Expiration Date (5 page)

Sorry, Mylisha, but you took your stance. Now I get a turn
.

Summer drove slowly to maintain a facade of nonchalance. The way to the Rykers’ led across croplands before rising to the crest of a wooded knoll. Her headlights played through dust and pollen kicked up by the day’s farm equipment. As she pulled into the driveway, stars winked with hints of romance. The night was on her side.

She made adjustments in the mirror. With a finger still touched to her lips, she noticed a figure watching from the porch. She’d been caught in the act of primping.

Oh, well. Let him stare
.

She stepped from the car, tossed her hair.

“Summer.” Clay’s voice sounded deeper than on the phone. Warmer too. Leaning against the rail, he looked bulkier than she remembered. A grown man.

She twirled once for inspection. “It’s me, the same little girl from JC.”

“It’s you, all right.” He took a long, miscalculated stride that bypassed the steps and dropped him on the path before her. He caught himself. “Been waiting for you out here, waiting for an excuse to get out of this place. Parents.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “They never let go, do they?”

“Well, you
are
back in their house. How’s it feel, being in town?”

“Claustrophobic. Hardly anything’s changed.”

She noticed Clay’s words were slurred. “What about you? You found work yet?”

“I’ll do some job hunting tomorrow, but no more tree trimming or pipe laying. Did enough of that as a teenager.”

“You’ll find something. I know you will.”

“Starting over.” He turned to stare at his childhood home. “What a concept. Never thought I’d be here again, closing in on the big three-o.”

“Life can get pretty crazy.”

“Don’t know if I can handle it. Being in someone else’s house, eating someone else’s food. You should see the fridge. My mom’s got V8 juice and yogurt stuffed between Dad’s six-packs of Miller Lite.”

“Free drinks? Bonus.”

“Rock on,” Clay agreed with false cheer. “Really, I didn’t expect to end up like this. Things just came apart piece by piece.”

“You and Jennifer?”

“Jenni.” His voice caressed the name.

“And you were such a sweet couple.” She waved away his questioning look. “Remember a couple years back? You were in town on summer vacation, I think, and I ran into you guys at the Scandinavian Festival.”

“Okay. Yeah. In the beer garden, right?”

“What a night. All huddled under the tent while it poured down rain.”

Clay gripped a porch post. “I’m taking my son to the festival this year. According to our temporary visitation agreement, he’ll be with me most of August.”

“He’ll love it. Just wait till he eats his first Finnish funnel cake. Or an
aebelskiver
with powdered sugar. Those’re the best.”

Clay’s eyes turned glassy with nostalgia.

“Listen,” she said, “you can’t let one person’s opinion define who you are. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”

“It’s not that,” he said a little too quickly. “It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, up till last October, Jenni was still writing me little love notes.”

“How sweet.”

“She even carved our names into a pumpkin.”

“Sounds adorable.”

“With a capital A.” He swayed, then hugged the post.
“A
as in ‘All the Way Out in Wyoming.’ ”

“Is she still there?”

“It’s where Jason was born. He’s nine now. Good little ballplayer.” Clay rubbed his forehead. “The sheriff served me papers on December 18. ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Ryker. Ho-ho-ho.’ Here’s the thing, Summer. I’m a guy, so I admit I don’t have relationships all figured out.” He plopped down on the wooden steps. “But it doesn’t make sense. Even my therapist can’t pinpoint where things went wrong.”

“Have you told the therapist everything?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Have you held anything back?”

He tried to level his chin, to look her in the eyes. “Why’re you asking?”

“We all have histories, don’t we? Our dirty little secrets.”

With his fist, Clay covered a burp, then lowered his head.

Summer had to ask. “Clay? How many beers have you had?”

“A.”

“Eight?”

“A,” he repeated. “As in ‘All of Them.’ ”

She tried to join in with his raspy laughter, but she could think only of Mylisha and Jenni. To take advantage of this good and lonely man before her would be to encroach on others’ territory. An empty victory at best.

See, Mylisha, my world doesn’t revolve around every guy I meet
.

As for the other thing Summer wanted to tell him? Maybe she should pass it on and let Mylisha become the bearer of secrets, since Mylisha also had been scarred by the injustice. She owed that much to her friend.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Clay commented. “I don’t even like Miller Lite. Can’t even have a pity party the right way.”

“Pity party? Whoever put that idea in your head?” Summer turned so that the moonlight could play along her lip gloss. She’d let Clay enjoy the view at least. “You have every right to think about yourself a little. Work it, baby, work it.”

“That’s right.” He slapped his hand onto the rail and pulled himself back up. “So you wanna go into town? Maybe shoot some pool?”

“I’d
love
to, Clay, but I can’t. No matter how much I’d like to say yes.”

He cocked his head as though her answer hadn’t registered.

“I can’t,” she reiterated. “Not tonight.”

“Gonna tell me why? It’s an innocent request, you know.”

“I know it is. It’s Mylisha I’m thinking of. She’s missed you and hasn’t even been serious with anyone else since you left. She should be the one to share a night out with you. Am I wrong?” Summer slipped a hand into his and squeezed.

He flinched. Jerked away.

The reaction made something inside her hurt. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said. Turning her face up to his, she was caught by his dark green eyes, dilated and full of fear. “Clay, are you all right?”

He wobbled.

“What happened? You feeling sick?”

“No.” He scrubbed his hand on his jeans. “Nope, I’m fine.”

“You want me to help you back inside?” She reached for him.

“Stay back! I can do it myself.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I was only trying to … I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re right anyway. It’s getting late, and I should head back. Thanks for talking, Clay.”

“You betcha.”

