The Leftover Club (23 page)

November 25, 1977

The year after my dad died, I experienced many sad ‘firsts.’ The contrast between what had been and what was no longer couldn’t have been starker. Generally I was content to hide away in my room, nose buried in a book or playing with my dolls, than face all the festive holidays that my dad’s presence made about a thousand times better.

It wasn’t that my mom wasn’t enough, or didn’t try her best. God knows she did everything in her power to make things right for me, often putting aside her own grief to do so. But our family portrait had a big, glaring hole in i
t now, and it hurt like a bitch, no matter how many strangers that masqueraded as family opened their hearts, homes (and kitchen tables) to us in soften the blow.

Thanksgiving ’76 was the worst. I had nothing whatsoever to be thankful for, and couldn’t put aside my own selfish childish thoughts to pretend otherwise. Christmas wasn’t much better. I was actually counting the days to go back to school, just to get away from my mom and her exaggerated enthusiasm that everything was just like it was, when nothing was like it had been, and would never be again.

Moving in with the Fenns helped mitigate this pain in a lot of ways. It gave us both companionship when we had never felt lonelier. It filled the house with sounds of laughter and conversation, when the home we shared with my dad became a virtual tomb without his booming voice to fill it.

We got to spread out in a four-bedroom home
, with a huge backyard complete with a swing set that had been professionally installed so the pole didn’t come out of the ground every time someone swung too high. There was also an avocado tree and a lemon tree, along with a wall of towering bamboo. The selling point for any kid, however, was the tree house balanced securely in the huge, gnarled oak tree.

That was Dylan’s
hideaway, a total boy zone that I suspected had trucks, action figures and a horde of creepy crawlies he couldn’t keep in the house.

I could see the tree house from my bedroom window, so I got to see him act out movies and play with imaginary friends when there weren’t any other kids around to entertain him. Later he would make this work for him as a creative artist, who had to pretend for a living. Back then it was all the magical, make-believe world of a child’s imagination.

How I longed to join him. But it wouldn’t have been right. Not now. Not while I was one of “the others.”

Bonnie and my mom decided to make a “thing” out of
their first shared Thanksgiving. They knew some folks from their office who lived way across the country from their loved ones, so they wanted to open the house and make it a party. We weren’t a traditional family and our moms had no intention of pretending otherwise. They didn’t bother with a turkey. They abandoned cranberries and marshmallow-covered sweet potatoes. Instead they decided to do a baked potato bar, where everyone could create their own spud masterpiece to their liking. There were the traditional toppings like sour cream, chives, bacon or cheese. But there were also options like chili, taco meat, avocado and smothered beef tips with onions.

I think that both moms thought if they could make Thanksgiving different enough, they could make it fun again. It wouldn’t remind us of all the things we were missing, things that we had all taken for granted just a year or two before.

A Norman Rockwell painting, we weren’t.

Only it didn’t work that way for me. The more different they made it, the more alien it seemed. My enthusiasm for such social gatherings had already been zapped. This left-turn delivered the fatal blow. I told my mom I’d rather read in my room and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I didn’t know then, but I would carry the hurt look on her face on my conscience for the rest of my life.

She immediately adopted her sunny smile, gave me a hug and said, “Whatever you want, dear.”

Whatever I wanted?

I wanted my Daddy back.

But he was ‘gone,’ and had been for nearly a year and a half.

So I sat in that room, an uneaten PB&J sandwich getting crusty and gross in the sunlight by the window I stared out of, watching all the kids play in the yard. Dylan impressed me again with his ability to keep a horde entertained. He was silly and creative and brilliant even then. While I clutched an inanimate doll to my chest, he was off killing dragons or running from dragons, or a variety of other scenarios usually reserved for Saturday morning TV.

By mid-afternoon, I opened my window so I could hear them play.

“You go over there! Pretend you’re like a super villain who just stole an ancient crown jewel that gives you magical powers,” Dylan instructed as he handed off a plain old rock. I smiled despite myself.

I fought the impulse to join them all the way until the last child left for home. It was dark by the time I crept out of my room. The Moms were in the kitchen, listening to 60s be-bop music as they cleaned. I kept a low profile as I headed out the back door, through the garage and out into the backyard.

The floodlights of the house tapered off around the large oak tree that housed Dylan’s secret sanctuary, but I could see a light burning inside. I took a deep breath for courage and headed up the rope ladder. I tapped two times before he opened the trap door. “Hey,”
he said with a smile.

I couldn’t help but return it. “Hey.”

He moved aside so that I could climb through the door. “You missed it,” he said as he returned to his epic alien battle with his action figures. “Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.”

