*It wasn’t raining exactly, but it also wasn’t not raining. The clouds were so dark and heavy they seemed to touch the earth in places, and the mist was so thick, it felt as if you were walking through a cloud. It made everything damp and depressing to Brian’s mind, but from the buzz of conversation and laughter streaming all around him, it was clear he was probably the only one in the crowd who held that opinion.
For the tenth time in the last half an hour he wondered why he’d even come to the Spring Fling. What a dumb idea, especially so early in the year. It didn’t feel like spring, and it was definitely too cold for all the bright summery clothes everyone was sporting. There was a mile long line up by the hot chocolate vendor, and not because people were craving the sweet beverage, but because they wanted something warm to hold in their frigid hands.
He circled the library park one more time, though “circled” was too optimistic a description. “Inched fruitlessly” was better. Or “got bumped into, had to stop for the hundredth time.” Or “was an idiot for even trying to wade through the crowd.” And he was the only single guy. Everyone else was part of a couple or a larger group. Normally adept in social events, Brian was totally out of his element. He didn’t belong here, even if he wanted to. He should be home in his condo, saying yes to some last-minute dinner invite and making plans to go to the pub. Or he should be on a date with some cute girl who’d smiled at him in the grocery checkout.
He sighed heavily. Even if his house hadn’t burned down, he was well aware that neither of those plans fit him well anymore. What was wrong with him?
Then a familiar laugh sounded nearby. Brian’s insides leapt, a smile jumped to his face—and he knew exactly what was wrong with him. Shoot. He’d been a big whiny baby because he hadn’t found Katelyn and the kids yet. And now that he was sure they were there? Well, his mood was one hundred percent altered. How totally lame.
Another laugh. Brian followed the sound, maneuvering around a lady with five children each carrying multiple helium balloons, then sidestepping a kid who was dressed as a clown and pulling a wagon. He looked right, then left, sure he’d lost her—but no, there she was, weaving her way through the crowd with Lacey and Sawyer in tow. Both kids were grinning ear to ear, had balloons tied to their wrists, and clutched big bags of candy corn. A moment later Aisha appeared from behind a big man with a beard.
“We’re in, let’s go, let’s go.” She winked at Katelyn and whisked the kids away.
“I want to be a dragon, I want to be a dragon!” Lacey cheered as they departed.
“Me too!” agreed Sawyer.
Brian had no idea what they were talking about and had a weird twinge seeing them go. He’d envisioned himself wowing them at the dart throw and winning them each a stuffed animal or something, but then Katelyn turned, saw him, and flashed a smile that made him forget whatever he’d been thinking about.
“You came!” she said happily.
“I did. It’s great.”
She gave him a side-eyed look.
“Okay, okay—until I finally found you, which took forever—I was wondering what on earth I was doing here.”
“Testing, Testing,” a loud male voice hollered over a mic from the main stage, cutting off whatever Katelyn was about to say in reply. There was a screech of speakers, some kind of adjustment, and then another blaring yell, “And here’s the band that needs no introduction—No Introduction.”
There was a ripple of polite laughter at the weak joke, then someone got busy on the drums. The crowd’s cheering grew louder and more sincere.
“I haven’t danced in forever!” Katelyn did a little spin—and Brian’s heart did too.
“That’s a great dress,” he said.
“What?” she hollered over the music.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Then the kids were back and Lacey, wearing a dress that matched her mama’s to a T, was indeed a dragon. The appointment they’d rushed off to must have been for face painting.
Brian screamed and pointed at Lacey.
Five faces—Katelyn, Lacey, Sawyer, Aisha and Mo—all stared at him in alarm.
“Dragon,” he yelled. “Dragon!”
Sawyer shot a wide-eyed glance at Brian, then at his sister, then back at Brian. “No, no, don’t be afraid. That’s Lacey. She’s only pretending.”
Brian put his hand to his heart. “Phew!”
Lacey giggled and so did Aisha—as she rolled her eyes.
Katelyn shook her head. “You, Brian Archer . . . ”
“Me, what?”
