Welcome to Bluestone 1 - Bluestone homecoming (2 page)

“Where’s your homework?”

“We do it right after dinner,” Nora answered.
“We have a routine, Leo.”

Frustration bubbled, but he tamped it down.
His mother had called him to come home, but now wouldn’t make room
for him.

He turned to his son, drawing on the depths
of his patience. “Do you have a lot of homework? What’s it in?”

“Wednesdays are spelling,” Nora said. “Twenty
sentences.”

Tension gripped his shoulders as he fought
bitter words. He was trying to engage his son in a conversation,
and his mother was interfering. But how could he fault her, when
he’d asked her to do that very thing so he could continue his
career, knowing Max was in good hands?

And he was in good hands. But that no longer
seemed enough.

He sat on the stool beside Max. “Why don’t
you drag out that homework and we’ll get it knocked out before
dinner?”

“We do it after dinner,” Max said, parroting
his grandmother.

“Yeah, well, if we get this done, we can play
some ball before bed.”

“He’s already had his bath,” Nora protested,
turning away from the stove.

“So he can have another one.”

“I don’t like to play ball. Or take
baths.”

Leo laughed, something he couldn’t have
imagined doing just an hour ago, and he reached out to ruffle his
son’s hair. Max flinched.

Leo folded his hand and let it fall to his
lap. “Right. Well, let’s get going on that homework. Twenty
sentences seems like a lot.”

***

He’d had no idea how much of a struggle it
was to get ten sentences out of a kid who didn’t want to talk but
that was all they managed before his mother instructed Max to set
the table for dinner. His mother sent Leo a chiding look when Max
went into the dining room.

“He needs things a certain way, Leo. There’s
security in our routine. You can’t just come in here and change
it.”

“I’m his father.”

“You trusted me to do what’s right for him.
So I am.”

Leo rocked back on his heels. He wasn’t
willing to admit that he had no idea what was right for his son,
only that he wanted to be the one to call the shots. He could
almost hear Livvie chiding him, telling him he couldn’t have it
both ways—couldn’t have his freedom to do his job and be in charge
here, too. He’d made a choice and clearly it was the wrong one.
He’d known it at the time, but God help him, he couldn’t bring
himself to stay. He needed the job, the way it absorbed him.

And abandoned his kid.

“Is it that he misses her, do you think?”

“Misses her, misses you, misses home.
Everything’s changed for him, Leo, against his will. He has no
control over his life and it makes him angry. Sound familiar?”

He heard the smile in her voice but wouldn’t
meet her gaze. He’d been much the same way when his parents had
moved him away from his friends in Milwaukee and planted him here.
They’d grown roots. He couldn’t wait to blow away.

Instead of responding to her, he turned
toward the dining room. “I’m going to see if he needs help.”

But Max was putting the finishing touches on
the table when Leo entered. Max closed the sticking drawer on the
breakfront with a grunt, and turned to his father.

“What are we drinking?” Leo picked up one of
the cut-glass tumblers his mom had had since he was Max’s age.

“I drink soy milk. Grandma and Grandpa drink
ice water. Grandma bought your beer. She said it’s your favorite
kind.”

Leo’s mouth watered at the idea of the
beverage, but he wasn’t going to indulge before he tucked his son
in bed. “I think I’ll have milk, too. Soy milk?”

“Grandma thinks I’m lactose intolerant.”

Leo lifted his eyebrows at the big words. But
that would explain the reaction to the ice cream. “Is it any
good?”

Max grimaced, drawing another chuckle from
Leo. God, he should have spent more time with his kid and less time
feeling sorry for himself. Max could have helped him climb out of
his grief. They could have helped each other heal. Was that an
irredeemable failing?

The milk was nasty, but the meal was good.
Leo hadn’t had a home-cooked meal since he’d dropped Max off here
two—no, almost three—months ago. The boy had been quiet, but Leo
hadn’t wanted to see it, had only wanted to get out of there, get
on with his life. He hadn’t seen any other choice, though. He had
to work, and Max always loved visiting his grandparents. It had
seemed like the perfect solution.

Wrong again.