I shrugged as I sat closer, my legs crossed over each other. Like every other kid in existence, Dylan was obsessed with
Star Wars
. He had seen it no fewer than twelve times in the theater, and owned every single toy they made. His whole tree house looked like the barren wasteland of Tatooine. He quickly handed me a figurine and began interacting with me in character, complete with sound effects.

He didn’t expect anything more from me. We were free to escape into a galaxy far, far away and forget about anything that made us sad. I found myself acting out the part for my character, using weak sound
effects of my own. He never laughed, though he could have. Instead he would roll with whatever I suggested, to make it even more fun.

Our playtime was interrupted by my growling stomach. He laughed. “Didn’t you eat?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t hungry.”

He nodded. He understood. He grabbed his
walkie-talkie. “Breaker, breaker. This is Tangled Yo-Yo. We have an emergency snack situation. Come back.”

Within a few minutes, Bonnie replied. “That’s a big 10-4, good buddy.”

After he put down the walkie-talkie, I gave him a raised eyebrow. “Tangled Yo-Yo?”

He withdrew a shoe box full of inoperable toys that had been tangled and mangled beyond repair. I laughed as I grabbed the clear sparkly one. “Never could figure it out,” he said. “I can pop a wheelie, ride a skateboard and take my walkie-talkie apart and put it back together, but a string and a piece of plastic?
No way.”

I laughed as I worked on the tangle. “You’re still the smartest person I know.”

“You think so?” he asked.

“Remember the spelling bee?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Last year?” he asked.

I nodded. “That was where I first noticed you. I thought you were the smartest kid in our school.”

“You should have said something. Then we could have been friends sooner.”

“Are we friends now?” I asked, taken aback by the thought. I had felt so alone for so long, the concept was foreign to me.

“Of course,” he said. “Best friends.”

While I processed this new and puzzling information, Bonnie tapped out a code on the door. She passed a tray full of goodies through the trap door, including two pieces of traditional pumpkin pie covered in whipped cream.

“
Now
it’s Thanksgiving,” Dylan said as he dug into his piece.

“Not yet,” I said with a smile as I rolled a plastic, glittery yo-yo down a newly straightened string. His eyes were wide as it returned back up the string to my hand. I was pleased with how impressed he looked, like I had performed a magic trick.

My appetite came back in a big way as I dug into my own piece of pie. The taste of that creamy orange goodness instantly connected me to all my good memories of this holiday, rescuing it from the ashes at last.

And for the first time in a year and a half, I knew I had one very important thing for which to be grateful.

I wasn’t alone anymore. I wasn’t weird. I wasn’t one of ‘the others.’ Dylan Fenn accepted me.

I had a new place to belong.

November 20, 2007

Finally the car skidded to a stop on the gravel in front of the cabin. Our cheeks were rosy and our breath frosty as we hit the cold air that hinted at snow. “I’m so glad I packed my long underwear,” Dylan winked, which made Meghan and me laugh.

“And I packed the bourbon,” I quipped, which made him laugh, too.

“You just became my favorite person on the trip,” he replied.

I cocked an eyebrow. “You mean I wasn’t before?”

He walked around the car to pull me into a side hug. “Favoriter,” he amended with a kiss on my upturned nose.

“Gross,” Meghan groaned as she pulled her suitcase up the paved walkway to the cabin.

“Looks like we offended the gentle sensibilities of a teenager,” he mused. “Let’s do it again.” He bent his head to plant a legitimate kiss on my mouth, immediately deepening it as he clutched me close.

I was a lot warmer when he pulled away, and Meghan simply shook her head at the hopeless, embarrassing adults. “Please tell me I have my own room,” she said as we joined her at the door.

He just gave her a cockeyed grin as he swung open the door to a massive two-story cabin with warm paneled walls, and a huge brick fireplace that beckoned us into the inviting room. “Dylan,” I breathed. “You shouldn’t have spent this kind of money.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t spend any money.” He led us inside and closed the door, and the wintery weather, behind us. “It’s my Dad’s.”

I could see the personal touches as I inspected the room. There were photos on the mantle, mostly of the mysterious Father Fenn, who looked like an older version of Dylan, if you added some gray to his hair and took away all his good humor.

He was still handsome and quite obviously master over all he surveyed.

It must have been a family trait.

But the cabin itself was spectacular, with hardwood floors and high-beamed ceilings, a full gourmet kitchen and three bedrooms
. The enclosed patio out back even had its own hot tub and bar.

“You’ll have to thank him for us for letting us stay for the holiday.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dylan said. “He doesn’t really know.”

“Dylan,” I admonished but he offered a good-humored shrug.