She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. The kids pulled her into a circle to dance, then pulled Brian in too. He ended up holding a whiskered, black-nosed Mo by her slightly sticky little hand.
“I kitty cat,” she said proudly.
He nodded. “Meow,” he said agreeably.
“No, me,” she insisted with a pout, pointing a chubby thumb toward her chest.
Aisha laughed. “She’s definitely my kid, what can I say?”
Brian noted that Aisha wore a heavy metal T-shirt cut into a makeshift vest over her pretty cherry print dress—and she was sporting black and white canvas high tops.
“I like your vest.”
“Thanks.” She laughed again, then pointed at herself with her thumb the same way Mo had. “I weirdo.”
If someone had told Brian, even six months earlier, that he’d be dancing in a circle with a bunch of face-painted kids and their babysitter, not even touching the woman he was crushing on, and loving it, he would’ve said they were nuts. But he really was, bizarrely, having the best time.
After a couple of raucous songs, the band moved into a love ballad. The kids immediately stopped bopping around, clearly not as into the slower music.
“We should go get hotdogs for the kids, or something more substantial than popcorn anyway,” Katelyn remarked.
“I’ll do it, and I’ll take the kids,” Aisha said quickly.
“No, that’s okay—”
“Please? It’ll be fun!” Maintaining their hand-held chain, Aisha rushed away with the kids, leaving a confused Katelyn looking after her. “That was weird. It’s not like she’s babysitting—”
“I think she thought we might like to dance this one,” Brian said.
Katelyn’s cheeks flamed. “Oh,” she said. “Oh!”
She looked so cute that Brian wanted to . . . well, a lot of things. But he settled for placing one hand on her waist. She lifted her hand, about to rest it on his shoulder, but Brian was suddenly jostled. Hard. He stumbled a little.
“Hey, watch it,” he mumbled halfheartedly, expecting the oaf who’d body slammed him to be long gone already—but no such luck.
The band’s lead singer crooned something about love never dying, just as Brian realized Katelyn was more than six feet away from him, her wrist held in a death grip by an irate looking Steve. The creep was practically frothing.
“You look ridiculous. Ridiculous.”
The song was feverishly soft now, unfortunately, and Steve’s voice turned heads.
“Dancing around like a slut, like you’re not some stupid used up cow—”
Brian grabbed Steve’s free hand, his brain working overtime. Something worse than fear shone from Katelyn’s eyes—complete and utter humiliation. How dare this fucking asshat—Brian stopped the furious thought cold. Stooping to this guy’s level, pouring anger and aggression back on him would only blow everything up bigger and hurt Katelyn more—but what could he do?
He took a deep breath, then made a big show of shaking Steve’s hand like he was some long-lost friend he hadn’t seen in years. “Buddy,” he said warmly.
It worked. Steve looked at Brian, gobsmacked. The small distraction was all Katelyn needed. She wrenched herself free of Steve and moved behind Brian.
“Come on, man, your kids are here,” Brian said. “Don’t let them see you like this.”
Steve recovered from his surprise at Brian’s approach to things, and his eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s my family to you anyway?”
Oh, how Brian wanted to tell Steve exactly what “his” family was to him—and what he wanted them to be—but poking the bear was probably a bad idea right now. He’d call the police and report Steve’s behavior later, though fat lot of good it would probably do. Right now he just wanted to spare Katelyn more grief.
He held his hands up in a conciliatory way. “I’m just a friend of the family—”
“Bullshit! You’re always sniffing around her like she’s some bitch in heat.”
White-hot rage blurred Brian’s vision. His hand clenched into a rock-like fist and his arm rocketed back. It was like he wasn’t attached to his body, was just watching a guy who looked a lot like him getting ready to punch an asshole.
His own words filled his head.
Your kids are here. They weren’t his kids, of course, but the message brought him up short regardless. Lacey and Sawyer could not witness him hitting their father. Absolutely not. They’d seen enough violence in their short lives.
He dropped his hand and took a step back, shaking with the effort it took to do so.
Steve sneered and his eyes glinted like he’d won some victory. “That’s what I thought, pretty boy. That’s what I thought.”
