Crossing Oceans (3 page)

“That’s your grandpa,” I managed.

She looked up at him with adoring eyes, then flung her pudgy arms around his shoulders.

I exhaled in relief when he reciprocated. After the hug, he stood. His expression once again bore the emotional void I’d come to expect since Mom died.

Clearing his throat, he straightened an already-even belt buckle. “I think I saw Sweet Pea run by.”

Isabella jerked her head left, then right. My father pointed to the living room and off she went, oblivious to the manipulation.

“She doesn’t know who her father is?” He glared at me as I fought back tears of frustration. I didn’t trust myself to speak, and he probably felt the same. After a few long seconds, he snatched a set of keys from the wall hook, glowered at me one last time, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter Two

Though I lay in bed for nearly two hours, sleep never came. I counted the wobbly rotations of the ceiling fan, wondering how I could tell David he had a five-year-old daughter. As impossible as it had seemed at the time to say the words
I’m pregnant
, how much worse it was now that he’d missed Isabella’s first smile, first step, first word. Would he hate me? I certainly deserved it.

I flipped onto my stomach, leaned on my elbows, and gazed up at the framed artwork that had long ago replaced my rock posters. Along sun-painted sand, a young couple strolled pinkie in pinkie. I cursed their bliss and rolled back over.

Twisting the corner of the pillow, I mentally rehearsed excuses. . . .

Remember that night in the car, David? I started to tell you, but you broke up with me first. You said things could never work for us. You told me our fathers would never get along. You told me you didn’t share my desire for having a family. How could I tell you you were going to be a father right after you said you never wanted children?

When she was born, I called you from the hospital as I held her in my arms. I couldn’t wait to show you what we’d created, but your answering machine picked up and I heard, “David and Lindsey Preston aren’t here to take your call. . . .” I didn’t know you’d gotten married. It had been less than a year since we broke up. You wouldn’t believe the shock I felt, the betrayal, the pain. . . . I didn’t want to cause trouble for you. . . . I couldn’t . . .

Giving up on both a nap and an acceptable defense, I forced myself out of bed.

* * *

Despite the magnitude of my worries, I found myself relaxing as the scent of fried chicken and baking rolls made promises to my stomach that I knew my grandmother’s cooking would make good on.

Moving around the dining room table, I laid a plate in front of each chair. A hand touched my shoulder and I nearly jumped out of my skin, dropping the last two dishes. They clanked together, making my ears ring. My gaze jetted to the plates—both intact—then to the blond frowning at me.

“Sorry, Jenny. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He looked familiar and had the kind of good looks a girl wouldn’t normally forget, but I couldn’t quite place him.

“You startled me,” I said as I picked up the dishes.

“Wow, you look exactly the same.”

The same as what? I frantically searched my mind for memories of him. Tall, narrow, about my age . . .

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling sorry indeed.

He took the plates from my hand and moved around the table, laying them down. “We went to Hargrove together. Same graduating class.”

I searched my mind for any recollection.

“I can’t believe you don’t remember me.” He said it with a glint of humor I didn’t comprehend. “How about now?” He puffed his cheeks out like he had a mouthful of water, then expelled the air.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, I stepped back. He might have just walked in off the street for all I knew. Maybe I wasn’t the one who was confused.

His eyebrows knit together, and he reached his hand out as though to keep me from running. “It’s me, Craig Allen.”

My gaze flew over him. It was clear, even through his blue Tar Heels T-shirt, that he was well-defined. The only Craig Allen I knew was a doughy sort of boy, shy and pimply. This couldn’t be him. Searching his eyes, I found they were the same stormy hazel they had been back when they were peeking out from under layers of fat.

“You’ve lost weight,” I managed.

He snickered. “Ya think?”

My cheeks blazed. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You do?”

“I rent the loft.”

“Loft?”

“The apartment above the saddle barn.”

“There’s an apartment above the saddle barn?”

“You really need to keep in touch with your family.”

I supposed by his grin that he meant his words as a joke, but the painful truth they conveyed struck me as more rude than amusing.

