The House On The Creek (20 page)

“My whisky, boy. I need a drink.” Edward coughed.

Everett didn’t move from his space on the floor. He knew he should feel something as he watched the old man die. Sorrow, relief, regret, jubilation, anything. Alcohol fumes stung his eyes, and the rattle of the storm made his heart pound, but other than that...nothing.

Nothing.

“One last drink, boy.” Edward whined. His yellowed eyes rolled in desperation. “Time is running out.”

The buzz of his phone sent Everett spinning from dream to wakefulness in a groggy instant. He sat bolt upright, blinking, and had just enough sense to realize he’d overslept and it was full daylight streaming through the basement window before he reached across the mattress, and grabbed his mobile.

“Yes?”

“Everett?”

“Windsor.” He should have known. He stood up, and carried the phone with him across the room to his window. Beyond the glass the afternoon was bright, not a cloud in the sky. “What is it?”

“Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“Still in Virginia, Mike. Flight out’s not until Sunday morning. You have my itinerary.”

The dream had left a monster of a headache behind his eyes. He rarely slept so deeply. And he hadn’t dreamed of Edward since his first night back in the house.

Windsor’s voice rumbled in his ear, and Everett closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

“Fine.” He said, when the man paused to take a breath. “That’s not a problem. It’s an easy fix. We’ll draw up a few papers, make sure there are no loopholes. I’ll fax you something before five.”

“You’ve been away too long,” his agent said, disapproving. “The shareholders are asking questions.”

“I’ve been in touch with all of them.” Everett rubbed his eyelids, and waited for his head ache to ease. He could almost smell the ghost of old whisky.

“So have I. More than once. And they’re not happy.”

“Sunday, Mike. They can wait a few more days.”

He switched off the phone before Windsor’s concerns could mount. Across the back lawn the woods were red and gold. He realized, with a tiny shock in his gut, that fall had truly arrived. Summer was gone.

And the old man was right, Everett realized as he pressed his forehead against cool glass. Time had run out.

Chris and Everett launched the skiff on a cold Friday afternoon, as a thin September storm raced through the heavens, and rain fell through the canopy of colored leaves.

“She’ll float,” Chris said, almost a prayer, as he wiped rain drops from his nose and gently edged the little boat into the Creek.

“She will,” Everett agreed.

The kid had done a great job with the boat. Varnish made her hull shine, and the multiple patch jobs they’d put her through were nearly invisible beneath layers of nautical blue.

The new oars Abby had found somewhere in town fit perfectly. A rehabbed anchor waited in the skiff’s belly, and all she lacked was a name and a christening.

The name would be up to Chris. As soon as the kid could pick one monicker from a long list of possibilities. And, after witnessing the serious attention Chris gave to his task, Everett didn’t suppose he’d be making a final choice any time soon.

The boy slipped a little on the muddy bank, and the skiff rocked wildly in the water. Chris hopped into the shallows, trying to grab the little boat before she took off.

“Shit.” He spluttered, “Water’s cold.”

“Watch it,” Everett warned, knowing very well that the boy was supposed to keep a clean mouth. “Your mom will be here any time now.”

Then he waded into the frigid water and his own choice words split the air.

Chris snorted. “Told you. It’s cold.”

“Damn right.” And the trickle of rain beneath his shirt didn’t help much, either. “Okay, kid. I’ll hold her steady while you climb in.”

Waist deep in the water, Chris hesitated. “You sure she won’t sink?”

Everett hid a smile. “If she does, you’ll swim. I’m not worried, I’ve seen you in the James. Just stay away from the current in the middle, it drags some.”

“Okay.” Undaunted, Chris grabbed hold of the skiff, and hoisted himself over the edge.

“Careful,” Everett warned. “Don’t swamp her.”

The skiff tipped precariously and then settled low in the water. Chris found his balance on one of the short benches they’d installed in her belly, and waited until she stopped rocking. Then, grinning, he reached for the oars.

“She’s floating!”

“Seems tight enough,” Everett agreed. He ran his hands beneath the waterline, checking the boards. “Take her out slow. Ready?”

“Ready.” Chris settled low on the bench and gripped the oars. “Ready. Go!”

Everett gave the boat a gentle shove. She slid smoothly from the shallows. She wobbled once or twice as Chris tested his balance, and then the boy got the hang of her and let the current take hold.

“It’s easy!” The kid’s huge smile blinded. “She just goes where the water takes her.”

“The hard part’s bringing her back in.” Everett sloshed from the shallows and sat on the muddy bank, in the shadow of the boat house. “Practice turning in the deep before you try it.”

But Chris caught on quickly, and seemed to struggle only a little as he guided the skiff back to shore. The rain increased to a real shower ,and the boy dripped from head to toe as he clamored back onto the bank, and helped Everett tow the boat onto land.

“She’s great!” Chris almost hopped up and down as they beached the little boat safely away from the swelling Creek. “I can’t believe she’s all mine.” That last trailed off uncertainly.

Everett glanced at the kid’s shining face, and sternly ignored the flip flop of his heart.

“She’s all yours,” he agreed. “And as soon as you give her a name, we’ll get her christened in style.” It wouldn’t be an easy promise to keep, not all the way from Seattle, but somehow he’d manage.

Chris stilled, and his gaze skittered away to the tree tops. “Can I name her anything I want? Really?”

“Sure. I thought we’d gone over that.” Everett ran a tarp over the open belly of the boat, and then straightened. “You’ve got a list a mile long.”

Chris shoved his hands behind his back and rolled his shoulders. “Does it have to be a girl’s name?”

