Wishes and Stitches (4 page)

Chapter Six

I
n his brother's backyard, Rig flipped a burger on the grill and then took a moment, turning in place to look around. When was the last time he'd barbecued outside with his family on a perfect summer evening? Too damn long. It had to be more than a year since he'd been off the rigs long enough to get to Cypress Hollow.

He wondered how long Naomi Fontaine had been in town. Shit, he should have known. When he'd been signing the paperwork, the thought passed through his mind—what if this Naomi was the one at the conference in Portland? Then he'd dismissed it. There were thousands of small practices in the world, she wasn't the only doctor named Naomi. They hadn't, during that incredible night, said one thing about their home lives. For all he knew, she was married with nine kids and a minivan.

Admittedly, today probably hadn't been the best way to spring it on her. He knew Pederson hadn't told her anything—he'd told Rig he hadn't been able to get in touch with Naomi yet. But Milo had set it up by jumping in front of that car, and he couldn't walk past her again, like he had in the diner.

He peeked under the edge of one of the burgers—not ready yet. Five-year-old Milo, who'd grown tall as a weed and just as skinny, zoomed by, and shot Rig with an unloaded water pistol. His earlier fall hadn't slowed him down a bit, and Rig knew he'd be shaking sand out of his ears for the next day—his nephew liked to tackle him in the dunes after a good Frisbee throw.

Milo came running back, yelling, “Oil rig! Oil rig!”

“I'm making burgers right now. Not a good time.”

“I wanna play oil rig! I'm the worm!”

Rig checked the meat—it'd be fine for a minute. He moved away from the grill and grabbed his nephew, lifting him up and turning him upside down. Milo was getting heavier. At what age was he going to be too big to play this game? He lifted Milo up, bit by bit, holding him by the ankles. “What do you think, worm, you ready to get hoisted by the crane?”

“Worm! Worm!” Milo was always delighted when he got to play lead hand, the lowest position on an oil platform. Either that or he wanted to play driller, the head boss, and as far as Rig could tell, the game was the same no matter what position Milo took—Rig had to play crane operator and lift Milo up as high as he could before swinging him around by the ankles. Rig had been a doctor on the platforms a long time, and as far as he could tell, cranes never flew around 360 degrees and then kept going, but it thrilled his nephew, so he ignored the logistical problem.

“Hold on, worm! I think the crane is broken! You might fall—oh, no, it's gonna be bad . . . You're probably going to need a doctor. Good thing I'm here!” Rig turned in place as fast as he could, and Milo screamed in delight.

“Hey, be careful!” Jake Keller came out the back door carrying a plate. “Don't drop him!”

“I'm not going to drop him.” Slowing the spin, lowering Milo gently, Rig let him put his hands onto the ground so that they made a wheelbarrow for a second, and then Milo rolled onto his back and turned into a dying spider, his other favorite thing to do. He kicked, twitching his legs and arms in spasms.

It was late, and the sun was sinking rapidly, but the sky was still bright blue straight overhead. Jake put down the plate of sliced tomatoes and onions. No lettuce for the Keller men—just a waste of time and space, and they all knew it.

“He started it,” said Rig, turning back to the grill. He picked up the spatula and pointed it at Milo. “Pow! You're a really dead spider now.”

Milo squawked and flapped, and then ran toward the monkey-puzzle tree.

“Watch it! You could have hit him with hot grease.”

Rig sighed. “I'm not throwing burning oil at your son. Never have, never will. Not unless he deserves it.”

“Or you could get it on the clean concrete. Don't drip.”

Was his brother serious? They were outside, for God's sake. “Really, dude?”

“Where's Dad?” asked Jake, sounding irritable.

“Dunno. Probably asleep in his room.”

Jake straightened the red-and-white cloth on the picnic table. “You know, we poured that concrete ourselves. It's nice. I want to keep it that way.”

Ah, there it was again. Rig knew better than to argue with his brother when the word
we
was involved. If it was something Jake had done with Megan before she died, it wasn't going to change. They still kept the baby-proof locks in place, even though Milo was old enough to know not to eat the ant traps under the bathroom cabinets. Milo knew how to undo the catches, and now he could throw his own trash away under the kitchen sink.

Jake still kept Megan's clothes in his closet. Rig had only asked once if he wanted help with cleaning it out, and Jake had nearly taken his head off.

