Touching Stars (16 page)

“Talk to the dead?” Cathy said.

“No. Talk to herself!” Helen wrinkled an already wrinkled face in a frown. “You get bored not hearing voices in a house, so you start supplying them yourself. People ever heard some of the things I’ve said to myself, they’d haul me off to the loony bin, and that’s the truth.”

“So this whole story is about an old woman living alone who just talked to herself a little.” Dovey shook her head.

“If you would show just a touch of patience, Dovey Lanning,” Helen said, leaning toward her friend, “I will continue.”

“By all means.”

Helen sat back. “Miranda Duncan finally up and died. We all do, sooner or later, after all. And when her family went in to clean out the old house, they found four hundred Devil’s Puzzle blocks in her attic, and not one other block of any other kind. Every single one of them was perfect, too. Stitches so tiny they make mine look like cooked-up spaghetti. Perfectly pieced, all exactly the same size. Four hundred!” She looked over the top of her glasses.

Dovey whistled, impressed.

“It’s not an easy block to piece,” Helen said.

“Devil’s Puzzle?” Gayle asked.

“Oh, it surely has other names, but that’s what we called it around here.” She traced an
X
on the quilt in front of her. “Never did know why. An
X
is used for Christ in Christmas. Can’t see anything devilish about it.”

“A little superstition here, a little superstition there,” Gayle said with a smile.

“Yes, but four hundred of them?” Dovey said.

“You want to know what I think about that?” Helen put her needle down and flexed her hand. “I think she was so old she’d more or less forgotten all her other patterns. But she remembered that one. So she made it over and over again. Maybe she was clinging to memories, or maybe just to something she could still remember how to do.”

“I bet you’re right.” Gayle laid down her needle, too. After all, what was the point of continuing?

“Anyway, the family gave all those blocks to somebody at our church and asked if she had a use for them. Of course she took them right to the preacher. See, she was the superstitious sort and worried the blocks had some sort of hex on them. Name of the block, after all, and all those stories about Mrs. Duncan and the old house.”

“Honestly!” Cathy rolled her eyes.

“She was thinking maybe she ought to burn them or bury them or do something to stop whatever bad magic was in them.”

“And your preacher went along with this?” Gayle was trying to imagine Sam keeping a straight face.

“No, the preacher told her the best thing she and her quilting friends could do was take all those blocks and make as many quilts as they could manage. He said it was a gift, and an important one. With all those tops, they’d always have quilts to give families in need. And, of course, once the Depression hit in Shenandoah County like it hit everywhere else, there was a lot of need, too. So the ladies round here had a lot of quilting bees, and Mrs. Miranda Duncan was the cause of them. And a lot of families who needed them had quilts because of her, too.”

“That’s one great story,” Gayle said.

“I just pass on what I know.” But Helen smiled.

Through the years, Eric had learned to look at the issues facing him and outline his choices. Logic was the best—and sometimes the only—barrier to seeking the most stimulating adventure. Faced with an important desk job or a year in the field facing gunfire? Gunfire would win every time. Except that with his choices logically spread out before him, sometimes he found a compromise he could live with.

This morning, as he shaved the face that was beginning to look more like the one that had first broadcast reports from Afghanistan, he outlined his choices regarding his sons.

First Jared. Clearly Jared was conflicted about his father’s presence at the inn and unable to discuss his reasons. For the most part, in the ten days Eric had been living here, Jared had avoided him. Eric, who was adept at interviewing world leaders, had no idea how to find out what Jared was thinking.

Then Noah. Noah had none of his brother’s hesitation. Noah didn’t like his father, was still angry about Eric’s choice to pursue his career instead of remaining in Toms Brook to run the inn with Noah’s mother, and wasn’t afraid to let Eric know it. For a kid who normally had a large dollop of his diplomat grandfather’s tact, he was acting like an insufferable brat.

And finally Dillon. Eric knew that most of the problems with Dillon were his own. Unlike his older brothers, Dillon wanted desperately to have a relationship with his father. But Eric had never bonded with this son. He hadn’t wanted Dillon, had begrudged Gayle’s enthusiasm for this unplanned pregnancy, and had only resentfully participated in Dillon’s birth.

Now, all these years later, he was facing the consequences of his own self-absorption. How many more years before Dillon was lost to him forever? Or was it months? How long before he looked into Dillon’s eyes and saw disinterest or, worse, hostility. Then the damage could never be undone. It would linger, no matter how hard either of them tried to erase it. The window of opportunity was closing.

Eric wasn’t certain what to do about Jared and Noah, but he did know that reaching out to Dillon would be simple in comparison. He only had to search beyond his own annoyance for common interests and dredge up the patience that had always been sadly lacking in his response to his youngest son.

In other words, he simply had to change himself from top to bottom.

His cell phone rang, and he answered it to find Ariel was making her daily call. He was warmed by her husky voice. Ariel had never known him as anybody’s father. Not particularly maternal herself, she didn’t care if he knew how to change a diaper or wipe a runny nose. She assumed that of course listening to the synopsis of a seventh-grade book report would be boring even if it was necessary, and that a large percentage of parenting fell into that category.

And if he wasn’t the world’s best father, she still thought he was a pretty terrific human being. Which was something he needed to hear at the moment.

They chatted for a while. She told her usual funny stories about the newsroom. Weather Woman had changed her brand of shampoo to one she was highly allergic to. The resulting rash on her scalp had been so fierce that she had been unable to resist scratching during her live weather broadcast, and she had finished that night’s report with her hair standing on end. Several viewers had called to see if perhaps the weather was worse than she’d indicated, since it seemed to have scared her to death.

“You sound down,” Ariel said at last.

