Always Florence (15 page)

“It shows my determination and fearless self-esteem in the face of bullying.”

She laughed again and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, a gesture that seemed fraught with electric significance. He took advantage of the moment to hold her to him, and she relished having the excuse to let him. She felt as though she’d swallowed butterflies.

She finally pushed herself away, looking into his eyes with accusation she didn’t really feel.

“Phony baloney,” he said under his breath. “Don’t blame me for that.”

Sheamus came out of the house frowning, the basketball tucked under his arm, his jacket hanging open. “Dylan’s crying,” he said.

“Okay.” Nate’s expression changed and he began backing toward the house. “You all go ahead and play....”

Stella started to follow. “Shall I come?”

“No. Stay and play.”

“I’ll go with Nate.” Bobbie fell in step beside him as he turned toward the house. “Okay?” she asked him.

“Please.” He opened the door and held it for her, looking worried.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’
M
NOT
claiming to know what to do,” she said softly as she ran up the stairs behind him. “I just thought you might like backup.”

“I do. I never know what to do.”

Serious sobbing was audible even before they reached the top of the stairs. Nate followed the sound, ignored the closed door and went inside, Bobbie right behind him.

There was a medium-size lump under the blue-and-gray quilt in the middle of Dylan’s bed. Arnold lay beside it, whining. Nate sat on the other side and touched the top of the blanket.

“Dylan? What is it?”

“Go away!”

“I’m not going away. I have to know what’s wrong. Are you sick?”

“No. So you can
go away!
”

“Well...” Nate hesitated. “There’re all kinds of sick. Sometimes it’s not your head or your stomach, but...your heart. Or maybe your feelings.”

Dylan cried harder and said nothing.

Bobbie saw Nate square his shoulders. “Are you missing your mom and dad?” he asked. “Because there’s nothing wrong with that. Especially at Thanksgiving. It was always such an important holiday for our family. You can tell me if that’s it.”

Dylan burst out from under the blanket, his dark hair mussed, his face red and swollen, his eyes tortured. He sat up, holding a rumpled piece of paper. Bobbie recognized it as a page from the Canson sketch pad she’d given him.

“I thought I could do it, but I can’t!” he wept. “I wanted to because...” His voice choked.

Bobbie sat behind him and rubbed his back. “It’s okay, Dylan. It’s going to be okay.”

Nate asked quietly, “What is it that you can’t do?”

Dylan shoved the paper at him.“I can’t think about what happened! Sheamus could do it! He opened his closet. I know what it means. He didn’t really think there was a monster there, but he was just scared. Scared of everything. Because our mom and dad are gone and never coming back!” Dylan dissolved into noisy tears and Nate wrapped him in his arms.

Holding the boy closely, he opened the piece of paper and studied it. Bobbie saw the reaction in his eyes, then the look of misery that matched Dylan’s as Nate handed it to her.

It was Dylan’s sketch; the expressive lines she’d praised, indicating the movement of water, the solidity of rock. But since she’d seen it, he’d added some things. There were a few seagulls in the air, an interesting boat in the distance that was probably more creative than accurate. It was tipping sideways, as though overtaken by a wave.

Then, with a thud of her heart, she noticed people in the water. People drowning. Near the boat, two figures held hands under the water as it claimed them. Dylan’s parents, she guessed. Bobbie clapped a palm to her mouth to hold back her own sob.

“Dylan,” Nate said, his voice raspy. “Do you know how brave it is that you faced this? Because you did. You put it down on paper. It’s an ugly thing to know, but you made yourself look at it. A lot of adults can’t do that.”

Dylan wrapped his arms around Nate and held on. “I thought I could do it. But I can’t.”

“But you did. The fact that it hurts and makes you cry doesn’t mean you can’t do it. You did.”

Dylan finally quieted. “I hated that Sheamus always cried,” he said, sniffing. “Now
I
can’t stop.”

“It’s all right, Dyl. I cry about them all the time.”

Dylan drew back, looking into Nate’s tear-filled eyes. Then he fell against him again. “I guess we’re a couple of dorks.”

“I guess we are. Emotion isn’t a bad thing. It doesn’t mean you’re wimpy if you cry. It just means you have feelings.”

“Yeah.” Dylan sounded unconvinced. He finally sat up.

Bobbie hugged him. “Want me to make you some cocoa?”

Dylan shook his head. “I feel kind of sick.” He made an urgent move to get off the bed. Nate walked him into the bathroom just in time.