“It’s not like he ever gets back west anyway. It sits unused except for a couple of caretakers. I figured this year I’d just keep it all in the family.” I wasn’t really convinced so he added, “I do it all the time. At least two or three times a year since I was eighteen. It’s okay, Roni. I promise.”

For a split second I wondered how many other women he had brought up here to romance but I quickly dashed the thought. Worrying about the past or the future only fucked up the moment, especially where Dylan Fenn was concerned.

So we set up the kitchen while Dylan unloaded the car. I prepared some hot chocolate while he started a fire, and Meghan sat on her computer trying to figure out an itinerary. I sat between them on the couch as they planned their day.

“I definitely want to ski,” she said.

“Fantastic,” Dylan responded. “I love to ski.”

“Y’all have fun,” I said before I sipped my hot chocolate.

“You don’t ski?” Dylan asked.

“You’ve seen me dance,” I replied. “I barely stay upright on two feet.”

“Bullshit,” he grinned. “Remember when you and Bryan did the dance to
Footloose
at the White Party?”

Meghan nearly choked on her cocoa. “You did
what
?”

“How much of yourself have you concealed from this child?” he asked me.

“Apparently all the fun stuff,” Meghan answered for me. “That settles it. We’re skiing.”

I shook my head. “I’d prefer not to spend Thanksgiving wrapped around a tree, thank you.”

“Fine, then we’ll do the zipline,” she compromised.

“So my choice is ‘or death?’” I said, invoking one of our favorite comedy routines.

Despite my futile protests, Dylan and Meghan managed to get me back into my jacket, back out of the cabin and on our way to the zipline course. All the way I argued that I was too fat to participate, but as it turns out, I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Embarrassingly I had to be weighed to be sure, and I feared that dreaded scale telling me that I had finally cracked the 200-pound barrier again. But my weight remained steady at 183 pounds. Though I was technically 28 pounds overweight according to the BMI chart, I was safely under the 250-pound limit for our particular activity. Meghan nudged me with her elbow. “See? I told you that you weren’t as big as you think,” she said.

Dylan grinned. “I could have told you that,” he added.

With all of my arguments aside from blind fear nullified, I signed the waiver and got into the Jeep with the rest of the crazy people who thought sailing down a wire in a mountain was a good idea.

Or should I say, sailing down a total of nine
ziplines. Our three-hour tour would consist of various rides in various levels, at speeds reaching more than forty miles an hour. Nothing they told me made me feel any better about what we were about to do, and I was trembling so bad that Dylan put his arm around me, thinking I was cold.

Meghan, however, was practically hopping in her seat. This was just her kind of activity. She had been born a hell-raiser and a risk-taker. I still suspected she might have been swapped at birth.

When we reached that first platform, I opted to go last, so that I could watch how Dylan and Meghan did it before I gave it a try. Meghan went first, listening intently to her instructor before she sailed off. As I watched her literally fly away from me, it occurred to me that was what she had been doing since the day she was born. This amazing person, who had her own thoughts, opinions, dreams and desires, had her own path to cut in this world. She was strong and confident, which I had always attributed to Wade.

But like a brick wall it hit me that Wade had very little to do with her upbringing. He had delegated it all to me while he took over the business world and romanced a revolving door of women.

I
had raised her to be that way. And it was everything I never could bring myself to be.

Tears chilled on my cheeks as I whooped just as loud as she did, watching her land safely on the other side, victorious and jubilant.

Dylan was next. “Kiss for luck,” he said as he leaned close. I indulged him and he was smiling as he pulled away. “See you on the other side, provided we both don’t plummet to our deaths first,” he grinned.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You suck, Dylan Fenn.”

“Yes, I do,” he affirmed as he cocked his eyebrow and touched his tongue practically to his nose before he took off. He was predictably excellent. He hollered as he sailed through the air like a bird, and Meghan jumped up and down until he reached her on the other side, throwing herself into his arms as he landed on the platform.

Then it was my turn. I was 120 feet from joining them, from being one of them. The instructor gave me my final instructions as I was buckled into the harness. “You’re going to be great,” he promised and I nodded, though my heart was lodged somewhere in my throat.

And then I was off, sailing through the trees like a bird. I screamed the whole way, but what started out as terror ended up just as jubilant as my daughter as I reached the both of them. Meghan practically jumped into my arms and Dylan took us both into a hug.

The ride got a lot more fun after that, and on our very last
zipline, over 800 feet, we were even treated to a gentle snowfall. Dylan caught me with a kiss to reward me for all my bravery. Then he whispered, “Now you know what it feels like whenever I touch you,” he murmured against my ear. “You are the reason I fly, Roni.”

I got lost in those warm eyes.
“Ditto.”

