Redemption Road (Jackson Falls #5) (15 page)

Harley

The last time he’d cut his hair to please a woman, Nixon had been
in the White House, and his momma (Harley’s, not Nixon’s) had lined up all three
Atkins boys in the kitchen the first Saturday night of every month. While she
looked on with approval, Big Earl took out the clippers and gave them all buzz
cuts, assembly-line style, starting with the oldest and working his way down
the line to the youngest. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that in years. When he’d
been living in New York, he’d gone every other Tuesday to a chic Midtown salon
to make sure he fit the part of the up-and-coming young associate in a
respected law firm. Since he’d left that life behind and moved here to be, of
all damned things, a dairy farmer, he hadn’t given much thought to his
appearance. After all, his herd of Holsteins didn’t notice his daily grooming—or
lack thereof—and it was highly unlikely that Billy Bradley gave a damn whether
or not his hair was a gnarly mess when he showed up, half-asleep, in the
milking parlor at four-thirty every morning. He cleaned up acceptably for social
occasions. Considering the dearth of young, single women in Jackson Falls, it
wasn’t as though he was looking to impress anyone. Most of the women he saw at
the IGA were backwoods mamas in polyester pants.

But after Colleen Berkowitz told him to cut his hair, he’d looked
in the mirror, really looked at himself for the first time in months, and
realized how closely he resembled a barbarian.

Not, he reminded himself, that he cared what Colleen Berkowitz
thought. But even in a rural enclave such as this one, a man had to be
presentable. As he pulled away from Shelly’s Cut-n-Curl, the closest thing to a
barbershop in this cultural wasteland, he caught a glimpse of himself in his
rearview mirror. He had to admit that the cut looked great. Short and neat, his
dark hair parted on the side and slicked back to reveal the widow’s peak he’d
inherited from his Grandmother Atkins. There was nothing here for the Ice
Princess to criticize.

The ancient wall phone in the kitchen was ringing when he came
into the house. He caught it in mid-ring, propped the receiver between shoulder
and ear so he could remove his coat, and said, “Meadowbrook Farm.”

“Mr. Atkins?”

“Yes.”

“This is Paulette Thibodeau, the school nurse from Jackson Middle
School.”

Panic, preposterous in its swiftness and intensity, rose like a
flash fire. “Has something happened to Annabel?”

“Everything’s fine, but Annabel had an incident this morning. She
started her period while she was in math class. She didn’t know what was
happening, and when she saw the blood, she panicked and ran to my office.”

A sharp pain sprang to life behind his right temple. “Shit,” he
muttered.

“I would have assumed that by this time, her mother would have
talked to her about this.” The woman’s voice held a clear note of censure. He should
recognize it. He’d used that same tone often enough in the courtroom.

Flatly, he said, “Her mother’s not in the picture.”

“I see.” But it was clear that she didn’t. “And you haven’t had
this conversation with your daughter?”

“I—no. It never occurred to me.” He mentally kicked himself for
sounding like a chauvinistic, insensitive idiot. It wasn’t as though he didn’t
know how this stuff worked. He’d studied biology in college. He’d been married
for more than a decade. But he was a man. Menstruation wasn’t the kind of thing
he gave any thought to. And if he had given it any thought, he, too, would have
assumed that at some point, Amy would have discussed the topic with their
daughter.

“She’s twelve years old, Mr. Atkins.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, bit back the retort he
wanted to make. “I realize that,” he said instead, not wanting to create an
adversarial relationship with this woman who was only trying to do her job.

“I explained that it’s perfectly normal, and I got her fixed up
with something. The rest is up to you. She’s lying down in my office right now.
I’ve given her permission to leave school for the day. Can you come pick her
up?”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jackson Consolidated Middle School, built a decade ago, sat on a
plot of land at a diagonal to the high school. Both schools drew students from
several area towns. At this time of day, right after lunch period, the
corridors were deserted, the kids undoubtedly fighting to stay awake after
filling up on too many carbs and too little nutrition. Harley strode through
the lobby, marched up to the front desk, and asked for Mrs. Thibodeau’s office.
He was directed down a small hallway to a wooden door with a sign that read
SCHOOL NURSE. He knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a
response. A middle-aged woman, attractive in a tightly-coiled, antiseptic way,
looked up from behind the desk. He cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. Thibodeau?”

“Mr. Atkins.” Her nostrils flared, and the way she was looking at
him made him feel like he’d been summoned to the principal’s office for bad
behavior. “Right this way.”