She'd died three years ago, but Rig felt like the funeral was yesterday. Rig missed his sunny, always-laughing practical joker of a sister-in-law. Milo missed the idea of a mother, but Rig could tell his memories of her were almost gone. And Jake . . . The shadow of grief he'd seen that day in Jake's eyes had almost killed him.

But while Jake could remember the good times now, and even though every once in a while he laughed, usually when he was looking at Milo, the house was still a shrine to Megan, down to the last dishes she'd left in the drainer. Jake made them dry their dishes by hand and put them away, rather than using the rack, and he wouldn't use the coffee cup with the cow on it that sat in the drainer even though it had been his favorite, because he wouldn't move a damn thing she'd put down. Sometimes Rig wished that something would happen to mess up Jake's way of life and the perfect rows of vacuum marks on the living room carpet.

When their father had moved in six months ago after the heart attack, he'd hoped that it would shake things up in Jake's house, but Frank seemed to have slotted himself into the running of the house without creating a ripple, and the
People
magazines Megan had purchased before she died still sat in the dusty magazine rack in the bathroom. He knew it couldn't be easy for his brother to start moving on, and God knew there was precedent. When their mother had died ten years previously, Frank hadn't gotten out of bed for almost six months, and it had taken a combo of therapy, strong drugs, and some serious ass kicking from his sons to get him back to living life with any level of interest.

“You're on fire,” said Jake.

“Huh?” Rig had spaced out. “Shit!” One of the patties had flared into flame, and the others were threatening to go the same route. Hitting it with the spatula until the flames died, then moving it onto the plate, Rig said, “Well, that one's mine. I don't mind a little char.”

“Carcinogenic, you know,” said Jake, his eyes following Milo as he climbed the small tree. “Careful, buddy. Not more than four branches, you know the rule.”

Milo gave a high-pitched squeak and dropped backward out of the tree, doing a flip in the air and landing on his feet. “Ta-da! Did you see that, Dad? Did you see that, Uncle Rig?”

Rig whooped. “That ruled, buddy!”

Jake sighed. “Be more careful next time. I don't want you landing on your head.”

Rig flipped another burger. “He landed on his feet. He's fine.”

“I had to scoop up a kid the other day who fell off the parallel bars at his school. Broke his back in two places. He'll be lucky to piss by himself when he gets out of the hospital machinery he's cranked into.”

“That boy's not Milo.”

Jake nodded. “Damn straight. Not gonna be, either.”

“Hey, thanks for asking about my first day in town. It was fantastic.” Rig slid the last burger off the grill and onto another plate.

Jake gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, sorry.” He put the burgers onto buns and lined up the mustard and mayo. “Hang on a sec. Dad! Milo! Dinner's on!”

Milo squeaked again, his recent favorite form of communication, and bounced onto the long picnic bench next to his uncle.

“So,” said Jake, and Rig could see the effort he was putting into cheering up. “How did your first day go as a new town citizen?”

“I'm going to have to work with the hottest one-night stand I ever had.”

Jake said, “Rig!”

Milo bounced once, hard, and said, “My nightstand is next to my bed. Where's yours?”

Chapter Seven

T
he screen door to the kitchen flapped as Frank Keller came out, a highball in his hand. “Boys! Is it time for your patriarch to say grace?”

Rig sighed in relief. “Saved by the dinner bell.”

Frank set his drink on the picnic table and raised his arms. Milo covered his eyes with his hands. “Dear Lord our heavenly father,” Frank intoned. Rig waited for it. “
Damn
, you make good cows for eatin'. Thanks, God. Amen.”

Rig knew his father actually meant his verging-on-sacrilegious prayers. He loved the boys' dead mother, God, his boys, and any drink that came with salt, in that order. Nothing to be done about him.

Rig felt a deep surge of something that felt like joy, and a pushing at the back of his eyes, like a yawn that wanted to happen. He took a deep breath and turned it into a grin instead. It was so
good
to be home.

He waited for Milo to be done with the ketchup before finally answering Jake's question. “Does everyone in this town really know everyone else? And are they all always that
nice
?”

“You've been here often enough over the years—I've introduced you to plenty of nice people. It's just a good little town.”

“Emphasis on the
little
. There are probably fourteen people I haven't met, and that's including the kids who were in school. I don't even know how this town supports two doctors.”

“You're exaggerating. Lots of people to treat.” Jake finally had the trace of a real smile on his face. Maybe now that he was back in town his brother could relax a little bit, have some fun. It had been a long time.