Brian didn’t bite, and after a second, Steve spit on the ground. “This isn’t over. Not even close.”
Steve stormed away, disappearing through the throngs of people who were roaming toward food trucks and the various vendor tents now that the band was on break. Brian watched long enough to make sure he was really leaving, and to ensure he was headed the opposite direction of the kids and Aisha—then he turned to Katelyn.
She had moved a few paces away and was standing motionless by the trunk of a huge maple tree, staring down at her pretty red slingbacks.
“There’s mud all over the heels. They’re ruined,” she said, without looking up.
Brian gently raised her chin and stared into her eyes, which were bigger and grayer than usual. He shook his head. “They’re fantastic,” he said. “Perfect, in fact. A bit of mud’s nothing. Mud can always be washed off. And damage? I don’t see any, but even if there is some, damage can be repaired.”
She didn’t say anything and although she didn’t shake his hand away, she turned her head slightly, so she didn’t have to look at him anymore—or so that he couldn’t look at her so directly.
“Come on, Katelyn . . . please. Don’t let that guy wreck one more thing for you, ever. Not one more moment.”
He smudged away a solitary tear that escaped her suddenly brimming eyes, catching it softly as it crowned the tiny scar that few people ever noticed, preventing it from sneaking any further. “You’re lovely. In every way. Inside and out.”
She chewed her lip, shaking her head.
“You are. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered finally. The din of canned music they were now pumping through the speakers ceased to exist for Brian.
“For what?” he said, forcing a small laugh. “Not being a total douche? You’re welcome.”
She shook her head. “No, for being so nice to me. For taking care of me—being careful with me. I really appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”
He wanted, desperately, to make some off the cuff comment or silly remark. He wanted to say something casually dismissive or corny like, “De nada,” or “My pleasure, little lady,” but he found that he couldn’t. Taking care of her. Being careful with her. Was that what he was doing? He’d always shuddered when he heard women say their men took care of them and grimaced when women went on about husbands who were like having an extra child, who couldn’t fend for themselves or take care of their own needs. Yet now, in a way, he could see what Katelyn meant. He did try to help her out—but really, no more than she did the same for him, including him when he was lonely, making him snacks because like his mom, he needed food every couple hours, and letting him talk or not talk as he felt compelled. Was that what it meant when people spoke of leaning on their partner, of “needing” them?
Maybe depending on someone, or wanting someone to depend on you, wasn’t weakness or codependency or a trap. Maybe it was a deeper, more complex—even sweeter—level of real friendship. Huh.
“Brian?” He felt her hand on his forearm, heard concern in her voice. “Are you all right? You look about a hundred miles away.”
“What? Oh, sorry, yes. I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“About?”
He shrugged and discovered his ability to duck and run for cover was alive and well, after all, despite all his weird longings and fantasies. “Cotton candy—and maybe a beer.”
She paused, looking up at him with those serious gray eyes of hers, and suddenly the band was playing again, and the noise of the evening was back in full flood, filling his ears. She noticed the change too and glanced over her shoulder. Whatever moment might have been his to grab had sailed on.
“Sounds good,” she said lightly. “Get me a bag of blue and a bag of pink. No beer though.”
“Two colors?”
“Yep, I’m special.”
She was suddenly swished away by the crowd, already dancing again. An older gentleman, smiling like he’d just won the lottery, caught her hand as she passed and twirled her like they were at an old-fashioned ball.
She’d been joking, of course, but she was special. Brian knew it. And he knew it was only a matter of time before she realized that other people—other good, deserving guys, the kind of guys who would cherish her—thought so too. And just like she danced away now, she’d dance away again, permanently. The question was: what, if anything, was Brian prepared to do about it?
“Hey,” he hollered, loud enough to be heard above the crowd.
She looked back at him, momentarily stilled, her expression quizzical.
He strode a couple feet toward her—close enough to no longer yell, but not close enough to touch her. “You are special. I mean it. What am I going to do when some other guy realizes how great you are and tries to steal you from me?”
She laughed, her somber eyes suddenly twinkling—oh, how he loved that shift in her. How instant and immediate it was. How he could cause it.
