Coming in from the Cold (10 page)

And some time in the middle there, she’d met Dane.

Willow began to sweat. She went back into the store and—for the first time in her life—bought a pregnancy test. With shaking fingers, she fumbled her way through the self-checkout kiosk instructions.

It was probably nothing, she reasoned on the drive home. The delay might have convinced her body to start her period late.

But ten minutes later, Willow was sitting on her toilet, staring at a positive pregnancy test.

There was only one person to call. “Callie?”

“Willow?”

“Please tell me you’re not on call tonight.”

“Why, sweetie? You sound upset.”

“Can you come over? I need to see you.”

“You’re scaring me. Is this a problem that can be solved with ice cream? Or tequila?”

Willow blew out a breath. “Ice cream, I guess.”
Definitely not tequila
.

“I’ll come after work.”

* * *

She and Callie sat on Willow’s sofa, tears drying on both their faces.

“Oh, Willow. You have to stop beating yourself up over this.”

“If there were anyone else to blame, I’d happily share,” she said. “But this one is really on me.”

“But blaming yourself just won’t help. Besides, maybe the dude has special ski sperm. It made a beeline for your cervix.”

When Willow laughed, a few more tears spilled from her eyes. “Just think what an excellent school psychologist I’ll be some day. They can send all the knocked-up teenagers to my office door. And I’ll know just what they’re going through.”

Callie laughed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Willow.”

“I’m going to leave a bowl of condoms out on my desk, the way some people offer candy.”

“After everything else…I can’t believe this is happening to you.”

“It’s my fault, Callie. Just like everything else that’s gone wrong.”

“I’m not going to ask you what you’ve decided to do. Because I hope you haven’t decided yet.”

Willow shook her head. “I have to sit with it for a little while, don’t I?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

She blew out a breath. “I probably have to, right? But he won’t take it well. I never met anybody less interested in commitment than this guy.”

Callie groaned. “So that won’t be a fun conversation.”

“No,” Willow sighed. “It won’t be.”

“You always said you wanted children, Willow.”

“I do,” she said softly. “Absolutely.”

Callie’s voice was small. “But the circumstances stink. This is a tough one, isn’t it?”

“The toughest,” Willow agreed.

“You’d be a great mother,” Callie said as she stepped outside. “I just know it.”

* * *

After Callie left, the last words her friend had said to her echoed through her brain.
You’d be a great mother, Willow
. At any other point in her life, she would have agreed. In fact, she’d always looked forward to having a chance to prove it. Her own parents had given her up in favor of drugs and alcohol. Willow had gone into foster care at age four, and then spent her elementary school years wondering what she’d done to make them abandon her. It had turned her into the world’s most conscientious girl, the sort who was careful to get an A on every spelling test and to always wash the dishes before her foster mom could get to them.

It wasn’t until college that Willow was able to put any of it in perspective. Once she discovered psychology courses, she was hooked. Right there inside her weighty hardcover textbooks she began to understand that her childhood behavior was a classic case of overcompensation. It was a relief to learn that there were simple explanations for the choices she made, and for the compulsion she always felt toward pleasing people.

Willow had looked forward to motherhood, to loving a child so much better than her own parents had done. But now she wondered if she was just overcompensating again. Would it be fair to the child to be born like this—to someone who had managed her life so badly that keeping food on the table would be a struggle?

She just didn’t know. And now she had to sort it out herself, without the help of the loving partner she’d always imagined would go along with the fantasy of becoming someone’s mom.

And soon.

Dane wiped the sweat off his forehead with the arm of his jacket.

“I moved the seventh gate,” Coach said. “The new combination is hairpins into flush. Can you see it from here?”

“Sure,” Dane answered, pulling his goggles down. “I’ll have to trim my line to the left in order to make the eighth one.”

“Exactly. Whenever you’re ready,” Coach said, planting his poles in the snow. Then he skied down the side of the course, arriving at the finish line with a wave.

Slalom was not Dane’s favorite. It was too fiddly, too technical for his taste. But a couple of times a season, he made it onto the podium in slalom nonetheless. Dane stood there at the top of the course, mapping it out one more time with his eyes. Then he launched himself forward, picking up speed into the first combination.