Bobbie straightened his sheets, smoothed out the picture he’d drawn and placed it inside his sketch pad. She opened his drapes to the sunny afternoon and could see her father, Stella and Sheamus taking turns shooting baskets. Her dad looked youthful and remarkably agile, and Stella was laughing.

Dennis lifted Sheamus on his shoulders and the boy shot. The ball bounced off the rim of the basket and hit her father in the head. Sheamus and Stella laughed hysterically.

Bobbie felt a twinge in the region of her heart. This was what she’d wanted for her father all along. She wanted him to find someone to hang out with, so that she could go to Italy without having to worry about him worrying about
her.
He’d have his own life to keep in order. At least, that was her theory.

Of course, this situation wasn’t without its problems, because he lived in Southern California and Stella lived here. Bobbie hoped they would work that out, because she was leaving.

In all the years of planning her life in Florence, Bobbie had never thought she’d miss having a husband and family. Now she was afraid she might. Still, she’d promised herself. Every human being had to reach out and find the limits of their capabilities.

Dylan came out of the bathroom, pale but clear-eyed.

Nate yanked the quilt off the bed. “You want to come downstairs, curl up on the sofa and watch football?”

Dylan actually smiled.

Nate pointed him forward. “Go ahead. Bobbie, can you grab a pillow?”

She did as he asked, and they made a comfortable cocoon for Dylan on the sofa. Nate handed him the remote. “I’ll get you a glass of 7 Up. That’ll taste good and help your stomach, too.”

“Thanks.” Dylan snuggled into his quilt and aimed the remote at the TV.

Stella, Dennis and Sheamus came through the back door as Nate poured the soft drink into a glass.

“How is he?” Stella asked quietly. Dennis and Sheamus simply went into the living room to see for themselves.

Nate gave her a brief report of what had happened while Bobbie poured coffee.

Stella’s eyes filled. “Poor kid. Can I take him that?”

Nate handed her the glass.

She elbowed Bobbie as she passed her. “Good work with the art supplies. You seem to be two for two with the boys. I’m sure having that image out of his head and onto paper will give him a new perspective on everything.”

Bobbie smiled but shrugged off the praise. “He did it himself. I just gave him the sketch pad and pens.”

When Nate and she were alone, he caught her hand and drew her to him. “You have done a lot for Dylan,” he said, “besides giving him the supplies. You’ve been kind and caring, you praised his work, gave him some advice, and I’m sure that helped convince him that he could create that picture.” Nate pulled her into his arms and simply held her. “It was painful, and I’m sure he’ll still have some bad moments, but it’s an important step.”

Bobbie leaned into Nate and let herself enjoy the moment. She noticed through the kitchen window that long afternoon shadows already fell on the yard. Thanksgiving Day was almost over. In less than a month, it would be Christmas and then New Year’s, and before she knew it, time for her to go.

Nate kissed the top of her head and looked down at her. “You’ve got a death grip on me, woman. Is there something you want to tell me?”

She hesitated, gathering fortitude before pushing way and squaring her shoulders. She had to stop this. Now.

“You have to let me go, Nate.”

He held up both hands. “I’m not touching you.” He smiled easily as though he understood an important truth. “What’s holding you captive is your own ambivalence. It isn’t anything I’m doing. You care more than you want to.”

She swatted his arm, exasperated. “And you shouldn’t care at all. You lost your mom to what I’ve got, remember?”

He folded his arms. “I remember. And as soon as I was old enough to understand that everybody hurts and everybody has to deal with it, I realized I wouldn’t have given up having her as my mother to spare myself the grief. She was great. She loved me. I loved her.”

“You’ve had too many losses!” Her voice rose. She sighed and made a conscious effort to lower it. “You don’t need another one. Have you no sense of self-preservation?!”

He opened his arms in a gesture of helplessness and laughed. “Apparently not.”

Frustrated by his refusal to understand, she caught her jacket off the back of a kitchen chair and stormed out the back door.

“Watch the chrysanthemums!” he called after her.

* * *

N
ATE
COULDN
’
T
HELP
punching the air in victory the moment she was out of sight. Bobbie was a complicated woman and there was no telling precisely what was going on in her head, but he saw love for him in her eyes, despite her heated claims to the contrary and her insistence that she was leaving. He felt a little like Dylan’s impressive Mentos geyser in the punch bowl at the Monster Bash.

Patience was going to be required here, but he could do that. Dealing with the boys had taught him well.

