One Reckless Summer Page 25

  Wayne lay on the ground now, as well, too weak to sit up on his own, so Mick left him for a minute, returning with an old lounge chair from the shed that he was able to fold and set up on the ground like a backrest.

  They sat quietly and he sensed Wayne soaking in the pretty day, soaking in…life, the last he would know of it. A bird sang somewhere nearby. Mick felt thankful again that the weather was nice, hot but not scorching—and then a soft breeze even wafted past, making the leaves in the trees shush together and the pine boughs sway. Everything about the moment felt surreal.

  Mick saw Wayne’s eyes skim the opposite shore, all the pretty little houses perched there like pictures from a storybook. They used to sit here as boys sometimes, looking across the lake this way—but they’d never talked about it, about how much brighter the world appeared on the other side. Now, though, Wayne asked, “You ever wonder…what it’s like…to live over there?”

  “Yeah,” Mick replied. He’d always wondered.

  “Me, too.”

  “I’ve been…getting a taste of it lately, I guess. With Jenny.”

  Wayne slowly shifted his glance to Mick. “Yeah? What’s…it like?”

  “Nice. Just the way you’d expect. Nice…but dangerous.” He looked across the lake again himself, remembering how far away it had seemed as a boy—sort of like The Emerald City across that wide field of poppies. “I’d almost rather not know what it’s like, you know? Since I don’t get to keep it.”

  “Maybe…you will,” Wayne said, as if it were a real possibility.

  And Mick knew better, but he wanted to let Wayne think cheerful thoughts, and he got the idea it made his brother happy to picture Mick over there amid the pastel cottages and colored canoes and hanging flowerpots. So he just said, “Maybe.”

  And then Wayne lifted his eyes skyward, up past the trees to the blue expanse above, dotted today with white, fluffy clouds. He stared intently, like someone watching a movie, mesmerized by what they saw on the screen, and he said, “Do you see that? Do you see it? Man, it’s beautiful.”

  And then he closed his eyes, and he expelled a small puff of breath…and then he went still.

  And Mick’s chest tightened with a jolt because he knew Wayne was dead.

  “Shit,” he whispered to no one. “God.” Because he’d known this was coming—but he just hadn’t expected it right now, at this very moment, while they were talking, for Christ’s sake.

  And he didn’t know if, with Wayne’s last words, he’d simply been talking about the sky being beautiful—or if he’d seen a white light, or maybe the hand of God. And if the latter, if it was real or a hallucination. He only knew the strange starkness of death.

  And as he looked at his brother’s limp, lifeless body, he wondered who would remember Wayne—who would remember that he could be funny, that he’d been good at math, that he’d liked horses as a kid but had never ridden one. It would be like Wayne had never existed—and due to the circumstances of his death, Mick couldn’t even give him a decent gravestone to mark his passing.

  Despite the fact that Wayne couldn’t hear him anymore, he heard himself say, “I’ll remember you,” just before the tears flowed down his face.

  It had taken sheer will to put the lid on the simple wooden coffin Mick had built over the summer.

  Sheer will to use the ropes-and-pulley system he’d set up to lower it into the ground.

  Sheer will to shovel the dirt back over it.

  A somehow numb-but-crushing pain had vibrated through his chest with every step he took, every move he made, to complete the grim task that he’d had to accomplish today.

  Afterward, he sat next to the fresh grave for a long time, hours. He wasn’t sure why.

  Was he waiting for darkness to fall, for the day of his brother’s death to come to an end? Was he avoiding going back into the house, feeling the fresh sense of loneliness that would surely fill the space? Maybe he just didn’t want to leave Wayne alone there, in the ground. He knew Wayne was dead, but it felt strange, as if to walk away was to abandon him. He couldn’t believe he’d just covered his brother with dirt—and his chest tightened all over again to remember it. Every fucking shovelful of it.

  He’s dead—it’s okay that you covered him with dirt. It’s okay.

  He knew that—there was just something inside him having a hard time believing it right now.

  As he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, he reached down to run his fingers through the soft, rich soil atop the mound he’d created with it. He wondered if there was a God. He wondered if God had mercy on sinners like his brother when they died. And sinners like him.

  Then he glanced up through the trees surrounding the little family cemetery only a stone’s throw from the house to see Wayne’s last blue sky beginning to turn just a little purple, like a pale bruise. Night was beginning to fall. Thank God. He wanted it to get dark now, dark, dark, dark—so he could finally go see Jenny. He guessed maybe that was what he’d been waiting for all this time, because it was the only thought in his head that held any goodness, any comfort, any relief.

  * * *

  Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.

  Albert Einstein

  * * *

  Fifteen

  Jenny had spent the day doing the types of things all good Destinyites did. Mostly, because she was a little depressed. She hadn’t heard from Mick in over a week. So she’d decided she needed to distract herself from thoughts of him. I do not want to be the kind of woman who sits around pining over a man. No sirree.

  So she’d tried to cheer herself up that morning by baking muffins—both blueberry and apple. She’d taken a basket of them to the police station for her dad and the other officers, and when her dad had leaned over to give her a kiss on the forehead in thanks, he’d remained somewhat stiff but she could tell he was trying.

