Just One Thing (7 page)

She could barely see his scar, but Gracie’s bruise stood stark on her leg.

“It’s that same one,” she said as she slithered the rest of the way down the tree and landed on the ground next to her sister.

“The same one from a couple weeks ago?”

“Yeah.”

Lexie had noticed it on one of the last hot days of summer. Gracie had had on a pair of shorts and the bruise was so big and ugly-looking it was impossible to miss.

She’d wanted to take her to the doctor’s, but Lee had teased her about being an overprotective mom. He’d told Lexie over and over again that kids get bruises.

“You two.” She pointed to Connie and Conner. “In your rooms and stay there. Don’t touch or do anything. Just sit on your beds as if you were five-year-olds in time-out. That’s how you’re acting—like five-year-olds. It’s time you realized that you are sixteen and way too old for this nonsense. And you”—she pointed to Gracie—“get in the car.”

“Why?”

“We’re going to the doctor’s.”

I couldn’t finish my beer. I just pushed back the stool and left, walking as fast as I could, tears streaming down my face.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have started this particular one-thing. I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for it.

“Lexie.” It was Sam. I didn’t have to look. Even if I hadn’t recognized his voice, I’d have known it was him.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, walking faster. It was almost a run.

“Lexie, stop.”

I turned and Sam was hurrying toward me. He was limping. I’d never noticed he had a limp behind the bar. But now, he was coming toward me as quickly as he could and that limp was evident.

I waited at the side of the road until he reached me. He stood close enough to touch, but came no farther. “Lexie, what happened to Gracie?”

“I don’t like it when you ask questions.”

“I know. So, I don’t do it often. But this one needs to be asked. What happened to Gracie?”

“Not yet,” I said. I knew that story needed to be told, but I couldn’t yet.

Sam understood and just nodded.

My fists were balled, every muscle in my body taut. I wanted to hit someone, something.

And then, Sam just opened his arms and engulfed me.

Standing at the side of that tarred and chipped road, he held me, and slowly my hands relaxed.

He smelled exactly how I’d have said Sam should smell. There was a faint whiff of beer. Maybe the hops. Cinnamon. There was a definite scent of cinnamon. Laundry soap.

He crooned words that I couldn’t quite make out because his voice was a whisper, but I knew their meaning. It was fine. I was fine. He was here.

“You’re angry.” Those words I could make out. It was a statement. It was Sam’s way of saying he understood.

I nodded against his chest.

“I get that. You didn’t ask, but here’s my one-thing . . . When I woke up in the hospital, I was furious. Furious at everything and everyone. My mom came every day and took the brunt of that anger. And one day, she looked at me and said, ‘I only had one child, but I lost him to the war. You’ve changed. You’re no longer the boy I knew. What we both have to figure out is who you’re going to change into.’ It took me a long while to figure out who I’d become. If I’m honest, I don’t think I’ve got the whole picture of who yet.”

He released me enough that he could look at me. “Who did you change into, Lexie?”

“I don’t know.”

“I read this book once that said we meet the people we need to meet when we’re ready for them. Maybe that’s why we met. To try and help each other figure out who we are now.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. It would be nice to think that things happen for a reason. That people come and go in our lives with purpose. Maybe there would be some comfort if I started to believe that. But I couldn’t think about it anymore that night.

As if sensing that, Sam said, “I’m going to walk you home tonight.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to; I couldn’t. I couldn’t force another word out.

There was no room for any more words—not tonight.

“That’s fine,” Sam said. “We’ll just walk along together, quietly.”

So, for the first time, Sam walked me home. It was a long walk, but true to his word, he didn’t say anything. Neither did I. He held my hand as we walked. His limp wasn’t quite as pronounced at the more sedate pace.

We turned down my long, dark drive that had been tucked between the old pine trees and the field. The pines had all died now, and slowly they been replaced by hardwood trees. I couldn’t believe how big those trees had gotten. Though it was so dark I couldn’t see them, I knew that they towered over where the pines had once stood.

Sam wouldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. Here, hidden beneath all the trees, I’d found some measure of comfort.