* * *

B
OBBIE
WAS
WRITING
OUT
her shopping list for the following day when her father came home. She’d told Nate she was going to work on the painting, but she didn’t think she could look at the image of his face right now with any equanimity.

So she cut coupons, circled items on a newspaper ad, and made copious notes at the bottom of her list.

Dennis picked up Monet to sit beside her on the sofa. The cat purred and allowed himself to be cuddled in her dad’s lap.

“Complicated system,” he said, indicating the list with a jut of his chin. “With the circles and the arrows, it looks like a football playbook.”

Bobbie glanced up at him, laughing. “A three hundred pound front line would come in handy at these sales. How’s Stella?”

“Good.” He sat back quietly. Bobbie saw that serene, paternal expression that had always defeated her passionate entreaties to do dangerous things when she’d been a girl.

“What’s on your mind, Dad?” She pushed the ad and notes aside and gave him her full attention.

“I really like Nate and the boys,” he said, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling. “And it’s clear they love you. I’m not meddling, I just wonder if you’re so dedicated to an old dream that you’re ignoring all the new elements in your life.”

At her impatient sigh, he added quickly, “I mean, I love you, and I’ll support whatever you want to do. I just wonder if your great determination is the best thing here.”

She’d been asking herself the same thing and had no good answer.

“I don’t know, Dad. And I’m too tired to think about such heavy stuff tonight.”

“Okay. I just don’t want you to sacrifice all the love and warmth in your life in pursuit of your talent.” Monet climbed out of his lap and onto hers. Her dad pointed to the cat. “Love will give back to you. I have no experience with what producing brilliant artwork will give you.”

She fell wearily back against the sofa and stroked the purring cat. “Please don’t worry, Dad. I’m thinking hard about it. What about Stella? You seem to really like each other, but you live a thousand miles apart. And are you really joining Doctors Without Borders?”

“I’m seriously considering it. And Stella’s going to be a good friend, I think. She says she’ll come and visit in the spring. We’ll just be happy to connect when we can.”

“That sounds very comfortable.” Bobbie felt jealous that it could be so simple for them. “If only I could work out that kind of a relationship with Nate.”

Her father put an arm around her. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s the kind of relationship you have when you’re old. When you’re young and raising a family, it should be about passion and commitment, and working together for a shared goal.”

She sighed and relaxed against him for a moment. “The problem is, we have different goals.”

“You seem to have strong feelings for each other.”

It was the first time she’d seriously considered the question. “We do. But we also keep sparking off each other, so I’m not sure what it means. There is passion, but I have to go and he has to stay. I don’t think there’s a way to fix that.”

“Mmm.” Her dad squeezed her shoulder bracingly. “Well, if you decide you want to, there’s a way to fix everything.” He smiled philosophically. “In relationships, anyway. In cars and in medicine, not so much.”

* * *

“S
IXTEEN
PAIRS
OF
SOCKS
,” Stella said, rooting through several bags at her feet. “Sweatshirts for the boys, a Mariners hat and a couple of turtlenecks...” She, Bobbie and Sandy sat at a small table at Starbucks, their tall, whipped cream-topped coffee drinks crowded together, a sea of bags at their feet.

Bobbie laughed. “Well, that’s all pretty staid. I bought a magic bra.”

“Smart woman,” Sandy praised, then turned sideways to show off her ample bosom in a red sweater. “But I don’t need a magic bra.”

Bobbie swatted her arm. “Brag, brag!”

There was quiet for a few moments while they sipped at their drinks and picked at the coffee cake. Conversation buzzed around them as shoppers came and went.

“What was your mother like?” Stella asked Bobbie. There was interest in her expression. She looked youthful today in a pink sweater, her white hair pulled back into a knot.

“Ah...” Bobbie thought about how to answer that in quick, simple terms, without recounting the million examples of how wonderful she’d been. “Very smart,” she said, smiling as she remembered. “A clever, crafty person who made a fortune for her church circle at the bazaar every year, a screaming liberal who argued with my more conservative father all the time, and just a warm, loving wife and mother.”

Stella’s smile was bright. “Do you think she’d mind my spending time with your father?”

“She’d want him to be happy. And so do I. But isn’t the distance thing going to be a problem?”

“Not for me. I have my job with Nate, I have my son. I’ll want to be around. But I’d like to visit in the spring and see what his life in California is like.” Stella patted Bobbie’s hand affectionately. “It’s hard to imagine that I met him only four days ago.” She put her hand over her eyes and made a small sound of distress. “It’s a wonder I didn’t kill him when I pinned him to the floor with the mop.”