Surprised, Everett cocked a brow. “Traditionally. But we’re not sticky about etiquette. Name her what you want.”

The brackets around the kid’s mouth eased, and he puffed his cheeks. “
The
Richard Tilletson
.”

“Richard Tilletson?”

Chris nodded. “My father.”

Chapter Thirteen

“HIS FATHER?”
Abby paused in the front hall, muddy sneakers suspended in one hand.

“Is your investment banker with the muscles called Tilletson?” Everett asked, dry.

“Richard?” Abby’s puzzled frown turned to a full fledged scowl.

She set her shoes neatly outside the front door, and then slumped against the door itself. Everett tried very hard not to notice the curve of damp hair against her chin. She’d spent a long day in the office with clients, and her black sweater was rumpled, her long skirt wrinkled.

Tiny pearls studded her ears, and a matching strand encircled her throat.

Everett recognized the pearls. They had belonged to Abby’s ma, a gift from a Navy boy. Juliet Ross had worn the set nearly every Sunday of her adult life. He remembered how determined Abby had been to wear the pearls herself one day.

Now they shone luminescent in the half light through the windows, and turned the girl from his childhood into something delicate and precious.

“After all these years Richard’s decided to look us up?” Abby wrapped her arms around her waist, and her mouth hardened into dangerous lines, dispelling the illusion of delicacy.

“Other way around, I’m afraid.” Everett offered the glass of white wine he’d poured when he’d heard her car in the drive. “Chris found your quarterback. On the internet.”

“We have parental controls.”

Everett shrugged. “A friend’s house, maybe. Seems he did his research pretty thoroughly. Kid’s got brains.”

Abby took a healthy swallow of wine, and sighed. “I know that.” She left the support of the door frame, and took her stem ware into the kitchen.

“You can’t blame him for looking.”

He paced at her heels. Her hair smelled of rain and woodsmoke and, in spite of the changing seasons, of spring. He reached across to refill her glass from the bottle on the kitchen island.

“I know that,” she said, again. She shot Everett an irritated glance. “I just didn’t think...not quite so soon. I never kept anything back.” She shook her head. “I’ve told him everything about his father that I know.”

“Which doesn’t add up to much.” He settled a hip against the island. “He’s naturally curious about his daddy, is all.”

“Because his mother’s not enough.” It started out as a growl and ended in a whisper.

“Abby.” He couldn’t help himself, he pulled her close, the wine glass caught between them. “You know that’s not true.”

“I know it is true.” She wheeled away from his hands, and stalked along the bank of windows. “Chris has his father’s genes. He’s been strong and smart and bursting with talent, from the very first day. Just like his father, thank God. I’m the local yokel. Never bright enough or brave enough to escape the Creek.

“Lord, Everett,” she spun again, and glared as if he were the devil come up from below. “Even you managed to find your way out. Even you!”

“Even me,” he murmured, realizing with a tiny, painful twist of his innards that for once she had moved beyond his help, beyond his ability to shelter and soothe.

“I thought about running, once. More than once. Most seriously just after Chris was born. But I didn’t even have a high school diploma to my name.” Abby’s hands fisted around the wine glass. “And I had Mom to help, to make sure we ate. And then, Edward.”

“No.” He stepped again to her side, but her expression kept him at bay. “Abby. You’re over reacting.”

“Maybe.” She lifted her chin, stubborn. “He’s been acting out, lately. And sulking. Keeping his door shut. He doesn’t talk to me at all. I had to learn from
Jack
that he picked up detention for passing notes in class.”

“Little things.”

“I had no idea he even thought about Richard. But, look, he had no trouble talking to you. You’ve spent, what, three whole afternoons with him?”

Somehow he’d become the one at fault. He shoved his fingers through his hair.

“Christ, Abby. The kid just needed-”

“To let the testosterone take over,” she interrupted, sharp. “I know. I’ve heard it before. I get it.” She turned away from the windows, and set her glass on granite, nearly cracking the stem. “Where is he?”

Everett’s jaw knotted. “Watching TV.”

“Fine. We’re going home.” As easy as that, she dismissed him, turning her back and striding down the hall in her socks.

“Dammit, Abby.” He meant to sound rational, but her name jumped from his mouth as a bellow. He didn’t understand how she could make his heart ache and his temper throb at the very same time.

She wheeled at the end of the hall, skirt swirling.

“Give the kid a break, will you?” He said, struggling for calm. “He’s done nothing more dangerous than look into his roots.”

She scoffed. “And you’d know all about roots, wouldn’t you, Ev?”

The bitter words were as tangible, as painful, as thrown stones. Everett opened his mouth, but couldn’t force a retort past the obstruction in his throat.

Abby stood for another moment in silence, chest heaving. Her eyes were hard and bright but her lower lip trembled. She took one long, shuddering gulp of air, and then she left him and went in search of her son.

Abby Ross suspected she was a colossal fool.

“I don’t understand,” she repeated for the third time. “Why now?”

Chris hunched at the kitchen table, chin propped on his fists. He stared down at the scarred wooden surface. “I told you, because I’m almost twelve.”

“Is it because you’re missing a guy in your life, to do, I don’t know, guy things with?”

“No.”

“Because you know Jack loves you. And I know the two of you have a great time when you hang out together.”

“Mom,” Chris groaned. “I told you, I just wanted to see if he’d come to the debate finals.”

“But the finals aren’t until after Christmas.” Abby felt as though the top of her head might pop off at any moment. She didn’t want to feel hurt, or angry. But her heart had taken one too many sucker punches in the last month, and she felt bruised all over.