The nurse opened an inner door, and there, on a narrow cot, lay
his daughter, her back to him, her face to the window, where the morning sun
had been blocked by ancient, heavy brown shades.

“Annabel,” Mrs. Thibodeau said, in a gentle tone that was the polar
opposite of the way she’d spoken to him. “Your dad’s here.”

Annabel rolled over, stared at him dully, then got up, put on her
coat and picked up her backpack. Without speaking, she marched past him and out
the door. He and the nurse exchanged glances.

“Thank you,” he said, and hustled to catch up with his daughter.

“You okay?” he said, once they were in the truck and safely
buckled in. Silence. He tried again. “Look, this is a perfectly normal thing. Every
woman goes through it.” More stony silence. He could feel sweat gathering under
his arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

After that, he gave up. Pushing her would only make the situation
worse. He knew she was mortified, and why shouldn’t she be? It didn’t matter
that his wife’s defection had forced him to be both father and mother. No
twelve-year-old girl wanted to discuss such an intimate topic with her father.

When they got home, Annabel stormed up the stairs to her bedroom
and slammed the door. With a heavy sigh, Harley followed. He rapped softly on her
door. No response. He tried the knob and found it locked. “Annabel,” he said.

“Go away.”

“Let me in. I just want to talk to you.”

“No.”  After a moment, her stereo came on, and he gave up. He’d
thought the brassiere debacle was bad, but this was ten times worse. He was in
so far over his head with this situation that there was no way he’d ever shovel
himself out. A mere man, he couldn’t possibly understand what his daughter was
going through. There was only one solution to his dilemma:  He needed a woman.

Back downstairs, he took out the phone book and looked up the
number. Dialed the phone. It rang once, twice. Halfway through the third ring, he
heard a click, and that soft, lilting voice said, “Two Dreamers Records. How
can I help you?”

He could think of a number of things she could do to help him, but
now wasn’t the time to bring them up. “It’s Harley,” he said. “I realize you’re
in the middle of your work day, but I have a situation here with Annabel, and—”
He paused, rubbed his temple. “I could really use some help.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before she said, her voice rife
with concern, “Is Annabel okay?”

“Yeah. She’s fine. Well, she’s fine physically. It’s woman stuff. I’ll
explain when you get here. That is, if—”

And Colleen Berkowitz said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Colleen

It was brutally cold in this godforsaken wilderness. As she ran
from the car to the house, braving the winds that swept up off the river and
slammed into her with such force she could barely breathe, she wondered why she
hadn’t just stayed in Florida. Then she remembered. She’d been left penniless
by those vile, spoiled brats Irv had sired, and her only refuge was this shithole
town.
Home, sweet home.
She stood on the porch, debated knocking, then
decided she had just as much right to be here as he did. More, probably; she’d
lived most of her life in this house. He’d only been here for a few months. She
stamped the snow off her boots and walked in without knocking.

Upstairs, there was music playing. At least she thought it was
music. With that funky dance beat, it was difficult to tell. The dog looked up
from her cozy bed beneath the kitchen table. Recognizing her, Ginger wagged,
bounced to her feet and raced across the kitchen, jumping on Colleen with such
force she was nearly knocked on her ass.

“Ginger, down!”
a man’s voice boomed out. The dog
reluctantly complied, skulking back under the table, while Colleen tried to
pull herself together, straightening her clothes and surreptitiously checking
for broken bones. “Damn that dog,” he said, striding across the kitchen to her.
“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, and then she looked up and saw him, and her
mouth fell open. He was a vision in jeans and a blue Oxford shirt, neatly
trimmed dark hair parted on the side in a razor-sharp line, concerned eyes the
color of the Gulf Coast waters in summer, sculpted cheekbones and just enough
of a widow’s peak to give him a slightly devilish appearance.

Of their own accord, her knees went weak.

Good God. Had she never really
looked
at this man before?

Trying to pull herself together, Colleen opened her mouth. Wet her
lips. Said the first words that came to mind. “You cut your hair.”

“You told me to. Contrary to what my former employers think, I am
capable of following instructions.”

She felt herself flushing crimson as all those hormones that had
been lying dormant sprang to full-fledged, furious life. She cast about for
something to say, but the words just rolled on past her like miniature,
roller-skating gremlins. She reached out and captured one, pulled it close
enough to read it.

“Annabel,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like a complete
idiot.

“She’s upstairs,” he said, “having withdrawn from all human
interaction. I’m hoping you can make some headway.”

She took a breath to still her trembling, nodded, and unzipped her
coat. “What happened?”