Even though slalom wasn’t as fast and furious as his favorite events, he still enjoyed the
swish-swish
of his skis on the course and the
click-click
of the gates as he swatted past them. And there was nothing like a slalom run for emptying your mind of everything but the course and the moment. A distracted skier will clip a gate faster than you can say “disqualified.”

He ran the first part of the course effortlessly, including Coach’s hairpin change up. Things were still looking good on the steepest part, where Coach had set three tight combinations back to back. Dane began to lean into the last third of the course, willing his quadriceps to keep up the good work. But the lactic acid buildup was starting to smart as he dove for the last half dozen gates.

The course was nearly in the bag when he felt his left foot slip. Looking down, that last fractional second, he saw his ski hook a gate, sending him skidding to the side. Dane’s heart began to pound as he slowed down his speed, bypassing the last few gates and pulling up beside Coach with a hockey stop.

“What the fuck?” Dane asked, out of breath. He rubbed his left thigh.

“You caught a little edge there,” Coach said mildly.

“I didn’t feel anything grab the tip,” Dane spat. “That was just odd.” His heart rate refused to subside. He shook out his left leg, wondering what had just happened.
Muscle tremor
, his subconscious threatened.

“It’s not at all odd,” Coach said, his voice a warning. “Let’s eat lunch. It’s high time.”

Dane gazed back up toward the course, as if the answers lay there. He massaged his left leg, trying to convince himself that nothing peculiar had just happened to him.
Move on
, he ordered himself. He pulled off his helmet, letting the cold air work on his sweaty head. “Okay. The main lodge or the scary pizza?” he asked. The trouble with ski mountain food was that it all sucked. It was overpriced and poor quality. Greasy soups, floppy pizza. Dane lived on it.

“Do you want to come to my place for lunch? I have pulled pork sandwiches.”

“Really?” Dane asked. “I never saw you cook anything that wasn’t a frozen dinner.”

Coach chuckled. “I don’t. But my landlady does. She brought a Tupperware container to my door, because she said the recipe made too much.”

Uh oh
. “Well that’s a good deal for you,” Dane said.

“Truly. You should meet this one, Dane. She’s gorgeous. Get yourself a girlfriend for once.”

Dane bent over to unbuckle his boots. “That’s the thing, Coach. I don’t have girlfriends. And, unfortunately, I can’t really drop by your place unless she’s not home.”

Coach was silent for a moment, and when Dane stood up again, he snorted. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He shook his head. “We’ve been in this town for about ten minutes, and you’ve already blown this girl off?”

Dane shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

Coach waited for Dane to pick up his skis. “Well, let’s eat. I’m having a pulled pork sandwich. You can either come with me or not.”

“If I see that truck in her driveway, I’m driving on by.”

“You do that.” Coach shook his head.

* * *

Willow had a temp job in town at the insurance agency. Several days a week she put on office clothes and helped the local agents renew policies and process claims. Like everything else in Willow’s life, the job flickered like a candle in the wind—always on the verge of going out. This week, they’d only asked her in for three half days.

So it was just past one when she pulled into her driveway, spotting a familiar green Jeep parked at the top of the rise. Her first reaction was:
men are so freaking predictable
.

To say that her gift of food was calculated to summon Dane to her door was not strictly true. She’d braised a seven-pound pork shoulder to take to her book club last night, but then the women had eaten far less than she’d brought. And while Willow loved pulled pork, she knew she’d get sick of it quickly enough. Handing some off to Coach was not only sensible, but neighborly.

But she
had
wondered if he’d share.

So Willow gave herself points for intuition. But now that Dane was here, mere steps from her door, she knew she wasn’t ready to tell him about the pregnancy. The news—the problem—was still too raw, too fresh. And since she already knew just how Dane would feel about it, Willow couldn’t tell him until she knew precisely how she felt about it herself.

At least, as precisely as possible for someone as confused as she was.