“Oh yeah, that’s a real fear.”
“It is.”
“Well,” she started moving again, but not in dance—in feigned swordplay. “Then I guess you’ll have to fight for me.”
He laughed and a couple intercepted them, blocked her from his view. “Now get me my cotton candy,” she called.
He nodded, though she couldn’t see him, then wound his way through the crowd toward the food vendors. There, he’d told her. She hadn’t believed him, but at least he’d sort of put how he felt out there.
*
Brian’s jeep hummed along the quiet highway into town. The low cloud cover, light rain, and thick mist rising off the river created the sensation that he was driving out of a dream. And maybe he was. After so many weeks of holidays, followed by his slightly surreal time at River’s Sigh B & B with Katelyn, it was hard to get his head around the idea that minus his condo, of course, he was returning to “real” life. Going back to the grind after so much time away was the furthest thing from his thoughts, however. His mind was full of Katelyn.
He didn’t like that he was counting in hours how long it had been since he’d last seen her. And he really didn’t like that he was consumed with questions about how long it might be until their paths crossed again—especially since it had only been a few days since the Spring Fling. How could that feel so long ago? She’d been busy sewing all day Saturday for some last-minute wedding. It hadn’t worked for them to go running on Sunday morning either. When she’d returned after picking up the kids from Steve, he figured she’d appreciate some alone time with them. Plus he’d needed to iron a week’s worth of newly acquired work clothes. And that was the weekend, gone.
Now it was Monday and he had a full day ahead of him—probably more than full, trying to play catch-up after being gone for so long. With Katelyn’s regular hours at the shop and her piece sewing on the side, they’d practically never see each other. Which wasn’t even normal for friends, let alone friends. The thought made him scowl and confront the real issue bugging him. He wanted to be way more than friends. And she, for very sane reasons, did not. He was a jerk for being unable to control his emotions. Or he was a jerk for not going all out and fighting for her, asking her to at least give them a chance. Either way, the truth was unavoidable: he was a jerk.
Brian’s circular thoughts kept his brain busy right up until he pulled into his reserved parking spot behind Archer and Sons, a flawed name now that Callum had deserted the business. But then again “Archer and Son,” though accurate, would sound odd.
It was early and the damp street was empty. He let himself in through the side door, rather than the front entrance, and wasn’t surprised in the slightest to see light from his dad’s big office flooding the end of the dark hallway. (No sense in lighting the whole office, spending dollars needlessly, until it was open for business.) Brian had never in his life beaten his dad to work—and he was a chronic early bird himself. What was slightly surprising was the fact that his father’s big double oak doors were open. The light poured forth from the doorway, not just from a crack beneath the door.
Brian’s footfalls made no sound on the lush carpet installed in this part of the building to mute noise and increase privacy, but his arrival didn’t go unnoticed. Just as he neared the hallway that would take him to his own workspace, his father’s big doors swung shut and latched with a dull thud. Brian turned the corner toward his own office, again unsurprised. Extended leave of absence or no, what would’ve been shocking was if Duncan interrupted his precious early morning routine to do something as mundane as welcome him back. But he hadn’t called his old man upon his return to town either, so he couldn’t really fault him.
He sank into the deep chair behind his leather-topped desk and swiveled in a slow circle. His secretary—bless her—had obviously kept track of his return date. There were fresh flowers by his window and the coffee pot in his coffee station had been set to brew by timer. The aroma of a rich espresso blend he especially enjoyed filled the room. He might never have been gone at all. Then a sheet of yellow legal pad paper caught his eye, and he had his first surprise since returning to work. A bona fide note from his dad. Wow.
It read, in full:
Let’s do lunch.
– Archer
P.S. I can lend you whatever you need to get set up again while you’re waiting on those insurance losers to send you a check. Three percent interest. That’s better than the bank.
Brian snorted and reread the note. It practically made a guy need a minute to get over the sentimentality . . . but it was a gesture, an acknowledgement of his loss at least, and Brian did appreciate it. The “Archer” bit cracked him up though, like it would kill the guy to refer to himself, or be referred to, as Dad in the workplace.