  After that, she’d stopped by the Daisy Dress Shop and picked up a bold print sundress in shades of yellow and tangerine, along with a shrug to go over it, then dropped into the Destiny Properties office around the corner to ask Sue Ann to an impromptu lunch, her treat—and to Dolly’s they went, stopping off for a quick hello to Amy at Under the Covers afterward.

  On the way home, she’d stopped at Miss Ellie’s with a second muffin basket, and Miss Ellie insisted they sit in her garden “for a spell” with tall glasses of iced tea. When Miss Ellie asked her if she’d decided what she was going to do at the end of the summer, which was fast approaching, she’d smiled and said across the small white round garden table, “I think I might stay.”

  “Well,” Miss Ellie had said, “praying is always good for the soul.”

  “No,” Jenny tried to correct herself, “I mean I think I might stay in Destiny and teach.”

  Miss Ellie had looked surprised. “Now, praying is one thing, dear, but I’m not sure you’re cut out to preach. You best leave that to Reverend Marsh and decide what you want to do with your life.”

  Jenny had spent the late afternoon working in the yard. Rain had finally brought on the need for a light grass-cutting, so she’d called Becker Landscaping and had someone come out yesterday—but she’d made sure to be gone at the time just in case Adam himself showed up, because she didn’t want to deal with any flirtation, even as attractive as Adam was. The receptionist at his company had asked if she wanted any other work done besides mowing, but she’d declined—since the weather was hot again now but not unbearable, and she still wanted to do it herself. Distraction, distraction, distraction, after all. So she pulled weeds in the flower gardens and tidied up the old rose bushes by the back fence. After which she’d stuffed the remnants of the old, broken swing into a garbage can.

  But still, just like every night over the past week, when darkness fell, she was at home. She’d made a point of that. In case tonight was the night Mick came.

  For heaven’s sake—talk about sitting around pining over a man. If anyone else knew she was literally sitting there waiting fo
r him, she’d have been mortally embarrassed. You are in so freaking deep now—how the hell are you ever going to get out?

  She figured Mick’s absence meant one of two things. Wayne was nearing death—or he’d died already and Mick had just left afterward, without even saying goodbye.

  They’d never talked about that, about exactly how things would go after Wayne died—so what if he’d just gotten in that truck Willie Hargis had seen and gone back to Cincinnati already? What if she waited for him to knock on her back door every night for the rest of the summer and he never came?

  You’ll survive, that’s what. You’ll put it in its proper place, as the summer affair you meant it to be all along. She told herself this while rinsing her hands under the outdoor spigot, trying to breathe evenly, then stepping inside to grab a cold Diet Coke from the fridge.

  But you love him now—you love him so much that you can barely think straight—so it’s not that easy, she argued with herself.

  Oh boy, wasn’t this swell? Not only did he have her talking to herself, but he had two of her bickering back and forth between themselves now. Great.

  And none of that even mattered. Because, love or not, if he’s gone, he’s gone.

  She let out a weary sigh as she plopped in a kitchen chair. The air outside had turned dusky now, and the bright bulbs in the kitchen seemed to shine a light on her despair. The sad truth was, she couldn’t imagine making peace with that, with him just “being gone.” Ever.

  She’d loved Terrence, but this was different. This had quickly gone soul deep. Terrence had been her first real passion, and the man who’d felt like the right, easy fit in her life, so right and easy that she’d given up her dreams for him without blinking. Mick was a much harder fit, a rough square peg into the smooth, round hole of her existence, but she longed for him as she’d never longed for anything or anyone—with a need she felt in her gut, a gnawing ache.

  And she knew he’d leave Destiny one way or another soon, but please let him at least say goodbye. She needed that closure. She needed the chance to tell him he’d been special to her. And she even thought that maybe he needed to hear it. She wanted to think his life might somehow be just a little better for having known her.

  She flinched when a light knock rattled the old back door—and her eyes rose to find the shadow and shape of Mick standing there. She drew in her breath sharply. Nine days. She’d been trying not to count, but it had been nine long days since she’d seen him. Her heart flooded with emotion as she pushed to her feet and went to open the door.

  Elated, she yanked it wide.

  Then took in the way he looked. His white T-shirt and jeans, as well as his face and arms, were soiled with dirt and grime, his skin damp with sweat. His eyes shone tired, haunted.

  “God,” she murmured. “Oh God, Mick.” Reaching out, she found his hand and pulled him inside. “Come in.”

  “He’s gone.” She’d never heard Mick sound so hollow.

  “I know,” she whispered, drawing him gently deeper into the house. “Come in—come with me.”

  As she led him through the living room and up the stairs, she felt frightened for him, for what he’d been through. She’d been so silly, so selfish—sitting here thinking only of herself, her emotions. And never once had the brutal truth occurred to her that she now suddenly understood: Mick had had to do more than help his brother die, he’d also had to bury him. He’d just buried his brother, for God’s sake, with his bare hands.

  She’d never seen him look like this—so weakened, both in body and spirit. I have to help him. I have to comfort him. I have to get him through this. It was suddenly all that mattered. I have to…to wash it away somehow.

