Cabin Fever (17 page)

They walked hand-in-hand back to the parking lot and stood by Sarah's car, both still reluctant to say goodbye. Sarah stood with her butt against the car door and held Brad close, her head on his shoulder. She felt like this afternoon was a soap bubble in time, a perfect moment that could pop and vanish as if it had never existed. She was afraid of letting go, for fear that she'd never feel this way a second time.

Eventually he was the one to pull away, leaving a kiss on her forehead. "I'll call you tonight," he said, and then walked slowly back to his truck. Sarah watched him go, admiring the way his butt looked in those jeans -- her impressions now deliciously flavored with the memory of what his butt looked like out of those jeans. 

"Brad, wait!" she called suddenly.

He turned. "What?" he asked.

She closed half the distance between them, still working out the words that she needed to say. "This ... what we did. It doesn't need to mean anything. What I'm trying to say is, it was perfect, and I don't need anything more from you to make it right."

He quirked a smile. "I was right. You are the perfect woman."

Sarah assumed he was joking. "You got that right, buddy, but I'm serious. Call me tonight if you want to call me, but not because you feel you need to. You don't need to put a good face on this afternoon. For me, it's already good."

He walked slowly toward her until he was standing right in front, his hands on her shoulders. "It's already good for me, too. And thanks. But I will call you tonight, and I'll do it because I want to."

"So I guess I'll talk to you tonight," she smiled. And she was still smiling as she drove out of the parking lot and back into town.

20

When Brad pulled his battered truck into the driveway, he could see his father sitting on his favorite rocking chair on the porch. Many things were predictable about his father’s life, but none quite so much as where you could find him in the late afternoon, which was on the rocking chair on the porch when the weather was nice like today, or in the same chair inside next to the fireplace when it turned cold and gray. Most days the man was lost in his thoughts and sometimes he didn’t even look up to say hello, but this time Brad could see that his father was waiting for him to get out of the truck. Apparently they had something to talk through, and there was no point in delaying the matter; Brad sighed, swung the door open, and headed toward the cabin.
 

“Been out?” his father asked uselessly.
 

“I have,” Brad answered, wary until he knew what this conversation was about.

“Been over to see that young girl? The pretty one?”

“You mean Sarah? Yes, I was just with her.”

“And you were with her last night.”

“I was.”

His father paused and looked out into the trees, either gathering his thoughts or the words with which to express them. Brad knew enough to wait on the result.

“Does she know about your plans?” his father finally asked.

Brad nodded to himself. Now he could see where this was going, and it was OK. They could talk about this. “She knows enough. I told her that I want to get into coaching.”

“Did you tell her all of it?”

“Which part of it are you thinking about?”

“Did you tell her what it’s like for a woman to try to share that life?” his father said, sounding irritated. Brad was being evasive, and both of them knew it.
 

Now it was Brad’s turn to search for his thoughts and how to capture them in the fewest words possible. “She doesn’t need to know. It’s not like that.”

His father gave him a sour smile. “It’s not like that? Then how is it, boy?”

“There’s no future in it. She and I both know it. We enjoy each other’s company, and so we’re spending time together. It’s … nice, being with her. But she’s got another life in San Francisco that’s calling her back, and I’ve got my thing, too. It will be over soon, and so we’re enjoying it while it lasts.”

“Uh huh,” his father said, sounding unconvinced. He chewed on those words for a while, again looking off into the distance. “And does she believe that to be the case, or does she say that she believes it, or are you assuming that she believes it because you haven’t really talked about it yet?”

“She believes it,” Brad insisted, hoping that he sounded more convincing than he felt.
 

“Mmm hmmm,” his father said again, resuming the rocking of his chair, but sounding no more convinced than he was before. “You just make sure that she does. Because I don’t know her well, but I’ve met her and I like her, and you’re not going to treat her like one of those disposable ladies you used to spend time with. You’re going to tell her the truth.”