“I’ve hardly said a word.”

“That’s my point precisely.”

“My sons aren’t at all sure what to do with me.” The moment he said it, Eric could have bitten his tongue. He liked talking to Ariel because his sons weren’t the topic. And now he had introduced them into the conversation, ever after to be asked how things were going.

“I’m never sure what to do with you, either,” she said easily, as if this was of no consequence.

“I’m just trying to figure out how to relate to them,” he said, making the situation that much worse and not understanding why.

“Well, of course you are.”

He waited. No recriminations. No suggestions. He began to relax. “Dillon wants me to be his best friend, but I have no idea how to go about it.”

“Eric, he
has
friends. I’m sure he just wants you to be his father. Throw a baseball or something. Isn’t that what fathers do?”

Eric wondered if he had
ever
thrown Dillon a baseball. “And that will cure a lifetime of being away from him? That is, if I can manage it without criticizing the way he uses his glove.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself
and
him? Isn’t a big part of being a parent just showing up?”

After she went on to other things, he continued to think about that, and he thought about it even more after he went down to the kitchen to get breakfast. Gayle was off with her parents, and she’d told him that from today on he would find his breakfast in the refrigerator, so he could warm it up at his own convenience. Dillon and Noah were sitting at the table, shoveling in mounds of French toast and sausage patties. For a moment he just stood in the doorway unnoticed and watched them shovel. They were chatting the way brothers throughout time probably had. Some sort of genetically programmed series of grunts and code between bites that each seemed to understand perfectly.

“Where do you guys put all that food?” Eric asked.

They looked up at the same moment, but their reactions couldn’t have been more different. Noah looked as if he suddenly smelled something rotten in the kitchen. Dillon glowed.

“Does that taste as good as it looks?” Eric asked.

“Mom got up about dawn to make it,” Dillon said.

“Well, I can’t wait to dive in.”

Noah got up from the table and removed his plate. “Come find me once you’ve got your suit on,” he told his brother without looking at Eric. “We have to do this early or not at all.”

“Are you two going swimming?” Eric went to the refrigerator and found the plate Gayle had left for him. He wondered how many divorced men had ex-wives who were willing to feed them.

“Uh-huh,” Dillon said. “There’s a swimming hole where we like to go.”

“May I come, too?”

There was complete silence behind him. Eric backed out of the refrigerator and closed the door. When he faced his sons, he read their expressions. Clearly, for Noah, the smell in the kitchen had gotten worse. Dillon’s glow had turned to ash.

“Okay, what’d I say wrong?” Eric asked. “Did I put my foot in my mouth again? It seemed like a simple request.”

Dillon and Noah exchanged glances. Then Dillon shrugged. “You might not want to, that’s all. It’s pretty cold. The water, I mean. Freezing.”

“I like cold water.”

“Oh.”

“Noah?” Eric asked. “Do you mind if I come with you? You can drive my car.” The rental agency had dropped off a black Mustang convertible yesterday for Eric’s use, and Eric had seen Noah eyeing it greedily.

“You and Dillon go without me.” Noah looked at his brother with something like pity. “I had to be back before ten anyway. This way you can stay and, well, enjoy swimming.”

“You have to come!” Dillon said.

“No, I don’t. You go with Dad. I’ve got other things to do.”

Eric knew his son really meant he had
better
things to do.

“Well, you’ll be missed,” Eric said.

“Yeah?” Noah’s smile was light-years from genuine. “Practice makes perfect.” He stowed his dishes in Gayle’s huge commercial dishwasher and left the kitchen.

Dillon looked as if he’d lost his best friend. Eric reached out and ruffled his son’s hair. “Hey, champ, don’t worry about your brother. We’ll have a great time. Just you and me.”

“Maybe we ought to do something else.”

“I don’t want you to change your plans, and it’s going to be a scorcher today. Swimming sounds perfect.”

Dillon looked near to tears. “No. I don’t want to.”

Eric put his plate in the microwave and pushed the required buttons, which gave him the time he needed to try to look at the situation logically. Dillon wanted to spend time with him. He’d been begging for it ever since Eric had moved in. Dillon had clearly been glad to see him that morning.

He remembered the look on Noah’s face, something like pity aimed at his little brother. Pity because he was going to be forced to spend time with Eric? Or pity for something else?

The microwave dinged, and he pulled out his plate, testing the French toast with his fingertip.

“Okay, what’s up?” he asked when he turned to the table, where Dillon sat with his head in his hands. “You know, you can tell me.”

Dillon shook his head without looking up.

Eric remembered what it was like to be Dillon’s age. Tears or any sign of weakness were always to be avoided. He felt a flash of kinship with this boy who wanted to be a man and wasn’t quite there. He remembered that feeling. This was something he had once experienced, something they shared.

A tentative bond.

He set his plate across from Dillon’s chair, but once he sat, he shoved it to one side and put his hand on his son’s arm. “I’m trying to piece this together, Dill. The only thing I can come up with is that you and Noah were planning something fun, and I interfered. I’m sorry. I should have realized I’d chase Noah away and spoil this for you.”

“No.”

“I’m good at a lot of things, I guess, but reading your mind doesn’t seem to be one of them.”

Dillon sat up and raised his eyes to his father’s. “I don’t know how to swim too well. There. You can call me a sissy or whatever. I’m, like, used to it.”

Eric sat quietly while images raced through his head. “Afraid of the water?” he asked at last.

“I guess.”

“My God, you live on a river.”

“I can swim a little!” Dillon looked away. “I just have to learn to swim better or Mr. Allen won’t let me go to archaeology camp. I can just, you know, paddle and stay on top of the water. Noah’s been helping me.”