Trapped. Will was trapped in the role of good son without a dress rehearsal. Worse, he was establishing routines. Bad, very bad. Routines stank of permanence. For the first time in ten years, he was also living like the rest of the adult population, forcing himself to get up at eight and work during the day instead of falling asleep around four and setting his alarm for noon—unless, of course, he was heading out to the Thursday 10:00 a.m. P.R. session.
Writing in the afternoon had never been more than a warm-up exercise, but with his dad’s long naps, it made sense to try. Although, yet again, he had failed to transcribe even the smallest amount of crap. Not one fragment of a thought.
How was a parent meant to bury his child and resume his daily word count?
Will closed his laptop with a snap, and stood. At least the old man seemed calmer, less muddled, and nothing his dad said or did fazed Hannah. That eased one worry. When his dad called her Angeline, Hannah merely laughed and grabbed his arm, which would have broken Will’s heart had there been anything left to break.
The dogs appeared around the side of the main house, followed by Hannah. Except for that first day when she’d doctored him, he’d stayed clear of their landlady. He’d smelled lavender a few times and known she was close. And he’d watched her from a safe distance. People-watching was an old instinct. Hard to buck.
Hannah disappeared from view, and Will leaned over the deck railing to track her with his eyes. As usual, she moved quietly—a woman who didn’t announce herself with loud behavior or shower naked in public. Impossible, though, to ignore those breasts straining under the white T-shirts she favored. White—an unexpected choice given her profession.
Always busy but never harried, Hannah seemed to live heart wide-open. How could anyone be so at ease in the world, so trusting, so friendly? If she was in the middle of something and another person appeared—even the UPS guy—Hannah stopped whatever she was doing to chat. If he knew how to ask for help, Will might sound her out about dad-sitting. Clearly, she had the caregiver gene he lacked.
Intriguing. She was clutching a clump of sweet flag. Despite staring down thirty-five, his eyesight was still twenty-twenty. He could recognize calamus root from any distance. The old man had always chewed it after a performance, swearing it was the best remedy for sore throats. When they were twelve, Will and Ally discovered the bitter taste also cured smoker’s breath.
Using the back of her hand, Hannah pushed blond curls from her face. “Have you seen a trowel anywhere?” she called out.
Nothing in her body language had suggested she was aware of him. So, someone else around here understood pretense.
“It’s about so big.” Hannah gestured. “An implement used for digging.”
“I know what a trowel is,” he said.
“Aha, he speaks.” She tugged a dead marigold from a pot.
“The trowel is sticking in the pot to your left.”
“Thanks.”
Pulling himself up to retreat, Will turned toward Saponi Mountain. The porch on the front of the cottage might be small and functional, but the back deck extended down two levels and out into the forest like a tree house. Breathtaking—for anyone with a glass prison fetish.
“I guess you don’t get to garden much in New York.” Her voice seemed to echo behind him—soft but strong.
“I have a large roof garden.”
“Good for you.”
Did she misunderstand, think he was bragging when, really, he was just stating fact? He turned back to face her and wished he hadn’t. She was reaching over the plant pot, inadvertently displaying cleavage. Lots of cleavage with perfectly rounded, medium-size breasts spilling over a white, lacy bra. And a vining tattoo that curled from her shoulder down to her right breast.
Now that was enthralling: the fact of a tattoo and its placement. Art designed to be hidden, exposed only to a lover. He swallowed the words, Nice ink.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Hannah said.
His eyes jerked up. Caught me?
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other night. I saw you—when Poppy was in the shower.”
A red-tailed hawk swooped low through the space between them, something dangling from its beak. Behind him, dead leaves snapped and popped as squirrels darted through the trees. No one who’d lived in the forest could forget the sound of squirrels. And no red-blooded male could forget the sight of Poppy’s unclothed Marilyn Monroe curves.
Despite the blush, he stood his ground. “I’m sorry about that. I never expected—”
“Oh, no. I wanted to apologize on her behalf.”
Hannah didn’t think he was a creepy, oversexed Peeping Tom?
“We’re so used to being alone out here. She just didn’t think.”
Will stared at the shower. Yeah, right.
“I want to assure you that no one will use the outside shower again while you’re here. I would hate for anything to upset your dad.”
“I don’t count?” he said.
“I’m assuming you can look after yourself.”
