Without You Here (4 page)

We woke up, together, once in the night, and had sex. A little rougher than before. A little more desperate and naked, our inhibitions completely gone. When I woke up in the morning, he had his jeans on and was sitting on the tailgate, smoking a cigarette. It was the smoke that woke me up. The sun wasn't yet over the horizon. I couldn't believe my handsome conquest was a smoker. I brought the sleeping bag he'd covered us with the night before around me and crawled up next to him. "That's a disgusting habit."

He was staring out over the cliff edge. The valley was filled with fog and I couldn't see through it to the river. "It's not really a habit. I just smoke one once in a while. Used to have one after dinner each evening out on my porch. It was my alone time. Just a few minutes when no one would come out and talk to me."

"Is that what you want now? Alone time?" I kissed his shoulder.

"No. I want some way to make the sun stop where it is."

I rubbed my hand over his bare back. "You should take me out for breakfast before we say goodbye," I said. "Maybe I won't look so good to you in the light of day."

He put out the cigarette on the metal of the tailgate. Then he brought me into his arms. I held him around his waist. "You got a boyfriend," he said. I was sure there was a question in there somewhere.

"I broke up with him last night." Last night seemed a world away.

He was quiet again. For a very long time. I know he was trying to work something out in his mind. "I'm forty-two," he said.

I laughed and hugged him tighter. "I'm not thirty-two."

"How old?"

"Less than that."

He sighed. "I need to know."

"I'm over twenty-one."

He snorted. "Well I suppose that's a fucking relief. You can't give me any better than that?"

"Twenty-two."

He sighed. After another long silence, he hopped down and turned to face me. He put his hands on the tailgate on either side of me. "There's a little diner not far from the bar that makes great omelets."

"Sounds perfect."

I got dressed, though I couldn't find my bra in the back of the truck and I didn't care to go traipsing through the field looking for it. It didn't really matter. My clothes were wrinkled, my hair a mess. I looked like someone who'd spent the night having sex in the back of a pickup truck.

He held my hand while he drove. The diner wasn't anything pretty, but they did indeed have good omelets. And pancakes. We shared a stack of pancakes. He took his coffee black, like I would have assumed. I liked watching him eat. He was dedicated to the task. I liked the way his jaw muscles worked. He caught me watching and smiled. I blushed and averted my eyes. We were done eating and he was paying our bill far too soon. He drove us back up to the bar, which was closed. My car was in the lot. He pulled up next to it and came over to my door to open it. I fell into his arms and hugged him. He held me so tightly I could barely breathe.

Then he let go and took a step back. "It was really great meeting you, Ettie," he said.

I nodded. "You too." I tried to keep the tears from my voice. I started toward my car and then stopped. I dug around in my purse for a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote my cell number on it. "Look," I said, "I know what this was. If you don't want any more from me, I completely understand. Completely. But here's my number just in case...in case you want to do this again sometime. I...I really like you, Wyatt."

He stared down at the paper between his fingers. "I like you, too, Ettie, but—“

"No buts. Just take it and call if you want. Or don't. No big deal." I turned to open my car door.

He pressed the door closed. He wrapped an arm around my waist and held me back against him. He rested his cheek in my hair and held me like this for a long moment. Then his other arm came up over my chest, just above my breasts and I felt wonderfully possessed.

"We should do something really crazy tonight," he said, his voice a low whisper in my ear.

I grinned, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back on his shoulder. "Crazier than fleeing the cops and then having sex in the back of a pickup truck?"

"Oh, hell, Ettie, that was nothing."

"Just a typical Friday night for you?"

"Sure."

I laughed. "Well then, what's a typical Saturday night?"

He sighed. "I guess probably cliff jumping. And then when it gets dark, swimming naked in the river."

I squeezed tighter against him. I got a sudden twinge of worry. I didn't want to alienate him, but I needed to know. "Is that something you used to do with your wife?" I asked. I thought this might upset him. But I didn't want to be the person he was reliving his greatest moments with.

He surprised me by answering without hesitation. "No, I never could get her naked in a public place. I sure tried, though. You'll do it with me, won't you?"