Brad nodded, but he felt chastened, and he didn’t like being scolded like a teenager coming back from a first date. From that feeling of irritation a question formed. “Dad, why aren’t there any pictures of Mom here?”

“What?” his father asked, in a tone that warned Brad not to ask the question again. He pushed on, though.

“Why aren’t there any pictures of Mom in the cabin? Or of the two of you together? I’ve seen your wallet, and there aren’t any pictures in there, either. Why not?”

His father stared at him a long time and then rose suddenly out of his chair. The small child that still lived inside Brad’s chest nearly took a step backwards; almost he put up a hand to ward off a blow. His father didn’t hit him, though. “I don’t need pictures of your mother to see her. I see her every day, in everything,” he said, and stalked off into the golden light of sunset.

Brad watched him go, thinking that a better son would go with him and a better father wouldn’t have left. His mother had been dead for more than five years now. Her pain had finally come to an end, after what had seemed like an eternity but, in the end, it was over far too quickly. Now it didn’t look like his father would stop hurting any time soon.

He went into the cabin. His father’s words still stung, but he couldn’t deny the rightness of what he had said. Sarah needed to understand. He needed to make sure she understood that what they had was temporary, and the time for it was fading fast.

21

Sarah’s was surprised at how comforted she felt walking into the diner for breakfast. After only a couple weeks it was beginning to feel like her mother’s kitchen – if Sarah’s mother had been the sort to make a comforting breakfast and serve it with a smile, that is. Sarah had many warm memories of her mother, but few of them involved food; any manner of preparation that required more than heating up a can of soup was enough to make the woman fly into a fit of pique. Sarah mused that perhaps Bessie’s diner was beginning to scratch an itch that she never knew she had. This was just the latest example of the ways in which Tall Pines continued to surprise her.

She was feeling a little blurry around the edges this morning, and yearned with frightening intensity for her first cup of coffee, but there was still a little spark of happiness burning like a star in the night sky deep inside her chest. Looking back at yesterday’s wilderness passion, she still could hardly believe that it had happened, and that she had been involved no less! Growing up with Elsie, Sarah had become so accustomed to the mantle of the sensible sister that she had long since ceased questioning whether the title really described her. One more surprise, to file with the others: apparently she was capable of a lot more than she had ever given herself credit for.

She sidled up to the counter and took a seat in a swivel chair, smiling at Bessie as she bustled up with a cup of coffee. It was nice to get what you wanted without having to ask for it. It was nice to be around people who took the time to learn what you wanted, so that they could be ready to give it to you. So much was nice about this place.

“Morning, hon,” Bessie said in her usual maternal manner. “What are you going to have?”

“Eggs. Potatoes maybe? Juice. Toast. Oh – with marmalade! Do you have marmalade?”

Bessie smiled conspiratorially. “Someone has an appetite this morning. Were you out with a fella last night?”

Sarah laughed self-consciously. “No. Not last night.”

Bessie raised one eyebrow conspiratorially. Sarah knew that she needed to quickly change the subject, or else Bessie would not let her alone until she had found out what had happened. Bessie was sweet, and she made Sarah laugh, but she wasn’t ready to share what had happened.
 

“Bessie, can I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course, hon. What is it?” Bessie replied as she wiped the counter down.

“What is it between you and Duane? I know you’re not just friends.”

Bessie gave her an appraising look while she visibly considered whether or not to come clean. “It’s complicated,” she finally said.

“Oh? Complicated can be good sometimes.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Half the time I don’t know what the answer to your question is, to tell you the truth.”

Sarah gave her a sympathetic smile. “Are you dating?”

Bessie grimaced and came around the counter to sit down beside her. “Not exactly. Did you know that Duane used to be married?”

“I guess I assumed so, but I never asked. He’s not still married is he?”