Brian powered up his Mac and sent an equally tender response. “One o’clock, Don’s. Got it covered, thanks.” Then he got down to work. He had about two hours before the place would be buzzing like a madhouse; he’d power through his eye-bleed of an inbox and get himself up to date as much as he could before then.
The little restaurant was jam-packed, and it took Brian a moment to locate Duncan.
“Hey,” Brian said, sliding into a seat across from his dad.
“Hey yourself, sons,” Duncan said, and Brian half smiled at the old joke. When Callum left the firm, leaving only Duncan and him—one son—working there, Duncan had started calling Brian “sons” as a nickname.
“What looks good?” Brian asked, turning his head to peruse the menu written in chalk across one wall.
“I’m having ribs.”
Brian nodded and requested the same when their server delivered a complimentary basket of artisan bread and whipped butter.
Duncan, to Brian’s shock, was interested in where Brian had traveled and what he’d seen—because he was thinking of going on a trip himself.
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” Duncan said when he saw Brian’s surprise, then reached for a piece of dark rye bread.
“So they say, but I’m not sure I believe it,” Brian said. “I like to work.”
Duncan grunted his agreement and changed subjects abruptly. “So you’ve seen your mother, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Brian fiddled with the paper sugar packets on the table, even though he took his coffee unsweetened and hadn’t ordered one. “And . . . I don’t know. She seems well.”
“You’re really going to make me ask?”
“She’s going with a better lawyer after all.”
Duncan dropped his chunk of rye and stared. “So she’s . . .”
Brian narrowed his eyes. “What exactly do you know, Dad? Were you aware that while I’ve been agonizing over what I should do, she’s been rethinking things?”
“She said that?” Duncan retrieved the fallen rye and buttered it vigorously.
Another server arrived and deposited large plates of delectable smelling roasted meat, but Brian’s appetite had waned. He scrubbed at his face with his hands.
“I don’t get you guys. Has this all been some kind of weird game or power play or something?”
Duncan took a mouthful of the garlic mashed yams that accompanied their meals, waggled his fork like he was about to give a lesson, then swallowed. “Relationships are always a game, sons. Always. And the number one rule in the marriage game is that women say one thing and always mean another.”
“That’s . . . ” Brian shook his head and lowered his own potato burdened fork without tasting it. He recognized the relationship game comment. He’d made it himself more than once, but hearing it out of Duncan’s mouth it sounded ridiculous. Jo and Callum didn’t play games. Cade and Noelle had learned not to. Even his mom . . . it wasn’t fair to say Caren played games. She just didn’t always do or say what you expected. She thought differently than other people.
“You don’t agree?”
Brian shook his head again. “I don’t actually.” And he was as surprised by that as Duncan seemed to be.
“Well, it just goes to show a man’s gotta have four kids to get one smart one.”
“And you had three. Good one.”
Duncan washed a mouthful of ribs down with a big swallow of iced tea. “So your mom said she’s taking me back?”
“No . . . she said she’s thinking of not divorcing you. I don’t know what that means.”
“Will you ask her?”
“No, I won’t ask her. Ask her yourself.”
“You’re better at talking to her than I am.”
Heaven help them all, that was probably true—and it didn’t say very much. At all. Brian sighed, then recalled something Katelyn said and sat up straighter. “Mom’s your wife, for better or for worse, until she isn’t, and that makes your relationship—talking about it, fixing it, demolishing it—your job, not mine. I’m the kid.”
Duncan looked up from ripping two rib bones apart. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so.”
Duncan shrugged. “And what about the Wilkerson contract? Is that your job?”
Brian had to smile, but it wasn’t without sadness. The old man was the game he always accused everyone else of being—and Brian could suddenly see he was losing. He wanted his wife back, but didn’t have the guts to tell her himself or to do the work. “Yes, that’s my job.”
And just like that the conversation moved to work stuff, and Brian was pleased to find his appetite returned. Before he headed back to the office, he ordered a peanut butter pie to take home to Katelyn and the kids. She might not have a lot of time to see him right now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t drop off treats.