Authors: Catherine Madera
“I want you to get a commission. I’ll get that loan somehow, wait and see.”
Taylor drummed the steering wheel as she drove Melissa back to the coffee stand. She wanted desperately to hear that a young, cranky barista without support had the chance to make a future.
~ ~~
The cell phone trilled an alarm as Taylor swallowed the first crisp mouthful of Corona, relishing the tang of a lime wedge on her tongue. It had been an exhausting day with Steve; she didn’t want to speak to anyone. Glancing at the number on the display Taylor sighed, laid her head against the futon and punche
d
Tal
k
.
“Taylor.”
“Hi, Dad.” Without giving him a chance to respond Taylor began a guilt-driven ramble. “I’m really sorry I didn’t return your call a few days ago. Just been real busy. But I’ve been thinking of you—how are you? How’s Tom? I hope Anthony’s feeling better.”
It had been over a week since she’d heard the latest from her Dad. Anthony had been hospitalized. Again. Maybe it sounded heartless, but the boy basically rented a bed at the hospital. A visit didn’t exactly qualify as newsworthy anymore. She felt bad but, honestly, it was hard to talk to her father sometimes when she knew the conversation would center on the only readily available topic—Dad’s passion and purpose: Saving Anthony.
“Are you there? Sometimes reception sucks out here in the boonies.”
The phone remained silent.
“Dad?”
“Anthony,” Taylor heard her father clear his throat, “he … he passed away last night, Taylor.”
Taylor heard her father’s voice catch and the phone seemed to go dead. Something heavy settled in the pit of her stomach, curdling the
taste of the beer she’d so desperately wanted only a few moments before.
“My God,” she stared into the cemetery across the road. Hulking head stones rose into the deepening twilight like demons coming to life in the dank November air. “The doctors said at least 15 … he can’t die yet.”
Tears swelled and spilled down Taylor’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dad. I knew he was in the hospital, but I thought, I thought it was just like usual.”
Usua
l
. Even horrible realities can become normal. That’s what the short time she’d spent with her adopted brother had taught her. She’d shed tears in private for him, yes, but mostly his life—its horrid reality—had become usual and expected.
Had she loved Anthony? That now seemed terribly important. Not that it changed anything. Mostly she’d kept herself distant from the terrifying reality of a terminally-ill child, a child who stole the time and affection from the father she needed.
She had loved the boy. And resented him deeply.
~ ~~
“Where the hell’s Acorn Drive? I thought I knew every street in Bellingham … ”
Taylor deliberately avoided helping Steve locate the address of a future listing. Besides being preoccupied with her trip to San Diego for Anthony’s funeral, she was still angry at his treatment of Melissa. The guy was lost, in more ways than one, and as far as she was concerned he could stay that way. She checked her watch.
“Listen, I gotta work in an hour and I’ve got a ton of stuff to do. Can you just drop me off at the office so I can get my car?”
Steve blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’ll have to do the background on this property on my own time. But
I
d
o
need to stop at my apartment first. I forgot something.”
“What?”
“Just something, okay?” Steve’s voice was conspicuously absent of its assertive, macho edge. Instead, he sounded worried. “My apartment’s only a few minutes away.”
Just what she’d always wanted, a personal tour of Steve’s apartment. Plus, she was dying to go pee and needed the clean office bathroom, pronto. Taylor forced herself to breathe deeply. A tour of the apartment was bad enough, having to use Steve’s toilet would be much worse.
“Wanna come in?” Steve leaned his head in the car before shutting the door. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
Taylor hesitated. There was no way she’d make it to the office. “I guess. I need to use your bathroom.”
“Sure, no problem.” Steve didn’t wait for her, but hurried to a ground floor apartment door across the street and disappeared inside.
Taylor followed more slowly, cautiously picking her way along a crushed rock walkway studded with dormant weeds. Once inside she made a beeline toward the hallway and the first doorway on the left. Making a conscious effort not to focus on the filthy sink, overflowing trashcan, and the boxer shorts crumpled in one
corner, Taylor took care of business and washed her hands with a large bar of soap. She glanced at a hand towel smeared with trails of dried toothpaste and wiped her hands on her jeans instead.
Steve paid her no attention when she reentered the living room. Taylor glanced around the small “man space.
”
The guy’s a pig, what a surprise
.
A battered tan couch and glass topped coffee table were the only pieces of furniture. Two pairs of jeans, one with belt still hanging from the waist loops, were thrown over the back of the couch. On the coffee table sat an open pizza box, one lone piece of petrified pepperoni announcing its prior contents. Two open cans of Red Bull guarded an empty box of powdered donuts. Beside the couch a magazine rack bulged with periodicals and several newspapers. At the base of the rack several novels teetered in an unstable stack, the one on top a Dean Koontz.
“Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“I’ll just stand,” Taylor wrinkled her nose at the couch,” thanks anyway. What are you doing?”
Turning her attention from the disarray of the bachelor pad, Taylor took a few steps toward the small kitchen. Steve was hunched over the counter top, rummaging inside a box of what looked like medical supplies. Ignoring her question, he called into the empty space of the apartment.
“Princess, come here sweet girl.” Steve’s tone oozed affection.
Taylor fought the urge to laugh. Who on earth could he be talking to?
At that moment a cat padded silently past the couch and toward its master in the kitchen. The creature was petite and feminine and had the most beautiful coat Taylor had ever seen. A sleek, tri-colored collage of orange, black, and grey, the cat’s pelt was strikingly leopard-like. Even from a distance Taylor could hear a rumble coming from its chest. It sounded like a swarm of bumblebees.