“Oh heavens no, it’s nothing like that. No, his wife Julia was a dear friend of mine since childhood, and she passed about five years back, from a heart attack. It was terribly sudden. One day she seemed fine, and the next day she was gone.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It was. For Duane and me both. I still miss her terribly. We helped each other through it – the grief and what came after – and along the way I guess we started looking at each other in a new way. But then…”

“What?”

“Nothing! Nothing much. He comes in every day for breakfast, and we exchange a few words, but other than that, nothing I wouldn’t tell my grandchildren! And I can tell you, I was raised to let the man take the lead in this sort of thing, but I’m just about ready to call him out and make him say, one way or the other, what his intentions are. Because neither one of us is getting any younger, and I don’t want to waste any more time while the plumbing is still working, if you catch my drift.

Sarah hid a smile. She did catch Bessie’s drift, and she found the thought of her and Duane locked in a passionate embrace to be halfway between funny and alarming. “I think you should tell him how you feel. Maybe he just needs a little encouragement.”

Bessie snorted and, with a glance at the front window, headed back behind the counter. “He needs a quick kick in the pants, and I know just the woman to give it to him.”

A series of sighs interspersed with muttering announced the arrival of Duane behind her, and – as he did every morning – he took the stool next to Sarah but failed to say “hello.” He was consistently rude in that way, but Sarah couldn’t hold it against him. Duane was so theatrically curmudgeonly that she suspected it was a mask he held up for the world to hide the sensitive soul on the inside. Or maybe he really was that gruff all the way through. Either way, she liked him and was willing to put up with his idiosyncrasies.

“How’s the world treating you, Duane?” she asked sweetly.

“The world believes that I’ve lived too long already, and has delivered that message by way of a sharp pain in my gut and a dull ache in my back.”

Sarah shrugged in response and returned to her coffee. Duane had a new complaint every morning, and she had learned not to try to talk him out of it – grumbling was an essential element of his morning routine. She knew that Duane would soon be engrossed in his stack of newspapers, and there was no point in starting up a conversation on a topic that would be forgotten the moment he found a news story that interested or upset him.

She did like to watch him read, though. Duane had an intense focus when he was perusing the day’s top stories that she could only compare to the way a dog stares at a squirrel in the moments before it pounces. It was the look, she was beginning to realize, of a man in his element. Duane had found his life’s work, and it felt like a privilege to witness him doing it.

“What’s the news, Duane?”

“War. Hunger. Political back-biting in Washington,” he muttered without looking up. “Same as yesterday.”

“Any good material for the paper?”

“Yes, enough. I can’t use the stuff about car-bombings and chaos. That’s too down-beat for most of my readers. But they’ll like the story on democratic reforms in the Middle East, and I can do something with the national politics story as long as I don’t write it too liberal or too conservative.”

She smiled. “That’s cool, the way you take in the news and send it back out. It’s the same information, but you know how to package it for your audience.”

He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’ve been doing it for a long time. I don’t need to think about it anymore, I just do it.”

“It’s nice. You’re doing this town a service. They’ll really miss you when you retire.”

He sighed. “They’ll get used to it, I suppose. People adapt when they have to.”

“So how long until you turn out the lights? Any chance that there will be someone to take over when you do?”

He shook his head. “I tried to line someone up for a while, but I couldn’t get any takers, and now there’s not enough time to bring someone in. I’ve got to the end of the month and then I’m done.”

Sarah blinked in surprise. “The end of the month! That’s in less than three weeks!”

Duane nodded, clearing a space before him as Bessie showed up with his daily plate of eggs and toast. “Yeah. At first it seemed like it would never happen, and now it’s coming up really fast. Every now and then I think about sticking with it for a little longer, but then I remember that I wanted to retire two years ago. I kept it going because I didn’t want the paper to die. Now I don’t have a choice. There’s nothing left in the tank. It will be a little sad when the day comes, but it’s time.”
 

Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry” was all she could think to say, but she felt the need to lighten the mood. She gave Bessie a significant look. “Duane, Bessie and I were talking about you this morning.”