So he drank the milk in solidarity with his
son, and after dinner helped his mother clean up while Max finished
the last ten sentences in half the time it took to do the first
ten.

“Grandma said my brain needs fuel to do my
work,” he said when Leo questioned him.

Leo scanned the sentences, good ones, and
read one that caused his gut to clench.

My dad has returned but how long will he
remain
?

He looked up and saw the question in the
boy’s eyes, but couldn’t bring himself to address it. Not long. He
had a job to finish, and another after that, and another.
And
when he came back, how much taller would Max be
?
How much
angrier
? “Let’s go play some ball. You have a ball and
mitt?”

Max shook his head. “I don’t like to play
ball.”

Yet another failing. Leo’s great remaining
love was baseball. He’d never shared that with his son. “How do you
know if you haven’t tried?”

“I’ve tried. I don’t like it.”

Leo glanced at his mother, who gave a slight
shake of her head. Right. He was pushing. “So what do you
like?”

“Fishing.”

A smile pulled at Leo’s mouth. “Fishing. With
Grandpa?”

“We go every Saturday morning. He has a
boat.”

Oh, Leo knew about the boat. Leo hated that
boat, that he’d been forced to help his father rebuild, that he’d
sat on many resented Saturday mornings. But he’d been a sullen
teenager who didn’t know how to sit still. Apparently his son was
better at that, except when it came to class.

“Maybe I can join you this Saturday?”

Max made a face. “Grandpa said you don’t like
it.”

“Maybe if I tried it now I’d like it
better.”

Max frowned doubtfully.

“There’s no time now anyway,” his mother
said, stripping off her rubber gloves. Funny, in their whole
marriage, Livvie had never used rubber gloves. Her hands had still
been silky smooth the day she died. “Max’s favorite show is on in a
few minutes.”

“His favorite show?” Leo repeated, looking
out the big kitchen window at the gorgeous day. His parents had
never been TV watchers when he was growing up. Most of the time
after dinner he was damn near shoved out the door. Of course he had
a lot more energy than Max. “Nah, come on, Max, let’s go for a walk
down to the lake. You can show me Grandpa’s boat.”

“I want to watch my show.”

Leo opened his mouth to push his idea, but a
shake of his mother’s head had him closing it again. He didn’t want
to fight with his kid his first night here. So he followed him into
the living room, where the curtains had been drawn against the
bright evening, and sat on the couch with his mother while Max
hunkered on the floor in front of the TV and watched a
hideously-drawn cartoon with glazed eyes.

Leo scrubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling
impotent. His kid, yes, but he’d delivered him to his parents
hoping the sense of family would pull the boy through his grief.
Clearly that wasn’t happening. And now Leo felt like an interloper
with his own son.

“Time for bed,” his mother announced when the
program ended, rising from her end of the couch.

Sunlight still streamed around the edges of
the closed curtains, and Leo braced himself for Max’s protests, but
none came.

“I’ll get him to bed,” Leo said, holding a
hand out to stop his mother.

She cast a questioning glance at Max, and Leo
figured he’d have another argument, but Max just headed toward the
stairs. Leo thought about saying something to his mother, but
instead followed his son.

Max stepped into the bathroom and closed the
door in Leo’s face. Uncertain what to do, Leo wandered into his old
room, which his mother had redone after he left and which Max now
occupied, and looked around.

Max had lived here two months and the room
showed very little evidence of it. Granted, Liv had decorated his
room at home, but there had been little boy stuff scattered
around—action figures, a bicycle helmet, Legos, discarded clothes.
He’d had a corkboard with drawings he’d made of superheroes and
Godzilla, all pretty good for an eight-year-old.

But here, there were no toys, and only a few
books. His school backpack sat by the door on one side, and the
suitcase he’d used to bring his clothes up here sat by the door on
the other side.

Like he was ready to leave at the first
moment’s notice. Leo closed his fingers into a fist. He had to talk
to the kid—Max was staying in Bluestone. Leo was here to help him
settle in, not to move him back to Excelsior.