“Thanks for the advice, Craig. Good to see you again.”

“Thank
you
for setting the table. That’s usually my job.”

Though I knew it was irrational, I felt the prick of jealousy. Here was this man my age, living at my father’s home, eating with my family, setting
my
table. It was as if he’d taken my place. I knew, of course, that I didn’t need to be present for life to go on, but the truth of it was too much at that moment. I clamped my mouth against a sudden and overwhelming desire to scream. To hit Craig. To break something.

* * *

We sat across from each other, Craig and I, with Mama Peg on one end of the rectangular table and my father on the other. Isabella inched her chair so close to his that he’d been forced to eat in the awkward position of keeping his right elbow pinned to his side.

Ice cubes clinked together as I took a sip of sweet tea. “Bella, give your grandpa some room.”

She responded by sending me the evil eye. I pushed myself up from the table, but Mama Peg grabbed my arm. “She’s not bothering him. Is she, Jack?”

My father stared at her, lips pressed tight. “No, she’s fine.”

Isabella smirked a
so there
. The dim light from the pewter chandelier cast an odd shadow over her features, making her look like a different child.

With my fork, I arranged the peas on my plate into a frown.

The clatter of silverware and an occasional cough from Mama Peg were the only sounds as we ate. Craig snuck curious glances at Isabella while I snuck glances at him. A shroud of gloomy silence continued to hang over the room until I couldn’t stand it a second longer. I pushed my uneaten dinner to the side.

“So, Craig, what have you been up to?”

With a heap of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, he paused, meeting my gaze. He set the spoon down on his plate. “Been great. I’ve got my own business now. Landscaping.”

“Like mowing lawns and that sort of thing?”

He furrowed his brow. “Um, no, I have guys who do that. I’m more of an artist.”

“Like sculpting bushes into shapes of animals? I love . . .”

Mama Peg and my father exchanged glances. Craig looked at me as though trying to gauge whether I was joking or just plain stupid. His tone and the fresh splotches of red on his neck told me I’d missed the mark. “Not quite. I’m a landscape designer.”

The fact that I had offended him offended me, but for the sake of peace, I apologized.

The room fell silent again until Isabella asked to be excused. She’d eaten most of her dinner, leaving only an untouched roll and some scattered peas.

Her child-size suitcase leaned against the maple hutch. She grabbed it by the handle and dragged it across the rug, upside down, its small black wheels pointing uselessly toward the ceiling. I opened my mouth to correct her but changed my mind.

The sound of her unloading toys took the edge off the silence. Mama Peg reached for the glass pitcher of tea and Craig cleared his throat in disapproval. They locked eyes. She huffed and set the pitcher back down. Tea splashed around in it, a trickle escaping down the side.

I grabbed the pitcher and poured her another glass, glaring at Craig as I set it in front of her. If my grandmother wanted another drink, what was it to him?

Mama Peg reached for the glass and brought it slowly to her lips. Her hand quivered as she tilted the glass to drink.

Craig crossed his arms and stared hard at her. “Enjoy your last glass of the real stuff, Peggy. From now on it’s decaf.”

When did he become my grandmother’s keeper? I slapped down my linen napkin. “She’s a grown woman. If she wants to drink the whole pitcher, what’s it—”

“Jenny,” Mama Peg began.

“Jenny, nothing. Who does he think he is?”

She set the glass down, looking guilty. “He’s just doing what I asked him to.”

Anger melted into confusion. “What?”

“My doctor said one glass a day because of my palpitations.”

I turned to Craig. “Palpitations?”

“Your grandmother’s medications make her jittery, and when she has too much caffeine, it makes her heart race. The doctor said, unless she wants to end up with a pacemaker, one glass a day. She asked me to keep her accountable.”

My stomach got that queasy elevator feeling as I realized I was being the biggest jerk in the world.

My throat constricted and everything I’d been through in the past six years suddenly weighed on me until I could barely breathe. Traitorous tears blurred my vision. When I opened my mouth, intending to blame my volatile emotions on exhaustion, pathetic sobs busted out instead of words.