“There you are, Beautiful.”
Steve waited for the cat to approach. It jumped gracefully onto a chair and then onto the counter itself. Purring even louder, it sauntered past the box of supplies and into Steve’s waiting arms. Taylor watched him cradle the animal and kiss its furry head. He removed a needle from the packaging.
“Wha
t
ar
e
you doing?”
“Princess is diabetic. I need to monitor her glucose levels closely right now. We had a scary bought of hypoglycemia a few days ago. She lost her coordination and got really weak. She could have gone into a coma … ”
“You have
a
diabeti
c
cat?”
Taylor shook her head
.
Thi
s
was not something she’d have predicted.
“Yeah.” Steve seemed oblivious to her surprise. “Cats get diabetes just like people do. I have to closely watch the type and amount of food Princess eats and monitor her water intake and urination. It can be fatal.” He rubbed the cat as he spook. Relaxed in his arms, Princess’s gold-flecked eyes looked into his face with what could only be described as complete adoration.
“You don’t look like the pet type.”
Male Chauvinist/cat lover. Who knew?
“Yeah? Guess you don’t know me very well.”
His tone matter-of-fact, Steve remained focused on taking Princess’s
blood sugar. Taylor perched on the edge of the couch and watched for a few moments, fascinated with the scene in front of her, before turning to examine the apartment more closely. A few framed pictures hung at odd angles on one wall: an elderly woman with tan wrinkled skin and a baseball cap, a smiling blond-haired woman, and a man and young Steve posed in front of an open field with dark clouds in the background. Above a shelving unit filled with dusty football trophies hung a larger photo. Half the image was missing. Taylor rose from her seat to inspect it.
The young Stev
e
ha
d
been handsome, she thought, looking into the photo. Outfitted in his football uniform, Steve smiled into the camera, a shock of once thick blond hair swept to the side. His smile was genuine and full of joy. It had a youthful vulnerability that had since aged to defensive posturing. One broad shoulder was behind a mystery person who had been torn from the photo. A girl. Taylor could make out her fingers, nails painted bright pink, at Steve’s opposite side. As she pondered the photo—or lack-there-of—she felt certain that a picture told a story worth a thousand words. Or more.
Taylor glanced back at
Steve, Princess’s furry tail curled around his
forearm, and felt something unexpected. Empathy. It contrasted sharply
with the disgust she had become accustomed to nursing while in his presence. Suddenly awkward, she scrambled at small talk.
“Looks like rain again. Don’t you love living in a rain shadow?”
Steve didn’t answer immediately. He measured some food into a bowl, spoke softly to the cat, and grabbed his car keys. On the way to the door he paused and made eye contact.
“We actually don’t live in a rain shadow. Th
e
shado
w
is the dry part, eastern Washington.” He jerked his thumb in what Taylor guessed was an easterly direction. “But you are correct in that the weather pattern is collectively called The Rain Shadow Effect.”
“I figured the shadow was the dark, rainy part.”
“Nope. It’s the sunny part.” Steve smiled at her, without winking. “How topography influences weather is pretty fascinating. You have rain shadow effect—uniquely evident in Washington State—and stuff
like lake effect snow in places like New York. Weather is wild, but
surprisingly predictable if you know the science related to it.”
“Are you a science guy, too?”
“Surprised? People aren’t as predictable as weather, Taylor.” An edge of defensiveness crept back into Steve’s voice. “I always wanted to be a
weather man; I think it’s amazing. My dad and I used to follow tornados
and build weather stations in Oklahoma where I grew up. Crazy weather out there.”
Taylor followed Steve out of the apartment and waited while he locked the door. “You’re from Oklahoma?”
“Yeah. Dad left when I was in middle school. Mom got cancer and
he couldn’t handle watching her die. After her funeral I moved to Bellingham
to live with my grandmother. When she passed away I handled the estate and learned a fair bit about real estate. I needed a career and it wasn’t happening in football … or as a weatherman. Not my dream job, but I’ve done pretty well.”
“It’s not my dream job, either. In case you hadn’t noticed.” Taylor laughed and Steve joined in. For the first time she felt at ease with an equal.
On the way to the office Steve shared more about himself: how he’d loved a grandmother who made the best biscuits, the knee injury that ended his football career, and his fascination with the elements required to make a “sweet” tornado. While he talked, Taylor considered the rain coming down outside and the fact that light could be found in a shadow.
Chapter 18
W
hy did airlines continue to build planes constructed for six-inch-wide human beings? Taylor stuffed her boarding pass into her purse and glanced above the seat to check the number: 15B. Middle seat. Next to the window sat a pimply teen with iPod ear buds stuck in his ears. The boy slouched in his seat and stared blankly out the window at a soggy Seattle sky line as rap music pounded an angry, audible beat. On the aisle sat an extra large Italian grandpa, his broad middle pressed between the narrow sides of the seat. A gold chain winked
against a dark chest visible between the wide lapels of a half open
Hawaiian shirt. He looked up, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“You next to me?”
“Yeah.”
Did she have the worst luck or what? She felt like part of a sandwich, stuffed like a piece of lettuce between salami and, Taylor glanced at the teen’s greasy face, cheese. Yuck. Fortunately the plane ride was only a couple of hours.
After take-off Taylor laid her head back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t tired. The too-close proximity of strange males gave her the heebie-jeebies. Closing her eyes simply provided an illusion of personal boundaries.