She hopped out of her truck and sped inside. She wouldn’t put herself in his path; she wasn’t ready. But now that she knew Coach and Dane were a pair, at least she had a way to get in touch with him when she needed to—and not merely with barbecue. When she was ready to tell Dane, the nice older guy with the friendly eyes could be counted on to help summon him. She was sure of it.

In her kitchen, Willow put a crock of dried beans to soak on the table. She would make a batch of white bean chili tomorrow with green chilies and ground turkey. Chili was the perfect single girl food—beans were cheap and healthy, and when you got tired of it, you could freeze the rest.

She wondered if the spicy foods she liked to eat would start to put her off. Morning sickness—when did that start happening?

Her phone rang.

The pulled pork sandwich was remarkably tasty, just as Dane knew it would be. And Coach’s little apartment was, as a chick would say, cozy. There were thick old wooden beams on the ceiling and a wood stove in the corner.

“Do you hear that?” Coach asked with a wink, as the sound of Willow’s truck roared up the steep drive.

“Sure do,” Dane sighed. “There’s nothing I’ve ever done wrong that I wasn’t immediately busted for. Remind me never to knock over a liquor store.”

Coach laughed. “If things are as bad as you say, she won’t knock. Does she even know your car?”

“Yeah.”
Does she ever
.

Coach ate the last bite of his sandwich. “Someday, I’m going to dance at your wedding, kid.”

Dane’s eyes cut to his. “No way.”

The older man nodded. “I know you think it’s impossible. And God only knows who the bride will be. But someday….”

Something about Coach’s words hit a little too close to home. He’d said
impossible
instead of
unlikely
, and Dane wondered why. He had never told anyone his secret. Of course Coach knew Finn was dying, but Dane had never told him the cause. He didn’t need anyone looking up his own likely prognosis on Google.

He stood up and carried his plate over to Coach’s sink, turning on the faucet. “Let’s get back. And don’t even
think
of abandoning me out there.” He tipped his head toward the driveway. “I expect you to put on the bad cop routine. ‘Danger, we’re late for practice.’”

Coach guffawed. “Fine. I’ll crack the whip.”

“I’d really like to run some GS drills for the afternoon. If that’s okay with you,” Dane said. Just as he turned toward the door, there was a knock. “Christ,” Dane said under his breath.

Coach only grinned, moving past him to open the door.

When the door opened, Willow stood there, her face serious, her eyes cutting from Coach to Dane.

Come on, girl. Don’t be like this
, Dane thought, uncharitably.

“Sorry, guys.” She cleared her throat. “There’s a call on my line from a nursing home in New Hampshire, asking for either of you. They said my number is on Coach’s voicemail message?”

Oh.

Oh, Christ, no.
Dane felt the floor tilt under him.

“Dane.” Coach was watching him, his face stony. “They must have tried our cells,” he said in a quiet voice.

But Dane only half heard him. He walked, zombie-like, out the apartment door.

“The phone is on the kitchen counter,” Willow said as he passed her.

In Willow’s kitchen, he raised the phone to his ear. “Hello. This is Dane.”

“Mr. Hollister, this is Janice, one of the hospice…”

“I know who you are,” he said, his voice unnecessarily cold even to his own ears.

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this,” she said. “But Finn has passed.”

“Thank-you for calling,” he said, with all the warmth of a robot.

“There will be arrangements to make…” she began.

“I’ll call later,” he bit out, then shut off the phone. He dropped it onto the table, wanting to break something—the phone, the table, his own head. Something.

He always knew this call would come. But he’d dreaded it anyway. Now he was well and truly alone. Very few people had ever loved Dane. There was Finn and his mother. And now they were both gone. Finn’s body might even be lying in a refrigerator by now. Cold as ice.

Where Dane would be someday relatively soon.

He shivered.

* * *

Willow and Coach looked at each other for an awkward moment.

“It’s…” Coach said. He took the cap off his head.

“…his brother,” Willow whispered.

Coach’s eyes widened, obviously surprised that Willow knew. “Yeah.” He looked up at the ceiling, and then back at Willow. “Sorry about the call. I haven’t rung up the phone company to get a phone line put in. Seems like kind of a waste….”