaked fabric off my back and stomach. But there’s no breeze inside the house to cool my exposed skin. I need to take a flying leap into a sparkling, blue swimming pool.
When I reach the garage, Walker is lying on his back underneath the front end of my SUV, only the lower half of his body is visible. It’s a gorgeous lower half.
The smudges of dirt on his jeans and the well-worn suede work boots look perfectly matched to his current position. Like a shot crafted by a film cinematographer. When I call his name, he’ll slide out from beneath the car without a shirt on, and I’ll swoon. At least, that’s how it would happen in a movie.
“Walker?” I call out softly, not wanting to startle him.
He doesn’t respond, continuing to work on whatever he’s doing for a few more seconds before he slides out from beneath the vehicle. To my abject disappointment, he’s wearing a shirt.
He stares at my bare midriff for a moment before he tears his gaze away to look me in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
I smile at that country drawl I’m beginning to adore. “Want to go for a swim?”
He sits up too quickly, flipping the wooden board with wheels that was underneath his torso. The board smacks him in the back of the head.
“Criminy!” he shouts as he rubs his sore scalp.
I try not to laugh at his choice of curse word. “Are you okay? Do you think you’ll need stitches?” I ask with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.
I won’t admit it to him, but I’m sort of dying for Walker to finish fixing my car so I can ask him to go to the city with me. Not to live with me. I don’t even remember where I live. But I suspect I can find that out by getting in touch with my family. I hope they all still live in the city, or I’m screwed. Then I’ll be the one shouting criminy.
Walker pulls his fingers out of the sweaty scruff of dark hair on the back of his head and holds them up. “No blood. Just a bump. I’ll be fine.”
I smile as I nod toward the tree line at the back of the property. “Are there any swimming holes in those woods? A creek or lake or somewhere we can cool off?”
He rises to his feet, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt, and using the fabric to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I reckon there’s a creek about a quarter-mile southeast of here. In the opposite direction of that meadow you visited.”
My stomach clenches at the memory of that embarrassing encounter in the meadow. “Right. Um… Is it safe to swim in that crick?” I say, imitating the way he pronounced the word creek.
He shakes his head. “Are you making fun of the way I talk?”
“I would never!” I reply, clutching my chest dramatically.
“Is that what you call flirting?”
My insides melt. “You’re a fast learner,” I reply with a seductive smile. At least, I hope it’s seductive. “Can we go swimming now?”
He smiles, his blue eyes staring into mine for a long moment. This is definitely the longest he’s ever looked me in the eye, and it’s completely disarming. I look away as I’m overcome with a deep feeling of discomfort.
He glances at my foot. “Are you sure you should be getting that foot wet?”
I glance at the crude duct tape and gauze dressing. “Duct tape is pretty water-tight. I learned that on Mythbusters.”
“Mythbusters?”
“Not important. The important thing is I’ll be fine. Can we go now?”
He chuckles as he reaches for a grimy, red hand towel resting on the front of the headlight of my SUV. “Give me a minute to close up shop.”
I watch intently as he puts away his tools and pulls the rickety, wooden garage door closed. “Are you any closer to getting the car running?” I ask casually, trying not to sound like I’m rushing him.
He walks in silence next to me for a while as we cross the grassy backyard toward the woods. “I reckon I’ll know more when Beacham returns with some parts next month. I was only able to order some basics since I hadn’t looked under the hood yet. But now I’ve had a look-see, I know I need a powered socket wrench to remove a few bits and pieces that are in my way. Won’t know much else until it’s all taken apart.”
I’m careful not to step on any sharp branches as we walk and talk. “So… You might take it apart and find out you need more parts, but you won’t be able to order those until Beacham’s next delivery?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We walk in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of dry leaves and twigs crunching beneath our feet. I consider keeping my mouth shut, just ignoring all the questions whizzing through my brain. I want to enjoy this outing without turning it into some kind of therapy session or fact-finding mission. But eventually, I reason myself away from the path of silence.
If I’m expected to live with Walker for a few months while I wait for him to fix my car, I have a right to know more about him. Besides, I’m just too damn curious to keep my mouth shut.
“Why don’t you have a phone?” I ask, still trying to maintain a casual tone. “If you had a phone, I could call someone—the police or someone who can get in touch with my family.”
He shakes his head, his attention remaining on the woods ahead of us. “We ain’t got no phone lines…”
The fact that he chose the pronoun we instead of I implies he thinks of him and me as a single entity. Or perhaps, he was referring to himself and someone else. Maybe his deceased mother?
“Who’s we?” I ask.
“What?” he says, flashing me a confused expression.
“Nothing,” I reply. “So, do you think I could ask Beacham to bring a prepaid cell phone?”
He shakes his head again. “You’re speaking gibberish.”
I chuckle, more out of frustration than amusement. “Right. I keep forgetting about…that.”
He smiles, seemingly catching on to my frustration. “You want to tell me what that is?”
I consider telling him to just forget it, but I decide I’ll give it a shot. “A prepaid cell phone is—” I stop dead in my tracks when a horrifying thought occurs to me. “Do you… Do you even know what a cell phone is?”
He stops walking too, and now he’s looking at me like I’m crazy.
