Lifelines: Kate's Story (15 page)

More
than anything else
,
she’d said,
I want a family. I want to belong to you.

Mac
kept his hands hooked in his belt and tried his damnedest to look at ease. He
hadn’t spoken to her in eight days, not since the night she phoned at two in
the morning and woke him from a South American jungle dream. She’d sobbed and
he’d felt like a monster.

More
than anything else I want a family.

Nothing
made sense any more.

She
waved now, and picked her way towards him in high heels and a thin dress with
short sleeves. There hadn’t been snow on the ground yet this winter, but she
had to be freezing in that outfit. She stopped three feet away, a big smile
pasted on her face.

He
wished he could pick up his hammer and disappear inside the half-finished
house.

“Hello,
Richard. How are you, Darling?”

“I’m
getting by.”

“I
need to talk to you.”

He
shoved both hands deeper into his pockets. “Okay.”

When
she laughed, a crow yelled back from a nearby cedar tree. “Not here, silly.
Come home and have a shower, change into something clean.”

“I’m
not ready to move back home.”

She
grabbed his arm. “Don’t you know how hard this is for me?” When she stopped
talking, her hand seemed to hang on his shirt.

He
knew tears came next, and he braced for them, but unexpectedly, she released
his shirt and patted him on the arm.

“We
need to talk. Why don’t you take me out to dinner? We’ll go dancing.”

“Rachel,
I don’t think—”

“Just
dinner, and we’ll talk.”

“What
do you want to talk about?”

Her
smile crumbled and he saw her lip quiver. He was talking, wasn’t he? He shifted
his shoulders, but his arm still felt the remembered pressure of her fingers,
and he couldn’t get the image of the last time she’d touched him out of his
mind, the way he’d ached to strike her. The memory scared hell out of him.

“Look,
Rachel, I don’t think—I guess I need time.”

“You’re
trying to punish me. How can you be so cruel, Richard? Why do you want to hurt
me?”

“Damn
it, Rachel ...”

She
stumbled towards him and he stepped sideways, but not quickly enough. Suddenly
she was plastered to his chest and he felt her body shudder with sobs, and all
he could think was he needed to get free.

“Look,
Rachel, I can’t do this now.”

“How
long do I have to wait?” she wailed.

“How
long do you figure our kid will be dead?”

She
burst into noisy tears, and a wave of fury washed over him, streaked with shame
because he’d wanted to hurt.

“You’ve
got to leave,” he muttered, grabbing her arm and racing her towards the car
with cold fury boiling under his skin.

She
jerked out of his arms as he opened her car door.

“You’re
doing this deliberately! You tell me you love me, you make promises, and then
treat me like shit. Get your fucking hands off me!”

Stunned,
he stepped back.

“You
won’t get away with this!” she screamed as she slammed the door forcefully with
her thin left arm. The door caught on the seat belt and she screamed at it.

He
dove out of the way as she spun her wheels in the gravel and skidded out onto
Taylor Road.

Maybe
it was a good thing, he decided. She’d vented her frustration, and afterwards
she’d feel better.

He
thought about that and figured he was deluding himself, because he’d felt
shitty the night he lost his temper with her and shook her with hatred in his
heart; and he felt shitty now, but rage still pulsed in his veins.

They
both needed time, a lot more time.

When
the sound of her wheels disappeared, the crow started complaining again, and
Mac pulled the hammer out of his tool belt and returned to the half-finished
door frame.

Sending
the last nail home in the customer’s bedroom doorway didn’t make much
difference to anything, and he had to quit then, because the light had gone,
and Hydro wasn’t hooking up the power until Monday.

His
life had turned to ashes and all he could do was hammer at a door frame. He
wondered if Jameson was still hiring for that observatory construction project
in Chile. If not, he could probably go back to Peru. He’d heard last month that
Tygert’s had started phase two of the hydroelectric project.

He
shoved his hammer in his belt and picked up his thermos from its resting place
beside one of the sawhorses. Rain tonight, from the looks of the red streaks in
the sky. He’d hoped to start shingling the roof tomorrow afternoon when Denny
got back from Bellingham, but those clouds gathering in the west made a joke of
roofing plans.

What
the hell was he going to do?

Same
thing he did last night. Pick up a pizza, take it to the construction shack,
and watch television on the portable set he’d bought last weekend. He yanked
open the door of his pickup and tossed tool belt and thermos into the passenger
seat. He was sick to death of pizza, and the notion of an evening of sitcoms
about twenty-something urbanites made him want to puke.

Get
off it, McGregor. You’ve got all your body parts, and nobody’s shooting at you.
If you don’t want to watch the idiot tube, the flat deck needs an oil change. Stop
bitching.

When
he shoved the truck into gear and rolled onto Taylor Road, the image of the
house he’d been working on remained with him, its inviting West Coast design
beckoning from the moving shadows of overhanging cedar and fir trees. Ahead, he
recognized the silhouette of Kate’s madrona tree bowed over the road, and
turned his head to locate the familiar shape of her car at the top of the
drive.

He’d
been living alone for three weeks, while she spent every evening alone. Did she
watch television? Read? Prepare her pottery area out in the garage? He’d been
alone most of his adult life until he married Rachel, but he couldn’t seem to
regain the knack of evenings alone. Maybe he should ask Kate for tips to kill
the time between work and sleep.

He
braked at the corner a few hundred yards past her drive, thought for a minute,
then copped a U-turn.

K
ate
answered the door in bare feet, jeans, and an old sweatshirt. When Socrates
pushed past her, Mac bent down to rub the dog’s ears, because he didn’t know
quite why he’d come.

