“Then I guess your work here is done,” I say.
“Oh?” He studies me carefully, as if trying to gauge whether this is my way of kicking him out, and I have half a second to ask myself the same question. I’ve had my way with him several times. I feel better, lighter, than I did before he came over. But I still haven’t done what I set out to do. I haven’t addressed my self-imposed challenge. I haven’t let him all the way in.
Maybe it’s foolish to consider it. Cal has only cracked the door to his soul, not opened it. Based on what Bear told me, Augusta Glower, whom everyone says is basically Satan’s next-door neighbor, knows more of Cal’s secrets than I do. So why should I give him more than what he’s offering?
And yet…
When he looks at me the way he is now—those dark, intense eyes soaking me in—I want him to know me, really know me, in a way I haven’t invited any other man to do.
“You’ve been very diligent,” I say, “and it is awfully handy to have a plumber around, but every hard worker deserves a break.” Smiling, breaking the act, I say, “I thought we could go downstairs and sit on the porch for a while. We can drink some wine.”
He pulls a face, and for half a second I think he’s the one who’s going to bow out, but then he says, “Do you have any beer? That wine was a little too sweet for me.”
I have to laugh, because it was a bottle of Maisie’s moscato, which she allows herself a half glass of weekly now that she’s in her third trimester, and he’s not wrong. She’s always had an insatiable sweet tooth. “Jack’s a one-fourth owner of Buchanan Brewery. What kind of brewery owner would he be if he didn’t have a six-pack or three taking up real estate in his refrigerator?”
He smiles back, and I can tell he’s relieved I’m not sending him away. He wants to stay, which sends a different kind of tingle through me than the touch of his talented, clever hands and wicked tongue. “Indeed. What kind of Ashevillain at all?”
“Eh, he’s not one. He’s a transplant, but we’ll forgive him because he’s family.”
Once we’re both toweled off, we get dressed again and head downstairs. Ein gives a growl from his dog bed, but his heart’s not in it. He doesn’t bother getting up, and Chaco’s so excited she meets us at the bottom of the stairs like a welcoming party of one.
It doesn’t escape my notice that Cal lowers on his haunches to give her some love. I edge past them, feeling an answering squeeze in my heart for Cal, the man who loves dogs. Cal, the man who gets so righteously indignant over other people’s problems.
I open the fridge and study its contents, even though I’ve gotten to know them well. My thoughts bounce back to earlier, before Mary left.
“Is there someone for you to talk to back home?” I’d asked her as we lingered by the door, her keys clutched in her hand like she thought she might need to attack a would-be car thief. “I don’t like thinking of you being alone.”
“I’ve got Aidan,” she replied, even though we both knew that wasn’t what I was really asking. He’s a little boy, only six, and she can’t really confide in him, especially not about his dad being a grade A asshole. Aidan’s version of the story was that Dad had gone away on a long work trip, and no one knew when he’d return. “And Glenn’s parents have actually been really great. His mom is beside herself.”
“Not enough,” I said with a growl.
She waved it off. “What Maisie said earlier… I think I might actually look for a job here. It would be good for him to have a male role model around, and Jack’s such a good guy. Plus, I…”
It took her a moment to finish the thought, and even though I knew what she was going to say, I didn’t finish for her. She swallowed visibly, then finished, “I’d like to be close to family too. I don’t have any real friends in Charlotte. We’re still new there, and it’s not easy for me to get close to people.”
“There,” I said, grabbing her shoulder. “Was that so hard?”
“Yeah,” she said with a slight smile. “It was.” She paused, staring at me. “How about you, Molly? Would you think about coming back? If all three of us were back here…I’d like that. It would be nice. Like being a real family again.”
I didn’t give her an answer, of course, because I didn’t have one. But I did promise to think about it, and when I called Maisie back for a recap and an assurance that she and Jack hadn’t washed away on a river of puke, she asked me the same thing. “It’s my dream,” she said, a little misty-eyed. “Having you and Mary and Jack and the baby. I can’t think of anything I want more.”
“Besides escaping your den of puke?” I asked.
She grinned. “Even more than that. So you know I mean it.”
Jack’s okay, thankfully. But if he’d been forced to be a sailor back in the day, he would have died of seasickness before he could get scurvy.
“Will you at least think about it?” she pressed.
Who can say no to a heavily pregnant lady?
Both my sisters asked me to consider staying, and now here I am, considering it.
If I stay, I could spend more time with Cal. We could give things a real go. I could keep working on my relationships with Mary and Aidan, and I’d be here to help Maisie with the baby from Day One.
But that would mean giving up the Rogue Word job, and where would that leave me?
There’s a spark of something in my mind, an idea whispering to be heard, but then Cal is behind me, his hand at my waist, sending a shiver of pleasure through me.
“I’ve never seen someone study beer so intently. Are you trying to match my personality to the type of beer you pick for me?”
“You saw that quiz?” I say with a laugh. “Just how many of my Sheets pieces did you read?”
“Let’s just say I learned several new words I’d never heard before.”
Leaning back into him, I pull out a couple of beers and shut the fridge.
“This one’s you,” I say, handing over a lemon sour.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” he says, except his point is undermined by the grin sneaking through. “I think you may be calling me grumpy.”
He grabs a bottle opener off the top of the fridge and pops first my cap and then his.
“If the beer fits.”
“What’s yours?” he asks, eyeing the label. It’s a psychedelic design made by one of the Buchanans, now a pretty well-known artist.
“Strawberry rhubarb. Sweet and just the slightest bit tart.”
He takes the bottle from me and takes a sip. With a sly grin, he hands it back and says, “I can tell you with confidence that you taste exactly like that.”
I give him a little swat, and we head out to the porch together, Chaco coming along and curling up at our feet when we sit on the couch.
Cal eyes me slightly, as if gauging how I’ll react, then puts his arm around me.
We sit there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, sipping our beers in the warm night and looking at the trees. It’s a nice moment—the kind you want to bottle up, and part of me doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing up those old memories and emotions that leave me feeling like a little girl again.