  She led him without a word into the little bathroom in the hall that separated the two bedrooms upstairs, releasing his hand only to pull back the door on the tub/shower enclosure and turn the water on to let it warm. Then she quietly began to undress him.

  When she pushed the tee up over his head, he raised his arms, even if a bit limply, like a child allowing her to take it off. And when she worked at his belt and zipper, it was much more loving than sexual. She unlaced his muddy workboots one by one, waiting as he stepped out of them, and when she pushed his jeans and underwear to the floor and he stepped free of those, too, he stood before her beautifully naked—but his eyes remained just as haunted and empty.

  She shed her own clothes—shorts, a tank top, underwear—quickly and, stepping into the shower, urged Mick to follow. One sole intent drove her—I have to clean him up, I have to wash all the dirt away, I have to make him forget what it felt like to bury his brother.

  Every muscle in Mick’s body ached, and everything inside him felt listless. It was all he could do to move into the shower. It was like wading through a fog, and the truth was, he’d felt that way for a very long time, probably since the moment Wayne had died earlier that day. God, had it only been that day? It felt like…a week. Like he’d been putting his brother in the ground for days on end. Like the dirt had been caked and smudged on his arms that long.

  Jenny stood in the shower with him, lovely and naked like some sort of water angel, and he yearned to want her like never before—but it was like being in a dream; he felt almost…paralyzed.

  So when Jenny took charge, he let her. She situated his body under the spray and it cooled his skin. She reached for a bar of soap, something soft and girly and scented, and began to rub it over his chest, shoulders. He tried to feel her touch, but he kept seeing images from the day just past—images of Wayne, alive, dead, talking, silent, and then becoming just…a body, something lifeless that had to be put in the ground before the heat could decompose it.

  Jenny moved the soap over other parts of him—his arms, then beneath them, his stomach, and lower. Nothing happened there, when she went lower, and he thought maybe he should be embarrassed, but he was too numb to care very much. He just kept seeing Wayne. And dirt. All that damn dirt.

  When she took his hands and began to run the bar over his palms, he flinched in pain. “Blisters,” he murmured, the water still sluicing down over his head, shoulders, back.

  Their eyes met and she whispered, “Sorry.”

  And then she set the soap aside for a minute to study one of his palms—before she lifted it to her mouth for a tender kiss. And that was the moment when he began to see Jenny more than he saw Wayne.

  As she continued to make him clean again, the strange numbness inside him began to fade—just a little. He let the rushing water begin to wash away the pain; he let Jenny’s gentle hands begin to wash away the pain. When she reached up to wash his hair, he closed his eyes and tried hard to focus just on that and nothing else, on Jenny’s hands in his hair, her fingers on his scalp, the physical sensation of it.

  At some point, she stepped up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and just held him that way—and kissed a spot on his back. He squeezed her soft hands in his—gingerly, because of the damn blisters—and since he still stood under the water, he decided it was a decent time to let a few more tears fall.

  Jenny had never been much of a nurturing type, a caregiver. But that had changed the moment she’d opened the back door and seen Mick’s eyes. Now they lay naked in her bed beneath cool sheets, and she held him while he slept. They hadn’t made love—this just wasn’t about that—she’d simply led him to the bed, pulled his body close, let him rest his head on her breast, and held him.

  A shaft of moonlight arced through the window above, allowing her to study his face at rest. His long, dark lashes, the olive tones of his skin, the full, lush mouth. Even in pain, he was a beautiful man. She only hoped she’d done something to ease that pain—just a little.

  Once she sensed he was sleeping soundly, though, she pulled carefully away from him and out of bed. She slipped into panties and a cami, then tiptoed to the bathroom to retrieve his clothes. Without turning on any upstairs lights, she gathered them and crept down to the laundry room. She set the washer to SOAK AND SCOUR
mode, to be sure it got them clean, and while they washed, she wiped his belt and then his boots with a damp cloth to try to get the bulk of the dirt off those, as well. Checking the refrigerator, she was pleased to see she had eggs and even some bacon, which she set out to thaw—she wanted to make Mick a good, hearty breakfast in the morning since she suspected he probably hadn’t eaten much the last day or so. Waiting for the washer to finish, she set out two plates and glasses, along with her mother’s favorite old frying pan.

  When finally the washer shut off, she found that the jeans, T-shirt, and boxers looked clean—the tee and boxers even appeared admirably white, given how dirty they’d been. She threw them all in the dryer and started them tumbling before turning out the downstairs lights and making her way back up to Mick.

  As she eased back in beside him, he shifted, reached out an arm to curl it around her waist. She instinctively ran her fingertips lightly through his hair. He kissed her chest, rested his head there again, and this time she fell asleep, too, into a sleep so deep and comforting that she didn’t stir again until the morning sun illuminated the room.

  When she opened her eyes, Mick lay on the same pillow as her, watching her. She loved having had him in her bed all night, and now, in the morning—but she hated the reason why he was suddenly able to be here; Wayne didn’t need him anymore. “How ya doin’?” she asked.