“You know, maybe I could take a rain check.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I might have some free time in the next week or two.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

“In touch?” His eyes shifted to his palm. “That might not be the best idea.” With overwrought focus, he turned and worked his way up the steps into the house.

Summer’s Prelude carried her back down the hill. Vying for her attention, the look in Clay’s eyes continued to trouble her. He’d been unquestionably shaken.

She sighed.
Oh, what might’ve been
.

Her red car sped through the curves until the road broadened once more
onto the flatlands. She refused to live her life victimized by fear. Her sister, Milly, had died in an auto collision, and Summer often found herself tempting fate.

Before her, night clouds stretched over the smattering of town lights, and she wondered what Mylisha was up to. Nothing much, probably. What made her friend tick? Would she be ready to carry the weight of a secret or two?

Summer knew she’d been hard on Mylisha earlier. A peace offering was in order, an apology card.

After a detour into a corner market, Summer headed for her friend’s apartment on the south end of town. A semitruck rumbled by. A sports car wearing a coat of gray primer purred alongside, long enough for the driver to try to catch her eye.

Get a clue, jerk!

On Maple Street she edged to the curb. Pushing ten o’clock already. Was it too late for Mylisha? Hard to tell anymore.

Summer’s left hand opened the car door, and her right clutched for—

“Omigosh!”

On the sidewalk a man was facing her with a lewd fire in his eyes.

She thought of slamming the door and hitting the locks, imagined peeling away. Then, thinking of Mylisha alone in the apartments behind this stranger, she chose to face him. She would put on her game face. As if to confirm her decision, a cone of light washed over the man’s form and revealed ugly tan pants and an argyle vest.

So much for his cloak of intimidation.
Hellooo? What a loser!

Now he was wearing a secretive grin, and she flung the door wide, rising to meet this challenge.

“Listen, buddy, what’s
your
problem?”

Screeching rubber and a revved motor were all she knew of the vehicle that caught her from behind. She felt something snap as her arms were thrust over the door. With disembodied, fading vision, she rode the torn metal panel through the air, her head careening toward a picket fence in the yard that became her resting place.

Despite disquieting memories and a boozy heaviness slogging through his head, Clay woke early. The noise of a lawn mower grew louder outside his window. His father, no doubt:
Up and at ’em. No sleeping in around here, Son
.

Mumbling, Clay found his way to the bathroom.

Splash of water. Excedrin. A towel to dry off his face.

Funny thing. Last night the alcohol had helped him forget, whereas here in the piercing light of morning it only deepened his gloom. Back in Cheyenne, as a concession to Jenni, he had once upon a time attended an AA meeting. Some in the room had been a mess. Screwed up in a big way. He knew he was different, though. He didn’t drink all that often; he just used an occasional buzz to take off the edge.

And to forget. Mostly to forget.

He combed a hand through his short brown hair. Even his scalp felt bruised.

This time he ran both hands over his head, facing his discomfort head-on. This was a new day, a fresh set of circumstances. Time to get on with life.

Of course, a job and a paycheck would help in a big way.

In socks and boxers, he fetched the
Register-Guard
from the paper box on the porch and spread it on the table tucked into the dining nook. As coffee percolated, he ran a finger down the classified columns.

Déjà vu. At this same table, scanning the same subscription who knew how many years ago, he’d sought out his first real job. He’d landed three summers’ worth of work with the Junction City Parks Department and climbed his way to crew supervisor.

Yep, I was a working machine
.

With his mom’s Avon scented pen, he began circling job possibilities.

Gerald Ryker burst through the back door, grass clinging to his boots, sweat staining the T-shirt beneath his overalls. “Clay, you’re home.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You get in last night? You have a safe trip?”

“Uneventful.” Clay knew anything more would be a waste of breath.

“The lawn mower wake you up?”

“What lawn mower?”

“Never mind.”

Clay tried not to smile at this subtle victory.
Score one for the Claymeister
.

“You get the coffee brewing, Son?”

“In the pot.”

“Good. Back under my roof, I expect you to do your part.”

Gerald Ryker hefted his omnipresent blue travel mug. To the trained eye, it functioned as a barometer of the man’s disposition, and its present configuration boded well for Clay. Empty, with the lid off: partial clearing, chance of sun.

Seconds passed while a torrent of caffeine filled the container.

Clay said, “Cream’s here on the table.”

Gerald snapped the lid into place and stood rigidly in the middle of the kitchen.

“Hold on, Dad. You drink it straight up, don’t you?”

Clay braced himself for an admonition or, more likely, a sound bite from the past:
Black for me, Son—same way I like my women
. The phrase had been monumentally offensive to Clay in high school when he’d started dating Mylisha French. With nervous defiance, he’d introduced her to Gerald, expecting a reaction. Instead, he’d received stony silence on the subject.

Here in the Ryker residence, silence was a language of its own.

“You looking for a job?” Gerald ignored the creamer, hooked a chair with his foot to join Clay at the table. “Tell you right now, you’re wasting your time.”

“Huh?”

“Did I mumble, Son?” Gerald took a long slurp from his mug. “Forget the classifieds. You got work all laid out for you. Stan Blomberg’s expecting you.”

“Blomberg?”

“Used to work with me in the lumberyard. Heavyset, red hair, a real religious
fanatic. He left the lumberyard to manage things over at the monument company. Blomberg’s a character, but we’ve stayed in contact over the years.”

“Did you say monuments? You mean tombstones?”

“Now’s no time to be picky, Son. Pay’s not bad starting off.” Gerald set a fist atop the blue mug and elaborated. “Ten and a half an hour. Could go up at your ninety-day review. If I remember right, insurance and 401(k) will kick in too. You’ll have to ask Blomberg. One judgmental son of a gun, but he’ll lay it all out for you.”