“She started her period. In class. And apparently, Amy never
discussed it with her. She saw all the blood and went running to the school
nurse. Presumably with the assumption that she was dying.”

“Oh, no. That poor kid. I believe I’m not impressed with your
ex-wife. Let me give it some thought. Hmm. No, I’m definitely not impressed
with her. What the hell is wrong with that woman?”

“Sex. That’s what’s wrong with her. That was her downfall. Not
with me, of course. Sex with other people.”

“She ought to be lynched.” 

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

She’d recovered enough to take off the coat, to bend and unzip her
boots. She handed him the coat, left the boots standing neatly by the door. “I’ll
see what I can do.”

Déjà vu.
The banister still felt the same, worn smooth by
generations of Bradley hands. The stairs still squeaked on the seventh tread. The
wallpaper in the upstairs hall was the same, nodding yellow-and-white daisies
on a white background. Light and airy, Mama had said when she hung that paper,
standing on an old, paint-splattered wooden ladder. How old had Colleen been
the year that Mama hung the wallpaper? Nine? Ten? Life had still been happy
then. There’d still been love between them, laughter around the supper table. They’d
still been a family. That was before Bill got married, before Travis left home,
before Casey eloped with a handsome, blue-eyed stranger.

Before it all came crashing down on top of her.

She followed the music to the last door on the left. Her old room.
There was a certain rightness to it, one she didn’t dare to explore too closely.
Colleen paused, knocked lightly on the door. No answer. She knocked again. “Annabel,”
she said. “It’s Mrs. Berkowitz. Can I come in?”

There was no response. But after a moment, she heard a fumbling at
the lock, and the door opened. “You can come in,” Annabel said. “But not my
dad.”

***

“Mrs. Thibodeau tried to give me some ‘Congratulations, now you’re
a woman’ crap.”  Annabel scowled. “That’s all it is. Crap.”

“Utter bullshit,” Colleen agreed. “Can I try a taste of your
cherry vanilla?”

Annabel slid her bowl across the table. Colleen scooped a spoonful
and ate it. Closing her eyes in ecstasy, she said, “I think I just died and
went to heaven. You want to try mine?”

“Sure.”  Annabel studied Colleen’s banana split with her lips
pursed and her brow knotted, looking so much like Harley that it was hard not
to stare. The girl carefully scooped up a generous spoonful of vanilla
soft-serve, pineapple topping, and fudge sauce. “Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.” After a lengthy discussion about female issues,
they’d made an emergency trip to the local pharmacy for supplies. Then she’d
remembered that the Jackson Diner served ice cream. Nothing could bond two
women better than ice cream.

Annabel propped her chin on her hand and looked thoughtful. “It
really sucks to be a girl,” she said.

“Sometimes, it does,” Colleen said. “But not always. Sometimes,
it’s a pretty sweet thing.”

“Does this mean I have to start doing girl stuff? Because I don’t
want to do girl stuff. I want to keep on playing basketball and field hockey. I
don’t want to have to wear pantyhose and makeup. And dresses. I hate dresses.”

She well understood Annabel’s concern. Growing up on a farm with
two older brothers, she and Casey had both been tomboys. “It doesn’t mean
anything of the kind,” she said. “You don’t have to start doing girl stuff until
you’re ready. Maybe you’ll never be ready. That’s your prerogative.”

“And boys. I just don’t care. They’re so juvenile.”

“At your age, they are.” Colleen broke off a sliver of banana with
her spoon and ate it. “To be honest, some of them never outgrow being little
boys. But the good ones do. And when you find a good one, and you’re ready, then
you’ll be glad you’re a girl.”

“Was your husband a good one?”

“Yes.” She smiled, thinking of Irv. “He was.”

“It must be hard, being widowed. Probably a lot like being
divorced. That was so hard on my dad, because he wasn’t the one who wanted the
divorce. But he’s doing better now. It was good for him to get away from New
York.”

Was this kid really twelve years old?  Colleen didn’t believe
she’d been this mature at twelve. Then again, she’d led a sheltered life up to
that point. She’d never been out in the world. Her childhood had been idyllic. Nothing
bad had happened to her yet.

“I’ve been widowed,” she said, “and I’ve been divorced. And you’re
right. They both suck. It sucks to wake up every morning and realize you can’t
breathe without this person by your side. You just have to get up and put one
foot in front of the other. Keep on moving and keep on breathing. That’s about
all anyone can do.”

Annabel nodded with a wisdom beyond her years. “I think that’s
what Dad did. And he’s so busy with the farm that I don’t think he has much
time to think about my mother.”