“You, too, I imagine.” That should have been an end, but while he picked at the green mold snaking along the wooden railing, his mouth kept moving. Words kept forming. “I’ve been having some problems writing since—since this business with my dad. I was looking for my muse,” he said, with more than a touch of irony.
“Did you find her?”
“Not even close.”
The chip of a cardinal’s song filled the air.
“Since it’s Friday, I thought I’d be a wild woman and have a cocktail before supper,” she said. “You’re welcome to join me. I’m not well stocked with alcohol, but Poppy left some red wine here, and I keep gin and tonic for my ex. Otherwise, it’s Bushmills.”
Irish whiskey? He would have pegged her for vodka tonic. And she kept gin for her ex. How very mature. She looked to be around his age, and yet she wore the confidence of someone much older. Someone who, unlike him, was all grown up.
She pushed the sweet flag into the pot and pressed soil around it, working as if time were elastic and could expand to her whim. Then she wiped her hands down her jeans and headed inside the house.
Will raised his face into the long shadows that crept from the forest. Vapor trails slashed the sky, and the tops of the trees blazed molten gold. He used to love this hour, when the light connoted hope. Hope that his mom would seek help, and when he abandoned that fantasy, hope that he could escape. Now the gloaming was simply a reminder of his son dying at the close of day.
Yes, he wanted a drink. It was the only thing he wanted right now. Tucking his laptop under his arm, Will walked down the back steps and followed in Hannah’s wake.
Her screen door creaked as he eased it open and entered a white hall filled with light.
“I’m in here,” Hannah said.
Several dogs appeared through a doorway ahead; the small, ratty-looking one bounded up and slobbered over his hand. Will pushed his way through the animals and into a long, thin kitchen and breakfast area.
Her kitchen appliances weren’t top of the line—labels did matter when you were talking ovens and refrigerators—but everything was orderly and functional. Lots of bleached wood and stainless steel and a large butcher’s block, its shelves clogged with a hodgepodge of cookbooks, their spines cracked. No dishwasher.
At the far end of the room there was a fig tree strung with white Christmas tree lights, a round pine table with matching chairs and a window seat piled with pale cushions. A tabby cat sat upright in the middle of the cushions, giving the dogs the evil eye.
“You don’t like cats?” she said.
“How did you know?”
“Your expression.” She smiled her easy smile. “Bad childhood experience?”
Was that a lucky guess or was she really that perceptive? Either way, she didn’t seem to miss much.
“Our family home was feral cat central.” Will cleared his throat and laid his laptop on the counter.
Hannah moved to the sink filled with several dirty plates, a teapot for one and a mug of what appeared to be leftover tea—ginger, according to the label hanging over the side. She washed her hands—shutting off the water with her elbow as she lathered the soap, then flicking the tap back on to rinse. Sensible water-saving gestures. Exactly what he would have expected of Hannah. Everything about her was expected. Although...there was the white T-shirt thing. And the tattoo he wouldn’t mind seeing again.
“We should sit out on the porch.” Hannah dried her hands. “That way your dad will know where we are when he wakes up.”
Jesus. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
She stepped forward; he stepped back. She crossed one foot over the other and moved to the left; he moved to the right. Then she circled ninety degrees around him to open the fridge.
“Bushmills okay?” She pulled a wedge of Brie from the deli drawer.
“Sure.”
“With ice?”
“Please.”
Hannah took two tumblers from an overhead cabinet and then stuck one of them under the ice maker. “I’ve had some wonderful conversations with your dad about your son. What an adventure he’s on.”
Ice cubes fell slowly. Clonk. Clonk. Clonk.
“I believe he’s five?”
Will clawed at his thigh, nodded. Didn’t answer.
“Only child?”
Will nodded again.
“Off-limits?” she said.
Will exhaled. “Sorry, I’m very private.”
“I imagine you have to be when you’re famous.”
“I’m not that famous.”
“I think your fans would disagree. But it’s okay, we can chat about the weather until your dad wakes up, and then he’ll talk enough for both of us.”
“He never used to be social. You bring out his inner chatterer.”
“Listening’s part of my job. But with your father, it’s the joy of hearing him reminisce. His knowledge of plants and herbs is a bonus.”
She poured a small amount of whiskey into his glass, then checked the level and added a splash. Should he have offered to fix drinks? He’d never been good at sexual stereotypes, acting all hunter-gatherer-ish. His dad had always been more of the mom; his best friend, Ally, more of the alpha-male. He wasn’t sure where that left him.