“Who’s watching the bar?” I asked. My voice felt out of place in the dark.

“Jerry.”

“You know, you may have no beer left when you get back there.” I tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell flat.

“It would be worth it. You’re worth it.”

And on that note, he turned and walked back up the driveway toward the street and as he walked away, I realized something—one thing—Sam Corner had become something more than just a Monday-night friend.

I stayed close to the barn that week, working on my project. I only walked away from the loom when Angus made it clear I had to.

There was no subtlety to the dog. He’d simply grab on to any piece of my clothing he could and pull.

So, I walked and fed him when he made me. I slept when my eyes grew so bleary I couldn’t see straight.

But otherwise, I worked.

I did a few more rows of uninterrupted weaving. And fingered through my wool, looking for an inspiration.

I pulled up a skein of black wool.

Now, most hand-dyed wool I’ve seen tends to produce blacks that are on the greyer end of the color spectrum. But this was a beautiful piece. As black as black could be. And I knew what to make.

When I got to the bar on Monday, Sam gave me my glass and said, “One thing.”

I knew he thought I was going to talk about Gracie’s illness, but I just couldn’t yet. So, I copped out and said, “When I was five, I wanted a horse for my birthday . . .”

Lexie Morrow wanted a horse. She asked her father for a pony for her fifth birthday. Her sixth. Her seventh. She was in fourth grade when she finally realized she wasn’t going to get a pony any more than she was going to get a dog.

It was the fall of her eighth-grade year when her parents took her to Cook Forest State Park and her mother took her on a trail ride. Lexie had never been on a horse and she was so excited that she could barely contain herself.

“Can I pick which one I want to ride, Mom?” she asked as they drove up to the stable.

Her mother turned around and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you can,” she paused a moment and added, “and you also may.”

Lexie felt chagrined. Her mother was a champion of proper English and hated it when she said
can
instead of
may
. “Sorry.”

Her father parked the car and Lexie was out the door and hurrying to the horses that were tied up along the front of the split-rail fence.

Her mother came up beside her. “So, which one?”

There was no one else at the stable. It was late in the season. The man said they were moving the horses to their winter stable the next week, so this was probably the horses’ last trail ride of the year.

She looked through the choices. The muddy white one. The bay. But it was the giant black horse that caught her eye. “That one.”

“Are you sure?” her mother and the stableman asked at the same time.

“I’m sure.” Lexie listened intently as the guide talked about safety. How to get on and off a horse. The fact that these horses were trained to follow one another. Even non-skilled riders would be okay.

Her mom got on her horse all by herself, but the stableman helped Lexie on. She didn’t care. She’d made it. She was sitting on a horse and about to go on a ride. This was what she’d always dreamed of.

The guide got on his horse and started toward the trail. Lexie and her horse went next. Her mother followed.

Her father had opted not to go for a ride and hollered, “Have fun,” as they rode by the car.

Five minutes into the ride, Lexie decided her horse, which shared the name Lucy with her best friend, should have been named Lucifer. She knew that Lucifer was another name for the devil because her mom read her a book one night that talked about Lucifer, and Lexie had had nightmares for weeks.

Lucy had a gait that was more a canter than a walk. How Lexie managed to stay behind the lead horse, she didn’t know, but every step Lucy took jostled her from side to side.

Lucy kept leaning over and trying to snag pieces of grass.

The guide turned around and said, “Just give a soft tug on the reins to tell her who’s boss.”

Lexie did.

And Lucy was very much reminded who was boss.

Lucy was.

“She took off across the field with me on her back and the guide on our trail. But that horse was fast. It felt like we ran for hours before the guide got alongside us and grabbed her reins.

“That’s when I learned a lesson—what you think you want isn’t always what you want at all.”

Sam smiled. “You discovered you didn’t want a horse?”

“That’s exactly what I discovered. I was meant to read about them, but not ride them.”

Sam had listened attentively, as always, but as I wound down, he looked disappointed. I knew what he’d expected and knew I had to say the words. Whatever this was on Mondays, no matter how much it hurt, I knew it was good for me. That working on the loom and talking here . . . well, it was good. I was a bit better every week.