Max appeared in the doorway, dressed in dark
pajamas, his expression solemn. Leo realized he was between his son
and the bed and stepped back. He remembered then that Livvie would
always read to Max at bedtime, but he didn’t see any books in the
room.

“Do you, ah, want a bedtime story?”

“Dad.” Max’s tone was exasperated. “I’m too
old for that.”

“Well, yeah, for picture books and stuff like
that. I mean, you can read to yourself, right?” Did Max like to
read? Leo had no idea. “But I can tell you a story.”

Max angled his head, then moved past his
father to the bed. “About Afghanistan?”

Leo tried to think of a story that wouldn’t
give the boy nightmares. Hell, Leo had nightmares about the
constant shelling and danger there. “Sure. I’m stationed with some
funny guys there.” He tucked the sheet and bedspread over his son
and sat at the edge of the bed. “We stay in a bunker most of the
time, and it can get pretty boring, so they’ve rigged up some
games.”

“Like video games?”

“Nah, that’s too tame for these guys. One
time the sergeant was sleeping, and his men rearranged the whole
bunker into an obstacle course, so that when the man got out of
bed, he had to climb over their stacked bunks, belly crawl under a
tent made of sheets and wiggle through boxes, just to get to the
can.”

Max’s eyes widened. “Did he do it?”

Leo shrugged. “He didn’t have a choice if he
had to go, you know?”

“What else do they do?”

Leo shared a couple more of their innovations
born of boredom, his heart feeling lighter at bringing his son into
his world, even if only to the safe part. Then he glanced toward
the window, saw the sun had set, and patted the boy’s leg. “Better
get to sleep. I’ll take you to school tomorrow, okay?”

For some reason, those words shut Max down.
“Okay,” the boy muttered, dragging the blankets up to his ear and
turning toward the window.

What had Leo said wrong?

Leo had forgotten how early it got bright
this far north. He grunted and turned onto his stomach, shoving his
face deeper into the pillow to block out the light. He drifted off
for a few moments before he remembered school. As in, getting Max
there. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed and fumbled
through the clothes on the floor, searching for his phone in his
pocket, which acted as his alarm. He tapped the screen and swore at
the time displayed. Tossing the phone on the bed, he stumbled to
the door of his brother’s old room and out into the hall. He heard
his mother moving around in the kitchen, and he headed straight
toward her.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded without
a greeting.

She looked up from loading breakfast dishes
into the dishwasher. “I thought you probably needed your
sleep.”

He frowned. “I wanted to take Max to
school.”

She straightened, closing the dishwasher in
the same movement and waved her hand. “We have a routine. Don’t
worry about it.”

“I’m not
worried
about it. I want to
be a father to my son. I want to do what fathers do. I want to tuck
my kid in and take him to school, and I don’t want to feel like I’m
intruding when I do it.”

Her mouth turned down and her eyes widened.
He knew that expression—hurt. He braced himself for the guilt to
follow.

“I’m not meaning to exclude you, but Max has
had a rough time of it. He manages best when he has security, and
that’s what our routines do. You asked us to do this, Leo. Don’t
get angry when we do as you ask.”

“I did ask you.” He sagged against the
counter, unsure of how to proceed. There was the guilt, but from a
completely different angle. “And I appreciate all you’ve done for
both of us since Liv died. But I’m here and he’s my son and I want
to spend time with him.”

“Before you go again?”

He fisted his hands on the granite. “I don’t
know what I’m going to do yet. Whatever’s best for Max, but I have
to make a living.” And he had a reputation he’d worked hard to
build. He didn’t know what the answer was. Resentment bubbled again
at the reckless driver who’d plowed into his wife’s car when she
was sitting on the side of the road, waiting for a tow truck,
taking her from his life in one second’s miscalculation.

“I know you do and I love looking after
Max.”

“What I’m asking is that you make room for me
here.”

She drew her shoulders up. “We have.”

“In Max’s life. Give us some flexibility. We
may make some mistakes, but we need to figure out how to deal with
each other. I may not be the best father—”

“You’re a great father,” she said
loyally.

He shook his head. “You know that’s not true.
But I want to work on it.”