Colleen nodded. “Keeping busy helps. It doesn’t make the pain go
away, but it helps when you can focus on something else, even if it’s only for
ten minutes at a time. That’s how you survive that kind of loss. Ten minutes at
a time. Listen, Annabel…give your dad a break. He’s been through a lot. So have
you. The two of you need each other. Don’t push him away.”

Annabel idly stirred the lumpy, congealed mess that was all she
had left of her ice cream. “I know. But it’s so humiliating. I mean, he’s my
dad. He’s not supposed to know about stuff like this.”

“Honey, he’s a grown man. He already knows about stuff like this. It’s
not something to be ashamed of. I know this isn’t something that matters to you
at this point, but later on it will. If women didn’t have periods, we wouldn’t
be able to have babies. That’s a simplistic explanation, but it’s also true. So
you see, it’s actually a miracle.”

“But it’s so embarrassing. So personal.”

“I know. I remember what it was like when it first happened to me.
I didn’t want my dad knowing about it, either. But I had an older sister and a
mother I could talk to. Our family was very open about those things. We didn’t
talk about it in front of Dad or my brothers, but the three of us talked openly
about everything under the sun when they weren’t around. I survived adolescence.
Casey survived it. Your mom survived it. And you will, too. But you’ll survive
it better if you have the right attitude. It’s pointless to fight it, because
it’s not going anywhere. Like it or not, you did just cross a bridge. This is a
milestone.”

Annabel let out an extended, long-suffering sigh. “In other words,
put up and shut up.”

Colleen held back her smile, because in Annabel’s world, this was
serious stuff. “I was trying to sugarcoat it,” she said.

Annabel looked up from beneath a fall of dark hair. The smile hit
her eyes first, took its time getting to her mouth. When it finally did, it was
worth the wait. “You’re funny,” she said.

“Nobody’s ever called me funny before.”

“You are. I like you.”

Something happened inside her, a softening, a releasing of some
poison she’d held inside for far too long. She could feel it happening, an
actual physical sensation, something she could no more have stopped than she
could stop the ocean from lapping at the shore. They barely knew each other,
but somewhere along the line, when she wasn’t paying attention, this kid had
stolen her heart.

“I like you, too,” she said.

***

A half-hour later, she dropped Annabel off at her door. “Got your
supplies?” she said.

Annabel held up the bag from the pharmacy.

“And you’re clear on what I told you? How everything works?”

“Yes.”

“Remember, any time you want to talk to someone, if it’s something
too personal to talk to your dad about, or too embarrassing, or you have a question
you think he can’t answer, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I know. Thank you.” Impulsively, the girl leaned over and gave
her a hug. While Colleen’s heart thudded and danced inside her chest, Annabel opened
the door and got out of the car. She stood there for a moment, all dark eyes
and blowing hair. Then she flashed a grin and skipped off toward the house.

At the kitchen door, she turned and waved. Colleen waved back. And
Annabel disappeared into the house.

Hands gripping the steering wheel, she closed her eyes. Took a
deep breath.

And hated herself for the lie she’d told.

She’d never intended to get involved in the life of this sweet,
trusting young girl. But she hadn’t hesitated when Harley called her. Hadn’t
even questioned the advisability of getting involved. All she’d been able to
think about was Annabel, who needed her. She should have said no. Should have
sent Casey in her place. Casey was the sister who was good at dispensing advice.
Colleen was the sister who couldn’t get anything right, the one who could
barely run her own life. She certainly had no business advising others how to
run theirs.

She’d told the kid a real whopper.
I’m just a phone call away.

It wasn’t a lie of commission so much as one of omission. She
would be just a phone call away. She’d simply left out the important part, that
in a few weeks, she’d be gone.

And when she was gone, this amazing young girl who’d already been
abandoned by her mother would be on her own, abandoned once again by somebody
she trusted. What kind of monster would do that to a kid?

Colleen knew what kind of monster. She didn’t like knowing, but there
was no hiding from the truth. She couldn’t be trusted. Couldn’t be trusted to
keep her word, couldn’t be trusted to not screw things up royally. Couldn’t be
trusted to stay in one place for longer than five minutes. It was the way she’d
lived her life since she was thirteen years old. She was thirty-five now. It
was too late to change.

She pictured Annabel’s smile. So beautiful, so genuine, in spite
of all the kid had been through. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye.

Escape. That was the only solution. Trying to ignore the knowledge
that escape was her default solution, Colleen swiped the tear from her face,
raised her chin, put the car in gear, and left Meadowbrook Farm in her
rear-view mirror.