“How long since you’ve had rain?” he said.
“About ten weeks. I’ve been a bit distracted recently. Sort of lost track of the days.”
“Yeah, funny how that happens.”
She gave him a quizzical look. Her eyes—how had he not noticed before?—were such a deep blue they were almost violet.
“There you go.” She handed him a glass, and he smiled his thanks.
Then she turned on her heel and filled her own glass. Neat, no ice, and again, a conservative amount. His dad’s voice intruded into his thoughts: Fill ’er up please, Angel.
“Do me a favor. Don’t offer my dad a drink.” Now he was being flat-out indiscreet. Did vets have to follow the same code of ethics as doctors?
“He’s an alcoholic?” She reached up into a cabinet, pulled out a plate and then turned to open the breadbox.
“Borderline. Possibly. I don’t know. I should have told you when I signed the lease.”
“And yet you didn’t.”
“I was worried you’d say no.”
Cellophane crinkled as Hannah opened a box of crackers and arranged them in a firework burst around the Brie. “Thank you, for being honest. But it wouldn’t have made a difference. I’m a pushover for people who are lost. Metaphorically speaking.”
Did she mean him or his dad? A whisper in his subconscious said, Tell her about Freddie. She’ll understand. But if he did that, he’d be expanding the parameters of his lie. And even lies needed boundaries. Besides, Hannah would figure out he’d used her and her best friend to perpetuate said lie, which made him a total shithead. A soulless slug. And he could tell himself he didn’t care what Hannah thought, but that would be another lie.
“Does your dad drink to drown his sorrows?”
No, I’m the one who does that. “He drinks because he likes alcohol.”
“Then I don’t see the problem. He’s what—late seventies, eighty? He lost the woman he loves, his memory is failing. And moving is a known trigger for stress. If alcohol allows him an hour or so of escape, where’s the harm?” She handed him the plate. “Could you carry that out for me?”
“Wow, thanks.”
“For what?”
“Making me feel less incompetent. I feel as if I should set ground rules for him. I feel as if—”
“You should be the parent?”
“Totally.”
They walked back outside, onto the porch with a view of the cottage and his dad’s bedroom window.
He inhaled and held the breath for an impossibly long moment. The air shimmered with dry heat, and a warm wind had picked up. Will shivered. He didn’t like wind any more than he liked cats. Maybe it was growing up listening to the wrath of hurricanes rattling the bones of the forest. Or maybe it was the dread that came whenever his dad was at a gig, and his mom dragged him outside in his pajamas to dance in the lightning. He no longer wore pajamas, and he no longer danced. He’d seen firsthand what happened when you released such energy, such passion.
Hannah curled up on an old metal rocker that had clearly been refurbished. Will placed the cheese next to her, away from the dogs, and sat on the top of the steps. Away from Hannah.
“How’s the search coming,” she said, “for a retirement community?”
“Badly.”
They had visited only three retirement homes in four days, and the old man had sabotaged the last tour by pinching a nurse’s butt. His dad had never done anything so demeaning before. And now what? He no longer dared leave the old man alone, not since returning from a quick toiletries-purchasing trip to discover the electric kettle warming up on the gas stove. Needed to add buying a replacement kettle to his growing to-do list.
“Don’t think I’m interfering,” Hannah said, “but can I make a suggestion?”
Will tugged on his lower lip. A conversation that started with don’t think I’m interfering couldn’t end well. The dog called Daisy joined him, even though she was shaking.
“Your dad likes Poppy. Poppy likes your dad. And her business, well, it’s not doing so well. And no offense, but you look pretty stressed out while you’re pacing on the porch. I was wondering if you would like some help? If you were willing to hire her, just for a few hours each day, you could get some writing done, visit retirement homes, whatever, and it could work out to everyone’s advantage. I’ve been trying to encourage Poppy to develop an art therapy program—that’s why she was volunteering at Hawk’s Ridge. Maybe your dad could be her guinea pig. What do you think?”
What did he think? It was as if he’d reached a solid hold on a rock face, a place where he could pause and compose himself.
“I think you’re amazing,” he said. Then he did something so out of character that he was more surprised than the dogs. He leaped up to hug her. And as he veered toward Hannah, Rosie nipped him in the butt.