Kate
said, “Hello?” with a question in her voice, then, when he didn’t reply, “How’s
the house going?” Her eyes seemed focused on Socrates, and Mac realized a woman
alone in the country had every right to feel nervous when a man turned up at
her door as dark fell.

“I
wondered about your kiln.”

“It’s
still in the garage.”

Her
porch light wasn’t working, and he couldn’t see her face. “Denny’s going to
Bellingham for supplies in the morning. You said you had the garage cleared
out, ready to set up the kiln and—well, I thought since you’ve done a lot of
work for me...”

He
should have waited for Sunday when she came to hammer nails, but he was here
now, and she was standing silent, presumably waiting for him to make sense.

“I
thought I could set up the kiln and wheel for you, build a few shelves.”

When
she crossed her arms under her breasts, he dropped his gaze so she wouldn’t
think he was staring at her breasts. He ended up staring at her bare feet.

“You
don’t need to do anything for me.”

He
looked up just as her honey-brown hair fell across her face; he hadn’t seen it
loose until now, hadn’t realized she had an abundance of feminine waves. Her
breasts looked full and soft under the sweatshirt, too, but he had no business
thinking about her breasts, so he turned his head to stare at the naked lilac
bush beside her porch.

“I’ve
got some addresses for you.” He pulled his wallet out and found the folded
piece of paper. “Three construction companies that were operating in Alaska
during the time you were there. Any one might have handled that veterinary
clinic project.” He shoved the paper towards her. “The Montreal address, that’s
a company that was doing a lot in Indonesia when your dad worked there.”

“Thank
you.” Her hand brushed his as she accepted the paper.

He
shrugged and the silence got uncomfortable. He wished he could see her face
better.

She
said, “I got hold of that newsletter you told me about, for people who want to
work overseas. I found some addresses there and I’ve written a few letters to
construction companies, but I feel like I’m shooting in the dark.”

“Try
putting an ad in the newsletter yourself.”

“That’s
a great idea. Look, I was just about to sit down to supper.”

He
nodded and stepped back. “Let me know if I can help with that kiln.” He backed
away a couple more steps. 

“There’s
enough for two.”

“What?”

“Dinner.
I made lasagna.”

“I
wasn’t trying to...” Socrates leaned into him again and he got his hand tangled
in the dog’s ears. Why did he feel so damned awkward? “You made lasagna? The
real thing?”

“Will
you stay?”

“Yeah.”

He
unlaced his boots and left them on her porch, followed her into her kitchen
with Socrates at his side. He stopped in the archway when he saw she’d put a
tablecloth on the dining table and a single place setting against the window.
The air smelled of rich tomato sauce, cheese, and fresh-baked bread.

“I’m
dirty from the job.”

“Bathroom’s
down the hall. Help yourself.”

He
had to pass her open bedroom door to get to the bathroom, where he stripped off
his shirt and washed face, neck, hands and arms. He shouldn’t be here. She was
lonely and maybe he was, too, although he had a wife waiting if he chose to go
home.

Dinner
together, the smell of yeasty bread and lasagna, like an ordinary family in a
real home. He hadn’t been aware of her as a woman at the construction site, but
inside her home with the windows dark...

How
long was it since her husband died? A woman must get to missing sex too.

What
if she thought ... ?

He
buttoned his shirt and tucked it in firmly. His life might be a mess, but he
had the brains to know when it was time to clear out.

“Look,”
he said when he emerged from the bathroom. “I think I’d better—”

She
was bent over the table, the heavy lasagna dish in her hands. She set it down
and looked at him. Then she stood and he couldn’t figure out what words he’d
meant to say.

She
said, “It’s a long time since I’ve been able to cook a meal and see someone
else enjoy it.” She brushed the hair back from her face. Nervously? “What I’m
trying to say ... This dinner—I’m not interested in anything else. I don’t want
anything else. Just...”

“Friendship.”

“Yes.
Exactly.”

“That
lasagna is the best thing I’ve smelled in a long time. Am I imagining the smell
of fresh bread?”

She
laughed. “Rolls—dinner biscuits. Sit down and dig in while I unload the oven.”

He
served himself, a bit embarrassed at how much he’d taken, but she didn’t seem
to mind. She ate in silence, which pleased him because he wanted to savor the
taste.

“Have
more,” she offered when he’d cleaned his plate and three of the rolls.

“I
will. You’re a good cook.”

He
liked her laughter.

She
fixed coffee while he polished off another helping, then he stood and picked up
their plates.

“You
don’t need to,” she protested.

“You
cooked dinner. Where should I put the lasagna?”

“Just
on the counter. I put it in containers for lunches.”

“I
guess I just ate a couple of your lunches.”

“Don’t
worry about it.”

After
they’d cleared the table, she led him to the living room and pointed to a chair
near the fireplace. When she sat across from him, he decided he must be in her
husband’s chair. She curled her feet up and they talked about her work as a
counselor in a general way—he hadn’t known she was a therapist until then, but
he figured she’d be good at it because she had a way of making conversation
seem easy. He told her about Madrona Bay Contracting, which he’d started with
Jake, and about some of his other jobs before that. They talked about her
daughter taking art at university.

They
didn’t talk about her dead husband, or his wife. After maybe an hour, he built
a fire and they stared into flames and compared places they’d been. He told her
about Peru, and she asked if he’d seen the Nasca Lines in the Peruvian desert.
She told him about Alaska, and he asked if she’d seen the scars on Middleton
Island from the Great Alaskan earthquake of 1964.

Eventually,
silence grew.

“I’d
better go,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’ve
enjoyed this.”

“Me,
too.”