“No, I'm not. Every single person I met, which was, as I mentioned, everyone, knew you. Had some story about you. I swear to God, most of them say they were saved by you from a burning building at some point or another.”

Jake grinned. “Nah, buildings don't burn much anymore.”

“Okay, then you saved their favorite cat from up a tree.”

Inclining his head, Jake said, “I'll give you that one. I've saved lots of stupid cats who would have come down on their own given a can of tuna at the bottom of the tree and enough time. We even got a goat out of a tree the other day, I kid you not. Other departments mock. But we live to serve in the Cypress Hollow Fire Brigade.”

“Can I have a cat, Dad?” asked Milo, mustard all over his face.

Jake shook his head slowly and patted his son's head. “You know we can't get a cat. Grandpa's allergic.”

Rig frowned. “Since when are you allergic, Dad?”

Frank looked alarmed. “I am? That's too bad. I always liked cats. So did Margene, didn't she, boys? Always a cat or two knocking around the garage, bringing in a lizard or a half-dead bird.”

Milo looked riveted. “Half dead? Which half?”

“Zip it, Dad,” said Jake, gesturing with his burger. “You're just going to make it worse.”

“Zip what?” said Milo. “I don't
get
it.” He slapped his mustardy hand on the table and dropped his pickle.

Jake said, “I'm sorry, buddy. I was just trying to tell your grandpa to step off.”

“He's sitting down.” Milo looked even more confused.

“Figure of speech,” said Jake and gave Milo another pickle. “Here, try this one. How did you get mustard
up
your nose, big guy?”

Milo sniffed. “Put it there.”

Rig had a hard time not laughing out loud. This was where he needed to be. He didn't know how he'd been able to stay away so long as it was.

Being a contract doctor to a large oil company had been a bizarre way to use his degree, at first. If a guy broke his pelvis after skidding three stories off a hoist, they brought Rig in by helicopter. And as the years went on, Rig got better and better at it, got used to living out of one big duffel bag, and the roughnecks looked to him for all the medical needs the rig EMT couldn't handle. Only when someone was genuinely sick with a serious illness that required specialized attention did the guys head inland, and they usually cursed him out as they did so. He swore back and pretended not to notice when their eyes got wet. Roughnecks weren't quick to trust, and Rig never took that trust lightly.

He already missed them.

But this was the right decision. Family should come first, that's what he'd been telling the guys all these years. When they retired and went onshore for good, Rig was the first one to tell them how awesome it was going to be. “You can get a cheeseburger whenever you want one. You can give a girl in a bar all your best lines. You can walk up a hill. You can sit on grass. You can sleep and your bed won't sway.”

Damn. Rig missed that swaying. But this burger sure was good. And thanks to Elbert Romo, a rancher he'd once pulled a nail out of while he was visiting his brother, who'd introduced him to Dr. Pederson, he was going to be able to stay and work in this small town. It wouldn't be like working the rigs, not in any way that he could imagine, but he could finally have a stable home. Unpack for real. And he could be with his family.

Something rough stuck in his throat. It was a moment before he could say, “I've missed you guys.”

Jake looked up from wiping his hands on a napkin, then his gaze dropped to his plate. “We've missed you, too. We knew you were busy, though.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Busy with the ladies.” He waggled a gray eyebrow.

“Nah.”

Frank laughed. “I used to love the girls who weren't ladies.” He paused and then added politely, “Before your mother, of course, who was always a lady.”

“You don't get it. There weren't any girls out there, period. Well, that's not quite true. On two of the decks there were a couple of women, but they were spoken for. Big, mean-looking boyfriends. I kept my eyes down and my hands to myself. And I did meet a couple of girls onshore, but I'm just not into anything serious.”

“So much for a Keller getting any in this century,” mumbled Frank before he got up to wander over to the hammock.

Jake said, “What, are you waiting for perfect?”

“No. Just not interested in a relationship. I'll be a happy bachelor forever. Anyway, you and Dad found perfect and look how you turned out.” He smiled to take the sting from his words.

“We didn't have perfect.” Jake's face stayed drawn.

“Nah. You did. And I don't need that. I'll just cook burgers with you guys until Milo's sixty.”

Milo's jaw dropped. “That's
old
.”

“That's idiotic. Why the hell would you want it like that?”

