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Sarah drove home to her eggplant, turquoise, and teal-blue “painted lady” Victorian house and arrived just as the school bus was pulling away. She’d decided not to say anything to Devon about his great-grandfather’s condition until she knew for sure what was happening. Devon tended toward the hyperemotional, and there was no point in worrying her son unnecessarily. When Sarah dialed her cousin’s number, Paisley’s cell phone rang and rang, eventually switching over to voice mail. Her hands gripped the steering wheel too tight, the frown lines deepening between her eyebrows.
Seven-year-old Devon stood at the curb, his poor little silhouette hunched over with exhaustion. His overstuffed backpack looked as if it was pulling him down to the ground. The full day at school was hard on him, and the school psychologist said that to help moderate his ADHD, it was important he not get hungry or dehydrated. Sarah turned in to the driveway and stopped, opening the driver’s window.
“Howdy, stranger,” she said in a cowboy accent, tipping an imaginary hat. They’d been watching Bonanza reruns on TV lately, and Devon was fascinated by all things Western.
He turned and looked at her, his light-blue eyes and pale-blond hair nearly translucent in the sunlight. About to finish second grade, he was still small for his age and had the otherworldly air of an elf or an angel. When their eyes met, a spasm of love made Sarah’s throat ache.
“Howdy, ma’am. Do you know where a cowpoke can get some cookies and milk around here?” Devon answered in a piping voice, letting the backpack slide off his shoulders until it thumped on the ground. His pants nearly went with it.
He ran over to her, one hand holding up his jeans and the other dragging the backpack by one strap like a ball and chain. His denim jacket was tied precariously around his waist by the sleeves. Devon pushed his glasses firmly onto the bridge of his nose, hitched his pants, and held the edge of the car door to tiptoe up and kiss Sarah hello, which she figured was probably considered okay because nobody was around to see.
“Meet me at the back door, sir, and I’ll be happy to serve you in my saloon.” Sarah looked down and noticed his hair already needed trimming again.
He hefted up his backpack and shoved it through the car window onto her lap then ran ahead across the lawn. Sarah drove into the detached garage and parked. She found Devon sitting on the steps outside the kitchen door, his head in his hands.
“You look tired, pumpkin.” She automatically felt his forehead to check his temperature. She saw his leg jiggling and watched as his foot tapped.
“I’m okay.” He shook off her hand and jumped up. “Just hungry.”
“Coming right up, sir!”
“That’s more like it.” His voice was grumpy, and he scowled.
Devon opened the screen door and held it while she used her key. They could hear Hershey whining and grunting inside. Devon rushed in and dumped his jacket on the floor, heading straight into the bathroom and slamming the door. She brought his backpack inside and put it on the kitchen table then picked up the jacket to hang it on a hook in the entryway.
The chocolate Lab greeted Sarah with ecstatic kisses, dancing left and right. She let him out into the fenced portion of the backyard. He lifted his leg next to several bushes then raced over to the maple tree where a family of squirrels lived, barking in a deep voice as he chased them up into the branches.
Sarah loved her sunny country kitchen. Warm and inviting, it was the heart of the antique house that she had lovingly restored, bit by bit, over the past ten years. She remembered how it looked when she and her ex-husband, Jim, had first bought the 1890s Victorian. It had been falling apart and shedding paint from every peeling surface. Now there was only the guest bedroom left to renovate, and she had done most of the work herself.
Jim had never been interested in working on the place, but Sarah always enjoyed it. By now she had her DNA embedded into nearly every wall of the home she and Devon had made here in Ashford. Her blood, sweat, and tears, literally. She’d cut her fingers fixing broken windowpanes and bled on the sills. She’d stripped wallpaper in her underwear during the dog days of summer and dripped sweat on the wood floors. And she’d cried into the paint tray on the night it finally hit her that Jim was probably never going to apologize and come home.
She’d called him that night as a last resort. When he answered, he sounded surly.
“Don’t you want to see your son sometime?” she’d asked, trying to stop her voice from trembling.
“That weird kid is all yours. He may have a couple of my genes, but we’re nothing alike. He’s a total loser.” He’d laughed, a cruel, mocking sound.
She’d gasped, unable to reply.
“Look, far as I’m concerned, we’re done. I’ll pay the child support. Don’t expect any trips to Disneyland or father–son picnics, okay?” Then he’d hung up.
The tears had come next, everything she’d been holding inside. For her and for Devon. Her sweet, precious boy. He deserved so much more. She would give him what she could and keep him safe under her wing as long as possible. Someday, he would want to know more about his father, and she’d have to come up with an answer. But until then, she had windows to caulk and walls to paint.
Sarah’s interior palette ran from earth tones on the ground floor to forest hues on the second floor to celestial blues on the third, where the bedroom and bath she rented out were perched. Their home was like a giant tree house with its roots in the soil and leafy branches reaching up into the sky.
Sarah ran a hand over the cool granite island as she walked to the fridge. She poured a glass of almond milk and put it on the serving counter with the cookie jar as Devon burst out of the bathroom, loped across the room, and climbed up onto one of the tall stools. After gulping the drink noisily, he put the glass down and breathed a dramatic sigh then pretended to collapse on the countertop. He gave a theatrical moan, turning up his eyeballs so the whites showed.
“Tough day, pardner?” Sarah observed, turning on the electric kettle.
“Very tough.” He sat up and reached for a cookie, homemade by Sarah from a special new recipe. These oatmeal cookies were gluten free and sweetened with raw agave nectar, studded with pecans and a few dark chocolate chips. The high protein and low glycemic load was supposed to stop him from getting so hyper.