Mortified, I rushed from the room.

Unsure whether to retreat or return, I leaned my back against the kitchen wall. Crying at my circumstances. Laughing at myself. Wondering if the mind really was the first thing to go.

After a few minutes, Craig came to my side. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said.

Feeling self-conscious about the raccoon eyes I undoubtedly had, I rubbed away the wet mascara. Trails of black now marred my fingers. “What are you sorry for?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I’m always saying stuff to upset women.” He tucked his hands into his jeans.

“It wasn’t you. I’m just going through a lot. I’m the one who should be sorry for acting like a freak.”

He exhaled. “Want to talk about it?”

And then I remembered a time years ago when he’d asked me the same thing. Ninth grade. I’d just learned I hadn’t made the cheerleading squad. I stood against the chain-link fence that bordered the soccer field. As my classmates chattered and laughed, I wept silently into the bend of my arm. I had thought no one was watching.

A younger Craig asked if I wanted to talk about it, just like now. I shook my head, wanting to talk about it, just not to him.

Just like now.

“Thanks, Craig.” I softened toward him then, reminding myself the true nature of people didn’t change. The considerate boy he had been was still a part of the man standing before me. “But it’s personal.”

“Stuff with your dad?”

“Actually, Isabella’s dad.”

“David Preston.”

My heart froze. “How do you know?”

“It’s not rocket science. You two were dating.”

Shame filled me and I looked down. “You must think I’m . . .”

A gentle hand guided my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I think you must be very strong.”

I snorted. “Yeah, real strong.”

“You’re raising a child on your own. I mean, I sure couldn’t do that.”

“You’d be surprised what you could do if you had to.”

“It can’t have been easy,” he said.

“Easy? No, it definitely wasn’t that.” I felt the weight of that burden anew. “I sold my blood more than once to buy diapers, and if I ever see another ramen noodle, it’ll be too soon.”

“See, that’s what I mean, Jenny. You’re an amazing woman. Not everyone is that strong.”

“If I was so amazing, I wouldn’t have needed to be.”

Chapter Three

I lay with Isabella until she drifted off to sleep, then made my way down the stairs. Mama Peg reclined in her easy chair. Veins protruded atop her feet like earthworms, which told me her legs were swollen and probably hurting. Of course if I asked, she’d only deny it.

Not taking her eyes off the TV, she reached to the end table, blindly felt around, and lifted a coffee mug resting on its
Reader’s Digest
coaster. Meanwhile, Lucy Ricardo whined at Ricky, mesmerizing my grandmother as though she hadn’t seen the episode a hundred times before.

The last step I touched down on creaked under my weight. Mama Peg aimed the remote at the set, muting it, then turned to me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, kid. Your dad’s on the porch having his evening pipe.”

I plopped down on the love seat. She cleared her throat and stared at me expectantly.

“What?”

“I said your father’s on the porch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alone.”

Oh.
“What kind of mood’s he in?”

“He’s been giddy ever since he found out you were coming home.”

I thought she needed to clean her rose-colored glasses but didn’t say so. Facing forward, she hit the remote again. Ricky exclaimed, “Oh, Lucy!” and I took it as my cue to go.

When I opened the front door, the groan it made echoed my sentiments.

My father glanced over as he slipped the pipe from his lips. “You want to hit that off?” He motioned to the porch light smothered by fluttering moths of various sizes. I ducked back in, flipped the switch, then joined him again.

He sat in the same rocker he had occupied most summer nights ever since I could remember. The moon cast a soft glow over him, hiding his gray and wrinkles and making him look like the man I once called Daddy.

I took the porch swing, curling my fingers around the cool metal chain suspending it. The sweet scent of pipe tobacco flooded me with nostalgia. I never told him how much I loved that smell. “Keep smoking that—” I nodded to his pipe—“and soon you’ll be dragging around a tank like your old lady.”

He snorted in good humor. “There’s a big difference between this and two packs of Pall Malls a day.”

Sweet Pea climbed the porch steps and rubbed against my father’s leg.

I motioned to the purring cat. “I think he wants you to pet him.”