Rig was surprised by Jake's sharp tone. “What do you mean? I thought you of all people would understand.”

“I guess I don't. I'm supposed to be the wreck. You're the one who's still supposed to find the love of your life and make everything work out okay. And yeah, how were you supposed to do it on the rigs? And now, how the hell are you going to do it here? There are probably four unmarried women under the age of forty, none of them perfect because this is real life, and lots of single guys to go around. Your odds in Cypress Hollow aren't that great, I gotta tell you.”

“Fine by me,” said Rig easily. He dropped half a pickle into his mouth and enjoyed the crunch. The air was thicker now, and a sudden coolness was dropping into the garden as the first fingers of fog sneaked over the back gate. “If I date, it'll be casual. Nothing special. And it's okay if I don't date at all.” An image of Naomi's curls flashed in his mind. He ignored it.

“So you're just waiting for another Rosie?”

Rosie had been pretty awful, Rig could admit that. It didn't help that Rig had actually thought he loved her. He'd almost proposed when she showed up at the bar they hung out at with a new man, a new ring, and a new tattoo that proclaimed
JIMMY
,
all of which had broken his heart. And hell, he'd known that Rosie had her faults. That the heartbreak he felt was one-hundredth the pain his father and brother had gone through in losing their loves. It would take a lot more than just “better than Rosie” to get him thinking seriously about a woman again. If he ever did.

“Don't worry about me. I'm fine. We'll be the four swinging bachelors until Milo gets married.”

“Yech! No way!” said Milo from under the oleander bush.

“Milo!” yelled Jake. “That's poisonous! Get out from under there. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Rig raised an eyebrow. “I think he'd actually have to eat a leaf or two to get poisoned.”

“So?” Jake said. “It's only a problem if it happens once, huh?
Now
, Milo!” Taking a deep breath, he went on, “You settled in okay over there at Shirley's?”

Mouth full of his last pickle, Rig nodded. After he swallowed, he said, “Took about a minute to move in. Nice little cottage. Just had to put my clothes in the drawers and my books on the shelf. And hey, my bike fits in her shed, so I won't need to borrow your garage.”

A frown creased his brother's face. Rig's hand rose to his own forehead. He was a year older than Jake. At thirty-five, did he have that same deep wrinkle?

“About the motorcycle.” The crease on Jake's face got more pronounced.

“Oh, boy.”

“You know how much I hate those things.”

“I do.”

Jake rubbed his temples. “Sure, you're a doctor and all, but do you have any idea what a motorcycle rider looks like at the scene of being hit by a semi? Have you ever witnessed people trying to get a helmet off a rider so they can do CPR when the helmet is embedded in his neck?”

Milo made a
vroom-vroom
noise and raced the ketchup past the mustard. “Want a motorcycle!”

“Dude.” Rig glanced meaningfully at Milo.

“Don't worry about him. At least
he'll
never ride one.”

Milo squeaked. Then his eyes filled and his body tensed. “Motorcycle!”

“You see?” said Jake. “He already hates them.”

“I promise to be careful,” Rig said. It was the best he could give his brother. He wondered for a brief second if Naomi Fontaine ever rode a motorcycle. That curly hair would get all messed up, get wild and tangled. And would she hold on tight, or lean with him easily into the curves?

Dumbass
. Rig shook his head and started picking up plates as Milo launched himself into one of the full-blown fits he was getting better and better at lately. He loved his nephew, but damn, this was one good reason not to live in his brother's bachelor pad. His ears felt like they were bleeding. The best Rig could do was ignore it and keep clearing up while Jake cajoled, and Milo stiffened more and more, finally dropping to the ground, beating the grass with his fists, crying almost unintelligibly about motorcycles.

With flight in his eye, Frank trundled back into the house, empty tumbler in hand. “I gotta get on the computer. I swear to God you kids never did that.”

Rig bet they had. And he bet that his mother had handled it, keeping their tantrums from his father. Keller women were saints, took care of their men, and then they died.

He was way better off not dating than chancing becoming a typical Keller man. He'd do well to remember that when he was around Naomi at the office, too. No matter how pretty that hair was, Rig was putting himself off-limits except for casual dates that didn't lead to anything. Like he'd had with Naomi that one scorching night in Portland. Perpetual bachelordom—it was better this way. Simpler.

His family, three other bachelors, was all that he needed, even if one of them was screaming like an injured sea lion right now. They were everything.