“What happened at school today?” Sarah opened the cupboard and got a mug, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“Spelling test!” He spoke in dire tones, hiding his face in his forearm.
“I see. And this did not go well?” Sarah got a tea bag and calmly spooned honey into her mug, never very worried about Devon’s actual schoolwork. Like lots of kids with learning disabilities who wondered why their fathers had suddenly disappeared from their lives, Devon was a child whose problems tended to be more social than academic.
“No. I only got a... A-plus! Ha ha!” He dropped his arm and grinned at her, bouncing on his stool.
“Woo-hoo! Congratulations! You were fooling me, weren’t you?”
“It was a joke, Mom. Got you.”
She ruffled his wispy blond hair, touched by how unbearably cute he was. “I’m proud of you, Devon. Good work.” She looked him in the eye and nodded.
“I always get an A-plus in spelling.” He grinned and swung his feet while picking the chocolate chips out of his cookies to eat them first.
“You’re a great speller and a great joker. The greatest.”
Pushing his luck, he glanced at her slyly from under his long bangs. “Can I watch a little bit of cartoons now? It’s the weekend.”
“Okay, old sport. What do you want for supper?”
“Macaroni and hot dogs,” he said decisively. Then he finished the milk in one long swig and ran into the adjoining TV room to flop down on the couch and grab the remote.
“You’ve got it, my boy. Early supper and then dog walking with Miki. She’ll be home soon.”
Currently their third floor was occupied by a college student from Japan. Miki had ragged animé-style black hair that usually sported a few green, red, or purple streaks, and she shared Devon’s obsession with video games. Sarah traded free room and board for childcare.
Sarah unzipped Devon’s backpack and sorted through the papers inside. With the homework, crayon drawings, and the A-plus spelling test was a flyer printed on bright-orange paper:
Baseball Playoffs Start This Weekend!
Meet Your Coaches at Johnson School Field
Saturday at 10:00 AM
The flyer reminded her that Devon had a big game tomorrow, so she went into the laundry room to make sure his yellow team T-shirt had been washed. Moving one load into the dryer and starting another in the washer, she wondered again what was happening over at the hospital and wished her cell phone would ring.
Sarah went to the back door and called the dog in, telling him to “Sit!” for a liver snack. He gazed up at her adoringly, devoted slave forever. His toenails clicked on the floor as he crossed the kitchen to lie down by Devon in front of the television.
Taking her cup of tea, Sarah climbed the stairs to her cool, comforting bedroom and kicked off her shoes. Her room was shaded by the leafy limbs of an ancient oak that sheltered the south side of the house. The pale, translucent color of the green light bouncing off sage-green walls was wonderfully soothing. She breathed in the color and slowly let it out, noticing how the tension in her body released. After putting her cup on the lamp table, she threw herself across the bed. Her mind raced over the day’s events. Blake Harrison’s face hovered in her imagination, and she noticed that her lips had involuntarily curled into a smile.
Sarah yawned and rubbed her temples then wondered again how Emile was doing and reached for the phone.
This time her cousin answered right away. Sarah could hear voices in the background and the sound of an intercom. Paisley said she was in the emergency room, waiting for Emile to come back from having an ultrasound test on his heart.
“What are they saying?” Sarah asked, sitting up to pay closer attention.
“The blood test showed he did have a small heart attack, but it’s probably not too bad. He has to take it easy for a while and take some new meds. It’s a wake-up call. He’s been working too hard, not exercising enough. They want to keep him tonight, maybe longer. They’re checking for blockages or a valve problem. That could change the picture, if they find something.”
“Give Grandpa a kiss from me, all right? Tell him not to worry. Everything is under control. The boys are going to cook. It will be fine. Take your time.”
Paisley laughed, but she sounded nervous. “Those two in charge of the kitchen on a Friday night? Are you crazy? I can’t tell him that. He’ll have a massive coronary!”
“Okay, don’t mention it, then. You know you’re a terrible liar. Maybe he won’t ask.”
“I suppose they can do it,” Paisley said. “Tell the customers we’re having an emergency. Cut the menu down to the simple stuff. No soufflés! And have Raoul make the chocolate chili tonight. He’s done it before.”
Sarah tried to reassure her. “He’s already working on it. The customers will be fine, so don’t worry. Call me later, okay? After the rush? And call me right away if anything happens. I’ll keep my cell on vibrate.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great. Talk to you soon.”
Sarah dragged herself off the bed to take a shower and dress for work in slim black slacks and a white tuxedo shirt. She smoothed her hair up into a French twist and anchored it securely then pulled a couple of pale-gold tendrils down to soften the look. The big diamond studs that Jim had splurged on for her thirtieth birthday completed the picture. She stood in front of the sink to do her makeup, worrying about Emile and the night ahead. Her face looked pale and tense.
Despite the assurances she’d given Paisley, she was by no means certain the evening would be a success. She hoped to be able to tell her grandfather the next day that she’d handled everything easily, and he could be proud of her. Luckily, for most of their customers, dinner was just a prelude leading up to the orgasmic moment of glory at the end of the meal—a flute of champagne and something dark, sweet, and smooth. The combination was pure magic, putting a smile on everyone’s lips and sending them home to enjoy the heightened sexual pleasure it inspired. As long as Sarah could supply plenty of Paisley’s chocolate fantasies and the bar held out, customers would be happy. Everything would be just fine.
Weren’t those famous last words?