“It’s a valid question, isn’t it?” I continue. “I mean, for someone who doesn’t own a television or phone of their own?” My heart races as he stares at the ground between our feet. “Oh, no. Please tell me I haven’t offended you. I’m so sorry. I knew I was going to put my foot in my mouth. Just forget—”
“Slow down there,” he interjects, putting a hand up to stop my avalanche of apologies. “I know what a cell phone is. Beacham’s got one he keeps right on the dashboard of his truck.”
I think back to my short ride in Mr. Beacham’s truck, and I can’t recall seeing a cell phone, but I was pretty distracted by my panic. “So, you definitely knew what to look for when you were searching for my phone in that ditch?” I pose this question to myself. “I’m sorry I questioned you. I still feel like my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders. That’s an idiom you’ll probably understand.”
“A what?”
I laugh at how far we’ve strayed from the initial question about getting a prepaid cell phone. “A prepaid cell phone is a phone you can use right out of the box. You don’t need to enter into an agreement with a telecom company. You just activate it, and you’re good to go, providing you’re close enough to a cell tower to get a signal. Something tells me you’re in a dark spot.”
“Oh, I’m in the dark, all right,” he says as he starts walking again.
I smile. “I know this must all sound like a foreign language to you, but that’s part of your charm.”
He removes his green baseball cap and ruffles his fingers through his dark hair. “You’re teaching me all sorts of new stuff.”
This comment sparks a memory for me. I’m sitting at a desk and staring at a snow globe. I keep shaking it to watch the snowfall, but it always falls so fast. I wish it would fall slower. Suddenly, I’m overcome with an intense feeling of profound loss, like the feeling I had in the meadow the other day.
Walker glances at me when he hears me sniff loudly. “Why are you crying? Is it your foot?”
I shake my head as I wipe salty tears from my lips and cheeks. “I know I lost my father,” I reply. “And I feel like I’ve lost a lot of people I care about. I just wish I could remember. I… But…”
“But you also wish you could forget.”
His words take me by surprise. Partly because they’re spot on, but also because I wish I knew who he wanted to forget.
I nod, still wiping my face as I continue walking a bit slower now. “Have you lost anyone?”
He slips the cap back onto his head. “My momma passed on a few years back. She’s buried on that side of the house where you found the berries.”
My stomach curdled at the thought of eating fruit fertilized by his mother’s decaying body. Then I shook off the idea. Surely he buried her in a coffin six feet under. It wasn’t as if she was right beneath the topsoil.
Swallowing my discomfort, I work up the courage to ask another question. “How did she die? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Look!” he says, pointing at something ahead of us in the distance. “Boy, is that a sight for sore eyes. I was afraid the creek would be dry this late in the summer.”
Sure enough, in the distance, through the thicket of old-growth pine trees, was a sparkling, placid creek.
As if washed away by the water, my grief — so intense and laser-like — fades away, replaced by a childlike desire to take a flying leap into the sun-warmed liquid. I’d done that so many times as a child. Hadn’t I?
Without thinking, I grab Walker’s hand and pull him along as I race toward the shimmering water in the distance.
“Watch that!” he cries out, yanking me sideways to avoid stepping on a fallen branch.
But he pulls too hard, and we collide into each other, tumbling onto the dirt and leaves. I stick my arms out to break my fall, and my hands land on the ground just above his head as my chest crashes into his face.
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!” I yelp, trying to push myself up, but my sore shoulder gives out, and my hand slides across the dry dirt.
His laughter is muffled by my breasts and the fabric of the T-shirt I borrowed from him.
“This is so embarrassing,” I mutter to myself as I roll off him and lie on the ground, staring up at the light-blue cloudless sky above us.
Walker rolls over, and his face hovers above mine, replacing my view of the sky with an even better one. “You okay?” he asks, trying to suppress more of that deep, sexy laughter.
Before I can think my way out of it, I throw my arms around his neck and press my lips against his. I pull away quickly, giving him time to digest what I’ve done. His eyes are locked on mine, and I can feel his hot breath on my face as it quickens.
“Is that okay?” I ask, praying I haven’t read his signals wrong and crossed a line.
Finally, he smiles, and the sight of it makes my heart flutter. “I think so,” he replies. “Can I try?”
I nod enthusiastically, curious to know what he’ll do next.
He leans over and lays a soft kiss on the apple of my cheek, then I hear him gulp loudly. “You smell…real good,” he whispers.
I reach up to touch his face, wiping a small grease smudge from his temple. “So do you,” I reply, unable to get my body to stop trembling.
I shouldn’t be this nervous. This is certainly not the first time I’ve ever kissed a man. But it's probably the first time Walker has kissed a woman. Or maybe I shouldn’t assume that.
“Have you ever kissed a woman?” I ask, a violent tremor traveling through me as his hand lands on my bare midriff.
He shakes his head as his fingertips whisper over my skin. “You’re so warm,” he says, his voice full of wonder as his hand moves to my ribcage, “and soft.”
A man of few words, but they were all the right ones.
“Can I kiss you?” I practically beg him as I gently place both hands on his face and nudge it upward, so he’s looking me in the eye again.
His gaze falls to my lips now, and he smiles. “I’d like that.”
A nervous giggle bubbles up in my throat, and I suppress it. But before I can gather my senses together, Walker takes the initiative and presses his lips to mine. A soft moan escapes my throat as I open my mouth. I slowly trace the tip of my tongue along the crease of his mouth, and he laughs.
Then, he licks his lips and smiles. “You taste pretty good, too.”
I swallow hard as I try not to imagine him tasting other parts of me. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I have to go slow with Walker.