"Absolutely. You can have me naked any place you want. When?"

He chuckled. "I don't know...six?"

"Isn't it going to be cold?"

"That's really more likely to be my problem than yours, don't you think?"

I laughed and turned in his arms. I slid my hand down to the front of his pants. "I guess we know how to warm up when we need to."

He kissed me, his tongue sweeping my mouth. "Six o'clock," he murmured.

"Should I bring a picnic?" I asked, my voice considerably weaker for the kiss.

He grinned. "Yes, please."

"Where?"

He frowned in thought. "You know that old covered bridge off K over towards Splitlog?"

I giggled and shook my head.

He shook his head in that mock disappointed way. "You're from Carterville. That's well within your stomping grounds."

Little did he know that my stomping grounds had consisted of a nine hundred square foot home except for the very rare occasion when I got the guts to defy my mother and run off. And then it wasn't far. I was too afraid.

Wyatt gave me directions to the covered bridge and he gave me his phone number in case I got lost. We kissed again and then went our separate ways. I wasn't sure where he was headed, but I was going straight to Mom's house to nap for the better part of the day.

CHAPTER TWO

Blake Jackson awoke at dawn with a crick in his neck. The ugly recliner he’d slept in wore twenty year’s worth of stains, but it was his father’s favorite. There was still a little bit of child left in Blake, and it was that child who clung to the comfort of the chair. He’d fallen asleep waiting up for a father who’d been unstable for over two years.

Now, he blinked against a shaft of sunlight and cursed. At nearly one in the morning he’d told himself that if his dad didn’t arrive in five minutes, he was going after him. It had only taken him three to doze off.

He stood, stretched his neck, and hurried down the hall to see if Wyatt had made it in. The bed was untouched. Panic clawed at Blake’s chest. He ran to the bed and pulled back the covers in an irrational attempt to unearth Wyatt. It was stupid, but he was freaking out.

Then his eyes landed on something he'd wanted to see for over a year now. Two sheets of yellow, lined paper folded together. Worn from constant folding and unfolding. The list. As far as he knew, this was the first time his dad had ever let it out of his sight. Blake momentarily forgot his panic and picked it up. Unfolded it. In his mother's handwriting was a random list of things:

1. Grocery shopping is on Thursdays. That's when Simmons' Market has its sales and you'll be stocked up for the weekend.

2. Water my violets every day or they'll die.

3. Close the blinds at three in the summer or else the house gets really hot.

4. Don't forget to plan Blake's graduation party. Work it out with your mother. She already has my ideas written down.

5. If Blake brings home a girlfriend, be sure and show her his old baby photos. I always did want to do that. He'll be so embarrassed.

6. My garden layout plans are on the computer. Wait until after Easter before planting. And take the produce to your mom and Diane.

The list went on and on. Blake was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. He folded the paper and tucked it into his jeans pocket. He ran back into the living room, expecting Wyatt to be falling down drunk.

Instead, Wyatt looked extremely sober, if exceptionally tired. He gave Blake an attempt at a smile. "Morning, sunshine," he said.

Blake let out a laugh. It was the first glimpse of his dad's sense of humor he'd seen in years. "Morning. Where the hell have you been?"

Wyatt kicked off his boots and scooped off his ball cap. "I met a lady." He grinned.

Blake couldn't have been more surprised if he'd said he'd been abducted by aliens. Surprised by the smile as well as the admission. "Are you serious?"

Wyatt gave a nod. "Yep."

"You just...met a lady and...and...and that's where you were all night?"

"Yep." He strode past Blake, through the dining room and into the kitchen. He switched the coffee pot on.

Blake followed, still stunned. "Well...are you going to see her again?"

"Nope. I'm going to shower and go visit Amberlee. Then I'm going to work."

"You know what I mean, Dad. Will you see her again...later?"

"No. I don't even remember her name. It was just a one night stroke of really good luck."

Blake sighed. Maybe he could ask around town. See if anyone had seen this woman. Maybe she would want to date his dad. She had to be pretty special, since this was the longest conversation Blake had had with him in at least five years.