We joined our tour group and headed
back down the mountain. Barbara, who was a lodge-owner from the village, invited us to join them for dinner. I glanced at Meghan, who was shyly smiling at Barbara’s handsome blond son, Taylor. These two athletic, beautiful teens had clicked immediately throughout our three-hour expedition, so the question had already been answered.

We didn’t leave the lodge until eleven that night, and by then that asshole Kyle had long been forgotten. Meghan was smitten with a boy who knew how to say please and thank you,
hold open doors and shake hands. He even asked me for permission before he offered to take her with his group the next day to ski, and by then I knew what kind of boy he was and what kind of parents had raised him. I nodded without hesitation, and Meghan was overjoyed to have a group of kids her own age to spend the day before Thanksgiving.

“Please say you’ll join us for the holiday,” Barbara said as she leaned toward me. “We’ll have enough turkey and stuffing to feed an army.”

Dylan nodded and answered for us. “We’d love to, Barbara. Thank you.”

All in all, it was shaping up to be a beautiful holiday.

I said as much after we retired that night. Meghan had made an early night of it so that she could meet her group at daybreak, so Dylan and I had finally made our way to the solitude of our private bedroom, shutting the world behind us at last.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” he said as he pulled me close. His mouth landed on mine and all else was forgotten except the bubbly excitement I always found in his embrace. He was like
a tall glass of living, breathing champagne, and I was hopelessly inebriated.

He pressed me up against the wall as he devoured my mouth. I wound my arms around his neck and clutched him tight, one of my legs curving around his. He was breathless when the kiss broke. “I feel like we’ve been waiting for this moment forever,” he murmured as his eyes, clouded with passion, bore into mine.

“We have,” I whispered back.

“Why is that, you think?”

I shrugged. I could feel every line of his body against mine, something I had dreamed about for decades. His arms were solid and warm and real. This wasn’t some fanciful dream with Rob Lowe. This was a man I had loved as long as I could remember. “Because I’m stupid?”

He chuckled. “Fortunately for you, I have a thing for dumb chicks.”

I grinned. “No, you don’t.”

“See? You’re not so stupid after all.” His eyes fell to my mouth. “God,
Roni. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Even Amber?”

His brow furrowed.
“Who?”

“Amber. Remember?
Tenth grade?”

He laughed. “Tell me you haven’t been holding onto that for twenty years.”

I shrugged. “She was pretty and smart and kind…”

“So were you,” he said.

I chortled. “Please.”

He caressed my face with his hand. “That’s your problem, Ms. Lawless. You’ve never seen what I’ve seen. I see the silky hair, black as night. Those hazel eyes
that always turn greener if you’re mad, or sad or just before we kiss.” He punctuated his sentence with a soft peck on my lips as his hand slipped down my neck to my shoulder. “And that body, so soft, so supple, such a woman before I even knew what a woman could be. Thoughts of you kept me up every night when I was fifteen. I learned to masturbate because of you,” he added with a lascivious grin. “Every night, just a room away, hoping you couldn’t hear, but praying maybe you did and you’d know it was because of you.” Fire coursed in my veins as he bent to kiss the line of my neck near my ear. “I wanted to lose myself in you.”

My eyes met his. “Then how come none of the girls you dated look like me?”

His eyes swept my face. “Because there is no one like you, Roni. I’ve searched the world over and I know that better than anyone.” His mouth descended toward mine and I opened my mouth to deepen the kiss as it landed. He groaned in my mouth. “Tell me you want me, Roni,” he pleaded in a whisper.

“I want you,” I breathed against his lips. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He lifted me up in his arms and carried me toward the bed, where we landed so soft it was as if we disappeared in a cloud. Impatiently he slipped his hand up under my shirt to caress the sensitive skin of my bare stomach, inching ever closer to my breast. I whimpered as I arched my back towards him.

“Touch me,” I begged softly.

He obeyed my desperate command, peeling my shirt away, revealing the satiny, sexy underwear underneath. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered as his mouth trailed from mine toward the hardened peak of my breast.

From the undeniable response of his body, I believed him.

He unhooked the bra in front until the fabric fell away. His mouth was around my nipple before the cool air could hit it and I gasped as his tongue circled it slowly and tortuously. I grabbed a handful of his thick, dark hair and pressed him into me. He switched to the other breast and I writhed underneath him. His fingers and hands and lips seemed to be everywhere at once. I was incapable of speaking as he dipped lower, trailing his tongue down my abdomen as he unfastened my jeans. I lifted my hips up as he pulled the jeans and underwear down in one smooth tug, revealing me to him at last. I gasped as his head disappeared between my thighs, kissing his way to the very core of me.