Wyatt headed for the shower and Blake stood watching the coffee drip into the carafe. He was left wondering what had happened to his life that he could get so excited over the prospect of his father dating again. He was sure it wouldn't matter to him if Wyatt had gone through some sort of standard grieving process...if he'd managed to get back to some semblance of normalcy. But he'd somehow gotten stuck somewhere in the middle of it. He kept everything in the house exactly the way it had been when Amberlee was alive. He fell asleep with home videos of her playing in the background. He talked about her in the present tense.

But worst of all was the depression. You couldn't use that word with Wyatt. He thought depression was only for women. He'd have been highly offended at the suggestion that he was depressed. But there were times when Wyatt would go weeks and weeks looking like a zombie. Not eating or sleeping right. They were at the tail end of one of those times now. Which was why Blake was so thrilled when Wyatt had walked in sober and talking of a woman.

A lady, he'd said. Blake pictured a woman in her late thirties, brunette, with her hair in a low, loose bun. Sweet and somewhat matronly. Maybe she was a school teacher. But then, a woman like that would probably not be picking up men in a bar for a one-night-stand. Maybe she was a nurse who'd just come off a double shift and was letting her hair down for a night, just blowing off some steam. Still sweet and matronly. But just with a fun streak.

Blake poured himself a cup of coffee and one for his father, who came out of the shower looking surprisingly refreshed. He grabbed the coffee mug and plopped down at the table with his newspaper. "What are you doing up so early, Son?" he asked,without looking up from the paper.

"I didn't sleep well. Worried about you."

"You need to quit that. I don't want you wasting your time worrying about me when there's nothing to worry about."

Blake sat across from him and sipped his coffee. He had more than enough reasons to worry. "Need I remind you of the pill incident a year ago?"

"Fuck that. It was an accident."

"Yeah, whatever, Dad." Blake wondered how one accidentally decided to take half a  bottle of his dead wife's Oxycodone for a minor headache. But then, he'd never believed it was an accident. He just tried not to think of his father as verging on suicidal. He pulled out the list. "You left this last night."

Wyatt looked up, then. He patted the pocket of his jeans and his eyes went wide. Color drained from his face. "I can't believe I forgot it," he said.

"Yeah. You forgot it. And look what happened. You got laid. That's a good thing, Dad."

"Give it here."

Blake handed it over and Wyatt stared down at it as though it were the Holy Grail. He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"She's dead, Dad. She doesn't care."

Wyatt turned and glared at him. "I don't need you telling me that."

"I just want you to see what you're doing to yourself. This has gone on too long. I think it's great that you met someone last night, but you need to keep taking steps forward and...."

Wyatt got up and shoved the list in his pocket. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet above the fridge. "I've got work to do. I'll see you later."

And then he was gone out the back door. Blake knew what he would do. He'd walk down to the barn and saddle up Tornado. Then he'd ride out through the woods, down the trail that led to the little church cemetery. And he'd sit with his dead wife for however long his guilty conscience would tell him to. Drink just enough to stay numb without impairing himself too much. Then he'd go back and work the farm with Uncle Stan and Grandpa Charles. He'd work until dark and he'd come home, have a nice dinner of Jack Daniel's and the cold, stale pizza that was in the fridge, then fall asleep in his room with home videos playing on the TV.

Blake sighed and looked at his watch. He had enough time to report this news to his grandma before heading into town for work.

CHAPTER THREE

Wyatt sat with his back against his wife's gravestone. The day was bright. And warm. He was a third of the way through a bottle of whiskey, which made it warmer. After taking Ettie to her car, he'd driven back up to the lookout. He remembered her bra was still up there and for some reason he didn't want it to stay up there. So now it was in his glove compartment and the thought made him smile.

"She didn't mean anything, Amberlee." He spoke softly. "She's too young. And she's not you." He rubbed the folded paper between his finger and thumb. Not his list. But Ettie's number. He'd lied about not remembering her name. Of course he remembered. He remembered everything about her.